Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice

by David Coubrough

  ‘It was shot on celluloid but converted to DVD.’

  ‘Had you seen what was on it? Did you report the theft?’ Grant was beginning to jabber.

  ‘Yes. Look, I don’t want you pursuing this further.’

  ‘I rather guessed that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because you tried to put the frighteners on me in Zennor last month.’

  ‘No I didn’t!’ Danny protested in such an incredulous tone that Grant believed him. He knew he was unlikely to lie, as awkward and unpleasant as he could be these days.

  ‘Then who the hell did?’ Grant replied. He told Danny about the ‘spooks of Zennor’ – as he had termed them – withholding only the matter of the nursery rhyme, as he was sure this would invite derision.

  ‘Gordon Bennett, Grant, old son. Someone really is trying to put you off the scent.’ Danny seemed perplexed – but also appeared cheered to discover that he had an ally in opposing Grant’s obsession.

  ‘I won’t stop,’ Grant announced defiantly, but he was cut abruptly short as all of a sudden Danny jumped up and lurched towards him. Grant feared that he was going to pull a knife or a gun. He was prepared to punch him hard in the stomach if he tried anything.

  However, Danny turned his back on Grant, and when he spoke his tone was more controlled, almost conciliatory. ‘Look, it will destroy Mum if you go on with all this.’

  Grant had not expected this – Danny a mummy’s boy! However, he knew that Danny had never married, and received wisdom had it that he had never recovered from Suzie’s rejection of him more than twenty years earlier. But before Grant responded, an uneasy feeling swept over him. Maybe Danny’s mother was involved. Perhaps the DVD would reveal this. There was clearly something that he was not telling. The fear of the unknown was unwelcome and unnerving.

  ‘OK,’ replied Grant, after another awkward interlude. ‘No one wants to destroy innocent people.’ He watched Danny’s face carefully for a reaction. But his former friend remained as inscrutable as ever. ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘Living in Majorca. She’s in an apartment block in one of those built-up resorts near Palma.’

  ‘Is she well?’ asked Grant, already planning a budget airline flight to the island.

  ‘Um, yes. Kind of. Her arthritis is bad, but she has a gentleman friend who looks after her.’

  ‘Do you like him?’ asked Grant, pushing his luck but intent on keeping Danny talking.

  ‘Sort of. He’s solid enough. He got elected president of the block where she lives. He seems to get off on that, but he’s decent to Mum, and he’s a good odd-job man.’

  Grant was pleased at how things were going. At least now Danny was conversing in a fairly civilized way, but he needed to make more progress. ‘When did your father die?’

  ‘About twenty years ago. He did well to survive the poisoning.’

  ‘What? Tom’s?’

  ‘No, his own.’ Danny released the three words slowly, pregnant with meaning.

  ‘I see,’ gasped Grant.

  ‘No, you don’t see. No, you so don’t. You meddle in affairs from forty years ago that destroyed my family long ago, that sent the only girl I ever loved spinning out of my life and left me feeling bitter for the rest of my days. You don’t see, matey boy. You don’t see at all. To hell with you!’

  Rocked by Danny’s heavy artillery, Grant considered walking out, when to his enormous relief the front door opened and in walked Brigit. For a moment they stared at one another; Brigit was in her City attire, wearing a skirt with patterned tights, high heels and heavy jewellery, with matching lipstick and nail varnish. Grant, by contrast, looked as though he had an unwelcome starring role in a horror movie.

  ‘Hi,’ Grant said, far more enthusiastically than Brigit expected. She was unaware of the tension filling the room. ‘Good to see you. Do you remember Danny Galvin? You met many moons ago.’ His greeting startled her.

  ‘Er, hello, Danny. Nice to see you again,’ she dissembled.

  ‘Yeah, hi. Well, I’d better be off. Catch up with you later, Grant.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ replied Grant. ‘Good to see you. Keep in touch,’ he added, as the door closed behind Danny.

  Once alone, Grant kissed Brigit on both cheeks without saying a word and looked solemnly into her eyes. Some of his familiar warmth towards her started to return. Brigit sensed that she had walked in on something but, bewildered as to what, she just pulled him towards her, and as they gently embraced she started to become emotional.

  ‘It’s all OK,’ he reassured her. ‘You have no idea – I am so pleased to see you … If you only knew what you just walked in on.’

  Brigit wiped her blurry, tear-filled eyes and smiled, still trying to comprehend what she had interrupted.

  31

  PRESENT DAY

  Danny left the house with a curious feeling. He hadn’t registered it at first, but the thought now entered his head that his friend hadn’t seemed especially surprised at the revelation of the existence of the Super 8 footage. He thought more about the DVDs, but he wasn’t aware that Grant had been to see Suzie in Cape Town, although he suspected that he might do so as Suzie was no doubt on his contacts list. Danny was sure that Suzie would make contact if Grant had visited. At this point he remembered that he had a missed call from a Suzanne Barber, and he had completely forgotten that this was Suzie’s married name. He started ruminating about Ivan Youlen and began to wonder what Ivan might divulge to Grant. He felt a sudden urge to speak to the man and was pretty sure that Grant would have his number. However, he was reluctant to ask him so soon after their meeting and decided instead to call Justyn. They had kept in touch for the first twenty-five years since 1972, but they’d had little contact over the past fifteen or so. He was relieved to discover that Justyn’s mobile number hadn’t changed.

  ‘Hi, this is Justyn Silver. Please leave a message unless you are the Aga Khan, in which case tell me where I can reach you at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘Hello, Justyn, Danny Galvin here. Long time no speak. Could you call me back on this mobile number, please.’ He was surprised to receive a return call almost immediately.

  ‘Hey, Danny. How are you, man?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ replied Danny, trying to sound cool. ‘And you?’

  ‘Pretty stretched at present. Fully occupied with Russian oligarchs’ houses and the tai-pans of Hong Kong. Life is one long set of schemes. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Can we meet?’

  ‘Sadly not this week or next, old chap. I’m off to Morocco tomorrow for a bit of R&R.’

  ‘Sounds good. Anywhere in particular?’ asked Danny, hiding his disappointment and trying to mask his bluntness with a bit of uncharacteristic charm.

  ‘Atlas Mountains, then a nice riad in Marrakesh.’

  ‘Great. Switching subjects, I don’t suppose you have a number for Ivan Youlen, do you?’

  ‘Are you having a laugh? Not you as well. I thought Grant was the only obsessive trying to roll back time.’

  ‘Well, I personally couldn’t give a monkey’s about the whole thing – and I think Grant should be committed to some sort of institution – but there is just one thing I need to ask Ivan.’

  ‘And there is one thing I need to ask God, but I don’t think I’ll get the opportunity either …’

  ‘Oh, come on. Ivan isn’t as big an ask as God,’ said Danny, missing the joke.

  ‘No, but he could be the devil,’ retorted Justyn, this time with a hint of feigned menace, ‘and he could be just as hard to contact, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Well, have you got his number or not?’

  ‘No,’ said Justyn matter-of-factly.

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll have to call the lunatic Grant.’

  ‘Probably, but tread carefully. He’s having a bit of local difficulty with the old lady.’

  After Justyn had hung up Danny pondered this comment briefly. He had only just seen the couple together and had not d
etected any tension between them. In fact, he had thought them nauseatingly lovey-dovey.

  Justyn was straight on the phone to Grant to alert him to a potential call from Desperate Dan, as he called him.

  ‘Thanks for the heads up,’ said Grant. ‘I can understand Danny getting involved now. He must be feeling the pressure. I keep thinking about one particular scene – his father having that heated conversation with Ivan Youlen outside the news-agent that last Sunday morning when the papers didn’t get delivered. And of course Paul told the runners on the beach that the police should interview Ivan.’

  ‘Sunday morning papers didn’t come,’ Justyn sang tunefully.

  ‘No! It was Wednesday morning papers didn’t come. Sunday morning was creeping like a nun. I’ve had this conversation with Brigit.’

  ‘How is she?’ Justyn inquired.

  ‘I think repairs are on the way.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes.’ Grant sounded distracted. Now that Danny had left he was keen to get back to viewing the DVD he had paused in order to take Justyn’s call. ‘I think I may need to go to Majorca.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see Danny’s mother. I think she might just hold the key to the whole thing. In fact, in my mind she is now front and centre.’ At that moment he became transfixed by an image on the DVD. He was astounded to see that Henry had filmed the arrival of the police at the hotel on the Sunday lunchtime after Tom had been found staggering in the lane; he had even filmed them inside the Simpkins’ private accommodation. ‘Can I call you back later?’

  ‘Difficult, Grantie boy. I’m off to Morocco in the morning. I’ll get on the blower when I’m back in ten days’ time.’

  ‘Yes, fine. Great,’ replied Grant, now barely concentrating on their exchange as Justyn hung up. What had arrested his attention was spotting Hector Wallace talking privately first with Richard Hughes-Webb and then with Paul Galvin as the rest of the throng chatted away together. What the hell had been Henry’s vantage point? Then he worked it out; he must have been outside the ground-floor window in the car park. Grant could just make out a wooden window frame around the glass. Filming stopped abruptly as Henry’s last shot captured PC Stobart striding towards him.

  Grant scrutinized the film, repeatedly searching for clues on the faces of Messrs Hughes-Webb and Galvin. Henry’s filming had been somewhat erratic at that point as a rather battered Ford Escort pulled up the drive and out jumped Ivan Youlen. ‘Sodding Ivan again,’ muttered Grant. He watched carefully as the man went into the hotel only to reappear shortly afterwards. Annoyingly there was no way of knowing the time lag between the two events. It was also impossible to tell what Hector was saying in his two private conversations or what effect these had on the other two men. He thought about Ivan and replayed his cameo appearance, which seemed both arresting and significant. What had Ivan been carrying in his pocket? Was it for someone?

  Grant switched off the DVD to reflect on recent events. He resolved to continue being ruthless in pursuit of the truth – at least until he had uncovered what that might be. It was not ideal, but he knew he couldn’t go back to Brigit while he was so distracted. It simply wasn’t fair on her. He thought some more about the suspects from 1972. Ivan was ever-present in his mind, particularly now Grant knew that he had been caught on film at the hotel on the day of his uncle’s stroke. Paul Galvin remained a prime suspect. And why was his son Danny so keen to stop Grant in his tracks? Richard Hughes-Webb remained a wild card, more Grant’s hunch than anything else, but that private conversation with Hector Wallace increased suspicion. And now Alison Galvin had joined the ranks. He recalled her bright, inquisitive eyes, the only redeeming feature of her otherwise very plain appearance as she walked around wrapped in a Mary Quant coat. Could she have been the secret killer?

  He retired to his bedroom. He was tired after the night before. His present mental state reminded him of the unsettling nights in Zennor – and who might have been responsible for those if it wasn’t D. Galvin Esquire? He fell into a deep sleep but was troubled by a vivid dream. This time his door wasn’t being bashed down; he was having a cup of coffee in a roadside café with Alison Galvin in a built-up resort west of Palma in Majorca. Her face had become lined and rutted with skin as ragged as the rocks around the nearby sea shore. She was puffing on a cigarette, fiddling constantly with the packet that rested on the copy of the Daily Mail she had bought that morning.

  ‘I am so sorry to bother you, Mrs Galvin,’ started Grant.

  ‘That’s all right, dear. I don’t get many visitors. Rory doesn’t welcome them.’ Rory was a large tattooed Glaswegian with a bald head and a crisp manner, and Grant couldn’t understand a word he said. He thought heard him say what a great party the UK was, but he soon realized what he was actually saying was what a great party UKIP was.

  ‘Do you remember the events from Cornwall and your last family holiday back in 1972?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear. I could never forget them.’ She smiled, and Grant remembered the strange way she screwed up her nose when she wanted to emphasize a point. ‘I mean, who could forget that murder? I always felt for poor Tom. He was only testing the poison, and he only took a little; he told me it would need a lot more to finish him off … Oh, I am saying too much …’

  ‘No, please go on. You’re not saying enough.’

  At that moment, predictably, he woke up. He felt extremely frustrated and more determined than ever that his next move would be a trip to Majorca.

  32

  PRESENT DAY

  At home in Mill Hill Grant checked his mobile. Missed call: Caroline Howe-Jessops. Why would she be phoning him? He played the message.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous. You won’t believe this, but Suzie née Hughes-Webb wants to come to London and see you urgently. Do call. Lots of love, Caroline.’

  Grant was elated. He had not expected this turn of events. His mind started racing. The Galvins. The Galvins! Hadn’t Danny revealed that his father had survived a poisoning? His latest weird dream had Danny’s mother Alison admitting liability. Who else could have been responsible for these past crimes if not Paul, Alison, Danny – or even Danny’s younger sister, Sharon, perhaps? He allowed himself a wry smile as he was aware he was getting carried away, partly out of frustration but also out of a sense of encroaching dread. He knew he was charging forwards dangerously, but he had to speak to Suzie; he needed to get things back in proportion. He hoped she had reflected further and now wanted to reveal more. He couldn’t wait to hear. He hurriedly dialled her Cape Town number.

  ‘Suzie Barber speaking.’

  Her going by her married name threw him slightly. ‘Hi, Suzie. It’s Grant returning your call.’

  ‘Er, yes, hello,’ she replied somewhat formally in her clipped businesslike tone. ‘There is something I need to show you, Grant.’

  ‘Show me?’ he queried. He had not expected an exhibit. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Have you watched the three DVDs?’

  By this stage Grant had seen them all, and apart from a few significant moments that had grabbed his full attention he had found most of the film footage disappointing in terms of content.

  ‘Yes. Thank you very much for sending them to me. I was about to drop you an email.’

  ‘Grant,’ Suzie whispered in an urgent, conspiratorial tone. ‘There’s another disk.’

  ‘What? I mean, where?’

  ‘I’ve got it. It’s far more revealing than the others. I’ve kept it since taking it from Danny’s flat, but I think you should see it so I’m going to bring it to London with me next week.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grant. ‘Thank you very much. Can you tell me what’s on it?’

  ‘No.’ She reverted to her more usual manner. ‘But I can tell you …’ She hesitated before delivering the bombshell. ‘Henry filmed in the pub on Hector’s last evening.’

  ‘Really?’ Grant exclaimed, exhilarated by this revelation.

  They reverted to small talk to ease the tension,
and she gave him her flight details. He was keen to keep her talking. He could barely wait for Wednesday week, but she wasn’t prepared to divulge any more at this point. He offered to meet her at Heathrow Terminal 5 and said he would drive her straight to her aunt’s flat in Bayswater.

  ‘Suzie,’ he continued, in a further and somewhat desperate attempt to prise more information out of her, ‘Danny came to see me. He was quite aggressive, most unpleasant really. At one point I actually felt in fear of physical attack.’ He felt a bit feeble revealing this and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Did he?’ she asked, after a long pause, during which time he wondered if the line had gone dead. ‘Be very careful, Grant. You don’t know the half of it with the Galvins.’

  ‘And are you prepared to tell me everything when we meet this time?’

  ‘I will show you the last film taken on the Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at the end of the holiday. I think that will suffice.’

  ‘Ivan Youlen,’ he continued, still trying to keep her on the line. ‘Did you know he showed up that Sunday lunchtime at the hotel when the police set up shop in the Simpkins’ flat?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen it on film.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think it’ll all become clearer when you see the last film. I must go. Thanks again for agreeing to meet me at Heathrow. I’ll text you the flight details and my ETA.’

  ‘Great. Many thanks, Suzie. I really look forward to seeing you.’

  She didn’t respond. She was already planning her London visit, which she knew would require meticulous preparation. She didn’t have much time for Grant’s schoolboy excitement, as she regarded it, but she did know it was time to move everything on.

  The night before, Grant and Brigit had agreed that he should move out for a short while to continue his research. He had called to ask his brother, Glen, if he could stay for three or four days, which Brigit thought a good idea.

  After speaking to Suzie he packed some necessities and set off on the North Circular Road. He soon became aware that a car, although it wasn’t right behind, seemed to be trailing him. He pulled up at a petrol station to see what would happen, and the vehicle sped past. In his paranoid state he fully expected to see either Danny or Ivan behind the wheel, but instead he spotted a rather heavy-looking guy, the type that might be described in the criminal fraternity as ‘a bit of muscle’. This could take things in a sinister new direction. He dallied at the petrol station, buying coffee from the vending machine and drinking it slowly, watching the passing traffic keenly. Some ten minutes later he was back behind the wheel. By the time he was on the A3 he saw the same car about three vehicles behind him. His mind began to race. Should he call the police? He didn’t feel inclined to do so, as he thought it would only complicate things at this stage. He resolved to tough it out. After all, the ‘Spooks of Zennor’ who had pursued him on the west coast and then on to St Austell had never actually carried out a physical assault, although the hand on his face in the dark had been pretty weird and not an experience he was likely to forget. He pulled up at an off-licence close to his brother’s home in a picturesque village near Guildford. As an offering to Glen and his wife, Mandy, for his invasion of their space he purchased three bottles of their favourite Australian Chardonnay to accompany the flowers and the box of chocolates he had bought at the petrol station.