“Melody Farren.”
“Divorced yet?”
“Since you ask, yes. A long time ago.”
“How did I guess? You must have done well out of that. Still get a cut of her royalties?”
“There aren’t any royalties to speak of. And, even if there were, I wouldn’t be entitled to a share.”
“What does she do now?”
“Keeps goats. On a small holding in North Wales.”
“What a waste. She had a good voice, and an even better body, as I recall. But then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Don. I would. But you’re not going to.” I certainly ought to have known, but my marriage to Melody Farren real name Myfanwy Probin had been so blurred by my alcoholism that I’d have been hard put to dredge up many of the details, even supposing I’d wanted to. After what I’d put her through, she was probably wise to plump for celibate goat-keeping in Snowdonia.
“Which year did she come third in the Eurovision Song Contest?” Don asked musingly. “Must have been when miniskirts were at their shortest, because the one I saw her wearing on the telly for that fandango…” He gave up as my expression hardened. “Well, all water under the bridge, eh? You’re in the classic car game now, is that right?”
“Who told you?”
“Nobody. Saw one of your ads in a magazine. Napier Classic Convertibles of Pangbourne.”
That’s me.”
“You might be interested in my Morris Minor. Bags of character, but not much performance. Bit like its owner.”
“Why don’t we come to the point?”
“All right. Nicky Lanyon. He turned up at Tredower House on Saturday and spoke to you. Hanged himself that night. You found him the following morning. Correct?”
“So far.”
“His mother died recently. No other close family. So Nicky gets depressed and decides to end it all. But he comes all the way here to do it. That shows a nice sense of, what, irony? Hanged, like his father, on property you could say his father was hanged for. No wonder the brat pack’s down from London. It’s a gift, isn’t it? Or it would be, if they could be bothered to check out all the angles.”
“Which is where you come in?”
“Exactly. You and Nicky were buddies, Chris. Seen him at all since forty-seven, have you? Before Saturday, I mean.”
“No.”
“You’d forgotten all about him, I expect. But he hadn’t forgotten about you.”
“Apparently not.”
“What did he say to you on Saturday?”
“Nothing coherent.”
“Oh, come on.”
“It’s true.”
“Something about his father, wasn’t it?” Don’s eyes engaged mine. “I spoke to Ethel Jago this afternoon. I wrote a piece about her son’s death a few years ago and she mentioned her connection with the Lanyons then. She also happened to think my article was a restrained and tasteful piece of journalism. So, she was more communicative with me than she might have been if some leather-jacketed oik talking in a cod cockney accent had turned up. I’m several steps ahead of them. I know about you and Nicky, which they don’t seem to. And I know he’s been protesting his father’s innocence for the past thirty-four years. Which is what I suspect he was doing when you met him. Correct again?”
“No.”
“Then I must be losing my sense of smell. Which I’m not.”
“He couldn’t accept his father was a murderer. That’s not the same as believing he was innocent.”
“I can pile on the pathos for this piece if I have to, Chris. I can portray Nicky as a sad and lonely victim of life, deserted by his best and oldest friend.”
“What’s stopping you?”
The possibility that there’s a bigger story behind it all. Ethel told me about Michaela as well.” He smiled faintly at my flinch of surprise.
“Michael Lanyon’s posthumous child. Now, that could be a real scoop.”
“Looks like it’s yours for the writing.”
“Not quite. I need more information. And as far as I can see, the only likely source is Nicky’s stepfather, Neville Considine.”
“Why are you wasting your time with me, then?”
“Because Considine lives in Clacton, and my editor isn’t going to pay me to travel to the Essex coast to follow up a Cornish story. But he’ll be down for the funeral, won’t he? Bound to be. It’s this Friday.”
“You know more than I do, it seems.”
The point is, Chris, I need somebody to steer Considine into my waiting arms. Somebody to recommend me as the boy scout of my profession.
There might be a few rivals sniffing around by then. I need somebody to push me to the head of the queue.”
“You mean me?”
“You’re bound to meet him at the funeral. He must know you and Nicky were friends, so he won’t quibble if you introduce me as another of his
‘
“You’ll be there?”
Don shrugged. “Ethel didn’t seem to mind.”
Then why not get her to introduce you?”
“Because you’ll do it better. I told her the three of us were at school together. Only you know that’s technically not true.”
“And that the nearest you came to being a friend of Nicky’s was shouting insults at him and me when we walked down Chapel Hill in prep school uniform.”
Don gave another shrug, accompanied this time by a grin. “It’s a small enough distortion. It’ll justify my presence at the funeral and help me win Considine’s confidence. Not much to ask in return for keeping your name out of the story.”
“So that’s it, is it? Blackmail.”
“Look at it this way. The publicity might throw up a clue to Michaela’s whereabouts. There’s no reason to assume she’s dead, is there? It would give some sort of purpose to Nicky’s death if his sister could be reunited with what’s left of her family.”
“Why do I have the impression that isn’t your primary concern?”
“Because you’re a mean-minded cynic who thinks all I’m after is a cracker of a story that I might be able to sell on to one of the nationals.”
“Your big break.”
“You were the one who said it was never too late.”
“So I did.”
“You’ll play along, then?”
“All right. On the strict understanding that I won’t read about myself in your paper.”
“Great.” Don finished his beer and signalled to the barmaid for a refill. “Another Perrier, Chris? Or are you driving?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Don Prideaux kept his side of the bargain. His Western Morning News piece about Nicky’s suicide mentioned neither me nor Michaela Lanyon.
He was biding his time where she was concerned, awaiting the chance I was going to gift-wrap for him to draw all the strings of the tragedy together. Since the nationals had apparently lost interest in the case by the middle of the week, his strategy was a clever one. When he broke the story, his rivals would all be a long way away.
So, come to that, would I. The ease with which Don had been able to pressurize me had shocked me out of my sentimental reverie. Nicky was dead and the time to help him was past. I’d go to his funeral because I wanted to pay our friendship an overdue homage, but that would be the end of it.
I drove back to Pangbourne on Tuesday morning, intent on putting in a therapeutic couple of days at the workshop before returning to Truro for the funeral. Napier Classic Convertibles’ public face was a quarter-share in the forecourt and showroom of Grayson Motors, Station Road, Pangbourne. I tried to spend as little time as possible sitting behind a potted palm there, waiting for customers, preferring to devote my efforts to the messy but satisfying task of hands-on restoration at the two Nissen huts, disused barn and adjoining yard I rented from a nearby farmer. Mark Foster, my only full-time employee, had Wednesday off. That was fine by me; a solitary day of purposeful tinkering with the Austin-Healey I was putting back
together for one of my prompter payers was just what the doctor had ordered.
The morning went well and I was beginning to think about taking a break for lunch when a noise that sounded like a biplane landing alerted me to the arrival of a car in the yard. It was an abominably kept Fiat 500, with more rust than paintwork and an exhaust system that made me think a sudden fog had descended.
The owner, a tall, thin old man wearing a cheap blue-black suit and grubby shoes with cracked uppers, unwound himself from the driving seat and hesitantly walked towards me. He had thick greasy hair and eyes as bright as a magpie’s, but I’d have put him at seventy even so. He breathed shallowly and trembled faintly. The smell of something unsavoury clung to him like a tawdry memory, and when he smiled, the expression was nervous yet somehow predatory at the same time. “I’m looking for Mr. Napier,” he said cautiously.
“You’ve found him.”
“My name’s Neville Considine.” He held out a hand and I was strangely relieved to be able to display my oil-blackened palms as an excuse not to shake it. “They told me at the garage in Pangbourne that I’d find you here.”
“You’d better come in.”
He followed me past the stripped-down Austin-Healey to the tiny office at the back of the workshop. I offered him a seat and a cup of coffee, hoping he might decline at least the latter. But he didn’t.
“Are you on your way to Truro, Mr. Considine?”
“Yes. For Nicholas’s funeral. I gather from Mrs. Jago that you’ll be attending.”
“I will, yes.”
“The police told me you were the one who found him.”
“Yes. It’s an awful business. You have my ‘
“That’s all right, Mr. Napier. I’m the one who should offer sympathy.
Coming across him like that must have been a dreadful shock.”
“Well, it was, of course, but ‘
“You must understand I’ve seen very little of Nicholas in recent years.” His voice was low but grating. “And it’s not as if he was a blood relative.”
“No. Well, I’m sorry anyway. And about your wife, of course.”
“Thank you.” He made his thanks sound like an indecent proposal. I was glad the kettle boiled at that moment. As I made the coffee, he added, “Nicholas often spoke of you, Mr. Napier.”
“Really?” I handed him his mug and sat down with mine.
“Rather more often than he spoke of anyone else he’d known in Truro.
And that was seldom.”
“What did he say about me?”
“That you were his best friend, of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do …”
“They were an ill-fated family, you know. When I married Nicholas’s mother, I thought their bad luck was at an end. But I’m afraid it wasn’t. First Michaela. Then Rose. Now poor Nicholas. All dead, and only me left.”
“Ethel told me about Michaela. Isn’t it rather defeatist to assume she’s dead?”
“Realistic, I should have said. They got a man for a string of teenage sex killings in the Colchester area around the time she disappeared.
The police seemed certain she was one of his victims. He never admitted it, but there didn’t seem much room for doubt.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s a long time ago. You learn to live with it.”
“I suppose you must.”
“You learn to live with most things, don’t you? You have to, if you’re to survive. Nicholas never was a survivor.”
“No?”
“I always thought he might have inherited some character flaw from his father.”
“But you never knew his father, did you?”
“No.” His tone didn’t alter. I had the impression it never did. But he started blinking rapidly, as if afraid he’d offended me. “That’s true, of course. And, at all events, Nicholas is out of his misery now.”
“Is that what his life was a misery?”
“Much of the time, I fear so.”
“Who’s to blame for that?”
He frowned at me, sipped his coffee and frowned at me again. “Suicide always leaves the living feeling guilty, I suppose.” It was a good answer, a better one than I’d have thought him capable of. “We must do our best for him now he’s gone, mustn’t we?”
“Yes. We must.”
“I’ve assured Mrs. Jago I’ll meet the cost of the funeral.”
“That’s good of you.” He was right about guilt. It stabbed at me in that moment. I should have thought of the undertaker’s bill myself.
“The fact is, however, that such an unexpected outlay will place a considerable strain on ‘
“Let me take care of it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ‘
“Really.”
“Well, if you…”
“I insist.”
“More than generous of you, Mr. Napier. Thank you.” He smiled at me over the rim of his mug. I felt certain then that he’d come to Pangbourne to touch me for money quite possibly before making any kind of offer to Ethel Jago and for no other reason. I should have been eager to discuss Nicky’s life with him, but all I really wanted was to be rid of him. The only blessing of his visit was that it cleared my conscience where setting him up for Don was concerned. Neville Considine was a man who positively invited deceit. What kind of a substitute father he’d been to Nicky if any kind at all1 preferred not to imagine. “It’s not, alas, the only expense I may be put to as a result of Nicholas’s untimely demise, but ‘
“What else?”
He cleared his throat, without noticeable effect on his voice.
“Nicholas left one or two debts behind him in Clacton, I’m afraid. He’d had no work for more than a year, but was too proud to claim unemployment benefit. There are some arrears of rent on his flat and a loan from a finance company overdue for repayment. No doubt his death writes off such debts in law, but I feel obliged to make some effort
‘
“How much?”
“It could amount to several thousand pounds.”
I looked at him, letting him read the scepticism in my face. He probably thought, like Don, that I was rolling in money, willing and able to write him out a fat cheque there and then. It was all depressingly predictable. “Tell you what, Mr. Considine. You get these…
creditors … to submit detailed accounts of what Nicky owed them, and I’ll see if I can help out.”
He swallowed his disappointment with the last of his coffee. “Too kind, Mr. Napier. Really too kind.”
“Least lean do.”
“I’d best be off. Long journey ahead of me, you know.”
“Quite.”
He stood up. As I did the same, he said, “There’s no need to see me out.” But there was. With a man like him, an assurance that he’d definitely left was well-nigh essential. I followed him out of the office and back to the yard, watching him eye the Austin-Healey as he went. “Nice car,” he remarked. “It must be pleasant to be able to indulge a hobby for this kind of thing.”
“It’s not a hobby. It’s my living.”
He made no response, content, it seemed, to have registered his point.
We reached his Fiat and I waited while he clambered in, then, when he wound down the window to say goodbye, I decided to risk a single question about his relationship with Nicky.
“Tell me, did Nicky ever talk much about his father?”
“Not to me. But, then, I didn’t encourage it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted him to stop living in the past.”
“And did he?”
He frowned thoughtfully whilst coaxing the Fiat’s engine into noxiously spluttering life, then, just as he started to move off, gave me his parting reply. “It doesn’t look like it, does it?”
Living in the past. It’s always said pejoratively, as if the past is necessarily inferior to the future, or at any rate less important; nobody�
��s ever condemned for looking forward, only back. But the truth is that we do live in the past, whether we like it or not. That’s where our life takes shape. Somewhere ahead, however near or far, is the end. But behind, shrouded in clouds of forgetting, lies the beginning.
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