When Beggars Dye

by Peter Hey

  Sarah began twisting one of her dark-auburn locks between the fingers of a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I remember when we used to play in the tennis leagues. You’d get quite cross if I made a dubious line call.’ A naughty smile flashed over her face. ‘Or tried to put the opposition off by commenting on their frizzy hair or buck teeth.’ Sarah savoured the memory and then her expression became earnest once more. ‘What I’m saying is, you had integrity. You wanted to win fairly or not at all. I seem to recall you joined the police because you wanted to do something worthwhile.’

  Jane sighed. ‘Yes, but I was young and stupid. You discover life isn’t a game of tennis. There are rules, but the people making the dodgy line calls seem to get away with it. They’re the ones who prosper. They’re the winners.’ Jane briefly cradled her forehead in her left hand. ‘Or maybe I’m just being cynical. We don’t all have a trustworthy, reliable, lovable Duff to prop us up when we feel the world’s against us.’

  Sarah feigned a look of horror. ‘Don’t ever let him hear you call him lovable! He’s conceited enough as it is. Loathsome is much closer to the mark. Laughable, perhaps.’

  Jane’s face broke into a reluctant grin. ‘Alright, the word will never pass my lips.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do, Jane?’ said Sarah, her seriousness returning. ‘I’ve always been prepared to sacrifice honesty for expediency, but let’s look at it from a practical viewpoint. What if the American asks for another sample further down the line when you’re not involved? What if, despite the apparent evidence, the birth certificates are right and the guy you're promoting really is a blood relation and you send DNA from someone who isn’t?’

  Jane didn’t reply. She turned her head away from her friend and looked again at the view across the rooftops of Nottingham. The white Portland stone of the town hall dome gleamed in sharp contrast to the dark frame of sky behind it. The sun still shone brightly over the city, but heavy, threatening clouds were beginning to assemble on the northern horizon.

  Jean Paul

  The MX-5’s fabric roof was doing its job. There were no leaks, though it thrummed with a sound like muffled applause. The air conditioning had been winning over the condensation, but with the engine off, the windows were rapidly surrendering their transparency to what Jane’s grandfather had always called wet steam, to distinguish it from the hot, transparent gas. The mist of water droplets was emanating from Jane’s laboured breaths, as she struggled to get into her raincoat within the tight confines of the cramped front seat. Her bag was made of green canvas, and fearing its permeability, she stuffed it beneath her coat before pulling the hood over head and opening the door. Almost instantaneously, the torrential rain angled into the car and soaked everything it could reach. Jane clambered out, slammed the door with her hip and began running for the shelter of the apartment block’s doorway. She’d been able to park in a prime position and it was little more than a few paces, but the path was submerged beneath a small lake and her shoes were drenched by the time she reached cover. They squelched unpleasantly as she dripped her way up the half-exposed staircase and across the landing to flat number six.

  When Chris Aimson opened the door he was wrapped in a thick winter cardigan and noticeably shivering despite its unseasonal protection.

  ‘Oh God, Jane. It’s disgusting out. Come in quick. I’ll make you something warm. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee please.’

  Chris set off down the hall, his stick tapping a pulse on the laminate floor. Jane shut the door behind her, removed her coat and slipped off her ruined shoes. She left them in a soggy heap and was aware of leaving wet footprints as she followed into the kitchen.

  Jane wiped her hand over her face. ‘The heavens opened just past Watford. There was so much spray on the motorway, and it got so dark, I had to slow right down.’

  ‘Yeah, I used to hate driving in weather like this,’ said Chris over his shoulder as he filled the kettle.

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘They took my licence away because of the illness. I can’t afford to run a car anyway, so what the hell. Being in London we do alright for buses and tubes – it could be worse.’ He looked down and noticed Jane’s sodden stockinged feet. ‘Do you need a towel?’

  She shook her head. ‘A couple of sheets of kitchen roll would be fine.’

  ‘We’re out, I’m afraid. Here, this tea towel’s clean.’

  Jane dabbed her feet as dry as she could, and Chris threw the damp cloth into the empty washing machine. He led her into the sitting room and she cradled her coffee as she walked slowly behind. The television was on at low volume, and brightly animated cartoons were dancing across the screen. In the middle of the room, sitting on a cushion with his back to the door, was a spellbound toddler with bushy black hair.

  ‘Jean Paul, come and say hello to Jane.’

  The little boy turned, then scuttled over to his father and shyly clung to his leg.

  Jane crouched down, smiled broadly and held out her hand. ‘Hello, Jean Paul. You’re a gorgeous boy. You look just like my friend Tommy. Well, he’s all grown up now, but I bet he looked just like you when he was your age.’ She ruffled Jean Paul’s hair. ‘And he’s got a cool Afro, too.’

  ‘It does need a cut, I’m afraid,’ said Chris apologetically. ‘It suits him, but he’d probably be more comfortable if it were short. Come on, Jean Paul. Say hello to Jane. She’s a very nice lady.’

  The little boy mumbled something resembling hello and then buried his face in Chris’s trousers.

  Chris bent down and gently lifted the boy’s head. ‘Now Jean Paul, turn off the TV and do some drawing. Jane and I need to talk.’

  Jean Paul obediently walked over to where he had been sitting, lifted a small silver remote control and the TV went blank. In corner of the room were some loose sheets of paper and a square plastic box that had once contained biscuits but now held an assortment of wax crayons of varied colour and length. He flopped onto the carpet beside them, pulled out a piece of paper and the brightest orange crayon and began scribbling enthusiastically. His tongue protruded between his teeth as he focussed intently on the image he was trying to create.

  Jane felt herself melting. ‘I think I’m in love. I don’t often get maternal, but he’s adorable. Can I take him home?’

  She turned towards Chris, expecting to see a look of proud appreciation. In its place was a mask of contemplative sadness.

  ‘Sorry, Chris. Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘No, no. I’m being silly. It’s just that someone is going to take him home some day. When I can no longer look after him because of this bloody illness.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was tactless of me.’

  ‘No, of course it wasn’t. It’s not your fault.’ His tone became matter-of-fact as the melancholy ebbed away. ‘You said you needed to get a DNA sample for Herb Jensen. I wrote to him as you know, but only got a very cursory reply.’

  ‘Let’s sit down, Chris.’

  Jane felt like she was back in uniform, breaking news of a fatal accident to a relative who already fears the worst. She sank onto the settee and Chris sat alongside her, lowering himself with a sigh like a man 20 years his senior.

  ‘Chris, since I last saw you I found out your grandmother was still alive. She’s in her nineties and very frail, but living in a nursing home in the… In the Midlands.’

  ‘In the Midlands?’

  ‘Yes, I know that’s vague. I promised I wouldn’t tell her family where she was. She’s ashamed of her past. She’s tired and I think she just wants to die quietly.’

  Chris looked nonplussed. ‘But I could take Jean Paul to see her. Surely she’d want to meet her great-grandson? He’s good at cheering people up.’

  Chris looked towards the little boy drawing happily in the corner, and Jane followed his gaze before replying.

  ‘I’ll contact her again. Maybe she’ll have a change of heart.’ Jane paused. She resumed slowly but gradually the tempo picked up. ‘B
ut... she is a little confused now. She’s quite a talker, and some of what she said I believe, some I don’t. You remember I told you last time that your mother’s father wasn’t James Smith, the man who raised her – I use the phrase loosely – but your grandmother’s first husband, Woody Jensen?’

  ‘Of course. Herb Jensen’s brother, the American airman killed in the war.’

  Jane smiled apologetically. ‘It’s certainly Woody’s name on her birth certificate. Unfortunately, your grandmother cast doubt on that. She suggested that James was probably the father after all. She was pregnant when she got married, though she might not have been totally sure who the father was at the time.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chris.

  ‘Yes, oh,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve always known your mother looked very like James. It seems like the obvious explanation could have been right all along.’

  Chris’s face remained impassive. ‘So that’s why Herb Jensen wants you to get a DNA sample. You’ve told him that, in all likelihood, we’re not related.’

  ‘I haven’t told him anything yet. But you see, there’s always been doubt in Herb’s mind because of the lack of family resemblance and the apparent implications of Woody’s death. He said he was prepared to ignore it, for the sake of his brother’s love for your mother. Brief as it was.’

  Jane waited for Chris to nod his understanding before resuming. ‘And now he seems to have changed his mind. When you wrote to him, I assume you told him you were gay?’

  ‘Obviously. That’s who I am.’

  Jane picked her words carefully. ‘He’s always struggled with his brother’s supposed homosexuality. I’ve got no evidence he’s holding that against you, but who knows? He’s an old man. He’s from a different world. It’s not right, but ultimately, it’s his money. He can give it to whomever he wants. And he doesn’t have to explain.’

  There was still no anger on Chris’s face. ‘Ah, well. I guess we just have to send him a DNA sample and hope for the best. It was a silly fantasy anyway. A hitherto unknown benefactor coming to the rescue. And the fact is, no amount of money is going to cure me of this miserable disease. It’s just that, being ill with a bit of money seems a damn sight better than being ill without. And I worry so much about what the future holds for Jean Paul.’

  Chris stopped talking, his attention drawn to the window as an increase in noise indicated the rain had intensified once again. A smile of acceptance crossed his face. ‘So how does this test work then?’

  Jane waited for a partial lull in the weather and dashed back to her car, running over muddy grass to skirt the swelling puddle that had lain in ambush on her arrival. Her shoes were now filthy as well as wet and cold, but she hardly noticed. She was remembering the sense of injustice that had caused her to call on Dean Smith, on her own in that sordid flat. It had been a reckless decision that she’d barely gotten away with. She’d taken a big chance for the gobbet of spit that ran down her face. Dean’s saliva was still sitting in a sample bottle back in Nottingham.

  Two cousins, two samples of DNA, Jane was trying to calculate odds and risks. She felt an almost irresistible temptation to tilt the scales in favour of Chris Aimson. She knew it was dishonest; it just felt right.

  Answers

  After a temporary intermission, the rain had returned and now battered the flat roof over the extension Jane’s grandfather had built at the rear of the house. The deadened thudding rolled in waves across the covering of rubberised felt that had withstood the elements for more than double its predicted lifespan. She was scanning the ceiling nervously for damp signs of its capitulation, when her mobile phone began to ring.

  ‘Hi, Tommy. Give me a sec.’ I’ll move somewhere quieter.’

  After some muffled noises, Jane’s voice reappeared. ‘Sorry about that, it’s raining tigers and Great Danes up here.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Cats and dogs, big ones. How are you anyway? You don’t normally phone. Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s brilliant. Sun’s shining here. I’m outside the National Archives in Kew, looking at the swans and ducks on the pond.’

  ‘Hope you’ve brought a raincoat. I think this weather’s coming your way again.’

  ‘Jane, I’ve found it! The explanation for the Iron Cross and that letter from William Joyce. Everything, really.’

  ‘Tommy! That does sound brilliant.’

  His enthusiasm bubbled down the line. ‘So, we were worried about the conflict with operation Double Cross and the fact that it mopped up all the German spies in Britain. There was something nagging at me in the back of my mind, something I’d read somewhere. I had a dig around on the Internet and that led me to come over to Kew.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jane.

  ‘So, during the war, there was an MI5 agent, known by the alias Jack King, who infiltrated a network of British fascists. Most of Mosley’s chums were interned but some escaped the net, including a few hardliners who never thought Mosley was pro-Nazi enough. It was these men, and women, that King made contact with. He posed as a Gestapo agent and convinced them to feed information to him rather than doing anything more damaging.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Well, he received some leads that would have been of genuine value to the enemy, including observations of jet aircraft research and amphibious tanks being tested in Welsh swimming pools. Significantly, after the war the authorities decided not to prosecute the 100 or so people he’d smoked out, because it wouldn’t end fascism in this country but would make it harder to investigate in future.’

  Jane tried to process ramifications of Tommy’s words and he took her lack of response as a cue to carry on. ‘That much was on the Web, but I’ve just been reading specific files associated with King’s work. One has recently been declassified and refers to a contact codenamed Hollywood. King describes him as “vain and arrogant” and says, and I quote, “the fake Iron Cross and the forged letter from Joyce made his one good eye gleam with childish delight”. King also says that Hollywood was supplying him with “worthless tittle-tattle” about US airbases in Norfolk gained through “an unnatural relationship with a feckless American sodomite”. Hollywood disappeared late in the war. King puts this down to a realisation that Germany was doomed after D-Day and recommends that “no great effort is wasted in tracking down such a minor pawn”.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Jane.

  ‘Yes, wow.’ agreed Tommy. ‘Interestingly, the date of Hollywood’s disappearance is soon after Woody Jensen is killed.’

  ‘Is James Smith mentioned anywhere by name?’

  ‘No, I think part of the file might be missing, but all the facts fit with our man, especially the bit about him having lost the sight in one eye. And if Mary Smith was telling the truth about him working as a German spy – well, he believed he was – then I think we now have to give credibility to her story about how Woody died, particularly as King’s account appears to substantiate it, circumstantially at least.’

  ‘Tommy, you are brilliant! Not only are the nicest person I know, but the cleverest. I owe you a huge kiss next time I see you.’

  There was a tangible delay before Tommy replied. ‘I’ll email you some stuff. Look, my battery’s getting low, so I’ll ring off. I just wanted to tell you what I’d found. See ya!’

  He hung up.

  A few minutes later, an email arrived in Jane’s inbox. It was from Tommy and attached to it were digital photographs of the documents he’d been reading in Kew. Two minutes after that, a second email arrived. The subject line read ‘PS’.

  Hi Jane

  Almost forgot. I found the attached picture online. It’s from one of Oswald Mosley's rallies in the mid 1930s. You’ll recognise Mosley as the one marching past in the peaked cap, black tunic and jackboots. Good-looking devil, wasn’t he? In amongst the line of Blackshirts there are a few youngsters wearing grey. Look at the lad on the left, giving a fascist salute with almost unbearable enthusiasm. Now, draw a moustache on him and add a f
ew years. Look familiar?

  Tommy

  Jane maximised the image on her screen and zoomed in on the figure Tommy had highlighted. The handsome, dark-haired boy looked like he would break many hearts when he grew up. He looked like he could become a Hollywood film star. He also looked compellingly like a young James Smith.

  The pieces interlocked. The puzzle appeared to have been solved and she could wrap up the case with Julian Stothard and his mother. Before she did so, there was another call Jane wanted to make.

  Jane had told Chris Aimson she would contact Mary Smith to see if she might have second thoughts about meeting him. Little Jean Paul was a lever that might break anyone’s resolve. Jane also felt that Mary deserved to know the truth about her second husband’s wartime activities. He had been an ineffectual dupe played by British intelligence. Whatever else his crimes, he had not caused American bombers to be shot down nor allied soldiers to be killed on the beaches of Normandy. Jane hoped the knowledge might in some way assuage the old woman’s shame before she died. It might also make her more amenable to reconciliation with her family.

  The phone rang four times and was answered by a woman with a South African accent. ‘Kirkspire Lodge nursing home.’

  ‘Hello, it’s Jane Madden here. I was wondering if it was convenient to come in to see Mary Smith again?’

  ‘Sorry, who did you say you were?’

  ‘Jane Madden. I visited Mrs Smith recently. We had a couple of very long chats about her family history, and there are some things I’ve subsequently found out that I think she’d like to know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You made quite an impression on her. Your visits seemed to take a weight off her shoulders somehow. For a short while, at least.’ The line went briefly silent. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mary passed away the day after you came in. We knew she was ill, of course, but didn’t expect things to move quite so quickly. We’re all very sad. We miss her very much.’