by M J Lee
She walked into the front room. It was as pokey and dingy as before. The smell of stale cigarette smoke infested everything.
The old man pointed at the clock. 'Your time has already started.'
Chapter Seventy-One
Sale, Manchester. April 3, 2016.
'Are you sure this is right?' asked Mark leaning in to look at the picture on her phone.
'It still doesn't prove they were married,' said the father. He had lit another one of his cigarettes. The smoke was drifting lazily up to the ceiling.
Mark spread his fingers to make the picture of the hotel register from 1916 larger on the iPhone. In a strong firm hand someone had written the name Toby Russell, with the room number as 23. The checkout date was April 26th.
'It proves he lied to the court and your great grandmother told the truth. He was in Gretna Green the day she married your great grandfather. In his evidence, he stated he was at home.'
'His mother backed him up,’ Mark said.
'The toffs, they always back each other up,' snarled the old man, taking another drag on his cigarette.
'Why would he lie?' said Jayne, 'unless he had been the witness to the wedding. Your great grandmother was telling the truth, it wasn't a fantasy.'
Mark's face lit up. 'If he was in Gretna, perhaps he removed the record from the register. But why?'
'Maybe his family didn't approve of the wedding. The mother certainly lied about his presence at home.'
'She was a shopgirl, he was a Lord. Of course they didn't approve of the wedding.'
'But to go to the lengths they did, following Rose to Gretna, ripping out the page from the register.' Mark shook his head. 'And it still doesn't explain why there's no record of the marriage in Edinburgh.'
Jayne stared at her feet.
'We're no closer to proving the marriage than we were before she started on the case.' The old man threw the butt of his cigarette into the open fire.
'But we know he lied and your grandmother told the truth. He was at the wedding.'
'Prove it,' the old man challenged her.
Jayne thought furiously. There must be something they could do. It all can't end here, in a dingy living room in some suburb of Manchester. She had to find the truth, for Rose, for David, for herself.
'Can I see the letter again?' she eventually said, 'David's last letter to Rose.'
'What good's it going to do? You've seen it already.'
'It can't hurt, Father.' Mark reached down and lifted the old case onto his lap. He flicked the latches, searched through the papers inside and gave her the letter.
'Waste of time,' muttered the old man, lighting another cigarette.
'Actually, it's the envelope I want to see.'
Mark rummaged around in the case, finally producing the faded yellow envelope.
Jayne turned to the back. 'It says 'Found on a British officer at Feldlazarett 27'. I googled 'Feldlazarett'. It's the German for field hospital or casualty clearing station.'
'So?'
'So, remember the newspaper article, it said David was alive but wounded when Crawford saw him on July 3rd.'
'You think he was taken to one of these 'Feldlazaretts'?
'More than likely.'
'But how does this help?’ Mark asked.
Jayne stood up. 'I'm not certain, but I’ve a hunch. I need to go to London.'
'London,' said the old man, 'and who's going to pay?'
'If I'm right, you are Mr Russell, and happily I think. But first, I need to make a phone call.'
Chapter Seventy-Two
Sale, Manchester. April 3, 2016.
Jayne opened the door to the hall; she didn't want the Russells to hear what she was going to do, particularly the old man. If he found out the medallion and the photograph had been stolen, she would never hear the last of it. He would be moaning from now until the next millennium.
She dialled the number from memory and it was answered after two rings.
'DI Tanner.' The voice was rough and ready, with the peculiar whine she heard on every Oasis record. Rob said he had gone to the same school as the Gallagher brothers. The joke was nobody knew Borstal was a school.
'It's Jayne Sinclair, Rob…'
'DI Sinclair, what a pleasure to hear your voice. And that reminds me, you still owe me chocolate, haven't paid your debts, yet.'
'Not a DI any more, Rob, just an ordinary member of Joe Public.’
'You'll always be the DI for me, Jayne, but it doesn't mean you can welch on a debt.'
Rob Tanner had just been promoted to detective constable when he joined Jayne's team. He was wet behind the ears but as smart as a tailor's dummy. Under her, he'd soon learnt the ropes. 'Now's the time to double it, Rob.'
'There's an offer I can't refuse. How can I help?'
'You know my place was done over the other night?'
'I heard. Criminals must be getting more stupid these days…'
'Don't I know. Anyway, I've worked out who did it and I need an address.'
'I thought Harris and Meagher were working your case?'
'You mean Tweedledum and Tweedledumber?'
'I must admit they're not the sharpest knives in the toolbox, but at least they're straight.'
'I know, I know. But you know me, Rob.'
'You'd prefer to sort it out yourself.'
'Right first time. The prick who did it stole something from me; I want it back not stuck as evidence for the next 15 years.'
'What's the name?'
'Herbert Small. And I've a number too. It's 0161-823 4454.'
'Give me a sec.'
Jayne heard the sound of keyboard keys being pressed and the whirr of a computer.
'Here it is, Jayne. An address in the Northern Quarter. A bit of a hipster is he?’
'No, he's short, fat and bald. But that was quick, the computer system's been upgraded since I was a copper.'
'Nah, it's still as useless as ever. I used the White Pages, Jayne. You should use it, directory enquiries is quicker than anything we have.'
Jayne smiled. 'Still the same old Rob.'
'Still the same man. I've just messaged you the address. You now owe me two blocks of chocolate. A single estate Valrhona would be nice.'
'I'll make sure it arrives next week. Thanks for the help, Rob.'
'No worries, Jayne. And a word of warning, no rough stuff. I wouldn't like to pull you in.'
'Me? Rough stuff? You must be thinking of another woman, Rob.'
'I'm thinking of the woman who always told me to get my retaliation in first.’
'Useful advice for a copper.'
'But not for a member of Joe Public.'
'I hear you, Rob.'
'But hearing and doing are two different things.'
'You know me so well. Anyway, I have to go now.'
'Jayne, I…'
She switched off her phone. She knew exactly what Rob was going to say and she didn't want to hear a lecture at the moment.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Sale, Manchester. April 3, 2016.
Jayne returned to the sitting room. Richard and Mark Russell were sitting quietly together, going through the letters one more time.
Mark looked up as she entered. 'My father and I have been talking. We’d both like to come down to London with you.'
'That's not necessary.'
'It's not about necessity; we want to go,' said the old man lighting another cigarette.
'But you'll get in the way, I like to work alone.'
'Did I get in the way in Scotland?'
Jayne didn't answer.
'Listen,' said Mark, 'we have only one day left to discover proof of my great grandparents' marriage. I would have thought you would take any help offered.'
'I haven't been back to London for a long time,' moaned the father.
Jayne knew when she was beaten. 'Fine, fine, you can both come. But don't get in the way, we need to move quickly.'
'We'll be like shit off the end of
a shovel,' said the old man, exhaling a long plume of feathery blue smoke. 'You won't even know we're there.'
'The first train to London from Piccadilly is at 5.25 tomorrow morning, don't be late.'
'So early?'
'I'll book the tickets online tonight. Where are we going in London?' asked Mark.
It was about time they knew. 'To the Imperial War Museum – they hold the records for the Derbyshire Fusiliers. If we are going to find out anything about David Russell, this is our last shot.'
Chapter Seventy-Four
Northern Quarter, Manchester. April 3, 2016.
'I wondered when you would find me, Mrs Sinclair…'
As he opened the door, Jayne pushed the little man backwards, pressing her forearm into his throat. She lifted him up against the wall forcing him to stand on tiptoe.
'I…' was all he managed to say before he felt the pressure of her elbow across his Adam's apple.
Jayne leant in closer. 'It's time for you to listen, Herbert.'
She released the pressure slightly. Herbert Small half choked, gasping for air.
'Are you listening, Herbert?'
He nodded, eyes staring at her face just inches from his.
'You have something of mine. Something you took from my house.'
'Let go of me or I'll tell…'
She pressed her elbow deep into his throat once more. 'You are in no position to threaten, Herbert. Why did you break into my house?'
She eased the pressure on her elbow. Immediately, Herbert Small sucked in air and began to cough.
'I'll repeat the question, Herbert, why did you break into my house?'
'I… had to… see… what you…'
'What I had discovered.'
Herbert Small nodded and began coughing once more.
'Not a good move, Herbert. Did you think I wouldn't find you?'
For the first time, a small smile crossed the man's face. 'I knew you…' he sucked in air, '…would find me. Wanted you… to…'
'You wanted me to find you?'
Herbert Small nodded again.
'Why?'
Another smile, this time broader, the ends of his mouth turning upwards and his eyes glinting. 'Cos if you were looking… for me… not looking for… marriage certificate.'
Jayne let the little man go. He collapsed with his hands on his knees, sucking in vast gulps of air, his face dripping with sweat.
'Do you know where it is?'
‘That would be telling, Mrs Sinclair. You have just one day left. After that, whatever money was left by Lord Lappiter will vanish into the sticky fingers of Her Majesty's Treasury.'
Jayne put her hands in her jacket pocket.
The more he recovered, the bolder Herbert Small became. 'I hope you enjoyed the wild goose chase, Mrs Sinclair.'
The little man was standing upright now, adjusting his tie and smoothing down his hair.
'But you did trash my house, stealing the medallion and the photo?'
He chuckled and walked behind his desk, just far enough out of her reach to feel safe. 'I enjoyed smashing your house up. I know now why the Greeks find it cathartic. The medallion and the photo are on top of my filing cabinet, still in their envelopes. The medallion particularly is a fine piece. I'm not surprised the Russells didn't give it to me.'
'How did you get into my house?'
'For an ex-policeman, your security is very lax, Mrs Sinclair. Over the years I've broken into many houses, it's a particular gift I have. Lets me see what other researchers are up to, shortcut my research.’
'Did you take little keepsakes from them too?'
'The filing cabinet is full of them. Some have a tolerable value, but others are just for memories, little souvenirs.'
A sharp knock on the door. Herbert Small looked up, surprised.
Jayne Sinclair walked slowly to the door and opened it. 'Rob, I thought you'd never get here. Another minute and I would be kicking the living daylights out of the smug bastard.'
'Sorry, Jayne, we had to wait until he convicted himself. Judges these days need you to hit them over the head with the evidence before they pass sentence.'
‘But… but… how…?'
Jayne pulled her hand out of her pocket. In it was a mobile phone, the screen shining brightly. 'I hope you recorded everything he said, Rob.'
A constable took hold of Herbert Small's hands and began to handcuff him behind his back.
'Of course, Jayne.'
'She assaulted me… attacked me…' spluttered Herbert Small.
'Did you hear any assault, Rob?'
'Not a dickie bird, Jayne. Just heard this man confessing to a crime.' As Herbert Small was led away past Jayne, she whispered in his ear, 'Next time you go near my house, Mr Small, I'll rip off your head and piss in the hole. Do you understand?'
For a moment, Herbert Small's eyes met hers and then looked away. 'You still won't find the marriage certificate.'
'Wanna bet?'
Chapter Seventy-Five
Piccadilly Station, Manchester. April 4, 2016.
Jayne grabbed a quick coffee from the Starbucks next to the stone concourse. She stood under the announcement board, enjoying the warmth of the coffee in her hand. It was a typical Manchester spring morning; cold, with a hint of drizzle in the air.
Her father always joked about Manchester that if you could see the hills around the city it meant it was going to rain. And if you couldn’t see them, it was already raining. It was that sort of morning.
She checked her watch again. Ten minutes to the train leaving. The announcement board said it was on time, for a change. Where were they?
She would give them five more minutes before hurrying to find her seat. She couldn't miss this train, not if she were to get to the Imperial War Museum just as it was opening.
There they were, Mark in the lead with his father following behind. The old man was unshaven, but wearing a long jacket and over-large brothel creepers. Despite his unkempt appearance, his hair was still forward and upwards in a resplendent quiff.
Mark looked his father up and down. 'It's the only suit he has.'
'This was the height of fashion when I bought it.'
'Back in the 60s, I'm sure it was.'
Jayne stepped between them. 'Never mind, we need to get going, shouldn't miss the train.'
They bustled down the platform, finding their seats in a near-empty compartment.
'I haven't been to London for over 30 years,' explained the old man.
'You still kept your accent.'
'Well, you don't lose what you grew up with, do you? Can't imagine speaking in a Manchester whinge.'
'Why did you move north anyway?' asked Jayne as the conductor blew his whistle and the train edged slowly out of the station.
The old man pointed at Mark. ’His mother was from Manchester. Once my dad had died, there was no point staying in London. The wife hated the place anyway. Probably hated me more though, she did a bunk as soon as we got here, leaving me to bring up Mark on my own.'
Jayne thought of her and Paul. At least there were no children to make the break-up even more difficult than it actually was.
Mark changed the subject. 'What do you think we will find in London?'
'I don't know,' Jayne answered honestly. 'There's not a lot of detail in the catalogue.'
'So this is a long shot?'
'It's our only shot. We've exhausted every other line of enquiry. This is it.'
'And if we don't find something before the end of today, the estate passes to the Treasury.'
'I'm afraid that's true.'
Mark became quiet, staring out of the window as the Cheshire countryside flashed past.
Eventually, it was the old man who broke the silence. 'I'm looking forward to seeing London. The pubs, the shows, the museums.'
'We're coming back this evening on the 9.40 train, Dad.'
'Are we? Oh well, at least I can enjoy a full English when we get there.'
Jayne produced
the two envelopes from her bag. ‘I thought I should return these to you. Apparently the medallion is quite valuable.’ Jayne had put them quietly into her pocket after the arrest of Herbert Small. Sitting in an evidence locker for six months would do nobody any good. Rob had enough to go on with the other stolen items to convict the man.
‘Thank you,’ said Mark.
‘And now we may as well use the time to fill in some forms. If we find anything, we need to go straight to the Government Legal Office to file our claim.’
After completing the forms, all three of them lapsed into silence. Mark flicked through his Guardian reading every article, his father spent hours lingering over page three of the Sun, while Jayne stared out the window, going through every detail of the investigation in her mind. Had she missed anything? Was there anything else she could have done?
As her mind raced over all the events of the past week, she knew she wouldn't have done anything differently. The past is what it is, sometimes just out of reach, at other times, a startling reminder of the present.
Looking at Mark and his dad, she thought of her own father. She hoped he found happiness with Vera. If anyone deserved a better life, it was him; after all, he had put up with her mother for 20 years before she died. An experience deserving of the Victoria Cross in her view.
An announcement came over the tannoy. 'We will shortly be arriving in Euston station, please do not leave anything behind as you depart this train. It has been a pleasure serving you aboard this Virgin service from Manchester to London, we hope you enjoyed your journey and we will see you again soon.'
The announcer seemed as bored at saying the words as Jayne was of hearing them. Outside the window, the smog of London hid the city's ugliness. The train hurried past the back windows of terraced houses, grimed from years of neglect.
Jayne wondered how people lived so close to the line. Did they look out their window every day and see people going somewhere while they stayed where they were? Or did they simply not notice the trains any more?
Whatever it was, Jayne would hate to live in this city. Its remorseless anonymity would crush her soul.