'I'm sorry about the will, Adam,' Harriet said, breaking through my thoughts. 'I told Simon he should share it with you, or at least see that you're all right but…' She took a nervous sip from her glass.
'Don't worry,' I said dismissively, meaning it. I hadn't yet had the chance to slip into my father's study and extract my file.
Davenham looked across at me. Simon and Faye followed his glance.
'I didn't expect to see so many people,' I said, feeling angry and averting my eyes.
'The obituaries in The Daily Telegraph and The Times account for that,' Harriet replied. 'I received a lot of calls from former colleagues and members of the Royal Society of Chemistry as a result. Your father was quite famous.'
Yes, I supposed he was. In the 1950s Lawrence Greene had discovered a compound that had had huge commercial ramifications in the manufacture of processed foodstuffs. This house and the ones in Cornwall and Wales had been bought on the proceeds of it and Simon and I educated at an expensive public school that I loathed and at Oxford, where my life had changed. Now only this house was left. What had happened to the proceeds of the other properties? Were they in the coffers waiting for Simon to inherit?
'You'll sell the house?' I said.
'Yes, Simon's already had it valued but we can't really do anything until after probate. I'm sure Simon would let you have something; there are some good paintings here.'
Harriet was right, there were some good paintings, but I didn't want anything to remind me of this place or my father. My mother's paintings had all been sold a long time ago.
'Do you know if Simon's been through the rest of Father's papers yet?'
'No, you'll have to ask him. I don't think he's had much time what with the business. It's all been rather hectic.'
'Of course.' The American deal. Had Simon clinched it?
The sound of Faye's laughter drew my attention for a moment, but when I looked back at Harriet her unguarded expression took me by surprise. I wondered how many affairs my brother had conducted during their marriage.
I turned back to look at Faye as Harriet saw her, another of Simon's conquests. Faye was clearly flirting with him and enjoying it but she was in control, or so I told myself. I thought of Stewart, her boss, and all the clients she entertained. I thought of Graham Johnson, the solicitor, I had no reason to think that Faye had been unfaithful, but in my gut I knew she had been.
'How are the children?' I turned my back on Faye. For a moment the light stole into Harriet's eyes.
'William's doing very well at boarding school, but I miss him so much.'
'And Daisy? Didn't Simon say she was away at school too?'
'If that's what you want to call it.'
I was shocked by the bitterness in her voice. She saw that she had given herself away and blushed furiously whilst trying to bury her face in her glass.
'You don't like her school?' I coaxed.
'No. She was better off living at home with us and going to our local school but Simon disagreed and you know Simon he always gets his way,' she said bitterly.
'What does Daisy think?' I saw her startled expression.
'Daisy doesn't think; well, not like you and me.'
'Of course she's only a child.'
She looked puzzled. 'You don't know, do you? Simon hasn't told you. He wouldn't. That's why he's sent her away to that special school. He doesn't want to be reminded of imperfection. Daisy has what they call special needs. She's handicapped.'
'I had no idea, Harriet. I'm sorry.'
'Yes, so is Simon.'
Her words wrenched at my heart. 'Perhaps the money will help you have Daisy home again,' I said gently, but Harriet was shaking her head.
'It's not about money, is it, Adam? Not where Daisy's concerned.'
No. It wasn't. Harriet was called away. It was getting late and already dark. Time to get that file. I doubted if Faye would even notice if I slipped away. Before I could reach the study, however, a tiny woman in her sixties, with grey waved hair, a shrewd, sharp face, lively eyes and a cockney accent waylaid me.
'You must be the other brother. Adam, isn't it? I'm Mrs Withers, your father's housekeeper. I'm sorry about your Dad. He was a fine man.'
I simply nodded.
'Difficult time for you, and Dr Greene, especially him being so fond of his father.'
That was news to me. I mumbled something but she didn't seem to hear. Mrs Withers charged on regardless.
'Not a week has gone past these last six months without Dr Greene looking in and often staying overnight.'
My ears pricked up. Simon had never done a single thing in his life out of kindness so why start now? But I knew the reason. Money.
'I know you and he didn't hit it off,' she swept on. 'Not that Dr Greene ever said much about it and Dr Greene, sorry, your father that is, never so much as spoke of you. I didn't know there was another son until your brother told me after your father's stroke. But I expect it was difficult for you to come and see him, being estranged so to speak.' She sighed heavily. 'Still, he wouldn't have known who you were even if you had come, not these last few months anyway.'
'What did you say?' This was news to me. Why hadn't Simon told me that father had been unwell for some time? But then what right had I to that information? I had chosen to cut myself off from my family.
'Sad, isn't it, when you think of the fine brain he had. Makes you wonder. Life can be so cruel, don't you agree?'
'I'm not sure I understand you.'
'Dementia,' she nodded sagely, as if an expert on the topic. 'Poor man didn't know who I was half the time, let alone your brother. Patience of a saint that man. Used to sit with him in his study for hours. I'm sorry your dad's gone, but in a way it was a mercy wasn't it, being taken so quickly. He would have gone into a home soon and they just eat away at the money, don't they?'
Oh, yes, don't they, I thought. And Simon wouldn't want that being the sole benefactor of Father's considerable will. When had my father cut me out of his will? After Alison and Oxford? After my breakdown? After I had walked out of this house fifteen years go? Or was it more recent, such as in the last six months during which time Simon had worked on father to change his will. Damn. I should have stayed longer the first time I'd returned to the house with Simon. I could have seen then when the will was dated and I could have extracted my file.
I pushed against the study door and stepped inside. Stretching out my right hand I flicked on the overhead light and gazed around. My eyes fell on the battered mahogany desk in front of the french windows. I recalled standing before it as a boy, trembling with fear. I remembered that day I had been in here when I shouldn't have been. I can't remember why, but I had sneaked in and then been trapped as my mother and father had entered. Hiding behind the curtains I had heard him humiliate her with his harsh words and cruel, sarcastic tongue. There were too many ghosts here and in this house and the sooner I got that file, the sooner I could say goodbye to the place forever.
The room was clammy. I couldn't quite steel myself to sit at Father's desk so instead leant over to search the drawers. They weren't locked but there was nothing of any interest in them except a key, which I removed and crossed to the four-drawer grey and scratched filing cabinet in the far corner of the room. The key opened it and methodically I went through its contents. It contained the usual papers, household insurance and receipts. Then, in the bottom drawer, I found what I had been looking for, a buff-coloured folder that bore the name of the clinic I'd attended after my breakdown. If Simon had got this far then he hadn't thought the contents of sufficient interest to remove.
I extracted the folder and locked it in the box on the back of my motorbike. Then returning to the house I found Faye.
'I'm heading home now,' I lied.
'All right.' She didn't protest or plead with me to stay.
'Are you staying in town tonight?'
'You know I am.'
'I'll see you tomorrow night.'
Maybe Faye
would find out tonight what had happened to me at Oxford, if not from Davenham then from Simon. I didn't care. I knew the time was fast approaching when it would come into the open anyway, but not, I hoped, before I found out who had killed Jack and Ben Lydeway. I was pinning a great deal on this meeting with Grey's tomorrow.
I booked myself into a bed and breakfast not far from Victoria Station. It was small, cheap and rather nondescript but it was clean. I threw my bag on the bed, along with my helmet and gauntlets and returned to the bike. I lifted open the box and stared inside it horrified. It was empty. The file had gone.
CHAPTER 13
I rode slowly along the Embankment. The Thames looked sludgy and lethargic, gunmetal grey in the dull morning with only the odd splash of colour caused by the riverboats. Across the river I could see the London Eye revolving slowly. Weaving my way through the stop go traffic I thought about that missing file, much as I had thought about it for most of the night. Who had taken it and when? I knew why, to use it against me.
The police may have released me in connection with Ben's death but that didn't mean they wouldn't arrest me if they felt they had more evidence. I wasn't absolutely sure what the psychiatrist reports would say about me, having never read them, I only wish I had, but I guessed it would make for interesting reading: my self recriminations at Alison's death, my lack of memory. The police could argue that I killed Ben whilst suffering from a black-out.
Who had taken it? Had someone been watching the house, seen me come out with a file, guessed that its contents might be useful and then stolen it? That seemed unlikely. Even if whoever it was knew there was a file documenting my breakdown after Alison's death how would they have known my father had it and that it would be the one I was carrying. If the police, or Special Branch, wanted information on me surely they could get it simply by obtaining a warrant and taking it from the clinic?
It had to be someone inside the house: one of the guests at the wake and the most likely candidate was Simon. Perhaps Simon had seen me take the file and had been afraid it contained something that would ruin his chances of inheriting Father's estate? Or perhaps he'd taken it to discredit or, worse, blackmail me if I ever decided to contest the will? But if that were so then Simon would have taken it before now. He'd had ample opportunity.
My head was aching with so many thoughts whirring around inside it as I wound my way past the church of St Clement Danes and the old nursery rhyme popped into my head, 'Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's.' When I reached the bit about the chopper coming to chop off my head, I shivered and looked behind me. I couldn't see anyone following me but I had the feeling they were. Someone knew every step I took.
I moved through Fleet Street and up Ludgate Hill. The traffic was heavier than I had anticipated. As I halted at the traffic lights I watched a flock of starlings rise above the great dome of St Paul's Cathedral. I envied them their freedom. The responsibility of finishing Jack's quest weighed heavily on my shoulders. But I had to continue with it, no matter where it took me.
At last I turned into Monument Street and then Lower Thames Street where I found Greys Shipping. After waiting ten minutes in the spacious reception area, where I studied rather splendid models of ships owned by Greys, I was shown up in a lift to an office on the third floor by a young, very bored-looking girl who did nothing but chew gum. The woman who greeted me in a large office was very different. She was confident and friendly, with hair the colour of a blackbird's wing and startlingly blue eyes.
'I would like to trace some of my uncle's ex-colleagues to let them know about his death and the funeral arrangements,' I said, repeating the lie I'd told her secretary on the telephone in order to get the appointment. I felt uncomfortable at deceiving her but I had no choice.
'Of course.' She picked up a file from the table in front of her and resting it on her lap she opened it and extracted a piece of paper. 'I've prepared a list of the personnel who sailed with your uncle during his time with the company from 1990 to 1994.'
I was surprised at her efficiency, but I shouldn't have been after seeing her office. It was so orderly that I felt slightly scruffy sitting in it with my black leather jacket, leggings and heavy boots.
I quickly scanned the names on the list. There were only a half a dozen. 'I thought there would be more than this?'
She smiled. 'There are never that many crew members on a container ship. There is so much technology now, and on the size of ship that Mr Honeyman sailed the maximum crew would only have been six. Of course since your uncle sailed with us, sadly some of the crew have died.'
And I'd liked to know from what. I glanced down at the list and saw, with interest, that one of the men lived less than a mile from Albert Honeyman's nursing home. It was the Master, Captain Frank Rutland.
'There is something else that you might be able to help me with, Miss Rogers. Do you know if there was ever a fire on board one of the ships in which my uncle was serving?'
She looked surprised at the question but she didn't probe me about it. She said, 'I don't think so but I can check for you.' She crossed to her desk, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, and began to tap into her computer.
I waited with baited breath glimpsing only briefly at the paintings on the wall of sailing barges on the Thames in the 19th century. I willed her to find something. Surely I hadn't come all this way for nothing. No file and no fire.
It appeared I had.
'There's no record of any fire on any of our ships, Mr Greene.'
I felt more than disappointed, I felt desperate. 'Could there have been a fire that wasn't reported?' I asked hopefully. I registered her surprise.
'I doubt it. A fire on board a ship is very serious; even if it wasn't carrying any cargo the captain would still have to report it.'
How could there be nothing? I had to be right, but I didn't think Miss Rogers was lying. I had wasted my time and my hopes. In the process I had possibly put myself in danger of being arrested for Ben's death when whoever had stolen my file decided to give it to the police.
I thanked her with little enthusiasm. There was only one more place to go and that was to Captain Frank Rutland. If he couldn't help me I really didn't know what to do next.
The Christmas traffic was a nightmare. As I weaved my way through Convent Garden I thought of Faye. I had never been to her office and I wasn't about to go there now. If she knew I had stayed in London, it would only give her more ammunition about moving here. Perhaps if I did I might save my marriage. Was it a sacrifice worth making?
I pulled up at the lights and gazed across the crowded street. It was as if my thoughts had conjured her up. There she was and she wasn't alone. Faye threw back her head and laughed at something Simon said. He smiled down at her. I could see so much in that smile. I watched them duck into a restaurant, the traffic began to move, a car hooted angrily at me and I let in the clutch and pulled away.
It was getting dark by the time I reached Hayling Island. At the sign to the boatyard I indicated left and turned into a road that gave way to a track. It wound its way past two Nissen huts, left over from the Second World War, until it opened up into a boatyard. A handful of boats were resting up for the winter in front of the boatsheds on my right and there were a long row of masts stacked above each other on their side.
I asked one of the workmen where I could find Frank Rutland's boat, and eventually, three people later, managed to track it down. It was lying at the end of the last pontoon.
It was exposed here with nothing ahead but the mud of low tide and the sea. Beyond, across Chichester Harbour, was the flat landscape of Thorney Island, once used by the Royal Air Force in the war and where the army still had a base. Lights blinked at me in the distance. The wind cut across the channel. The day had grown colder; even the seagulls seemed to have fallen silent as if in anticipation of a storm; I could see them squatting on their narrow legs in the mud facing into the southwest wind. I felt the first lean spits of rain.
I
made my way down the rickety pontoon glancing at the variety of boats until I came to Rutland's. It was older than most of the others, a classic though, a Hillyard 8 ton 30-footer. She was a beauty, or rather had been in her day. It was clear from her neglected air and rotting timbers that those days had long gone, but with a little care and a lot of money she would still be sailing when many modern boats had been consigned to the scrap heap. The hull needed cleaning but she still looked sound.
I called out whilst running my eye over the weathered mahogany deck. Hillyards were solid boats built to last and this one looked as though it had been around for the last forty years or more. It was resting on the mud of low tide. It looked much lived in and used with its off-white sails reefed down and looped around the boom. A rusting, but still operational bicycle was propped up on the foredeck along with a battered striped deckchair of the kind that used to be seen along the promenade in Southsea occupied by old ladies in crimpolene suits and gents with their trousers rolled up and knotted hankies on their heads.
In Cold Daylight Page 13