by GJ Minett
‘But the letter makes it quite clear she was looking for a female,’ said Ellen.
‘Yes, but I hadn’t seen the letter then, had I? That was later.’
This much, at least, Ellen recognised to be true.
‘So when you realised it was me she was trying to trace,’ she continued, ‘did you know anything at all about me at that stage?’
O’Halloran paused before answering.
‘You think it was you she was trying to find?’
‘Well . . . who else?’
‘I’ve no idea. I admit, I thought that too for a while, but the time frame’s a bit of a problem, don’t you think?’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, these agency people were looking for her, when, eight years ago? This Stuart Mahon character sold up and buggered off to New Zealand in 2006 and the people who bought him out have no records at all of any investigation for Wilmot or Eudora, which suggests it was all over and done with some time ago. She must have known for years where to find you, in which case why’s it only now that she chooses to get in touch, eh?’
Ellen thought about it and decided O’Halloran might have a point. She hadn’t thought to ask the Woodwards just how long ago the photos of her and the children had first appeared on her mantelpiece but somehow she’d gained the impression this was no recent development.
‘But who else could it be? I’m the one she’s picked out as her beneficiary – why would she do that?’
‘You really don’t know?’ He seemed surprised at this.
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Then the answer has to be among her papers somewhere.’
Ellen shook her head. ‘We’ve been through more or less everything. If there’s something that links me to her, I can’t for the life of me work out what it is.’
‘Then maybe you should let me help,’ said O’Halloran, sliding a well-used notepad and a chewed biro from his pocket. ‘Perhaps if you answered a few questions instead of asking them, we might get somewhere. You’ve probably seen what you’re looking for and not made the connection. Maybe you just need a fresh pair of eyes. Take Ashbury, for instance.’
‘Ashbury? What about it?’
‘Well, seems to me there must be something that ties you to it. These investigators didn’t just pluck it out of the air for no reason. What do you know about it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ever been there?’
‘No.’
‘Know anyone from the area?’
‘No.’
‘What about the New Inn?’
‘What about it?’
‘Ever heard of it?’
‘No. Never.’
O’Halloran paused, as if weighing the merits of his next question.
‘How about the name Peter Vaughan? Mean anything to you?’
‘Peter . . .?’
‘Vaughan. Ever heard his name mentioned?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Why? Who’s he?’
‘And you’re sure you’ve never been there?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Look, what’s this all about? What’s so significant about this New Inn? And what makes you think I might know this Peter Vaughan character?’
‘Bear with me. I need more background. Tell me about your family.’
It was the word family that jolted Ellen back into the moment, suddenly uncomfortable with the way in which the balance of power had shifted. Somehow she’d allowed herself to be manouevred into a situation in which she was the one filling in the gaps.
‘My family and friends are none of your business,’ she said emphatically. ‘And I didn’t ask you here so that you could ask me questions.’
O’Halloran shrugged his shoulders.
‘So just how far d’you think you’re going to get if I don’t?’ he asked, turning to Kate to see if she was any more receptive than her friend to the logic of his argument. ‘Tell me you don’t know more now after five minutes of conversation with me than you’d managed to find out for yourself. If you’re not going to work with me on this . . .’
A troublesome thought had been nagging away at Ellen for the past few moments. Now it clawed its way to the surface at last.
‘Maybe if you asked the right questions, I might trust you a little more,’ she said.
O’Halloran frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘Well, it just seems odd to me that here you are, an experienced reporter, anxious to get to the heart of a story, and you haven’t even asked me the one question that would have been top of my list, if I’d been in your shoes.’
‘Which is?’
‘You’ve asked me about Ashbury and what links I might have to the place, yet you haven’t said a word about Inverness, and I find that very odd.’
O’Halloran removed a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
‘Nothing odd about it,’ he mumbled nasally, rearranging the cloth and blowing again. ‘The investigators wrote it off and started looking somewhere else – you’ve seen the letter.’
‘But there has to be a reason why they were looking there in the first place, surely? You said yourself, something must have sent them there. I mean, we’re talking about the other end of the country here. If they thought it was worth their while to trek halfway up Scotland and snoop around, you’d think they must have had pretty solid reasons, wouldn’t you?’
‘Like I said,’ sniffed O’Halloran, ‘it’s a long way to go to come up empty-handed. If there’d been anything in that letter that was worth following up, I’d have gone there like a shot but I’ve got better things to do with my time than drive all that way on a wild goose chase.’
Ellen watched him closely as he fiddled with his handkerchief for a while before stuffing it back into his pocket. There was a touch of colour to his cheeks that wasn’t there earlier.
‘You see, I don’t believe you,’ she said at length. ‘Maybe if you’d gone to Ashbury and found all the answers there . . . or then again, if you’d gone to the agency and found someone who could tell you everything you needed to know, then OK – maybe then I could understand it. But you clearly haven’t managed to make sense of this whole business or you wouldn’t be grubbing around here for answers. You say on the one hand that you get your success from attention to detail and going the extra mile, yet we’re supposed to believe that you couldn’t be bothered to follow up a genuine lead in Inverness when all the others went cold? Not only that, you don’t even bother to ask me if I’m linked in any way – I mean, I could have family there. It could have opened up all sorts of new avenues of enquiry for you. And the fact that you don’t seem interested makes me think maybe you’re not asking because you already know whatever you need to about Inverness.’
O’Halloran laughed. ‘Think what you like, young lady,’ he said, the colour in his cheeks deepening.
‘For the record, the answer to the question you haven’t asked is no – I’ve never been to Inverness in my life and don’t know a soul there. But I think you probably know that already too.’
‘I can assure you that’s not the case.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t believe you.’
O’Halloran reached for his hat.
‘In that case,’ he said, hauling himself to his feet, ‘I’m not sure there’s much point in continuing. I’ve driven over here and given up the best part of the afternoon in all good faith because I thought we might be able to help each other. Seems like I misjudged the situation.’
Ellen walked across to the front door and lifted the latch.
‘Yes,’ she said, as O’Halloran stepped through the opening and into the cold late afternoon air. ‘I’m sure you did.’
March 1974: John Michael
God only knows what’s going on but one thing’s for sure – he’s not hanging around here to find out. Later, maybe . . . a bit of time and space to think things through and maybe then he’ll be able to make sense of it all, but that’s for so
me other time. Right now all that matters is putting as much distance between himself and this godforsaken place as he possibly can. And if Perry Mason over there thinks for one minute he’s going anywhere with him, he can think again.
He’s furious with himself for getting sucked in like that, even if it was only for a minute or two. The shock may have knocked him off balance but he knows he can’t use that as an excuse. If he’s going to stay ahead of everyone out there who’s coming after him, he can’t let anything distract him . . . anything. How many times has he been told that? Wandering around in a trance like he did just now is not an option. He’s lucky the adrenaline kicked in eventually, even if it was a bit late in the day.
At least he had enough about him to search the car first chance he got. The fake ID cards in the front pocket are one thing – anyone claiming to be a PI is going to have a selection of those. But the folder wedged down the side of the passenger seat is something else altogether.
He says he drove up today but the petrol receipts show he filled the car somewhere near here early yesterday evening and there’s a hand-written receipt from the Belle View Hotel for a two-night stay, starting last night. That’s more than enough to justify his suspicions. Add to that the fact that the receipts have been made out not to a Trevor Bassey but someone named Frank O’Halloran, and that’s enough to scare the hell out of him. It’s not a name he’s likely to forget easily.
He still remembers the article like it was yesterday – the shock he experienced when he read it and the sight of his father, pleading with him for some sort of understanding, insisting it wasn’t his fault, that he’d had too much to drink and his words had been twisted. All those lies in the article, lies deliberately put there to make people think badly of her. Vile, bitter lies. No – there’s no way he’ll ever forget the name Frank O’Halloran.
But this is no time to be thinking about him. He needs to get well away from here while there’s still time. So he slides out of the back seat and opens the boot, hoping there’ll be a thick winter coat inside, maybe a hat and woollen gloves, something that will offer some sort of protection against the wind which is biting into his skin. The only thing he can find that will be of any use is what looks like the twin of the blanket O’Halloran’s already given him. Not ideal but it’ll have to do. He snatches it out of the boot and wraps it tightly around his upper body. Then he sets off and he’s thirty yards up the road before it dawns on him that the roadside’s not his friend. When O’Halloran gets back and sees he’s gone, first thing he’ll do is drive back that way to look for him. Think, dummy.
So what are the options? One side of the road is lined with open fields which stretch as far as the eye can see. The other’s protected by a ditch and a hedge, beyond which there are more fields – but in the distance he can see a wood which will at least offer some sort of shelter from the wind, even if he can’t stay there for long. No time to think things through. He slides down into the ditch, scrambles up the other side and squeezes through the hedge. The blankets catch on it and he wrestles angrily with them until they come away, and then he’s off, stumbling across the field towards the first port in the storm.
He knows he’s leaving footprints in the snow and that if they come after him, even without tracker dogs, he’s got no chance. But there’s no real alternative – he can’t just stay here and wait to be picked up. If O’Halloran was telling the truth about anything, it’s that he can’t trust anyone right now, not even the authorities. This new identity of his was supposed to be safe as houses and yet his life as David Vaughan is over before it’s even started. This new beginning that’s been planned so meticulously and whose every detail has been rehearsed till he’s sick to death of it is gone, history. He’s going to have to start again. Only this time he’ll have to do it on his own. There’s no one out there he can turn to.
And it’s as he reaches the edge of the wood and finds some temporary relief from the elements that it dawns on him this isn’t strictly true. There is someone he can rely on, at least someone who’s always been there for him whenever he’s needed support or a friendly arm around the shoulder. And all of a sudden that race across the fields no longer seems like running away. It’s starting to look like the first steps on a long journey that’s been mapped out for some time now, even if it’s taken him this long to recognise it.
He has no more than the vaguest idea where to go. South, obviously . . . but after that is anybody’s guess. Their conversations over the years rarely strayed into the personal and those occasional forays have left him ill-equipped to track him down. But the professor’s a famous man – how hard can it be to find out where he lives? He’ll find him somehow.
And when he does, he’ll know what to d-d-d-d-do.
February 2008: Ellen
Reverend Williams arrived the moment they sat down to eat.
Once O’Halloran had left, Ellen and Kate had spent the rest of the afternoon, working their way methodically through the remaining upstairs rooms. They’d emptied every cupboard, every drawer, sifting through the contents in the hope that their efforts might unearth that crucial detail which would slot neatly into place and make sense of everything. They found nothing.
The internet seemed a far more attractive proposition. Kate had brought her own laptop with her so they were able to work simultaneously, Googling the names Eudora Kasprowicz and John Michael Adams and trawling through the virtual mountain of information on offer. Ellen was taken aback by the sheer volume of it all. It seemed amazing that an event, which had taken place several years before the internet even existed, could have generated so much material. The story, for whatever reason, had transcended its moment in time. Horrific as they were, the actions of John Michael Adams had surely been rivalled and even outstripped several times since then, but for some reason the waif-like figure, glaring out at her from the same grainy photograph in more or less every document she opened, seemed to have hit a particular nerve, ensuring his place for eternity in the public consciousness. If ever a life was defined by a single act, surely this was it.
The more Ellen read, the more acutely she was aware of a certain lack of proportion in all of this. It was easy enough to understand how this might have come about – the act itself had been shocking and public opinion rarely needed much in the way of encouragement to turn against any individual who stepped so obviously beyond the bounds of acceptable behaviour. But there was something about the unrelenting tide of moral outrage levelled against the boy and the violence of the language in which it was expressed that simply didn’t sit well with her. She had no difficulty in sympathising with the families of the victims. She was, after all, the mother of two young children herself and this was every parent’s nightmare, wasn’t it? You kiss your daughter goodbye one morning, there’s no reason to suppose it’s the last time you’ll see her alive. Too awful for words.
And yet this same maternal instinct kept bringing her back to the photo of John Michael Adams. When all was said and done, this was an eleven-year-old boy. She’d seen the photo so often that her instincts, like those of everyone else, had become dulled by it, anaesthetised to the reality that lay behind it. There was a life here, she told herself. This was a real person, a boy barely older than her own children. She thought of Megan, the would-be sophisticate who longed for the time when she’d be allowed to go to Friday night discos in town and still took to bed with her the same Tigger blanket she’d hugged in her cot. And Harry, who would die rather than hold his mother’s hand anywhere in town, yet couldn’t get to sleep at night without the glow from his bedside lamp. They were babies still and her instinctive sympathy for the underdog made it impossible for her to accept that it could be right to heap that level of accountability on shoulders so unprepared for it. The idea that this boy’s whole life should turn on one moment of madness seemed obscene somehow. There was a hysteria and a theatricality inherent in the response of the general public that made her think of small-town America. She fancied sh
e knew a witch hunt when she saw one.
And Professor Carl Holmbach, whoever he was, clearly felt the same way. His name seemed to crop up at regular intervals, a letter here, an article there. His writing was restrained and dignified without sacrificing one iota of conviction that this was an injustice which needed to be put right. He was an articulate, determined champion of the underdog and for Ellen the logic of his reasoning and the power of his writing stood out like a beacon of common sense in a raging torrent of hysteria. She wondered whether she herself, if put to the test, would have the moral courage to swim against the tide of public opinion in the way he’d chosen to do. She doubted it.
It occurred to her that this man might be someone worth contacting, in the hope that his clearly obsessive interest in the Adams case might have unearthed some reference linking her to Eudora. These hopes however were soon dashed by the discovery of a Times obituary – Carl Holmbach had died in May 2001 from an aneurism. Another door closed, like so many others, long before it had been located.
At getting on for seven o’clock, they decided it was time to get something to eat. Through the conservatory windows, they could see that the heavy snow, confidently forecast for later in the day, had arrived more or less on cue, making Ellen very glad they’d decided to eat in. Being driven around by Kate during daylight hours was one thing. She didn’t much fancy it at night, in sub-zero temperatures, on unlit country roads that presumably wouldn’t have been gritted.
She decided now was as good a time as any to give the children a ring but couldn’t seem to get any network coverage for her mobile. She wandered from room to room, holding the phone up at different angles, but just about everywhere inside the cottage seemed to be a dead spot. She went to the front door and lifted the latch, peering outside for a closer look at the weather. The darkened skies were full of it, not isolated flurries but a thick swathe of fat flakes which settled in clusters on her outstretched sleeve. The thin dusting on the lawn and the path leading up to the front door was clearly no more than underlay for the thick carpet to come.