by Peter Hey
‘What else?’
‘The girl’s father is a local gangster type. You know, he supposedly runs a building company, but he’s also a bare-knuckle fighter who sorts out disputes and collects debts through threats and violence. There were stories of him getting out of prison and butchering the pusher who got his daughter hooked. They didn’t find a body and no-one would talk, but he’s not a man you want to wind up without cause. If, just for example, he heard that someone had been reinterviewed about the death of his daughter, then who knows what he’d do if he got his hands on them. His line of questioning might be a little more robust, shall we say.’
‘You’re telling me the local plod are scared of this guy?’ Jane sounded exasperated.
‘They just think Dean Smith’s got an alibi and they need more than a dodgy confession before prodding this particular wasps’ nest.’
‘And the girl was just a junkie prostitute from a criminal family, so let’s not try too hard.’
‘That’s not fair, Jane.’
The line went quiet for several seconds. It was Dave who broke the silence. ‘There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Your mother wrote to me a while back.’
‘She wrote to me too. I threw the letter straight in the bin,’ snapped Jane.
‘I knew that would be your reaction which is why I didn’t mention it at the time. Look, she’s back in the UK, living in Dorset. Nice place on the coast by the sound of it. She wants to build bridges and I just thought—'
‘Thought what?’
‘I just thought it might help you get your head together if you went to talk to her. Maybe you could sort out this thing you’ve got about your father. Maybe you could stop… Well, stop doing what you almost did to Dean Smith.’
‘I stopped myself, I told you,’ replied Jane, plaintively.
‘But what about next time, Jane? What about the next Dean Smith?’
‘He was an extreme case. He attacked me. It was self-defence.’
‘Please just think about it. I’ll email you her address and phone number. Yeah? Just think about it. It’s starting to rain – I’d better go back inside. I’ll email. Bye now.’
Jane sat and stared at the ivy which had begun to dominate the far wall of the garden. But the colours she saw were not green and brick-brown; they were the silver-grey of a huge ship and the yellow-white-blue of a glaring, sunlit sky haloing the black silhouette of a huge man towering over a little girl.
Tears welled and began to overflow her reddened eyelids.
‘Please don’t go, Daddy,’ she said.
Heroes and myths
Dear Ms Madden
I have been waiting patiently, but it is has been some time since I requested that you collect a DNA sample from Christopher Aimson. Please can you give me an update with some urgency or I will be obliged to enlist the help of an alternative agent to progress this matter.
Regards
Herb Jensen
Sarah was a lady who lunched. Fortunately, a cancellation had left a slot in her busy social calendar. It was Jane who suggested the castle. It was somewhere they’d frequented as teenagers and she had a sudden urge to retrace old steps.
The sun was still shining, and Jane found Sarah sitting at a cafe table on the wide stone terrace at the back of the building. To Jane’s slight surprise, her friend was not alone. Under a rather grand Panama hat was an imposing grey-haired man of ample frame, whose intransigently black moustache was thick with cappuccino froth from the large cup he had just returned to its saucer.
On seeing Jane, Duff wiped his face with a napkin, stood, doffed his hat and beamed warmly. The sequence of motions appeared seamlessly fluid and graceful as if choreographed and endlessly rehearsed.
‘Jane, my darling,’ he said, ‘you look gorgeous. Now, don’t worry. I’m not stopping.’
‘No, please stay, Duff. It’s good to see you,’ replied Jane.
‘No, no. I know you wanted to have a woman-to-woman chat with old Ginge here. It was just that she told me you were meeting at the castle and I said, “It’s on our doorstep, yet I haven’t been up there in donkey’s yonks, my little ginger currant bun. Why don’t I take the morning off work and we’ll have a wander round. See if the old place has changed.”’ Sarah rolled her eyes, but Duff ignored her. ‘Ginge doesn’t often agree with me, as you know, but on this occasion she thought I’d hit the old nail on the head and here we are.’
‘I know who I’d like to hit on the head, you rambling old fool,’ interjected Sarah.
Duff ignored his wife’s comment and started gathering his things. ‘But commerce calls. I’m needed back at the coal face, so I’ll leave you chaps to matters feminine.’
‘Please don’t rush off on my behalf,’ persisted Jane.
‘Please do, Duff. I’m starting to find your conversation somewhat tiring,’ counteracted Sarah.
‘You’re a very tiring woman, my love,’ returned Duff, grinning broadly.
‘Yes, yes, Duff. So just buy Jane a nice Americano and then toddle off to that dull little business of yours so we girls can be rude about you behind your back.’
‘At once, my cuddly ginger porcupine.’ Duff pulled back his chair for Jane and then strolled away towards the cafe door.
Jane sat down and took in the magnificent view. It was one she’d not seen for years, yet it was as familiar as the face of a long-lost school friend encountered at a class reunion, briefly unrecognisable then unmistakably the same. It caused Jane’s mind to drift into its dustier archives.
The castle sat on a bare sandstone cliff that gave it a commanding position overlooking the old town of Nottingham. But the mediaeval fortress occupied by the sheriff and besieged by Richard the Lionheart was long gone. Parliament ordered its slighting after the civil war and it was replaced by a grand ducal palace. Today, Jane knew many visitors were disappointed when seeing it for the first time. Apart from the outer gatehouse, there was nothing that could be used in any Hollywood depiction of Plantagenet conflict. The backdrop was more Downton Abbey than The Adventures of Robin Hood.
Whilst the sheriff and King Richard I had documented, historical involvement with the site, it was the mythical outlaw who had earned a statue in the castle grounds. Aiming his bow for over 60 years, the squat bronze archer had been deprived of his arrow several times, until a replacement of stronger alloy was securely welded into place to deter the souvenir hunters. Nearby, and treated with considerably more respect until his memory faded, was the metal likeness of another local hero. Albert Ball, VC, was a World War I flying ace who crashed to his death over the Western Front in 1917, aged just 20. Jane’s Nottingham-born great-grandmother had also been a Ball, and the fighter pilot had always been talked of as a cousin. One of Jane’s earliest forays into family history had been to establish the exact genealogical link, but she had been dismayed to find the ancestral lines drifting apart to villages on opposite sides of the county. Ball was a common surname and any shared genes appeared to predate the available parish registers, if they existed at all.
All those thoughts, of history personal and civic, flashed through Jane’s head in a fraction of the time it would have taken her to voice them out loud. To Sarah, it was as if her friend had merely paused to scan the horizon.
Duff reappeared with a coffee cup in one hand and a plate in the other.
Sarah looked concerned. ‘What on earth have you bought, Duff?’
‘I thought Jane might like a little slice of chocolate cake.’
For once, Sarah seemed genuinely cross. ‘It’s like a doorstop! And we’re going to have lunch soon.’
‘Ah, it’s just it was the last piece. It looked particularly appetising and they couldn’t really cut it into two. Well maybe they could. I wouldn’t have bought it for you, my love. I just thought Jane might enjoy it. She’s such a skinny waif of a thing.’
‘Unlike me, of course?’
‘That’s not what I meant, my little ginger sausage...’ Duff was beginn
ing to look uncomfortable. ‘...no, not sausage. Something thin. My little ginger cheese straw?’
Sarah looked at him coldly and Duff continued to dig. ‘Look, you know I think you’ve got the perfect figure. It’s just that you worry about it so much. That’s all I meant. Honestly, Sarah. My love.’
Jane thought it best to cut in. ‘The cake looks wonderful, Duff. It’s ever so sweet of you, but it is a little on the large side. It might well spoil my meal.’
‘I’m an old fool – I simply didn’t think. It is a slab, you’re right. But there’s an easy solution. Ladies, I bid you goodbye and trust you’ll enjoy your luncheon.’
Duff grabbed the cake off the plate and took a large bite. He nodded appreciatively and with his free hand lifted his hat as a gesture of farewell. He then strolled off, munching chunks of cake as he went.
Jane smiled as she watched him go. Sarah shook her head to suggest disbelief but she, too, couldn’t help grinning. ‘Silly old duffer,’ she said.
They chatted about old times for a while and then bought lunch. Sarah picked at a salad with the enthusiasm of someone in mortal fear of calories, whilst Jane ate with the hearty appetite of one whose metabolism and nervous energy had, so far in her life, helped her maintain the same dress size she’d been at 16.
Sarah pushed her plate away after a couple of mouthfuls and steered the conversation onto more serious topics. ‘You said you had a dilemma you wanted to discuss with me.’
Jane swallowed carefully before replying. ‘Two dilemmas in fact. Should that be dilemmas or dilemmae? You had the expensive education.’
‘Which, as you well know, was wasted. Apart from the lessons in deportment and how to get out of a sports car without flashing your underwear. Latin, in particular, was frightfully, frightfully dull and totally impenetrable. And the word might actually be Greek. Anyway, tell me about dilemma number one and dilemma number two.’
Jane took a sip of mineral water and her expression became more serious. ‘Dilemma number one – Dave says I should go and see my mother. He thinks it would help clear up some of the nonsense in my head. Maybe I’d come to terms with my hang-ups about my father.’
‘I think you told me your mother had come back from Australia and was living somewhere near Bournemouth?’
‘That’s right. She buried her fourth husband – he was the richest of the lot, if you remember – sold the place in Sydney and came home. She wrote to me, but I didn’t bother replying.’
‘I know you were upset she didn’t come to your grandmother’s funeral, but she had a reason,’ ventured Sarah.
‘Yes, her husband was very ill and she was on the other side of the world. But to not attend your own mother’s funeral is unforgivable. It’s not as if she couldn’t afford the flights. She always put her love life first – her relationships with men were always more important than anything, certainly more important than me.’ Jane took another sip to slow her emotions. ‘Until she got bored and moved onto the next one. Three divorces is quite good going.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘I only met her a few times when we were young, but she was certainly glamorous. It’s no surprise men were attracted to her. Like mother, like daughter, in that respect at least.’
‘I know you mean that as a compliment, but I have no desire to be like my mother. She certainly didn’t think I was attractive. “Poor, plain little Jane” she used to call me. “Shoulders like a boy” was the other one.’ Jane let out a brief groan. ‘Oh sorry, Sarah. It was all a long time ago. I shouldn’t moan – I was very lucky to have my grandparents to raise me. The only time I really spent alone with my mother was when she took me on one of those shopping trips to London or Paris. When she was between men and needed a companion.’
‘Well you’re not plain Jane anymore. Duff was telling me he’s never seen you looking more attractive. So tell me about your love life. You had a choice of two men, as I recall. What were their names? Tommy and Justin?’
Jane shook her head. ‘I told you, Tommy and I are just friends. We’re chalk and cheese romantically. I’m really not his type. Though he was ever so sweet a few days ago. I was feeling a bit, well, under the weather and he came all the way from London on the train to check I was alright. He used to suffer from really bad agoraphobia, so it was a big thing for him.’
Sarah raised her perfectly drawn eyebrows. ‘I told you he was in love with you.’
‘No, he isn’t. He’s just a nice guy. Oh, but he’s not gay like you suggested last time. I asked him.’
‘You’re very naive sometimes. If he’s not gay, then he’s in love with you. So, tell me about the other one. Justin?’
Jane shook her head again, but somewhat less convincingly. ‘I think you mean Julian. He’s the client for the project I’m working on. I’m sure I only mentioned him in passing.’
‘It was the way your eyes went all distant that gave it away, darling.’
‘Well, he is gorgeous. And more my type. Oh, and loaded.’ Jane paused while she digested what she’d just said. ‘Oh, Sarah! I’m sounding just like my mother after all. Looking for rich men to marry. You bring out the worst in me! Let’s get back to my dilemma. Should I visit my mother or not?’
‘Obviously you should visit your mother. It’s not healthy to run away from your past. It’s not healthy to bear grudges. If you talk things through with her, it might help you come to terms with your upbringing. You might even forgive her and forgiveness can be quite cathartic, to both give and to receive. And it’s not as if Bournemouth is on another continent.’
‘It’s just outside Bournemouth. A place call Sand... Sand Dunes or something?’
‘Sandbanks!’ Sarah suddenly sounded excited. ‘Sandbanks is one of the most expensive places to live in the country, in the world, in fact. That football manager, you know, the one with the gorgeous son who got divorced, he lives there. John Lennon bought his Aunt Mimi a house in Sandbanks in the sixties. It’s millionaire central. I know you said your mother married money, but I didn’t realise how much. Jane, darling, you’re an only child. You won’t need to worry about finding a wealthy husband.’
‘I don’t want my mother’s money.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Sarah dismissively. ‘But that’s one dilemma sorted. You’re going to visit your mother. What’s the other one?’
Jane took a deep breath and her expression became solemn again. ‘It’s a question of honesty, from a professional and a moral standpoint. I can’t ask Tommy. He’s far too straight, and nervous. He’ll want me to tell the truth. It’s just that, in this case, it’s simply not right.’
Sarah tilted her head thoughtfully before replying. ‘White lies make the world go round. Where would we be if we told the truth all the time? “Do I look fat in this, dear? Well, yes actually, but it’s not the dress – you look fat in everything. Dear.”’
‘But what about dirty-grey lies?’ The question was rhetorical and Jane continued after the briefest of hesitations. ‘It’s complicated. There’s this old man in Minnesota trying to track down the English descendent of his brother, who was a US airman killed in World War II. The man who appears – on paper – to be the airman’s grandson is gay and the old man has a big hang-up about homosexuals.’
Sarah looked perplexed. ‘It’s the 21st century, for God’s sake. Can’t he get over it?’’
‘It’s just that his brother was murdered. By a gay man, his lover. At least that’s what they thought at the time. Now, I don’t know what to believe. But the old man is harbouring 70 years of pain, resentment and prejudice. He’s looking for obstacles and has asked me to get a DNA sample from the grandson.’
Sarah’s face now suggested slightly bemused concentration. ‘You mentioned something about the grandson being related “on paper”?’
‘The airman’s English wife had a relationship with another man. She had two children.
The first was, according to her birth certificate, fathered by the airman, though she probably wasn’t. The se
cond was – in all likelihood – but the other man’s name is on that certificate.’
‘In all likelihood?’
Jane nodded slowly, as if questioning her own assertion. ‘I’m pretty convinced it’s true.’
‘Then surely this second child, or its descendents, are to whom the elderly American would want to make contact?’ The intonation on ‘surely’ conveyed Sarah’s doubt not her certainty.
‘There’s one descendent. Trouble is, he’s a total lowlife shit. I knew that already, but then he tried to rape me—'
Sarah looked shocked. ‘Rape? Are you okay, darling? Have you been to the police?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I won. He lost. The point is, he’s almost certainly done worse. Whereas the gay guy seems a decent, deserving person. His partner was killed in a road accident and now he’s struggling with serious illness and raising a young child on his own with very little money. He needs all the help he can get.’
‘So what are you suggesting, Jane? Notice how I’m not asking what “He lost” means. I suspect I don’t want to know.’
‘Don’t worry. I didn’t do him any permanent damage. But I did get a DNA sample off him. It’s not ideal, the bastard spat on my face, but I’m pretty confident it’ll be okay.’
‘And you’re thinking of sending it to the elderly American, so he hasn’t got an excuse to disown the man you judge to be, quotes, deserving?’
Jane shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I had a rush of blood to my head, a sense of injustice. I thought it was a good idea. Or maybe I just wanted to have the option. And now…’
Jane went quiet so Sarah prompted, ‘And now?’
‘And now I’m having second thoughts. But here’s the thing – mister lowlife shit ended up confessing to me that he’d killed a girl, albeit accidentally. Maybe. I can’t get the police to accept that confession – there’s some crap about an alibi – but I can do him out of any chance of inheritance and help someone who is much, much more deserving and, as far as the official documents are concerned, is the legal heir.’ Jane slapped the table in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake! It must happen all the time – fathers leaving everything to kids who, if you DNA tested them, wouldn’t actually be theirs.’