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Nothing left to lose

Page 17

by Stuart Allison


  ‘No convenient friends in the Inland Revenue?’

  ‘They’re called Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs these days. They stopped being the Inland Revenue in1985.’

  ‘I still don’t like them; they take money from my pitiful wages.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t have any contacts there.’

  ‘In that case you rise even higher in my estimation. But we’re still buggered.’

  ‘I did find some interesting links. Aylmer has a surprising number of links with our friend Sinclair and his father before him. There are a number of companies where both have considerable interests. There are four or five companies, where both are directors or finance them from the background.’

  It was then that an idea occurred to me. I picked up the laptop and called up a map of the Thames between Windsor and Reading.

  ‘There’s a geographical connection too. Aylmer comes from Cookham and according to the records still lives nearby in Temple. Sinclair still occupies the family estate he inherited from his father near Marlow, Bucks and that’s where Chabot were based. A different county but it’s only three or four miles away as the crow flies, too close to be coincidence, considering all the other connections…’I paused for a second as the import of my research hit me. ‘Aylmer was finishing his masters at Brasenose at the same time that Sinclair was there taking his degree. It’s not that big a college, they must have known each other.’

  ‘But why would he be giving us such grief about William Miller?’

  Chapter 22

  Lisa went out early the following morning to meet James’ friend Jack, an old friend from his university days. She had phoned him to enquire about our chances of selling the story.

  ‘I was thinking, ‘Lisa said ‘if we could get the story published, it might take the heat off us. If everything we knew was in the public domain there would be no point in Aylmer coming after us.’

  ‘Except for revenge.’

  ‘You’re such a comfort!’

  ‘Nevertheless, the idea’s a good one. Any fee involved might help offset what we’ve spent these past few weeks.’

  ‘Jack wants me to brief him on the story over lunch, if he thinks it’ll fly, he’ll take it to his editor.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Sir Gerald bloody Aylmer has interests in this newspaper?’

  ‘No, I checked.’

  ‘Okay then, you’d better get off, it’ll take a while to get to over to Wapping.’

  ‘He’s not in Wapping, but you’re right I need to go.’

  ‘I’ll see what else I can find out about Aylmer. Maybe I can spot the link with Miller.’

  I spent the next two hours on the internet researching everything I could find about Gerald Aylmer. I checked on his father and mother, to see if they could have some sort of link to Miller. As far as I could ascertain his father Dr James Aylmer was a renowned surgeon, who had served with the Royal Army Medical Corps during World War Two. Everything about him seemed to be a matter of public record, even his support for the Liberal Party, so there were no convenient links to the far right politically. Next I went to work on his mother. Lillian Stevens was more difficult to trace. A member of the landed gentry, her background was unremarkable and from the limited facts I could find, there was little chance of a link to Miller, unless she once dated him.

  Lisa phoned to say she was on her way back and I updated her on my lack of progress.

  ‘What about his wife? Maybe his secret shame was Miller was his father-in-law and he’s trying to avoid the social embarrassment.’

  ‘Unlikely, but I’ll give it a go.’

  I searched the internet for Emily Baston. I found little besides the fact she appeared to have met Aylmer at Oxford.

  I got myself lunch and read yesterday’s paper. Lisa phoned and she was full of it.

  ‘Jack loved the idea; he’s going to speak to the features editor this afternoon. He thinks they’ll be very interested; apparently they often buy this sort of story from freelancers. He even offered to meet with us and help us write it, he seemed to think that a good journalistic story is written differently from history.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’ll be enough to take the heat off us. I have a sneaking suspicion that Aylmer doesn’t know we’ve no link between him and Miller. We need to find it before he finds us.’

  ‘You’re right, but where do we go next?’

  ‘We could continue with his wife.’

  ‘Okay. What about her parentage?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’re not going to find it on the internet. Even if information exists there, it’d be quicker to go to Kew. ‘

  ‘Look, I’m not too far away, I’m in Richmond. I could go over and see what I can find, but it will leave you stuck in the flat on your own.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll survive. Go see what you can find.’

  Hanging around the flat without Lisa was tedious in the extreme. To alleviate the boredom I started to look through the business material Lisa had checked yesterday, not that I expected to find anything she missed and I didn’t. Next I tried the internet for information on Chabot UK Investments. There were 18,000 hits. I worked through the first twenty pages without any luck. Then I decided to engage my brain rather than the computer. Chabot UK Investments existed in 1982 and presumably before, if it was paying Lisl Miller’s care bills, they disappeared around 1983. Maybe the Financial Times for those years might help. I tried the British National Library website, as I would not have time to get there and back and research before Lisa returned. I tried the newspaper search function, but found nothing. Next I tried the address in a search engine, there was nothing related to 1982, but I found out that 24 Spittal Street Marlow was now occupied by a glassware shop. That was no help, but another fifteen minutes research showed that 24c was another part of the same building, presumably above the shop and was occupied by an insurance brokers. I idly clicked on their website. Andersons Insurance Brokers of Marlow established 1983. It looked as if Anderson’s had set up shop as Chabot UK had vacated the premises.

  Lisa returned in the early afternoon.

  ‘I think I might have something. I looked up Aylmer’s marriage certificate, there was no father’s name recorded for Emily. I thought he would simply be deceased, so I checked up on her birth certificate.’ She paused dramatically. ‘There was no father’s name there either.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well if Miller returned to the UK after the war under an alias, he could have had a daughter. He was paying his wife’s grandmother’s care home fees through Chabot Investments.’

  ‘It’s a bit thin. All you can prove is she was most likely illegitimate, a cause for social embarrassment, but not much more.’

  ‘But it would all fit. If Miller was Aylmer’s father-in-law, he’d not want people digging into him and he’s been using his influence with Storm 45 to stop us. It’s the only possible link we’ve found.’

  ‘It’s still not much use to us; we’d never be able to use it to prove a link between Aylmer and Miller. If we’re to publish anything about this to stop Alymer, we would need concrete proof.’

  ‘Your right I suppose. It’s a pity, I’d love to be able to publicise a link and show up Aylmer after what he’s been doing to us.’

  ‘Yeah, me too, but I can’t see it happening through this avenue. Everything’s too circumstantial.’

  Lisa looked disappointed.

  ‘I have had an idea about how we might trace Chabot UK, which could help link to Aylmer.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, the building is now occupied by an insurance broker, who seems to have set up business there as Chabot left.’

  ‘So we go to Marlow?’

  ‘Yes, if we leave now, we’ve got time to do it today.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Chapter 23

  Tracking through London took a while, but once we were on the M4 we made up some time. We approached Marlow from the South, a picturesque approach across the suspension
bridge over the Thames and past the tall steepled church, nestling in its churchyard beside the river. The river itself shimmered in the still hot afternoon sunshine. We parked next to a riverside sports centre and walked along the river watching the ducks and swans until we reached the road. The High Street rose up the gentle incline and was lined with expensive shops, travel agents and mobile phone shops. Lisa was fascinated.

  ‘This place is lovely. Look at all these shops. There must be a lot of money here.’

  ‘There is, but I doubt you could afford to frequent these shops. Look at that!’ I pointed to a dress in a shop window, priced at £550.

  ‘It’s Dior and it’s gorgeous. I’d love to own a dress like that.’

  ‘I’d settle for just being able to afford it. Now control yourself. I think Spittal Street is this way. I led her up to the roundabout at the top of the High Street and left into Spittal Street, a road that ran for just 200 yards between the High Street and a second roundabout. The street was lined with an interesting mixture of Victorian and timber framed buildings, most of them shops. Number twenty four was selling glassware from a shop in a timber framed seventeenth century building. Next to the shop was a door with a sign “24C Anderson’s Insurance Brokers, First Floor.” The oak staircase curved up to the first floor, where a bored young woman sat at a reception desk. She was about seventeen, long dark hair and far too much make-up. She raised her eyes from the magazine she was reading.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied ‘My name is David Fawcett, this is my associate, Amy Stevens. We’re from the Marlow society and we’re currently researching the history of the older buildings of Spittal Street.’

  ‘Did you know it’s called Spittal Street because there used to be a hospital hereabouts?’ Lisa interrupted my geek impression.

  ‘Yes, we’re trying to list the owners and occupiers of the buildings back to the time they were built.’ The girl looked more bored than ever.

  ‘Yeah, well I can’t help you I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘That’s why we’d like to speak to Mr Anderson, if he’s in. We wondered if he could tell us who was here before he moved in.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be able to help, he only took over from his father last year.’

  ‘Is there any way we could speak to Mr Anderson Senior?’

  ‘He normally drops in about 3.30, you could come back then.’

  I looked at my watch, it was 3.00. We went to a nearby café and drank bitter coffee until 3.30 eventually crawled round. On re-entering the office, we saw a stout man of about sixty, with a round red face and salt-and-pepper hair.

  ‘These are the people I told you about Mr Anderson.’ the receptionist said.

  The man looked us up and down, appraising us as prospective clients.

  ‘The Marlow Society? How can I help you?’ He shook my hand in a firm grip, then turned to Lisa, his eyes wondering to her chest.

  ‘Yes, we were wondering if you could help us to find out who occupied these premises before you. We’re trying to chart a history of the occupants of some of the older properties in this street.’ She said.

  ‘Well, I don’t rightly know. When I took over the lease, all the arrangements went through the freeholder’s solicitor, we had no direct dealings with our predecessors. To the best of my knowledge they were an investment company, Sabot?... No Chabot, Chabot Investments.’

  ‘So, you don’t know who they were?

  ‘I didn’t say that young lady; I said I had no direct dealings with them.’

  ‘So you can help us?’ I intervened.

  ‘I might be able to, if you could help me out a bit.’

  ‘Help you out?’

  ‘Yes, business is slack in the current economic climate; I wondered if you would take a few of our cards and pass them out amongst some of your members.’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’ I took the small pile of business cards he handed me.

  ‘Well, although I never saw or spoke to the previous tenant, Chabot UK Investments, I did have to forward their some of their mail.’

  ‘Did you have a name as well as an address?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, all the mail was addressed to Chabot. I could probably find the address, if you want.’

  ‘That would be helpful.’

  ‘Come into my office.’ He led the way through the left hand door into a well-appointed office beyond. He crossed to a filing cabinet and began rifling through the second drawer. ‘I could have sworn I kept it…..Ah here it is. Frieth House, Mondaydean Lane, Marlow.’

  ‘That’s very helpful.’ said Lisa, writing down the address, ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he beamed at Lisa. ‘You won’t forget to give out those cards, will you?’

  ‘Of course we won’t, thanks again for your help.’

  As we left the building, I pushed the cards into my pocket, feeling a little guilty that Anderson would not get the extra trade he had hoped for.

  ‘Shall we take a trip up to Mondaydean Lane?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll need to use the satnav; I haven’t a clue where it is.’

  We got back into the Saab, the heat inside was tremendous; fortunately the air-conditioning soon cooled the car to a bearable temperature. We navigated our way through Marlow and made our way sedately up the gentle incline of Mondaydean Lane out of the town. The road twisted uphill past fields and woodlands. A mile out of town, we came upon a large Georgian house on our left, surrounded by a high wall that was topped by broken glass and pierced by two high, ornate gates. A tasteful sign declared it to be Frieth House. I pulled the car over and got out. Approaching the locked gates I saw a second smaller sign on the gates themselves, “Frieth House, Private Property, Strictly No Admission Without Prior Appointment.” I returned to Lisa in the Saab.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Whoever lives there, they clearly value their privacy. The gates are automatic; you have to go through a speakerphone. There’s also no way in without prior appointment.’

  ‘So we’re not getting in there soon then?’

  ‘Nope, we’ll have to find out who it belongs, or belonged to.’

  ‘The internet?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  We toured the main roads of Marlow, without finding an internet café.

  ‘I suppose Marlow’s a bit too up market and conservative to have such an establishment.’ I said.

  ‘Okay then, home James!’

  ‘Er, not just yet, I think we’ve picked up a tail. That red Ford has been behind us for a while. Let’s see.’ I signalled left and turned at the next junction. The red Ford followed suit a minute later. I took the next right and again the red Ford followed, hanging back trying to be inconspicuous and failing miserably.

  ‘Yep, we’re being followed.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Let’s slow down and you look to see how many of them are in the car.’

  As the gap between the cars narrowed, Lisa turned around as if looking for something on the back seat. From behind her hair she peered intently at our pursuer.

  ‘Just one of them, but he’s using his phone, probably to call in assistance. How did he find us?’

  ‘Random bad luck I suspect. We know this area if frequented by Aylmer and co. It looks as if we’ve just been unlucky in coming across one of ‘them’.’

  I turned right again, then left back on to the main road. The big question was how to shake the tail before his support arrived. I’m not a trained spy, I’ve never been taught defensive driving; I just had to hope that what I had picked up from films and books would work. I kept to the main road at an even speed, whilst my brain worked overtime. We pulled on to the motorway and I put my foot down. Fifty yards behind me the Ford kept pace. The motorway was quite busy and there were solid streams of traffic in the inside and middle lanes. An idea struck me and I turned on the satnav. It took a couple of minutes to locate satellites before it gave me my pos
ition. I could see that there was a turn off in a mile and a half. All I needed now was a bit of luck and the traffic to cooperate. I eased off the accelerator so that the distance between the cars narrowed. I could now see the marker warning it was three hundred yards to the slip road. Ahead there was a slight gap in the traffic in the middle lane. I floored the accelerator and without signalling swung the Saab into the gap, then braked sharply seriously upsetting the driver behind. The red Ford overshot us and as he did so I cut across the traffic in the inside lane and to the sound of screeching tyres and protesting horns I pulled onto the slip road and off the motorway. For a minute I sat at the roundabout pale and shaking as the adrenaline rush subsided.

  ‘Shit, that was bloody close.’ I declared.

  ‘I thought you were going to hit that car in the inside lane.’

  ‘So did he’ I grinned ‘it was only his emergency braking that gave us the space to get off on to the slip road. But we’ve lost our tail; he can’t get off the motorway for ten miles. As long as we steer clear of the more obvious routes into London, we should be okay. We’ll just have to take a roundabout route.’

  Getting back to Bow through the rush hour traffic was a nightmare. Two hours later and we were still crawling through tailbacks of traffic, some way short of Bow. I was feeling tired after the earlier stress and became very frustrated at the delays caused by road works and drivers who had selfishly held up the traffic by having an accident. My mood must have shown, for Lisa was keeping a low profile, plugged into her ipod, whilst I cursed the traffic in a torrent of vitriol. By the time we eventually pulled into the car park beside the tower block, it was late evening and the sun was already setting. Both of us were tired and hungry and had no heart for further research that night. After eating a quick meal, we both retired to bed.

  I had no difficulty falling asleep, but within two hours I was wide awake. The room was hot and stuffy despite the open window. I realised there was no way I was going to get back to sleep again any time soon. My mind was buzzing; I rolled out of bed and went into the sitting room. With nothing else to do, I decided to start tracking down the occupant of Frieth House. Picking up Lisa’s laptop I began a search. Googling the address I found only one entry, a site listing property values and prices. I clicked on the link and the site opened. Frieth House was last sold in 1947 for £24,000 its current value was about £8,000,000. Whoever owned Frieth House, they had serious money. Still frustrated by my inability to track down the mysterious owner, I turned back to the computer. Then I came across Peoplesearch.com, which used telephone directories and electoral rolls to track addresses for names and vice versa. I typed in the address, the page came up, there were no businesses listed at that address. I clicked on the person tab and up came a list of inhabitants of Mondaydean Lane. I scrolled down. Suddenly I saw it, time stood still as I sat staring at the screen. The answer to so many of our questions leapt out at me. How could we have got it so wrong?

 

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