by Peter Hey
Jane studied the wedding photograph showing Mary, her husband and their two young children, hoping that it would somehow reveal one more secret. As Chris Aimson had suggested, James Smith and his adopted daughter were compellingly similar, but Jane began to think the likeness was based more on colouring than shared features. That jet-black hair could easily have come from elsewhere in the child’s genetic make-up. The same explanation would also account for her strikingly blond brother, Ernald.
Staring hard into James Smith’s face, Jane suddenly realised his appearance wasn’t modelled on Clark Gable as she’d once assumed. She googled Oswald Mosley and his portrait confirmed the likely inspiration. James Smith had the same swept back hair and dapper moustache as the man whose middle name James had given to his son. In Britain, Oswald would have been as acceptable a name in early 1945 as Adolf would have been in Germany a few months later. James Smith presumably thought he would get away with Ernald, particularly when shortened to the more familiar and innocuous Ernie.
Ernald Smith was now dead. His son, Dean, now seemed Jane’s only hope for making progress. Chris Aimson said that Ernald had taken after his father. Hopefully they shared the family secrets and these, in turn, had been passed down to Dean. She could put it off no longer: she needed to make another trip to Dowley.
Another encounter
Jane’s Mazda was once again the only vehicle in the village car park. She made sure there were no valuables in sight and checked the doors were locked securely. Dean Smith was ‘of no fixed abode’, but had a conviction for drunk and disorderly so she assumed he was no stranger to his local bar. She therefore walked the short distance to the White Hart, where she’d taken refuge only a few days previously. Whilst it had unnerved her at the time, she’d now managed to stifle her memory of the large man with long black hair getting into the white van.
There was a similar vehicle parked untidily in front of the pub, partly blocking the road and with one wheel on the curb. It was like thousands of others and Jane hardly noticed it. She was mentally rehearsing how to ask about Dean without sounding like the policewoman she’d once been. Without the authority of a warrant card, people had no obligation to answer her questions and were more likely to clam up if they sensed her background.
The tall, bearded landlord greeted her with a smile. ‘Hello again, duck. You’re becoming a regular. It was white wine, if I recall correctly?’
Jane returned the smile. ‘May I just have a soda and lime, please. I’m driving and I try to behave myself. I wasn’t in the best of moods last time. I hope that didn’t come across too much.’
‘Not at all. You were charming.’
Halfway through the sentence, Jane thought she saw something change in the landlord's face. It was as if he had remembered something, something that worried him. His eyes flicked around the pub nervously and then he busied himself getting Jane’s drink.
When he’d put it down on the counter, she tried to put him at ease. ‘I don’t think I explained what I was doing in Dowley last time. I’m a professional family historian, looking for ancestors and relatives, that kind of thing. In this case, I may even be looking for heirs, though it might be a bit early to say that.’
Jane had to raise her voice slightly over the sound of a rough diesel engine firing into life outside the pub door, but she could see that the landlord look relieved.
‘Like that daytime TV show?’ he said. ‘They trace people due inheritances from family they never knew existed. Is it called Heir Hunters?’
‘Yes. I’ve only seen it a couple of times, but yes. Maybe a cross between that and Who Do You Think You Are?’
The landlord had now relaxed totally. ‘Wife loves them both. You must have a very interesting job.’
‘Yes. I’ve only just started out, but it’s certainly been interesting so far.’ Jane hesitated briefly before proceeding. ‘I’m currently trying to find someone who lives round here called Dean Smith, Dean Ernald James Smith to be exact. Ring any bells?’
The landlord’s expression changed again. ‘I know a Dean Smith. Couldn’t tell you his middle names, but he puts a fair amount over this bar. He was here last time you came in. Haven’t seen him today. He’ll probably be in later, knowing our Dean.’
‘You look concerned,’ said Jane.
‘He’s a good customer, but not a particularly… pleasant man.’ The landlord was now talking quietly and choosing his words carefully. ‘Look, duck, it can be a bit rough round here from time to time. A girl, woman, about your age was found dead in what they call mysterious circumstances a while back. Face down in the river. She‘d fallen on hard times, shall we say, and had been spending a bit of time with Dean. A lot of us thought her death was down to him.’ The landlord’s eyes scanned round the pub again. ‘As it turned out, he had a foolproof alibi, but the fact we thought it tells you a lot about the bloke. A nice girl like you probably wants to make sure there are always other people around if you’re in his company. In here would be a good place. I could keep a friendly eye out. He’s not the sort of bloke to stand up to someone bigger than him.’
Jane nodded her understanding. ‘Thank you for the information. And the offer. I’ll take your advice. Any idea what time he’ll be in?’
‘All depends if he’s bothered to get out of bed yet.’’
An hour later, Jane was still sitting in the White Hart, two empty glasses in front of her and feeling bored. In the police, she’d spent long hours on surveillance or simply waiting for something to happen, and patience had never come easily to her. Some people are happy alone their own thoughts; that was company she tried to avoid.
Her doldrums were broken when the two men walked in. She recognised them immediately from their slight build, thin pointed faces and closely cropped hair. It was the weasel brothers she’d encountered on her previous visit. She looked questioningly towards the landlord, and after a short delay, he reluctantly nodded and tilted his head to the left to confirm the identity of the man she sought.
The men bought their drinks and then moved over to their usual table. Jane went to the bar and returned her glasses.
The landlord looked stern. ‘Be careful, duck. He can be a bit of a bugger if you wind him up. I can handle Dean, and his sidekick, but I’d rather have a quiet life, if at all possible.’
Jane smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. I’m just going to ask him some questions about his grandfather. It’s all very tame and innocent.’
‘Just be aware he’s got strong views, even for round here. Try not to react, eh duck?’
Jane walked over to the corner where the two men were sitting and interrupted their conversation. ‘Hi my name’s Jane Madden. I understand you’re Dean Smith? I’m a genealogist, and unless I’m wrong, your dad was called Ernald Smith? Do you mind if we have a chat?’
Dean looked up and a broad grin revealed uneven teeth. A blackened stump was just visible at one side of his mouth. ‘Hello, pet. We’ve seen you in here before – couldn’t forget that orange jacket you’ve got on, could we? Don’t get me wrong, we like bright colours.’ He winked surreptitiously to his friend before facing back towards Jane. ‘Yeah, my dad was called Ernald. He was always known as Ernie, but Ernald was what they put on his death certificate.’ He twisted his head again. ‘Steve, mate, why don’t you do one? The lady here would like to talk with me. She’s a jeanie something. I’ve temporarily forgot what one of them is, but she’s a very pretty lady and I’m always happy to oblige a lady. Go on, run along now like a good boy.’
After the briefest of complaints, Steve obediently stood up and sloped away. Jane took his place.
‘You and Steve aren’t related at all?’ she asked. ‘There’s quite a similarity between the two of you.’
Dean looked offended at the suggestion and exaggeratedly shook his head.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m a genealogist. I research people’s family trees, you know, find their ancestors and long-lost relatives.’
‘Like them heir hunters on telly?’ Dean sounded interested.
‘We use the same sort of sources and methods.’
‘So, I could be in line for a windfall from some cousin I’ve never heard of?’ Dean was now leaning forward expectantly.
‘I’m really not sure about that. But I am working on behalf of someone I believe to be a cousin of yours, second cousin actually. He’s a businessman based in the States and has asked to me to solve a family mystery.’
Dean’s eyebrows rose at the mention of an American businessman. ‘Anything I can do to help, Jane. Please, just ask. Ask away. I’m a helpful guy. Known for it.’
‘That’s really kind of you, thank you.’ Jane studied his face and wondered where to start. ‘What do you know about your grandfather, James Smith?’
Dean sat back in his chair smugly. He felt like a wise man in unique possession of knowledge. He liked to talk, to express opinions, to educate. And who knew how this attractive woman might show her appreciation?
He held up his hands like a priest beginning a sermon. ‘I don’t remember that well, personally. He died when I was a kid, but my dad was always talking about him. When my dad wasn’t in the nick, of course. He absolutely hero-worshipped the bloke. Really handsome guy with charm to match. All the ladies loved him. Bit of a family trait, eh pet?’
Jane smiled in response, trying to keep her gaze from the crude and faded swastika tattoo that Dean had presumably inked on his own wrist at some stage in his youth.
Dean’s eulogy abruptly shifted into diatribe. ‘And he had the guts to speak his mind. Ahead of his time, he was. There’s a right-wing uprising on the cards, mark my words. Lots of people, all around the world, have had enough of the liberal, leftie elite getting rich on immigrant labour, whilst we ordinary folk get kicked in the balls. He was warning about it years ago. Said we’d have been better off being mates with Hitler rather than bankrupting ourselves in that stupid war. We might still have an empire for a start. And he never believed all that bollocks about the holocaust. Go on the Internet today, ignore the official propaganda, and you’ll find he was right all along.’
Jane could see that James Smith had never changed from the boy who marched in the streets of east London with Oswald Mosley. And the infected blood still ran through Dean’s veins. She decided it was best just to listen, to see what else he would reveal.
Dean read her silence as agreement and the alcohol was fuelling his confidence. ‘He used to get sick of people playing the old soldier. You know, “I was there at Dunkirk. It was a great victory. We didn’t get our arse kicked by the Germans. Look at all me medals.” That kind of thing. Well, my dad once told me that my grandad had a medal of his own. And not just one for turning up. Thing is, it was made of iron and shaped like a cross.’
Jane couldn’t conceal her disbelief. ‘An Iron Cross? A German medal?’
‘That shocked you, didn’t it? For services rendered, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t something he flashed around, obviously, but my dad said he’d seen it. Mind you, he could be a lying bastard, my dad.’ Dean smiled but there was a suggestion of bitterness in his eyes. ‘I don’t really know the full story, I guess. What I am sure of is that my grandad was a man of principle who had more balls than all them supposed heroes who marched around on Armistice Day.’
Dean seemed to be backtracking on the dubious medal story and Jane began to question how much he was extemporising on thin memories and his own prejudices. She thought it was time to steer him in a specific direction.
‘James Smith’s wife, your grandmother, was called Mary. Is that right?’
‘She was always a bit on the wet side. I think her husband led her a bit of a dance, if you know what I mean. She did as she was told, but wasn’t bright enough to understand his politics. God, I remember the times she used to drag me down to that old war memorial to show me her brother’s name. Boo hoo.’ Dean wiped fake tears from his eyes. ‘My grandad used to laugh at her. Behind her back, like – he wasn’t a cruel man.’
Jane tried to keep her face unreadable and her voice even. ‘It’s her family I’m working on behalf of. There was some row and they totally lost touch to the extent that the current generation didn’t even know Mary existed. Can you tell me anything about that?’
‘Not really. I guess the old dear would know.’
Jane moved forward in her seat. ‘By “the old dear” do you mean your grandmother?’
‘Yeah, my dear old gran. Silly cow.’
‘And, sorry to question your grammar, but did you mean would know or would have known?’
Dean looked thoughtful. ‘That’s the million-dollar question. Sometimes her mind’s as clear as a bell. Others she’s totally gaga. But these days, I think it’s gaga more often than not.’
‘Your grandmother’s still alive?’
‘Well, unless she’s popped her clogs in the few last weeks and the bastards haven’t bothered telling me.’
Jane bought Dean another drink and let him talk. A story emerged of a squalid upbringing, with a shiftless father in and out of prison and a mother who ran off, leaving an insecure young boy in the care of his grandmother, a woman he grew to mock and belittle like his father and grandfather before him. The more Dean talked, the more he revealed his ugly bigotry and a bragging, bullying, morally vacant personality. The more Jane listened, the more he thought she was being won over by his compelling opinions and charisma. Explaining he was between flats at the moment, he eventually asked if she’d like to go back with him to Steve’s place. He became loud and angry when she declined, so she stood up and walked back to the bar. The landlord gave Dean a hard stare, and he quietened and began silently mouthing obscenities at his pint glass. Steve returned to sit next to his friend and became the focus of his muttering resentment.
Jane hoped that would be her last encounter with Dean. He had served his purpose. She didn’t trust his wilder claims, particularly the nonsense about an Iron Cross, but the picture was emerging from the jigsaw and he’d told her where she was likely to find the final pieces. He’d given her the name of his grandmother’s nursing home.
Jane thanked the landlord and made her way towards the pub door. As she swung it open, she saw a white van parked outside. It was the one that had been there when she arrived, but it was now facing the other way and its hot engine was still ticking. The driver had just climbed out and had his back to her as he slammed the door with unnecessary force. He was a large, powerfully built man with long black hair, streaked with grey. Jane knew him immediately: it was the man she’d seen outside the churchyard, the man she’d felt had been watching her.
Jane froze briefly and then all reason, all control, abandoned her. She was consumed by one thought. A blind wildness entered her eyes.
She darted towards the man.
From behind the bar, the landlord saw what was happening and shouted after her. It was too late. She could hear nothing but a name, a childish term of endearment, screaming in her head.
Jane crossed the pub forecourt in under a second. She reached up and yanked sharply on the man’s shoulder. He spun round instantly as if forever on his guard. His raised fists were clenched and his back was arched like a boxer poised to lash out.
Seeing Jane, he checked himself but didn’t lower his hands. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ he spat.
The madness on Jane’s face receded almost immediately. ‘I’m sorry, really sorry. I thought you… I thought you were someone else.’
‘If you were a bloke you’d be on that floor with no fucking teeth by now. No-one lays their hands on me. No-one. And who? Who did you think I fucking was?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ mumbled Jane.
‘I said, “Who did you think I fucking was?”’
‘I thought… I thought you were my da… my father.’ Jane struggled to hold back tears.
The man dropped his arms to his side and the aggression in his tone began to soften. ‘I’m not your father,�
�� he said.
Jane’s own voice became lifeless and empty. ‘I know. I haven’t seen him since I was a really small girl, but I know you’re not him. I just remember how big he was. His hair. Like yours. But, no, you can’t be him. I’m sorry.’
What was left of the man’s anger seemed to quell. ‘You’re the bird with the green sports car. I saw you in front of the church a few days back.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘As it happens, you reminded me of my own girl. She was tall like you, same colouring, same build. Until that slimeball drug dealer got his paws on her. She was like a fucking skeleton last time she came to visit me.’ His expression became distant and regretful. ‘And now she is a fucking skeleton, six feet under. I should have been around to look after her, but I wasn’t. Shame on me. That drug dealer won’t be poisoning anyone else’s daughter, but it’s too late. Too late for me, too late for her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jane repeated for the third or fourth time.
‘Yeah, right. Leave me alone, eh love? Ask anyone round here. I’m a man you’d best leave alone. If you know what’s good for you.’
He pushed past Jane and into the pub. She stood fixed to the spot, shaking like a lost and frightened child.
After a minute or so, the landlord came out and touched her arm. He spoke quietly, partly out of compassion but also so that his voice didn’t carry inside. ‘You okay, duck? I thought Michael had gone for the day. Christ, we had a lucky escape there. What was that about?’
‘I thought I recognised him. I made a mistake.’
‘Michael’s not a guy you want to make mistakes with, duck, believe me. Sit down at one of the tables outside. I’ll get you that white wine.’
‘No. It’s okay. I’m going home.’