Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice

by David Coubrough

  Jenny still looked wounded but shrugged as if to say ‘Whatever.’

  Grant was now desperate to avoid any of their personal business, which he greatly regretted getting dragged into. He returned to the purpose of their meeting, as far as he was concerned. ‘So who do you think heard something? One of the Galvins, Hughes-Webbs, Jessops or Silvers?’

  ‘Try them all,’ she replied without much enthusiasm.

  ‘So who told you someone had said something to one of our group?’

  ‘My father, on his deathbed,’ she said slowly and very deliberately, with a trace of triumph in her voice.

  Grant was taken aback, shaken by this information, but a glance at his watch alerted him that he needed to conclude the conversation and head for his train.

  After they had said their goodbyes at the station he realized he hadn’t inquired about the message in the bottle. He looked hurriedly for Jenny and saw her car fast disappearing out of view. He cursed himself for missing so obvious a line of inquiry and resolved to ask her about it another time. However, his mind was now made up that the deathbed story could only have come from Ted Jessops, as he predeceased Arnie Charnley by three years and the other three, Galvin, Silver and Hughes-Webb, were all fit and well at the time.

  In a moment of self-reflection Grant wondered if he was simply chasing shadows. He doubted whether any of the contemporaries he was tracking down cared much about it at all. He consoled himself that at least he would find out from Caroline Jessops the truth of the deathbed story. However, he would much rather find out the whole truth as quickly as possible so that he could move on. But the feeling persisted that there were dark secrets to unearth. He already felt some unease at the responses he had got from Nick and Jenny, although the marriage breakdown and subsequent divorce of the Charnley parents didn’t shock him especially. Sad as it had been for the family, it was just a sideshow in the greater scheme of things.

  18

  PRESENT DAY

  ‘You burnt your own town. You burnt your own town, you stupid bastards. You burnt your own town.’ Such was the greeting for Grant as he met up with Danny Galvin at a football match at Tottenham Hotspur’s stadium at White Hart Lane. Their opponents from the north of England were taunting the home fans about the Tottenham riots of August 2011. The Spurs fans took a while to respond before chanting in response, ‘We pay your benefits.’

  For some reason Danny had decided that the best way for the two of them to catch up was at a football match in London, accompanied by some 35,000 others. Over the past forty years Grant had been to a few matches with Danny, but he didn’t share the latter’s passion for Spurs and went more to enjoy the quality of the football. He would have preferred to be at Twickenham, but on this occasion he had an ulterior motive and hoped to have the chance of a proper chat after the game. He was therefore taken aback when Danny brought the subject up at half-time.

  ‘So you’re digging around about the Tom Youlen business.’

  ‘Er, yes. Who told you?’ Grant was surprised by the directness of the question and spilt boiling coffee from the top of his polystyrene cup. ‘Dammit!’

  ‘Never mind that,’ continued Danny, oblivious to Grant’s discomfort. ‘So why are you?’

  ‘Tom never got any justice, and some say neither did Hector Wallace.’

  ‘That old soak. I don’t think his demise was – or is – relevant.’

  ‘But Tom was definitely poisoned. The coroner’s report was conclusive, and nobody ever carried the can. Tom took some of the poison that Richard Hughes-Webb was using on animals. Why he did that has never been properly explained.’

  ‘Good old Grant. Always interested in justice, always after the truth. You even thought my old man got away with cheating at squash. Well, maybe you shouldn’t poke your nose in here.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it’s become a matter of some importance to me to prove to myself and to Brigit that I can resolve this case once and for all and remove the stain of suspicion from everyone implicated at the time. Our August holidays came to a sudden end because the truth was never uncovered.’ Grant had no intention of revealing the real motive for his investigation to his now seemingly confrontational former friend.

  ‘Brigit,’ spat Danny, his chewing gum performing cartwheels. ‘Still under the thumb, are we?’

  ‘Now steady on.’

  ‘No, you steady on. You’ve no business delving into the case after all this time. Who are you? Tom’s trustee? His next of kin? Come on, Grant, this case went dead in 1972, even if Tom didn’t join it till 1977.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it all.’ Grant was becoming suspicious.

  Danny ignored him. The second half started, and he redirected his conversation to questioning the parentage of the referee and most of the opposing team. Grant concluded that thirty years or so as a dealer in the Essex motor trade had hardened his old friend, who now seemed to lack empathy and any residual signs of his childhood charm.

  After the game, travelling on the train from Tottenham Hale, Grant hoped to get back to the subject. Instead, Danny busied himself in conversation with a man well into his eighties who revealed that he had hardly missed a home game since the end of the Second World War. By the time they alighted in the West End Danny and his new best mate had selected the best Spurs team of the post-war years. Grant despaired when Danny said he would talk more about the incident but at another time. He suggested they meet in Brentwood for a drink after work the following month when Grant would be back from Cornwall.

  Grant reflected on the three meetings. The Charnleys had been fairly helpful and there were clear leads to follow, primarily Jenny’s father’s deathbed assertion, although he needed to find out more about the message in a bottle. Danny Galvin, who had not been a particularly close friend in the intervening years, seemed downright hostile. But it surprised Grant to learn that Danny knew when Tom had died. Why should he have known that?

  The following Monday Grant took the train from Waterloo to Winchester. There to greet him was a vivacious Caroline Jessops, who shrieked a greeting as he descended from the train to the platform.

  ‘My, my, Grant Morrison,’ she purred approvingly, making him feel like Robert Redford being greeted by Barbara Streisand in The Way We Were. ‘Still gorgeous, Grant, but where is old Mr Wavy Hair?’

  Caroline’s trim and fetching teenage figure had given way to sedate middle age; she was now built for ‘comfort rather than speed’, as she had told Grant on the phone.

  ‘Hair today, gone tomorrow,’ replied Grant lamely, before adding, ‘but don’t worry, it’s still me. One eye can still watch you while the other watches out for satellites,’ he joked, referring to his unmatched eyes.

  ‘No matter,’ continued Caroline, fixing her stare on her old flame. ‘I’ve booked lunch at a lovely little French bistro near the cathedral.’

  Once seated, and before reviewing the menu, Caroline recommended the linguine with a side salad and pesto dressing, which she insisted should be washed down with a bottle of Sancerre. The ambience of the bistro evoked Paris in the 1930s, with monochrome images of Edith Piaf adorning the walls as her songs played quietly throughout the meal. It was not exactly the setting he’d had in mind; his purpose was to extract as much information as quickly as possible, but if wine helped the conversation flow so much the better. Sensing an advantage, he suggested that two bottles might prove even better. Caroline’s father, the late Ted Jessops, had, after all, been the early runner as principal suspect, and if he had revealed anything significant on his deathbed Caroline was much more likely to blurt it out after a few drinks.

  ‘So, Caroline, have the years been kind?’

  ‘Oh, not too bad. Stuart’s insurance business bores the knickers off me, but it keeps him busy. And I have the upper hand now, ever since I caught him out with the chalet girl in Les Gets some years back.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. We get along fine now. He has his hobbies –
primarily sailing on the Solent – and I have my horse. I get involved at the local stables, and I have a great circle of friends round here. I guess it’s developed into more of a brother–sister type of marriage, but he won’t dare misbehave again. He didn’t like being sinbinned. So, how’s your wife?’ Caroline continued rather icily. She never could bring herself to say Brigit’s name. It was precisely because of these personal tensions that he had been slightly dreading meeting Caroline again.

  ‘Good, thanks. The girls are now at university, and Brigit’ – he intoned the name carefully to give her due status – ‘is working full time again, running a rather successful recruitment business in the IT sector.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Caroline in a voice that implied it was anything but.

  Grant set about bringing her up to speed with his investigation.

  ‘I know everyone thought Daddy did it,’ said Caroline, ‘all because Tom knew about that incident on the beach four years earlier. Funny thing, after Daddy died Mummy started building bridges with Joanna, and we became proper sisters. She married a stockbroker and now lives in Sydney, which is a bit of a drag as it’s so far away. But they have an adorable family, and it’s a wonderful place to live.’

  ‘Quite so. Anyway, my burning question, to be brutal, is did your father say anything about a confession on his deathbed?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About – you know – Tom.’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘Because, according to Jenny Charnley, somebody told their offspring something about Tom’s poisoning on their deathbed.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it was Daddy. You see, he didn’t speak at all after his heart attack, and he was dead within days. He did draw something, though.’

  ‘Draw?’

  ‘Yes, he could still use his hands. He drew a mermaid,’ Caroline announced cheerfully.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No idea. But it was a beautiful mermaid. Mummy said it was the Mermaid of Zennor.’

  Grant straightened in his chair. This was now getting intriguing, what with the mermaid and the message in the bottle, both associated with the sea – the sea in which Hector drowned. He told Caroline what Jenny had said about the bottle being found on the beach, and she smiled. ‘You’ve been listening to too many Police records.’

  ‘It’s police records I’m interested in, but of the rozzer rather than the Sting variety. After I’ve caught up with Suzie Hughes-Webb and Justyn Silver I’m planning to go back to Cornwall and dig around a bit.’

  ‘Catch up with Suzie? You’ll be lucky. She’s in Cape Town.’

  ‘Oh. Does she ever come back?’ asked Grant, slightly crestfallen. ‘She must still have family in this country.’

  ‘She hasn’t returned in five years, to my knowledge. Her father passed away just before the millennium. Her mother had a terrible time with Alzheimer’s and died about six years ago. Suzie and Frank had taken her into their home in Beaconsfield, and it was a terrible strain for them towards the end.’

  ‘What about her brother Tony? Doesn’t he see her?’

  ‘He’s in New York. I suppose they may rendezvous in London. I really think you should see Suzie, Grant. There was something she once said to me …’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Sorry, no can say. It was in strictest confidence,’ she smiled.

  Grant remembered how infuriatingly obtuse Caroline could be. She loved intrigue, and he couldn’t be sure if she was bluffing. He decided not to push it, settled the bill, kissed Caroline on the cheek and parted with her amicably. He decided to walk back to the station to collect his thoughts and recover some sobriety. He wanted to see Suzie, but a trip to Cape Town had not been part of the equation. He was concerned at the cost of such a trip adding to the spiralling overall expense of his investigations. When he had embarked on his sabbatical he had thought it would cost a few thousand pounds, at most, over a few months; a journey to South Africa was a different matter. Perhaps I could persuade Brigit to join me, he thought. We could make a holiday of it. But he didn’t want to be distracted too much from his prime purpose. In any event, he decided to leave any plans to see Suzie until after he had met Justyn in London and had returned to Cornwall.

  19

  PRESENT DAY

  Justyn Silver had suggested meeting at his trendy private members’ club in Mayfair. Grant had not seen him since Robert Vernon’s wedding over twenty-five years earlier, but he recognized him instantly. The old-rocker look still prevailed, although the long hair was now whitish as was the beard, and he was thinning at the temples. He had retained all his warmth and charm, greeting Grant as if they had met only recently.

  ‘How’s old Grantie boy? Still the backbone of the establishment, maintaining the fine traditions of the legal world?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, all of that, thanks, Justyn, but I do live my life trying not to be too pompous or stereotypical – as you would view it.’ Grant recalled how Justyn had previously labelled him as a future defender of the Empire, implying he was that dreadful sort of individual to be in the early seventies – a square.

  ‘Good on yer, mate,’ continued Justyn, ordering herbal tea for himself and coffee for his guest. ‘So what’s this all about, Grantie boy?’ (Grant squirmed at this appellation, which he always put down to Justyn being a year older than him and feeling a need to emphasize this.)

  ‘Before I go into that, how’s life been with you?’ inquired Grant.

  Over the years Justyn had abandoned the music industry, although he still played guitar, and was now a highly successful interior designer of hotels. ‘Well, pretty A-OK, as it happens. I have two big projects on at the moment: doing up a Russian oligarch’s new pad on the Bishops Avenue, and next month I’m off to Hong Kong to refurbish a hotel I designed in the early 1990s. There’s a budget of some 60 million dollars, and I’m going to have a lot of fun. My scheme for the lobby alone will be the biggest revolution to hit the island since the handover in 1997.’

  Grant shifted his gaze to the elegant surroundings, a sea of empty brown leather chairs and dark mahogany Queen-Anne-style side tables. He was flanked by two walls of deep-red flock wallpaper and watched over by a rather vulgar lead-crystal chandelier. A man and his wife – or more likely his mistress – were the only other human life in the room, locked in intimate conversation in the opposite corner. The sight of them prompted Grant’s next question. ‘And how’s your personal life?’

  ‘Chaotic!’ said Justyn with a wry smile. ‘Clare and I finally split after the biggest on–off relationship since the Burtons. I don’t seem to do commitment too well. In the end we became like that couple in Noel Coward’s Private Lives: couldn’t live together but couldn’t bear to think of the other being with anyone else. We’ve both had therapy now and agreed to leave each other alone for six months, then it will no doubt start all over again.’

  ‘Seeing anyone at present?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m seeing to a few people at the moment,’ replied Justyn rather crudely, making Grant blanch. ‘Sorry – I’m beginning to move into the ranks of dirty old man. You see, to be truthful, Grantie, my old mate, I’m rather lonely. I adored Clare, but I’m impossible to live with, what with my job and my constant infidelity. How’s your life?’

  ‘You’ll think it very tame. Married Brigit, who was my articled clerk some twenty-five years ago. I’ve got two wonderful girls, now at university, have been a partner with Gilks and Silkin for fifteen years, specializing in corporate law. At the moment I’m taking a three-month sabbatical, which is probably the most radical thing I’ve ever done.’

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘To find out’ – Grant hesitated, then went for it – ‘who poisoned Tom Youlen in 1972.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Justyn spluttered. ‘Why don’t you find out who murdered poor old Hector “the Office” Wallace at the same time?’ His voice had risen inadvertently, and the two men glanced anxiously at the couple in the opposite corn
er. They needn’t have worried. The couple were embracing and kissing so fervently they were almost eating one another.

  ‘You don’t think Hector was murdered and that the two fatalities were connected, do you?’

  ‘Who’s to say? Bit odd just to walk into the sea, don’t you think? And didn’t they find some sort of message in a bottle on the coast somewhere?’

  This was the second time Grant had heard about a message in a bottle in a matter of days, having spent over forty years completely unaware of it. ‘But Hector was seven sheets to the wind that night, completely off his head, as I understand it. And wasn’t he very depressed about returning to Torquay the following day with his aunt, thinking he would never return to his west Cornwall paradise?’

  ‘Who says, Grant?’

  ‘Well, the perceived wisdom was –’

  ‘Perceived wisdom, piss off!’ This time the couple did look across, their intimate canoodling suddenly arrested, their faces projecting disgust in the direction of Grant and Justyn. The latter now lowered his voice. ‘A poisoning and then a fatality on the beach a few days later – and you think they weren’t connected. Who are you? Inspector Clouseau?’

  ‘How do you know about the message in a bottle?’ asked Grant, bridling a little.

  ‘Jenny Charnley told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last week, as it happens. I phoned her to ask why you wanted to meet me after all these years and what was going on. Besides, it’s never a good idea to lose touch with the old back catalogue – even if some of the entries are in yours, too.’

  Grant refrained from showing any reaction to this rather off-colour remark and told Justyn he was heading down to Cornwall the following week to try to find justice for Tom Youlen.