Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  Rona took a gamble. ‘Selina O’Toole?’

  The woman looked surprised. ‘She shouldn’t be hard to find, surely?’

  It was an unexpected response, and Rona raised her eyebrows. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, with her being on the telly, and all.’

  Rona gazed at her blankly, and in return received a disbelieving stare.

  ‘You’re never saying you don’t know who she is?’

  Honesty, Rona reflected, would be the best policy. ‘I realize I should know her, but stupidly I just can’t seem to place her.’

  ‘Well, she’s on pretty regular.’

  And at Rona’s continuing blankness, Mrs Jones stepped aside and said resignedly, ‘You’d best come in.’

  Rona indicated Gus, who was hopefully wagging his tail. ‘Is it all right—?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve nothing against dogs. Haven’t had one in the house since old Pip died.’

  Rona followed her down the hall to the back room, where an elderly man nodded by the fire. The room was uncomfortably hot, but it was newly swept and dusted and the horse brasses on the wall gleamed in reflected firelight.

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ Mrs Jones instructed, jerking her head towards her husband. ‘Deaf as a post – you’d have to repeat everything twice. Sit down. Now, what’s all this about wanting Selina?’

  ‘You say she’s on television; is she an actress?’

  Mrs Jones clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘No, not an actress. She does them documentaries, doesn’t she, interviewing people in the news.’

  So that’s why both she and Lois had heard of her; and, with enlightenment, an image came to mind of a strong-featured face topped with spiky hair of an unlikely red. Gemma’s old flatmate had certainly made the big time.

  Mrs Jones was watching her astutely. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of raking that murder story up again?’ She reached for a biscuit from the tin on the table and tossed it to Gus, who caught it in his mouth.

  ‘Only in passing.’ Rona hesitated, then added on impulse, ‘Did you know Gemma’s baby?’

  The woman’s head shot up, but since she didn’t reply, Rona went on, ‘I’m here on her behalf, really. She’s trying to trace her father.’

  The transformation was immediate. ‘Little Amanda? She’s – all right? Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard this side of Christmas!’

  Rona said carefully, ‘Yes, she’s very well. She’s married now, and expecting a baby of her own.’

  ‘Did you ever!’ exclaimed the old woman delightedly. ‘I used to babysit her, you know. Gemma often brought her over, when she wanted to go shopping and that. Bright little thing she was, with those big green eyes and copper-coloured hair. Gemma worshipped her. “I’m so glad I kept her, Mrs J,” she used to say. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”’

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And to think what lay in wait for her.’

  Rona mentally crossed her fingers. ‘Did you by any chance know who she was seeing?’

  ‘That got her in the family way, you mean? No, she never let on. Said she’d tell me when the time was right.’

  ‘And she stuck to that, even when he left the country?’

  Mrs Jones shook her head sadly. ‘Broke her heart, him going to Awstralia, but she wouldn’t name him, though we all thought he should help out. “They’d never find him out there,” she said.’

  She eyed Rona with grim-faced satisfaction. ‘And if that’s why you’re looking for Selina, you can save yourself the trouble; she doesn’t know any more than we do. After Gemma – died – we all thought Amanda should be with her dad, but we couldn’t begin to look for him, not even having his name.’

  Rona’s heart plummeted. Illogical though it was, she’d been counting on Selina; now it seemed even that frail thread had disintegrated. They were silent for a while, watching the logs redden and collapse in the hearth. The old man stirred and muttered something in his sleep. Eventually, Rona said tentatively, ‘After he went, did Gemma go out with anyone else?’ Anyone who might have murdered her?

  ‘That’s what the police kept asking, but I couldn’t help them then, and I can’t help you now.’

  Rona rose to her feet. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Jones. I won’t hold you up any longer.’

  ‘Not what you wanted to hear, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll just have to think of another angle.’

  The old woman preceded her back down the hall and opened the front door. ‘Give Amanda my love. She won’t know who I am from Adam, but tell her I was fond of her mum.’

  She bent to give Gus a farewell pat and closed the door behind them.

  ‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Tess Chadwick enquired, clasping her coffee mug with both hands. ‘You were pretty cryptic on the phone.’

  They were sitting in a little café next door to the offices of the Stokely Gazette. Rona, looking at her friend across the table, reflected that Tess’s appearance hadn’t altered in all the years she’d known her. She was dressed, as always, completely in black – polo-neck sweater, short skirt, leggings and boots, and her chestnut curls appeared to defy any comb to penetrate them. She must be in her forties, but looked at least ten years younger.

  ‘I want you to do me a favour,’ Rona said. ‘I don’t know how you can work it, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you remember that murder back in ’79, when a girl was strangled in her bath while her baby cried in the next room?’

  ‘Gemma Grant,’ Tess said promptly. ‘Of course I remember it; it was the first case I covered for the Gazette.’

  ‘Well, that baby has asked me to trace her father.’

  Tess sat back in her chair. ‘And how many impossible things do you usually do before breakfast?’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘You must know it is.’

  Rona toyed with her spoon. ‘I wondered if perhaps you could run a para or two asking for information? Say, under a heading “Did you know Gemma Grant?” or “Murdered girl’s baby seeks father”?’

  Tess raised an eyebrow. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance like to write it for me?’

  Rona smiled. ‘Sorry. Just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘I think I can manage, thanks.’

  ‘But could you do it?’ Rona pressed.

  Tess considered. ‘Will there be a follow-up?’

  ‘I hope so; I’m intending to write one for Chiltern News. It’s a different readership, though, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Tess sipped her coffee. ‘You’d get a lot of cranks replying, and we’d have no means of vetting them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’ Rona hesitated. ‘Without wanting to teach my grandmother, there are two particular points I’d like covered.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Well, “Amanda”, as she was then called, was born in November ’78, so her father would have emigrated in the spring of that year. I’d like to know if anyone remembers a local family leaving for Australia around that time. It might at least give us something to work on.’

  ‘True. And the other point?’

  ‘Any memories of Gemma herself. Her daughter knows nothing whatever about her.’

  ‘Folks might be a bit chary on that one, for obvious reasons.’

  Rona shrugged. ‘We can but hope.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, Tess, you’re a star. How soon could you run it?’

  ‘Provided I get the OK, it should squeeze in this week. Thursday’s press day and the paper’s out Friday. What about a name or number for contact?’

  ‘No name, on Max’s instructions. I thought I’d use my email. That way the information would be written down, and I could follow it up at my leisure.’

  Tess chewed her lip. ‘One drawback – not everyone’s on the Internet. If the only means of contact is by email, they mightn’t bother. If I were you, I’d go for your mobile.’


  ‘Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘We’ll sort it out when we’ve finished here. What else have you tried?’

  ‘Not much; I only embarked on it last Friday. All I’ve done so far is look at registers and track down ex-neighbours. I hadn’t realized her flatmate was Selina O’Toole. She’s the one I’d really like to speak to.’

  ‘I warn you, she’s very prickly on the subject. Her standard reply is, “No comment.”’

  Rona, about to take a drink, put down her mug. ‘You know her?’

  ‘I did, when she lived here. Not well, but we often found ourselves covering the same story, she for radio, me for the Gazette.’

  ‘Are you still in touch?’

  ‘The odd phone call now and then, but she’s far outstripped me professionally; I’m still a local hack and she’s on prime-time TV.’ Tess surveyed Rona sceptically. ‘And now I suppose you’re going to ask for an introduction?’

  ‘Tess, I’d be so grateful.’

  ‘I can’t guarantee anything. As I said, she’s sensitive on the issue. You can mention my name, and I’ll give you her private number if you swear not to divulge it, but that’s as far as I can go. Believe me, you’ll need all your powers of persuasion on this one.’

  ‘Have you got her number on you?’

  Tess shook her head. ‘I don’t use it often enough to carry it around. I’ll give you a buzz this evening.’

  ‘You’re a gem.’

  ‘And if she gives you an interview, you can buy me a meal on the strength of it.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  The conversation switched to more personal matters. Tess asked after Max, and Rona, rather cautiously, after Tess’s latest partner. It was seldom the same from one of their admittedly infrequent meetings to the next, and, as she’d expected, a different name came up this time.

  ‘I lose track!’ she confessed. ‘All I ask is, don’t get yourself murdered; it would be a case of cherchez les hommes, and there’d be so many, they’d never find the right one!’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Tess replied.

  ‘I received two letters this morning,’ Max announced on the phone that evening, ‘both of them addressed to you, and one on House of Commons stationery. No prizes for guessing who that’s from.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Again, a typed envelope, thick and creamy. Expensive-looking.’

  ‘How intriguing. Open them for me, will you?’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Certainly; I can’t bear the suspense.’

  There was a pause, and the sound of tearing paper reached Rona down the phone. ‘This is James’s: “Dear Ms Parish, Many thanks for the copy of my youthful manifesto, which I read with great interest. It shows a touching faith in the ability of politicians to perform miracles: more a question of If I Ruled the World.

  ‘“However, I’m advised it contains nothing politically inappropriate, so by all means make whatever use you will of it. I enjoyed meeting you at the constituency evening, and trust that the pleasure will soon be repeated.

  ‘“With regards to yourself and Max, Yours ever, James Latymer.”’

  ‘Good,’ Rona said with satisfaction. ‘That means I can complete the final Buckford article and get it off to Barnie. What’s the other letter?’

  More paper-tearing, then: ‘As we might have guessed from its being sent here, another Latymer missive, this time from the lady, and in the form of a printed invitation. “Mrs James Latymer at home for luncheon. Thursday, 14th October at twelve noon. RSVP.” You are honoured!’

  ‘Just me?’

  ‘It seems so. Must be ladies only.’

  ‘She mentioned wanting to discuss my books, but I wasn’t expecting a full-blown lunch.’

  ‘Luncheon,’ Max corrected slyly.

  ‘I beg your pardon – luncheon. If it’s a load of Conservative ladies in twinsets, I shall be out of my depth.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’ll enjoy seeing how the other half live. So, what have you been up to today?’

  She sketched in her visit to Stokely. ‘Tess Chadwick agreed to run a para for me,’ she told him. ‘And what’s more, she knows Gemma’s ex-flatmate, who turns out to be an eminent TV journalist, no less. Tess has her private number, and if she agrees to meet me, I’ll dash off to London post-haste.’

  ‘Not this week, if you’ve any sense.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s a threatened rail strike, remember.’

  ‘Talks are continuing, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but not making much headway.’ He paused. ‘I trust you didn’t include your name in these newspaper snippets?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I shall be completely anonymous.’

  ‘Mind you keep it that way,’ he said.

  Tess phoned half an hour later with the required number, and as soon as she rang off, Rona called it. The ringing continued for several minutes, and she’d just decided Selina must be out, when a husky voice in her ear said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Selina O’Toole?’

  The voice sharpened. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My name is Rona Parish,’ Rona said quickly. ‘Your number was given to me by Tess Chadwick of the Stokely Gazette.’

  No response.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive my contacting you, Ms O’Toole, but I should very much like to meet you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Not much encouragement there. ‘I want to speak to you about Gemma Grant—’

  ‘Now look,’ Selina broke in angrily, ‘if I find Tess has passed my number to some tin-pot journalist who’s—’

  ‘—on behalf of Gemma’s daughter,’ Rona finished, raising her voice over the other woman’s.

  There was a silence, then Selina said, ‘Would you repeat that?’

  ‘Gemma Grant’s daughter contacted me. She wants to trace her father.’

  ‘Amanda contacted you?’

  ‘She has a different name, but yes.’

  There was another silence, longer than the first. Then: ‘I don’t know who her father is, as I’ve been telling everyone for more than twenty years.’

  ‘Could we meet? Please?’

  ‘Who did you say you are?’

  ‘Rona Parish. I live—’

  ‘The Rona Parish who writes for Chiltern Life?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rona admitted with surprise.

  ‘I subscribe to the magazine,’ Selina said shortly. Then, ‘I apologize for calling you tin-pot.’

  ‘Apology accepted. But will you see me?’

  ‘It would be a wasted journey. I really—’

  ‘If nothing else, I’d like to talk about Gemma, try to get to know her, so I can tell – her daughter. Now she’s pregnant herself, she feels the need to learn about her real parents.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Selina said flatly. ‘And there was I, congratulating myself that I’d put it all behind me.’

  ‘I’d be so grateful,’ Rona pressed.

  A sigh came down the phone. ‘Well, I suppose I could stretch it just one more time. For Amanda’s sake.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Having reached her decision, Selina swiftly finalized the details. ‘Six thirty on Friday, the Grapes Wine Bar in Campion Street?’

  ‘I’ll be there. I look forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Rona Parish,’ said Selina, and broke the connection.

  Eight

  Rona spent the next morning finishing her article on education by inserting the sentences she’d already earmarked from James Latymer’s manifesto. And this, she thought as she slipped it into an envelope, finally drew the line under her Buckford assignment. It was a relief, but she was also aware of regret for the friendships she’d made there which would, in the nature of things, now lapse.

  ‘Walk, Gus!’ she called as she went downstairs, and heard the answering patter of his paws as he lolloped up from the basement.

  Out on the street, the chill breeze stung her cheeks and lifte
d her hair, but she welcomed its freshness. She’d spent most of the last two days in the car, and a little exercise was welcome. After delivering the article and buying the few household items she needed, she intended to take Gus for a brisk run in the park.

  As usual, Polly, the receptionist at Chiltern Life, relieved her of him, enabling her to visit Barnie without the danger of a waving tail unbalancing the piles of papers in his office.

  ‘So this is it, then?’ he commented, sliding the sheets out of the envelope she handed him. ‘End of story?’

  ‘It’s the last to be written, yes, but you already have the one that’ll appear last, pulling all the threads together.’ The articles were scheduled to spill over into the new year, when the octocentenary officially began.

  Barnie nodded, running his eyes down the topmost page. ‘It was a good idea, Rona; we’ve had a lot of positive feedback and circulation is up again this month.’ He regarded her over the top of his glasses. ‘Probably coincidence, mind!’

  ‘No doubt.’

  He eyed her more closely. ‘How goes this harebrained scheme you’ve embarked on?’

  ‘Slowly but surely.’

  ‘You put the wind up Dinah, you know; she’s quite worried about you.’

  ‘Sweet of her, but she needn’t be. How are the family?’

  He held her gaze a moment longer, to show that he’d registered her swift change of subject. ‘The same as when you saw them.’

  ‘You must all come to us one weekend.’

  ‘As long as you’re prepared to have your home wrecked. It’ll be too cold to be outdoors and Sam moves like greased lightning.’

  ‘I’m sure we can cope.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch. Love to everyone.’

  Back in the foyer, Rona had a quick word with Polly, retrieved Gus, and, leaving the building, turned in the direction of Guild Street to do her shopping. She had taken only a few steps when a voice behind her called, ‘Lindsey!’ and, as she instinctively turned, ‘That’s a bit of luck! I was afraid we—’

  The man who had spoken broke off as Rona faced him. ‘Oh! You’re not … but good God, you almost are!’

  She laughed and held out her hand. ‘Rona Parish. The other half.’

  He took her hand, smiling ruefully. ‘I do apologize. Jonathan Hurst – a colleague of your sister’s.’