by Alan Veale
‘You want this? It’s yours.’
She took the precious gift and followed him back inside, slamming the door to shut out the misery of the outside world. Words from the television caught their attention, and both children stood looking at the screen from the doorway, recognising their church behind a presenter’s shoulder.
Patrick John Faulkner was killed last Tuesday night while off duty, just off Loughgall Road, outside Portadown. He was forty-three, Catholic, and the only son of Neil Patrick Faulkner, who was shot dead last year by the IRA in a raid on a bar in Lurgan.
Photos of their father, mostly in uniform, appeared on the screen. Brendan felt something fill his throat. His own image now, holding hands with Emma and Emily. Then a panning shot pulled back and showed his mother and auntie before a line of RUC officers who bowed their heads.
Mr Faulkner leaves three children to his divorced wife Marion. The family have declined to comment on the possibility of this being the work of the Provisional IRA, who are widely known to have used Semtex to carry out terrorist attacks. However, the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Peter Gris, had this to say.
The Parliament building at Stormont. Front and centre stood a man in a suit with a thick mane of hair and light glinting off his spectacles.
It is a sad day for Northern Ireland when a policeman is cut down for exercising his duty. Patrick Faulkner was a good man who sacrificed his life protecting others. It is no coincidence that he, and others like him…
His brain could accept no more. Brendan’s eyes and ears took in the familiar voice and features of a man who had done unspeakable things to his body. That same face once again invading his private space; the silky tones pronouncing some weird tribute to his Da; a monster who only hours ago had demanded to know his secrets. How could that be?
‘NO! You’re NOT my uncle. You shouldn’t have done that! You’re a bastard Brit AND YOU KILLED MY DA!’
Four astonished faces tore their attention from the television to the screaming eleven-year-old in front of them. They watched in shock as he snatched a black object from his sister’s hand and threw it with startling force at the image of Peter Gris that filled the screen, which immediately splintered in a small explosion of glass and arcing electricity.
Part Two
2016
Emma
Six
Conspiracy theories still sell. The 2016 launch of Eric Vinke’s thirteenth book had drawn the usual mix of press, die-hard fans, and a few hangers-on. The man himself sat and smiled for photographs, but it was his wife Helen who felt the pressure.
She was nervous. A debilitating illness had all but robbed her husband of his speech, and this would be the first time she had needed to speak on his behalf. He’d typed her a short note describing the format: brief welcome; read extract as marked; invitation to free bar during book-signing. That last bit had caused several headaches in recent weeks, but then Eric’s agent had come up with a solution. As he could barely hold a pen now, she had lifted a facsimile copy from his once-bold signature and transformed it into a bookplate. A little pile of books with these exclusive inserts were on the table, a hundred or more in boxes underneath. Her husband made a small movement of his head and Helen rose to her feet, took a deep breath and clutched the lectern to still her trembling hands.
‘Welcome, everyone!’ She took a sip of water before continuing. ‘I’m sure I speak for Eric when I say the number of you attending was Not Foreseen.’
Her clever inclusion of the book title brought a polite ripple of laughter. She smiled, visibly relaxing as she continued with her opening address. Twenty-five minutes later, Helen gave her sister Marion a warm smile as they sipped champagne near the door to the bar. ‘Did I see Em in the crowd?’
‘Oh yes! She’s here somewhere.’ Marion craned her neck to scan the crowded room. ‘She’d better be, ‘cause I’m not driving after this. Hey, well done, you! I bet Eric’s proud of you.’
They shared girl talk for a minute or two before they became aware of a shadow at their side. ‘Hello?’ Marion’s eyes met those of a tall man in his early fifties wearing an elegant blue suit.
‘She did very well, didn’t she?’ The man switched his gaze to Helen. ‘My congratulations. Perhaps a formal introduction?’
Helen’s mood took a plunge. ‘That’s… kind of you, Meredith. This is my sister, Marion Dearing. Er… Meredith is—’
‘A friend of the family.’
Where a smile might have been expected, there was none. Lee Meredith was neither a friend nor known for his good humour. Helen knew little about him, but his presence today did not feel like good news. Instinctively protective of Marion, she could not find her voice in time.
‘Pleased to meet you, Meredith.’ It didn’t sound as if she was. No one shook hands.
‘We’ve met before, when your name was Faulkner. Thought I recognised you.’
Marion’s eyes widened; Helen tried to force a distraction. ‘I don’t think this is—’
‘Helen, I think your husband needs his wife at his side.’ Meredith’s voice was low and confidential in her ear. ‘I just want a quiet word alone with Marion. Don’t worry. She’s all grown up now.’
It was the last time Helen saw her sister alive.
*
They didn’t speak until Emma’s car left the hotel grounds, then she found the slipway approach for the M6 motorway and hit the accelerator.
‘I saw you speaking to him.’
‘Who?’
‘The guy in the blue suit. He scared you, didn’t he? Look at you, and don’t tell me that’s the Parkinson’s.’
‘It’s… it’s nothing. I had too much champagne. Shouldn’t have overdone it.’
‘Bollocks. That guy’s trouble, I know that. I’ve met him before, in London.’ She saw a gap in the traffic and went for it, pulling into the middle lane.
‘Oh.’
‘Is that all you can say? “Oh”? What name did he give you?’
Her mother shut her eyes but it made no difference. Her heartbeat was still too loud. Too erratic. ‘Meredith.’
‘Meredith! That was it… he’s bad news. So, what did he say to you?’
‘Can’t… can’t tell you.’
‘Wanker!’ This was addressed to the driver of a silver Honda who had cut in front without indicating. ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
Marion took a slow, deep breath as the panic attack subsided a little. She turned to look at her wilful daughter, determined to avoid any more confrontation. ‘Em, you have to understand there are some things in life you can’t control.’
‘This is about that Peter Gris again. Well, fuck him!’
‘Em!’
‘Is he threatening you now? He is, isn’t he? That Meredith works for him. I saw him enter the room, which is why I stayed out of the way. Bastard!’
Marion wasn’t sure if the last expletive had been directed at Meredith or at the Honda driver, who had braked enough to narrow the gap in front to less than twenty feet. Emma let her speed fall off a little as her mother made another attempt to calm the atmosphere.
‘It was probably just the way he said it, that’s all. I don’t think he really intended to threaten me.’
‘If it came across as a threat, it was meant as a threat. Did he say anything about Gris?’
Her mother was beginning to sweat freely, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. ‘No! He just… he knows about the book. Our book. Eric must have told him he’s been editing it. He just said we should be careful not to… not to publish anything we might regret later.’
‘What? Who the hell—?’
But then Marion Dearing’s head lurched backwards as the first shock of pain shot towards her brain. Her shaking hands flew to her chest. Recognising signs of a cardiac arrest, Emma nearly slammed into the Honda as she struggled to bring both the car and her own emotions under control.
*
Helen was in shock at the news. Eric’s reaction was more fatalistic
, given his own acceptance of life’s cruel twists. But he sat in silence, speech being an effort he knew to be wasted at such a moment. Bereavements needed time for the brain to cope. How much did they have left? The clock was ticking faster these days.
He watched as Helen went through the motions of making a cup of tea. It was three in the morning. Sleep was no longer a nightly ritual for either of them. He had hourly needs as medication and muscles demanded, while the desire to write would surge through his brain at any time.
Marion died before she had achieved her ambition of becoming a published author. That was fate. Or was it? His cynical mind always looked for the alternative, which was how he’d built his career. And Marion did have something in her possession which could have made her a target of powerful men. The Tragic Sister indeed! As a title it seemed almost too apt. Well, now Emma would have to pick up the mantle from her mother. But if there were to be a second in the series? Could he put his niece in that position?
Helen came to sit by his side and squeezed his hand. He turned his head and made an effort. ‘Em… care… ful.’
Seven
Searches for buried treasure invariably end in failure. That was the thought at the back of Emma’s mind as she climbed into her grandfather’s loft. But if the antiques programmes on TV were anything to go by, this was the best place to start. She stood in a hunched position, relieved her feet seemed to be on solid boards. There wasn’t much to look at: one old suitcase and a handful of cardboard boxes that looked to contain crockery and kitchen utensils.
‘When was anyone last up here, Wally?’
‘Apart from your mam? God knows,’ came a broad Irish accent from below. ‘You’re a bit closer to him up there. Why don’t you ask him?’
She smiled. Her grandfather’s cynicism for the Catholic church had influenced her own decision to sign up as an atheist.
‘Mum’s books are still in this suitcase, then?’ She shone the torch carefully around the gloom, relieved that the loft seemed dry and spider-free.
‘Should be. Don’t suppose she’ll be that bothered now about you looking through ’em. It’s fuckin’ heavy though. Don’t try fetching it down here.’
Books. A memory from childhood flashed into Emma’s head: shelves of them in the front room. Her mum loved to read. And to write. For five years she had worked on a project about the ill-fated Titanic, not helped by Parkinson’s disease, which impacted heavily on her ability to write during the last two. That was when Emma had got involved to help, typing and critiquing. The project had to be finished now, a posthumous tribute months after her mother’s death. Uncle Eric had emailed the most recent edit to her yesterday, but with a curious postscript: Keep the Eaton and Haas safe! She knew the book he meant, had seen it on the shelf downstairs but never looked inside. Now it was gone. Had it been put away up here for some reason? She knelt in front of the case, sprung the catches and lifted the lid.
No surprises. Old favourites. But not the one she remembered with the white dust jacket and cover picture of the ship. Ah! The big blue one… had it lost its cover? Yes! Emma’s heart raced as she lifted the large volume out from under several novels by Danielle Steel and Catherine Cookson. Here was treasure indeed, a book published in 1986, Titanic—Triumph and Tragedy by John Eaton and Charles Haas. Her mum had bought it the year after her dad’s murder, which at the time had seemed such a strange thing for her to do. As reference books go this was the book for any researcher to go to at the time.
It seemed the late Marion Dearing had chosen this particular volume to keep something safe. As her daughter thumbed the pages, a slim manila folder fell out. The discovery now made sense of her uncle’s cryptic message, and as Emma scanned the loose papers inside by torchlight, she slowly came to the realisation that her own life was under threat once again.
*
A bright yellow Citroen negotiated its way to within a short distance of the kerb outside a huge block of a building in Glasgow’s West End. The driver switched off the ignition as instructed and awaited the verdict on his performance.
‘Thanks, Billie. Aside from nearly takin’ off the back end of a bus I’d say yer makin’ good progress. Same time next week? Or I still have a free slot on Wednesday evenin’ at six?’
‘Umm... no thanks. I've got a date on Wednesday, so let’s leave it for next Monday.’
‘A date, eh?’ The instructor winked. ‘Will she be doin’ the driving?’
Billie Vane smiled politely. ‘No need to worry. It’s a talk about the Titanic by someone who’s just published a book about it, and I’m inviting a male friend. Why don’t you join us?’
‘I nae have time to read books. Titanic, eh? Hey, that’s so last century! Ah well, you enjoy it, laddie. I’m sure it’ll go down well.’
Billie gave the briefest of laughs at the old joke as he climbed out of the driver’s seat and held the door for the instructor to take his place. He hadn’t expected the man’s reaction to be any different. He turned and held up his hand in acknowledgement as the horn sounded briefly and the car drove off. Noticing his legs felt as if they were wading through mud, Billie’s own assessment of his driving experience to date was not as he would like it to be. Three lessons in and he still felt like a duck with one webbed foot. He wasn’t scared of the water but he wished his paddling wasn’t all over the place. Perhaps it was simply a lack of confidence in his instructor? Thirty more lessons like this. It was going to be a long haul.
He entered the staff entrance, punched in the security code and entered the vast labyrinth of the Mitchell Library. He could feel himself relax at the familiarity of his daily refuge. It was over twenty years since he had started work at one of the largest public reference libraries in Western Europe, and he had never fallen out of love with the place. Climbing the stairs, Billie thought again about the Titanic talk in two days. He still hadn’t found time to take a thorough look at the author’s book, and he’d also been given the responsibility of introducing him. The disaster in 1912 had been a subject of personal interest since he discovered a distant relative had been listed among the dead. That connection had inspired Billie to seek out books on the tragedy over the last few years, and it had been a pleasant surprise to discover that a friend shared his fascination, although from a subtly different angle.
Ed Fersen was an American engineer and managing director of Fersen Marine with a base either side of the Atlantic. The two men were not the likeliest of allies, originating from starkly differing backgrounds, and they had found themselves in opposing corners when first introduced six years earlier. But Ed’s younger sister had been the catalyst for common ground, and now he and Billie enjoyed a deep friendship.
*
Billie waved from the back entrance of the library as Ed climbed out of a gleaming 4X4 parked across the broad expanse of Granville Street. ‘Hey, Slaphead! How’s it going?’
Ed acknowledged the familiar greeting with one of his own. ‘Great, thanks, Oor Wullie! Good to see you.’
Their respective physical sizes reflected the unusual pairing between former adversaries—one large in every department, the other below average height and slightly built. In another world their comparative dimensions might have been better suited to slapstick comedy on the silent screen. Their handshake routine brought a familiar grimace to Billie’s face, as if wincing at the larger man’s strength. Now they were simply an odd couple of guys with a shared interest in a maritime mystery.
‘You heard from Chrissie?’ Ed’s first question prompted a different reaction.
‘No, why? Is there a problem?’ Billie’s past relationship with Ed’s sister was old news.
Ed grinned, his green eyes twinkling in mild amusement. ‘Should there be? Nope. I was just trying to distract you from small talk about the referendum. I’m bloody sick of politics. Now where’s this Titanic talk?’
‘We’re in the Stirling Room.’ Billie turned and pushed through the glass doors that opened onto a huge reception area and cafeter
ia. ‘Slight apology. E. M. Dearing isn’t a guy, he’s a woman called Emma. And she’s more interested in the sister ship Olympic, so I’m not sure how much of the talk will be about Titanic. Don’t suppose it matters too much to you though, so long as it’s got triple screws and a turbine?’
His taller companion laughed. ‘You got it! Those ships were fantastic pieces of kit. Sure wish I could have looked over one of them. A lot of folk thought Titanic was identical to Olympic, you know.’
The conversation continued as the two men ambled up the stairs and into the oldest part of the building.
*
The girl standing at the large projector screen was attractive, although probably Billie's junior by ten years. She stood at one end of the Stirling Room, the oak-panelled walls providing a background of suitable sobriety for the subject of her talk. Her audience (around twenty men and women, mostly forty-plus) were scattered over half a dozen rows of chairs. Several copies of her book The Tragic Sister were stacked on a table near the screen and, as she flicked her head back to look at the projected image, memories of Chrissie Fersen intruded into Billie’s thoughts. Emma Dearing was not unlike her—an attractive oval face, sensual lips and short brown hair. Now, ten minutes into the talk, his attention switched back to the subject matter of RMS Olympic.
‘So, Captain Smith had earned himself a reputation for carelessness with four fairly minor scrapes. But worse was to come.’