Tin Men: A Gripping Chrissy Livingstone Novel

by Linda Coles

  And so, I shall pay. To save us both. This can’t be the end for us. I’m weak.

  By the time he had finished his tumbler of whiskey, his diary entry for the day was done. He stood and walked back to the cupboard, replaced the notebook and relocked the door. He’d been keeping a diary for as long as he could remember, and he’d never shared its contents with anybody, not even Sandra. He doubted he ever would. And certainly not the journals from the last year, since he’d met Sylvia.

  Usually after he’d done his diary entry, he’d go back through to the lounge and watch a little television with Sandra, but tonight he just couldn’t face that. He chose instead to stay where he was, daydreaming about his Sylvia. Later, when his wife had gone to bed, he’d slip upstairs and climb into the matrimonial bed, though its joy and appeal had long since vanished.

  He smiled as he thought about his plan. He hoped the headmaster would be obliging. If he had any sense, he would be.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Tuesday 18th August, 1987

  There was no way Gerald was going to do nothing. He’d managed to persuade Sylvia to tell him who she thought was behind it, and with that information fresh in his mind he was now headed to Inkpen, to Glendene School. Even without an appointment to see the headmaster, he felt sure he’d gain access. After all, he was an old boy himself, had attended the school many years ago and had contributed to various fundraising projects handsomely since then. And if the headmaster needed reminding of who funded the ‘Baker Boys’ lacrosse trophy each year, he’d gladly remind him.

  As he pulled into the visitors’ parking space out front, he said a prayer that the headmaster would see sense and come around to Gerald’s way of thinking.

  He straightened his tie and climbed the steps of the old stone building. Its grandeur seemed to have increased with age, and Gerald took a moment to turn and take in the immaculate grounds before entering the front hall. The oak panelling was impressive, as were the paintings of ex-pupils from generations ago who had once attended the school and gone on to achieve greatness in their field; most were sportsmen and politicians. It was quieter than normal now; while boarders and summer school attendants had stayed on, many of Glendene’s pupils were back home for the summer holidays.

  An older woman, her grey hair pinned into a tight chignon, hurried over to greet him; she must have heard his car draw up.

  “What a pleasant surprise. How may I help you this morning, Mr. Baker?”

  “Good morning, Darlene. I must say, you look younger every time I see you.”

  Spots of crimson glowed in her cheeks, and she bowed her head slightly, a little embarrassed, though clearly enjoying the compliment. Gerald had always dished out the compliments where they were due.

  “I need a moment with Mr. Browning, actually,” he went on. Could you tell him I’m here, please?” His smile looked authentic enough, he was sure, but it wasn’t delivered from his heart.

  “Oh,” she said uneasily. “I’m not to disturb him this morning, I’m afraid. I gather you don’t have an appointment booked?”

  “I don’t, no. But I do only need a few moments. Please, can you tell him I’m here?” His smile this time carried something more than simple politeness, and Darlene picked up on it; her own smile faded abruptly. She scurried through a doorway and headed towards Mr. Browning’s office.

  Gerald spent the next few moments slowly pacing the entranceway, hands clasped behind his back like a drill sergeant. In short order, a door opened, and Gerald smiled inwardly. Donations served their purpose at times like these. A male voice called out to him and he turned.

  “Gerald! Great to see you. Please, come on through,” the headmaster said. He held out a hand and Gerald shook it, then followed him into his office. Darlene brought up the rear. “Can I offer you some tea perhaps?” Browning enquired.

  “Please.”

  The headmaster nodded to Darlene, who left to fetch their refreshments, and then resumed his seat at his great old desk, motioning Gerald into a chair facing it. The desk was probably as old as the building itself, with many headmasters having used it over the years, both for paperwork and the caning of boys’ backsides.

  Gerald looked directly at Mr. Browning and stated his business.

  “I’ll get straight to the point, if I may. I come with a delicate matter,” he began. “I believe some of the boys are blackmailing a good friend of mine. She spoke to you about it recently—Friday, I believe.” His smile had vanished now. “I’d like to speak to the boys concerned.”

  The headmaster stayed quiet, and Gerald assumed he was deciding what to say. Browning’s mouth twitched slightly, not with a smile, but more an expression of recognition.

  “Ah. I see. You must be the friend she mentioned to me. Yes, I can see how this would be embarrassing for you, if it all came out.” Browning smiled coldly now as he added his dig. “And for your family.”

  Gerald kept quiet, letting the man have his salacious fun at his expense.

  “But I really can’t let you have their names,” Browning went on smoothly. “Because I don’t actually know who they are.” He sat back fully in his chair now, looking satisfied, like he was winning.

  “Come now, Frederick,” Gerald said. “Alistair Crowley is one of them, so it shouldn’t be hard to find out who the others are. Of course, I could always speak to Alistair myself, or to his father. Though I don’t like to mix business with pleasure if I can help it.”

  “Is that a veiled threat, Gerald? Because if it is, it’s not welcome and will get you nowhere.”

  Gerald leaned forward in his chair and focused his stare directly at the headmaster. “Not veiled at all. And neither is what I’m about to say. Let me be clear. I want those names, today. And if I don’t get them, you can forget my support next year. Nothing veiled there, Frederick. I hope that’s clear enough for you.” He sat back again to wait for his opponent’s next move.

  Finally, the headmaster spoke again. “She must be worth it, is all I can say.” He took a couple of deep breaths, steepling his fingers at his chin as he stared at the wall opposite.

  Gerald waited, hoping he’d come through. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Browning said at length. “I’ll get Crowley in here after lunch and see what he’s got to say about it. That’s all I can offer.” He got to his feet; the meeting was over.

  Gerald followed suit and added, “I’ll look forward to your news, then. I’m sure next year’s lacrosse team will be grateful for our arrangement; I hate disappointing people. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you: not a word of my visit to Sylvia.”

  They headed out to the front entrance together, the tension in the air between them as taut as a drum skin.

  He’d got what he come for, Gerald thought with satisfaction as he started his car. By the end of the day, he’d have all of the names, and the stupid schoolboy prank would be over.

  Their secret would be safe.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  He drove back to his office deep in thought. He knew Alistair Crowley’s father, all right, though he didn’t much like the man; he was big and arrogant with a lazy drawl from somewhere in the US deep south; an utterly crass individual. But Gerald would have leaned on him if he’d had to.

  He hoped Sylvia hadn’t seen him drive up or enter the school building, and he hoped the nosey secretary didn’t mention anything to her either—though he doubted the old lady knew of their relationship. Frederick Browning, however, could be a different matter: he’d experienced the man’s spiteful side before, so if anyone was going to be the proverbial fly in the ointment, it could be him.

  Gerald was back in his office and sat behind his own desk within the hour. He’d give Browning until 4 PM, and then he’d be on the telephone.

  Frederick Browning was annoyed, He’d been threatened, and he didn’t like bullies, for starters, and Gerald Baker could be domineering. He idly wondered what Sylvia saw in him—apart from his wealth
maybe, though he didn’t think she was that shallow.

  A light knock at the door interrupted his thinking. Darlene entered, with Alistair Crowley close behind.

  “Ah, Mr. Crowley,” he said, with a tight smile. “Sit.”

  Darlene left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving the two of them alone. Browning sat down again behind his desk. The young man sat opposite him. Browning couldn’t help but notice that the boy looked a little nervous, and so he should.

  “It’s come to my attention that you and your merry little gang have been spying, down by the river.” He let his words sink in and watched the young man’s Adam’s apple bob a little. Yes, he was nervous.

  “Sir.”

  “Were you hoping I wouldn’t find out? Because I know everything there is to know about what goes on in these grounds. So that means I know about your blackmailing scam, too.”

  Alistair glowered at his shoes, no doubt knowing he was now in a heap of trouble.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Browning thundered, and Alistair jumped in his seat. He forced himself to make eye contact.

  “That’s better. Now stop being a mouse and tell me who else is involved. Because I will find out, and it will be much worse for you if I go the long way around. Through your father, for instance.” Browning secretly hoped the boy would talk so he didn’t have to call his father. “I’ll give you two minutes to choose.”

  The headmaster sat back and made a show of looking at his watch. As the first minute passed in silence, he glanced at the boy in front of him and said, “Forty-five seconds. Thirty. Fifteen.” Then, “Time’s up Mr. Crowley.”

  Alistair looked fearful about what might happen next but was obviously willing to take his chances.

  “Now that is unfortunate,” the headmaster said as he stood. The boy didn’t move. Browning picked up his telephone and started to dial a number from a file laid out in front of him.

  “Okay, okay!” Alistair shouted.

  The headmaster replaced the handset and sat back down, waiting.

  “What will happen to us if I tell you?”

  “It’s more what will happen if you don’t. Are you prepared to take that chance? Your families pay handsomely to send you here for your education, and I know how much you want to be a lawyer. Your grades could suffer because of something like this.”

  Alistair knew when he was beaten; he looked deflated now, like a discarded party balloon.

  “You see, it doesn’t feel nice being blackmailed, does it? Grades can go up as well as down, though your hope was clearly for an increase rather than a decrease. So, tell me, who else is involved?”

  Alistair had no choice now. Slowly, he recited the names of the other six boys who had dreamed up the scam with him. They’d all been down by the river mucking about, he said miserably, and had seen Sylvia meet with a man on several occasions. One of the boys thought he recognised him as a local businessman with a wife and family, and the plan had come to life.

  “We wouldn’t have gone through with it. It was a bit of fun, really. We thought we could get better marks, that’s all,” Alistair whined; he wasn’t as tough as he liked to think he was.

  “Well, it’s backfired on you now. I’ll need to decide your punishment, but for now, I suggest you don’t say anything to anybody about this— especially not Miss Marsh. You’ve upset her enough. Until I decide what I’ll do, leave it be. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Alistair couldn’t get out of the room quick enough; he scrambled to his feet, wrenched open the study door and disappeared down the hall with a clatter of shoes. Browning, his heart sinking, looked again at the list of seven names. All the boys were exceptional students and doing well with their studies, so he was at a loss as to why they wanted better grades out of the prank. Straight A’s in every subject was unheard of; perhaps they wanted to be the first ones to achieve it. And now he had to decide their fate, because that damned Gerald Baker was involved.

  “Why the hell didn’t Sylvia choose someone a little less prominent?” he moaned as he picked the telephone back up and dialled. Gerald Baker’s secretary put his call through, and Browning gave the names of the seven boys over.

  It didn’t feel good.

  But his side of the bargain was now complete.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Wednesday 19th August 1987, 12.35 PM

  Michael Ryan needed petrol for his car. He waited for a motorcyclist to leave the filling station before refuelling his silver Astra, and then pulled out a rifle and fired two shots at the female cashier inside. Thankfully, he missed, and the cashier was unhurt. Ryan then drove off towards the town of Hungerford. The motorcyclist who had been there only moments ago, however, sped to a nearby village and reported that what looked like an armed robbery had taken place and the culprit had driven off.

  At around 12.45 PM, Michael Ryan was seen at his home at South View loading his car with guns, presumably ready to take off, but his car wouldn’t start. Neighbours reported seeing him looking agitated, moving in and out of his house before finally going back inside and shooting the family dog. He then doused the house with petrol and set it alight. On his way out, he grabbed his guns from the boot of his car and shot two of his neighbours dead before taking off on foot towards the town’s common.

  On that terrifying journey, he shot and killed men and women randomly, including his mother, whom he shot once in her abdomen and twice in her back, before heading to Hungerford town centre where he carried on his random killing spree.

  It was early afternoon when Michael Ryan broke into a community college where he had been a pupil at some years before and barricaded himself in. Luckily, the school was closed for the summer holidays. Police attempted negotiations to coax him out, but nothing worked.

  During these negotiations, Ryan said, “Hungerford must be a bit of a mess. I wish I had stayed in bed.”

  At 18.52, Ryan shot himself fatally in the head with a Beretta pistol. He shot himself in the right temple; the bullet went straight through and out the other temple, and then lodged in a noticeboard across the classroom. When the pathologist entered that room afterwards, the pistol was pointing straight at him, though Ryan was already dead. The room, said the pathologist, smelled of sweat, chalk and blood.

  Ryan never gave a reason for his killing spree. Sixteen people, including a police officer, had lost their lives, plus Ryan himself. Another fifteen people had been shot, though not fatally. It was Hungerford’s darkest day.

  And one that kept the emergency services and authorities busy for some time.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Wednesday 19th August, 1987.

  It was so peaceful down by the river, mid-morning on a bright August day. The water flowed like it had nowhere to go in a hurry, carrying ducks lazily downstream. Drooping branches overhung the water’s edge, providing generous shady spots to sit. Sylvia threw out her blanket, their blanket, and sat peacefully for a while watching the water. It was mesmerising. She stared out to the other side; a young family with a dog ambled past, perhaps enjoying some time away from their daily routine.

  There would be no school for Sylvia today. She’d called in sick with a migraine, though it wasn’t something she could ever recall doing in all of her working life. It wasn’t who she was; she told the truth to the bitter end, no matter the consequences.

  Sylvia had made her mind up. Since the last letter she’d received, along with the grainy Polaroid photo, she’d made her decision on how to end it all. The pressure had been building for a couple of weeks, and even though she’d taken her concerns to the headmaster, he’d made it clear it wasn’t his problem. Sharing her troubles with Gerald hadn’t made her feel much better, either, though he had been a good deal more supportive and sympathetic. But the truth was, she couldn’t go on like this, hiding her love away like a dirty secret, and she couldn’t risk Gerald’s family knowing and the shame that would come
down on her, the other woman. He’d promised he’d leave his wife when the time was right, and she believed him. But that wasn’t yet; she knew that.

  Tears rolled silently down her cheeks as she took the flask from her bag and poured herself a cup of coffee. She began by sipping, then, caught in a wave of despair, downed the contents in one. She filled the cup again hurriedly and finished that off, too. It tasted unremarkable.

  She told the truth to the bitter end, no matter the consequences.

  In the shade of a burly tree, Sylvia Marsh lay back on her blanket and waited for sleep to come.

  It was to be her last.

  The body of Sylvia Marsh was not found until the following morning, after Hungerford had been forced into lockdown while the killer had been at large. Everyone had been told to stay indoors. She was found by same dog walker she herself had watched from the opposite riverbank the previous day as she’d drunk her coffee. Or rather, the dog found her. She’d looked so peaceful, family said.

  Sylvia Marsh been taken to the nearest morgue, where she lay waiting her turn with the many gunshot victims. Including Michael Ryan himself.

  It was chaos that day.

  Chapter Sixty-Six