The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  This was becoming annoying. Jayne used her best police detective's voice, usually saved for the most recalcitrant criminals, but in this woman's case, she would make an exception.

  'Please don't waste my time or that of the other people waiting here.' She pointed to the queue that had begun to form behind her. 'Get on your desktop and check out the archives from the central database. You do know how to do that, don't you?'

  The woman immediately began to type on the keyboard in front of her. 'There are no records for the Ilkley Children's Home in any of our databanks,' she said finally.

  Jayne smiled. She already guessed that would be the case, but she needed to be sure. 'Thank you for your time and patience. Have a nice day, won't you?'

  She left the library and rushed down the steps. Time to see Annie and visit the old lady in her home in Haworth. It might be a wasted trip but you never know, one always had to cover all the bases. The old lady might have heard some family gossip or stories that could add a background to the report she would give John Hughes.

  She checked her watch. If she finished the interview with the old lady at 5 pm, she could be back in Manchester by eight at the latest. A quick call to John Hughes and she would deliver her report to him on Sunday morning, plenty of time before he flew back to the States.

  She might even be able to visit her father in his home after the meeting. Sunday was always the worst day for him. Throughout his life, it was the day on which he was busiest: mass in the morning, followed by a couple of hours in the allotment and then out with her. Until she was one, they spent every Sunday together, while her mother stayed at home. Visiting museums, walking in the Peak District or just driving out into the Cheshire countryside. It was a time she loved.

  Thinking back to her childhood had suddenly given her an urge for the comfort of chocolate. She checked through her bag.

  Nothing, not even a square of Dairy Milk. She stepped off the pavement to cross the road to the multi-storey dungeon otherwise known as a municipal car park, then stopped. Wasn’t there a shop next to the Library? Perhaps they would have some? She turned back quickly.

  A black Audi came out of nowhere on her left and accelerated towards her, coming straight at her.

  She could see the hard black bonnet, four round circles against a metal grill. Getting closer and closer.

  She threw herself backwards against the wall, banging her elbow on the hard concrete. The black Audi raced past. She felt the wind lashing her hair across her face.

  'Fucking idiot,' she shouted after the speeding car.

  She tried to see the face of the man driving. But the rear window blocked her view. She checked the number plate 64AGD1. Didn't recognise it. She would ask Rob to check who it was with the DLVA later. The bloody driver should be off the road.

  A swirl of white to her left, dancing in the breeze. Her notes had spilled out from her bag and were flying across the road.

  'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' she said as she ran to chase after them.

  It was only later she realised that her need for chocolate had probably saved her life.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Bradford, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.

  He leaned forward and switched off the dash cam. He had just missed her but he wouldn't miss again.

  This was the moment he really enjoyed. The time before a killing when his heart slowed down and his mind became truly focussed. A killing machine with all the heartlessness of a snake.

  He remembered the first time. The Iraqi, a stupid man who had been caught in a roundup of suspects. In the wrong time and the wrong place.

  The man was stupid because he got angry at the questions they asked him, shouting, what was he doing there? Why was he under arrest in his own country? What had he done wrong?

  He had felt the same slowing of his heart rate, the same awareness of his breathing, a stillness in his mind as he had reached out and seized the Iraqi's windpipe in his fingers, squeezing it and squeezing it and squeezing it without saying a word. The Iraqi had struggled for a few seconds but then went limp as the hand cut off his oxygen supply.

  The others had done nothing. They just stood around and watched. For him, time had stood still as he watched the man's eyes, silently screaming for help, pleading for him to stop.

  But he didn't.

  Eventually, somebody had pulled him off and pushed him out of the cell. He sat in the corner of the jail as the Iraqi's body was carried out, wrapped in an old grey blanket.

  'Dump it in an alley,' said the officer, 'it will be seen as just another murder by the Sunnis. Put a couple of rounds through the head before you go.'

  It had finished him in the regiment though. Lack of control they said. They didn't care that he'd killed somebody, just that he'd killed without being ordered to do so.

  Afterwards, it hadn't stopped him killing. Only now, he decided when and where he was going to kill.

  If the client paid, he killed.

  If the client didn't pay, he killed the client.

  If somebody angered him, he killed.

  If somebody was in the wrong place at the wrong time, he killed.

  If it pleased him, he killed.

  The client had made it very clear on the phone call at three pm. Despite all of Turner's precautions, he persisted in giving his instructions in the open, without using the code words.

  'She's getting too close. Terminate her. Make the death appear accidental.'

  Not a warning. Not a brutal killing. An accident. Another one to add to his collection of snuff movies, The client seemed to enjoy giving the order. But he would be the one who enjoyed the execution. Again he chuckled at the double entendre in the words.

  He liked creating 'accidents'. They were the pinnacle of his profession. Killing somebody with a shot through the head or a stab in the heart was easy. Any thug could do that. But killing somebody and making everybody else believe it was an unfortunate accident, there was a skill there.

  Professionalism, not mere brutality.

  He had missed her the first time. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

  Time to dump this car and acquire a new one. She still hadn't spotted the tracker so she would be easy to pick up again.

  Next time, he wouldn't fail. This was getting personal.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Bradford, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.

  The journey to pick up Annie had been uneventful. She had been checking in her rear view mirror all the time to see if she was being followed. Was it an accident in the city centre, another useless or drunk driver? Or was it something more than that. All the time she had been working this case, she had the feeling that she was being watched. Had John Hughes set somebody to spy on her? She wouldn't put it past the old bastard. The brick through her window, the theft of her laptop, the kidnapping, and now being nearly run down by a crazy driver, there were too many coincidences for her liking. She didn't believe in coincidences. They were merely events that you hadn't found a reason for.

  She was determined she was going to find out what the hell was happening. She parked outside the old house again. The door was open and Annie waved from the window. A white van with Oxfam written on the side was parked in the driveway.

  'Won't be a minute. They are just taking away the last of the stuff,' shouted Annie.

  Good, time to make a few phone calls. First, she needed to find out who was the driver who had almost knocked her down. She picked up her phone and dialled the number. 'Rob, it's Jayne again.'

  'Have you got my chocolate already?'

  'Not yet, Rob, but I need you to do me another favour?'

  'Oh aye, what is it this time?'

  'Can you run a check on a car for me?'

  'Another bar of chocolate?'

  'Two bars this time. You always were a cheap date.'

  'Give me the number.'

  'A black Audi. 64AGD1'

  'Ok, I'll run it through the computer and get back to you.' For a moment there was a s
ilence on the other end of the phone. 'Are you right, Jayne? You sound a little agitated.'

  She decided to be open with Rob. 'I'm ok. Just think I'm being followed. I want to check who it is.'

  'Just because you're paranoid...'

  'Doesn't mean they're not out to get you. I know, heard it before, Rob. Check it as quickly as you can, please.' She added the please, realising that he no longer worked for her.

  'At your command, my lady. But take care out there, one slip and the bastards can get you.'

  The line went dead. One slip and the bastards can get you. Had she slipped up again? Had she missed something? Was somebody else going to die because she screwed up?

  She shook her head. Don't think like that, you're not police any more. You're a researcher looking into somebody's ancestry. Not a copper dealing with thugs and dealers.

  She tried to call Paul to tell him where she was. Again, she got his voicemail. This time, she left a message. 'Call me back, Paul, as soon as you get this. We do need to talk, the silence can't go on.'

  Finally, the client. The phone rang three times before it was picked up. She heard Richard Hughes' smooth voice loud and clear. 'Mrs Sinclair, good to hear from you.'

  'Is Mr Hughes there?'

  'We're back at the hotel. My uncle is sleeping at the moment.'

  There was something in Richard Hughes' voice that irritated Jayne. A hint of triumph perhaps. 'Could I speak to him?'

  'I don't want to wake him. The doctors have given him a sedative. Have you any news?'

  'If he comes round, you can tell him I've discovered the real name of his father. It wasn't Charles Trichot at all. It was a man called Michael Dowling. He was using Trichot's name.'

  'Why?'

  'I'll explain when I see you. It's too complicated at the moment and I have a lead I need to follow up.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'To see a relative of Emily Clavell.'

  'Mrs Sinclair, that's great news, I'll let my uncle know when he wakes up.' There it was again, that smirk in the voice.

  God, they are an unsavoury family. Perhaps, that's what money does to you.

  'Keep in touch, Mrs Sinclair. Let me know what you find. ' The phone line went dead, not even a goodbye or a take care.

  Annie slipped into the seat beside her. 'Calling your client?'

  'He's not very well. I don't think he has long left to live.'

  They drove out to Haworth on the B6144. As they neared the town, everything they passed seemed to echo the names of the famous family that had lived in the Parsonage. Heathcliff Road, Bronte Gardens, the Heights Tearooms, even a Bronte fire station. She imagined a windswept Heathcliff sliding down a silvered pole in a bright yellow pair of trousers.

  'Why are you smiling?' asked Annie.

  'It's a bit of an industry, isn't it? All this Bronte stuff.'

  'When the mills closed they had to have something to cling on to. Around here, it was Heathcliff and Catherine. The place is just here on the right.'

  Jayne steered the car into the car park. The Home was a modern, rather faceless red brick building with PVC windows. It looked clean and antiseptic. They stepped into the reception area.

  Annie spoke to the receptionist. 'We're here to see Mrs Clavell.'

  'Is she expecting you, dear?'

  'I don't think so. A last minute call. We were in the area. My friend has come a long way to see her.'

  'Another visitor from America? She will be excited.'

  Jayne stepped forward. 'A visitor from America?'

  'About a month ago. She doesn't get many.' She flicked through her book. 'I remember him. Nice man.' She stabbed the book with her finger. 'See, name of Hughes.'

  'Hughes? John Hughes?'

  Her finger followed a long column of visitors to the home. 'No. Right surname, but this man was a Richard Hughes.' She looked up from her ledger. 'You don't sound very American.'

  'I'm from Manchester.'

  'Well, I guess that's far enough.' She sniffed. 'I'll just call to her room.' She picked up the phone and dialled a number. 'Mary, it's Glenys here. Glenys from the reception desk, you remember me, we met this morning. You have a visitor. What's that? Yes, I know you don't have many visitors. Can they come to see you?' She listened to a small voice on the other end, before putting the phone down. 'She'll see you but only for fifteen minutes. Noel Edmonds is on the telly and she doesn't want to miss it. The Room is 423, just down the corridor on the left.'

  They pushed through the fire doors and the familiar smell of boiled cabbage, antiseptic and old people stung Jayne's nose.

  They found the room quickly. Annie knocked on the door. 'It's your cousin Annie Lightowler. Can we come in?'

  They heard a squeak from inside and Annie pushed open the door. The room was small but tidy. In one corner was a washbasin and hot water tap, a single bed lay opposite it and a wardrobe and dresser on the far wall. In between, they could see the back of a high chair. A small head turned to greet them. 'Hello, I'm Mary, who are you?'

  'I'm Annie, your cousin and this is Jayne.'

  'Are you looking for Tarzan? You won't find him here. But I remember going to see him when I was young. Johnny Weissmuller he was. We loved it when he swang through the trees. I waited every time for his little leather front to swing up too, but it never did. More's the pity.'

  'Jayne has come from a long way away.'

  'Are you from America too?’

  'No. I'm from Manchester.'

  'Went there once, didn't like it, too many Mancunians. I think that's what they call themselves, isn't it. Mancunians. Sounds like something you catch at the vets.'

  'Jayne would like to ask you a few questions, if that's okay?'

  'Are you going to be asking me the same ones the American did?'

  'I don't know, what did he ask?'

  'About Emily and her husband. Terrible story, that. Makes me shiver thinking about it. Such a scandal.' Her thin body wriggled theatrically in her red chair. She turned to Annie. 'You're Alf's daughter, aren't you? Don't see much of you these days, nor your sister. Have you sold that bloomin' house yet? Hated the place I did at the end. Loved it when we came back from India in the thirties though. It was beautiful then, and we had servants to keep it clean. Can't keep it clean now, too big, too dirty.'

  'We've just found a buyer, Aunt Mary.'

  'Good. I hope they can keep it clean. It deserves to be clean.'

  Jayne interrupted. 'I'd like to talk to you about Emily if I may.'

  'Oh, I never met Emily. She had already died before we came back from India. That's where I was born of course. In Madras, it was in 1922, I think. At least that's what it says on the birth certificate.'

  'When did you come back to England?'

  'It was 1931 or maybe 1932. I can't be certain, I was so young you see. I can still remember my Indian Ayi though. A lovely woman with a stud and ring through her nose. You know, I saw a young girl with something exactly like it on the telly yesterday evening. I don't know why she would do something like that to her face, it's so—'

  'You were telling us about coming back to England,' Jayne interrupted.

  'Was I? That's right, I was. We came back because Father retired and we'd inherited this house when Emily died, so we had somewhere to live. I was a late baby. He was already 53 when I was born. Died when I was seven, Mother remarried again, of course. Well, she had to, didn't she? Who was going to take care of us if my father wasn't there?'

  'I'm sorry, I have to ask you about Emily. Is there anything you remember about her?'

  'That's exactly what the young American chap asked. He wanted to know about her husband. Sordid scandal, it was. I gave him the photographs I had. I found them in the attic one day. Somebody must have put them there, probably Emily.'

  Jayne held her breath. 'You gave him the photographs?'

  'There were only two of them.'

  Jayne's head sunk beneath her knees. Had she come this far only to find the evidence had al
ready been taken by Richard Hughes? A wave of disappointment washed over her. It had all been a waste of time. Richard Hughes knew all about the family, he even had pictures of the wedding. Why had he asked her to go on this wild goose chase.

  She thought back over her conversations with him. Each time, he had seemed to be giving her encouragement, he was actually trying to stop her. She understood finally why he had asked her to fake her investigation in the lobby of the Midland Hotel.

  She looked at the old woman, sitting next to her in her chair. 'It's okay, Mary. You did the right thing.'

  'I'm so glad I did. I didn't like him at all. He looked like Noel Edmonds but he never looked me in the eyes. Don't like men who don't look you in the eyes.'

  'Thank you for seeing us anyway.' Jayne stood up. 'I won't keep you from your programme.'

  'My fiancé was like Poldark, you know. I mean his body was like him. I do like a firm stomach, don't you? None of that flabby stuff. Men are far too flabby these days.'

  Jayne thought of Paul. 'I know exactly what you mean, Mary.' She looked across at Annie. 'Well, we must be off. I have to drive back to Manchester tonight.'

  'See you again. You will come again, won't you?' There wasn't a pleading in the voice, more a questioning, a testing.

  'Of course, I will. I'd love to come and see you.'

  'And I promise, I'll be back more often, Auntie. I haven't been a very good relation, I know,' said Annie.

  'I do understand. We old people have lived too. How the busyness of life sometimes overtakes what's important. The funny thing is, now I have so much time on my hands, and so little to do.' She stared into the air.

  'I will be back, I promise.' Jayne nodded her head and walked towards the door.

  Mary awoke with a start from her memories and said, 'I didn't give him the letters. Didn't like his eyes, never looked you in the face. Always darting to one side or the other. Shifty man.'

  Jayne turned back.

  'I like you, though. I like the way you look at people. Straight and straight-forward. I like that. None of that darting here and there. You'll find the letters in a bundle in the wardrobe in the biscuit box. There's a few articles from the time too. Shocking scandal it was.'