The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  Almost.

  ‘That phone call last night? When he says he rang here and listened to her voice on the answerphone?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There’s no phone connection, remember? You told me yourself it was taken away.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So how does he get her answerphone?’

  ‘God, I don’t know,’ he said, tugging at his tie and loosening the top button. ‘Maybe it wasn’t last night. Maybe it was earlier in the week and he got confused or something.’

  ‘Confused?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Just like he was confused about the toilet, you mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He and his wife have stayed here all those times and he needs you to show him where the downstairs bathroom is?’

  ‘Oh, come on –’

  ‘AWL.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said you worked for AWL.’

  Sharp frowned. ‘That’s because you told him, remember?’

  ‘No. I told him you worked for Aitcheson, Wilmot and Lowe.’

  ‘So what? It’s the same thing.’

  ‘I work for Langmere Grove Holiday Park, Liam. What are the initials?

  ‘What?’

  ‘Initials, Liam.’

  ‘I don’t know – La . . . what was it? Langmere Park –?’

  ‘My point exactly. People don’t listen that closely in casual conversation. He’d have struggled to get the name right, let alone work out the initials.’

  ‘Jesus, what are you – Columbo?’ He laughed, recovering a little of his composure. ‘That’s so pathetic. How does that prove he’s lying?’

  ‘It doesn’t. I didn’t say it proved anything.’

  ‘There you go then – what’s your point?’

  ‘My point is, it seemed a bit odd to say the least. Which is why I borrowed your mobile.’

  The smile disappeared from his face.

  ‘My mobile?’

  ‘Press the redial button and the name O’Halloran comes up. If I were to check the number against the one on the card our Mr Bassey just gave me, you reckon they’d match up? And those initials FOH on the handkerchief he kept waving about – that’s a coincidence too, right?’

  Sharp looked almost offended. ‘You said you needed to phone your office,’ he whined.

  ‘Well, aren’t I just the sly old shifty-boots? Are you ready now to tell me what you know, or do I pay your Mr Wilmot a visit when we get back?’

  He tried briefly to hold it together, forcing himself to look her in the eye while he desperately cast his net in search of options. When none sprang to mind, he slowly linked his hands behind his head and squeezed his elbows forward, as the reality of his situation struck home.

  ‘Shit,’ he sighed, screwing his eyes tightly shut and flopping into the armchair. ‘Shit!’ He buried his head in his hands while Ellen waited patiently. When he looked up, there was a look of resignation written large across his features.

  ‘I’m fucked,’ he groaned. ‘If O’Halloran finds out you know, he’ll think it was me who grassed him up. He’ll go straight to Wilmot and tell him everything.’

  ‘You seem to be missing the obvious,’ said Ellen. ‘If you don’t tell me everything in the next five minutes, I’ll be there long before your friend O’Halloran. Trust me, he’s not the one you should be worrying about.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Ellen perched herself on the arm of the sofa and waited for him to do the maths. The day she couldn’t handle someone like Liam Sharp would be the day she’d give up. She watched as he picked up the untouched glass of water and took a couple of sips for himself before replacing it on the table. Then he took a deep breath as he sank back into the sofa, furiously rubbing at the corners of his eyes as if trying to clarify his thoughts.

  ‘His name’s Frank O’Halloran,’ he said at length.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘He’s a reporter. Cotswold Daily Gazette . . . so he says. Although he does a lot of stuff on his own. Freelance, like.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘He told me. Anyway, says so on his card.’

  ‘And the one he gave me said he was an insurance agent.’

  ‘I know. He’s got tons of ’em, all different. Prints them off as he needs them. Likes to think he’s got one for every situation. But he’s a reporter alright.’

  ‘So how do you know him? How did you first meet?’

  ‘Came to the office,’ said Sharp, recovering a little of his composure.

  ‘When are we talking about?’

  Sharp gave it some thought. ‘Dunno. Last summer some time. May? June? Anyway, he came to see the old man. Had all these questions he wanted to ask about Miss Nash. Seemed to think he could just turn up and Wilmot would tell him everything he wanted to know – like that’s going to happen! I don’t think he was in there more than five minutes.’

  He grabbed his phone which had started to ring and switched it off without even checking it.

  ‘Anyway, same evening I stopped for a drink on the way home and he’s only followed me there, crafty old sod. Offers to buy me a drink and comes straight out with it. No bullshit or anything. Gives me the old spiel about how it must be hell working for someone like Wilmot. Then he asks me how much I earn and tells me it’s nowhere near enough, which is spot on as it happens. So he asks if I fancy picking up some easy money on the side, like – in exchange for bits of information every now and then.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Anything, long as it had something to do with the old girl. Whatever I could get my hands on. Even if it didn’t look like it was worth much. He said he’d be the judge of that.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’

  ‘No. I did ask once and he jumped down my throat. Said it was none of my business, so I didn’t bother asking again. As if I give a shit as long as I get paid.’

  ‘So what did you pass on to him?’

  ‘Nothing really – that’s the big joke. I told him straight up. I can’t get at most of the documents and stuff. They’re all in files in Wilmot’s office or on his computer and there’s no way you’ll ever get in there. He’s got this thing about security. It’s like Fort bloody Knox, he’s got that many keys and alarm systems. I copied the things that were on the network, like – admin things mostly. That was easy enough – things like his appointment schedule and background information on the clients. I thought O’Halloran’d chuck it back in my face when I offered it to him but he took out two twenty-quid notes and gave them to me like it was loose change. Said there was more if I came up with something worth looking at. I couldn’t believe it, you know? Easiest money I’ve ever earned in my life.’

  ‘So what else did you give him?’ asked Ellen.

  Sharp’s expression darkened at this. ‘That was the problem. I couldn’t get my hands on anything else. At first he said no sweat. I just had to keep my eyes open and let him know the moment she got in touch with us again. Then finally I had this stroke of luck for once.’

  He leant back in the chair and crossed his legs, relaxing into his new role.

  ‘Past couple of years or so, we’ve been computerising all the old records whenever we get dead time at work. I‘d got this batch of files for 1998–2002 and had to scan these documents from some agency or other onto the network. You know, some private-investigation firm? Usually I don’t bother reading the stuff we scan, but I had a quick look at this one, ’cos we don’t use investigators all that often. And then I saw her name on the file.’

  ‘Eudora’s?’ He definitely had Ellen’s attention now.

  ‘Yeah. Miss Eudora Nash – Wilmot had written it on the file in pencil.’

  ‘Wilmot was investigating her?’

  Sharp laughed. ‘No, she was the client. She wanted them to find someone. Wilmot was just the middleman between her and the agency.’

  ‘Wait, just a minute,’ Ellen said. ‘Let me get this
straight. When did you say this was?’

  ‘March 2000, the letter was.’

  ‘And Eudora wanted to find someone? Did the letter say who?’

  ‘No. It got O’Halloran in a right state though. He went mental when I told him about it. He wanted a copy of it so he could read it for himself. It didn’t say who she was trying to find but it was definitely a woman, I can tell you that much.’

  Ellen’s heart leapt. ‘A woman? How do you know?’

  ‘The letter kept referring to her and she. Called her the subject the rest of the time.’

  ‘But you never found anything that said who this woman was? There were no other documents?’

  ‘No. Well, there might have been but if there were, I never found them.’

  Ellen’s mind was racing as she tried to assimilate all of this new information. For every question he answered, another twenty presented themselves. She was anxious not to miss anything.

  ‘You say O’Halloran wanted a copy. Did you get him one?’

  ‘Forty quid on offer? What d’you think?’

  ‘Can you get me a copy of it?’

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Liam,’ she said, investing the words with enough sarcasm to make her point. ‘What’s the going rate just now for stacking shelves at Waitrose?’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Sharp, shaking his head at the unfairness of it all. ‘Yeah, of course I can get a copy. That’s the whole point of a network. It means we can all access it.’

  ‘Good. You can run one off the moment we get back to the office. Now let’s get back to O’Halloran. When was it you found the document and made a copy for him?’

  ‘Dunno exactly – two, maybe three months ago?’

  ‘And when you gave it to him, did he read through it in front of you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So how was he? Did he say anything? Was there anything you can think of that might offer a clue as to what this is all about?’

  ‘I dunno, do I?

  ‘I’d think hard, Liam, if I were you.’

  ‘I dunno, right?’ he said indignantly. ‘I was busy putting the twenties in my back pocket. It’s not like I was really interested in the letter. Although . . .’ He paused for a moment, as if suddenly remembering.

  ‘Although?’

  ‘Well . . . it wasn’t so much what he said after he’d read it. It was before then, when I first told him about the letter. He wanted to know if his name was in there at all. He said even if I’d only skimmed through it, I’d have recognised his name, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he obviously thought it might be?’

  ‘Yeah. S’pose. He was a lot happier once he’d read it and checked for himself. He didn’t trust me either,’ he added pointedly. ‘Then, of course, he wanted the report. You know? The final one from the agency, once they’d finished the investigation.’

  ‘And did you give it to him?’

  ‘No way. Can’t get near it. I never should have seen this letter – I just got lucky. The final report will be where it should be, which is in her file in Wilmot’s office and there’s no chance of getting even a sniff of that, let alone a copy. O’Halloran got really narky about it but luckily the old girl came to the rescue.’

  ‘Eudora? How?’

  ‘She got in touch again – asked Wilmot to come out and see her. Three . . . four weeks ago.’

  ‘And you told O’Halloran?’

  ‘Too right. Suddenly I was golden boy all over again. When I told him I was driving Wilmot out here and would be at the cottage, he almost wet himself. Said I was to be his eyes and ears, listen carefully and take in everything they talked about.’

  ‘But I thought you said you weren’t at the meeting.’

  Sharp laughed. ‘Like I’m going to tell him that. Sorry, Frank. No idea what they talked about but I can recommend the steak and kidney pie at the Wayfarer’s.’

  ‘So what did you tell him?’

  ‘Made it all up. Told him she was pissed off because she couldn’t find the report anywhere – you know, the one the agency must have sent once they’d closed the case – and she wanted to know if Wilmot still had a copy on file. I said he offered to mail one to her as soon as he got back. You should have seen O’Halloran’s face. Couldn’t get the notes out of his wallet quick enough.’

  Sharp looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘Then she died a few days later and I didn’t know whether to be pleased or pissed about it. I mean, one way of looking at it was, it probably meant I wouldn’t see much more of O’Halloran so I wouldn’t have to keep worrying about him costing me my job. But it also meant I’d be losing a good little earner.’

  ‘So when did you tell him I was coming here?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. He said I was to ring him and let him know when we were setting off and he’d meet us here. No way was I to let you leave until he turned up. Then, of course, ten minutes after we got here he texts me to say there’s an accident just outside Toddington and he’s stuck in traffic. I’ve been going mad, trying to think of ways of keeping you here. I was worried you’d think I was hitting on you or something.’ He laughed to emphasise just how ridiculous a notion that was.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got an address, like, but he’s local, that’s for sure. Dunno what all that Bude crap was about.’

  ‘And did he say why he was so keen to meet me?’

  Sharp smiled. ‘Pretty obvious, I’d have thought. It’s probably the only thing he was honest about the whole time he was here. He wants to look through her papers and things.’

  ‘Because he thinks this report will be there?’

  ‘That’s what I reckon. He’s going to be so pissed at you sending him away like that. You’ve no idea what he’s like. I wouldn’t imagine you’ve seen the last of him, if I were you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Mr O’Halloran and I will be seeing more of each other,’ said Ellen, getting up from the arm of the sofa. Her foot had gone to sleep and she walked over to the window to get the circulation going again. ‘In fact, I think I can guarantee it.’

  She turned and looked once more at the laptop.

  ‘So O’Halloran is desperate to see this report?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea why?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘And you don’t know how he’s linked to Eudora in the first place?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at him closely. ‘Honest,’ he added. ‘And I don’t know who she was trying to find either.’

  Ellen walked over to the laptop and picked up the case which was on the floor next to the desk. Sharp realised what she had in mind and looked as if he might be about to object, then thought better of it. As she unplugged the power lead from the wall, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. She stared hard, imagining for one fanciful moment that she might see Eudora smile back at her.

  ‘Oh, I think we know who she was looking for,’ she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She ran the zip around the edge of the case, securing the laptop.

  ‘Now what I need to know is why.’

  5

  February 1974: Peter Vaughan

  The rain’s not a problem. Not really. Maybe there’s a little more surface water than he’d have preferred, but as long as the puddles on the unlit back roads don’t turn into a series of mini-lakes, it can rain as hard as it likes. He’s run in worse than this. Given the choice between a downpour and those steamy days you sometimes get up in the fells, he’ll take the rain any time. He’s been in races with the temperature in the nineties, running with a map, kagoul, waterproof overtrousers, hat, compass, whistle, plus food and drink for the day, with no more than the occasional puff of air for relief, and insects flying kamikaze-like into every opening they can find. Days like that, you’d kill for a drop of rain, so he’s not about to complain now.
>
  No, the real problem is the wind, which has been picking up steadily for the past four or five miles. Running along the shore with a gale at your back is one thing. Ease off, offer yourself up to it and it sweeps you along like a ball of tumbleweed. But now he’s cut away from the coast road, it’s payback time with a vengeance. He feels as if he’s treading water as the full force of the wind squares up to him. There’s nothing for it but to duck his head, chop his stride and get his shoulders working.

  This long, country lane is like an old, familiar foe – he knows every pothole, every shift in the camber as it winds its way up to the village of Ashbury. It’s an unforgiving, uphill slog all the way to the bend near Yabsley’s Farm, followed by a sharp drop for the last three to four hundred yards, both of which mess up the rhythm and test screaming muscles to the limit. He used to look forward to the challenge – these last two miles are the only part of the six-mile run which isn’t as flat as a pancake, the only stretch that comes even close to offering the kind of challenge his body has come to expect. Now he just finds it tough. Really tough.

  He wishes he could still compete at the level he reached a few years ago but knows those days have gone. It’s not so much his age. Forty is nothing for a fell runner. Joss Naylor bagged sixty-three peaks in under twenty-four hours not that long ago and there’s no real age difference to speak of. But he can’t put in the hours any more, and when he does manage to train, there’s nowhere around here that can replicate the fells. During all those years in the Cotswolds, all he had to do was pull on a pair of running shoes and within minutes of leaving the back door he had a choice of five or six suitably challenging routes available to him. It’s only since he came here, to this unremittingly flat and featureless landscape, that he’s realised how lucky he was to have everything he needed right there on his doorstep.

  Whenever his carefully choreographed, hush-hush visits to John Michael – to David – take him back to the West Country, he always makes a point of fitting in a training run across Cleeve Hill, telling himself it’s not just nostalgia. And although going full time at the inn has made it harder to get away for training weekends in the Peak District or Grasmere, he still manages it every now and then, working his backside off to keep the illusion alive. But the few competitions he’s managed to get to in recent years have gradually eaten into his confidence. He knows he can’t really consider himself a fell runner now, even if he still feels the need to get out there. After all these years, his body still demands it of him.