Timelock

by R. G. Knighton

  Margret Simpkins never said a word, she just walked out of his chambers, closing the door behind her and carried out his instructions. Her thoughts ran riot at the possible excuse as she waited for the kettle to boil.

  Five minutes later with a cup of tea in hand she settled back in the chair opposite the dean who sat behind his now tidy desk. Through the wisps of steam rising from his cup held carefully in his hand she returned his steely gaze although giddy with anticipation of the ludicrous explanation he was about to give, he was on the rack and she loved every second of it. Before he began, his telephone rang and the dean answered quickly hoping Margret would return to her office, leaving him in private, but this time she stayed put. Fifteen years of kowtowing to the most bombastic, overbearing, sexist, racist person she had ever met in her sixty-nine years on this planet had taken its toll. She had hoped to take early retirement with her husband over a decade ago when one night her world was turned upside down.

  Two-thirty A.M. Sunday Feb. 17th 1974.

  Margret Simpkins lay fast asleep in the bedroom of her small two up two down end terraced house, five minutes’ walk from Huntingdon city centre. She awoke to the sound of the front doorbell followed by a loud knock ten seconds later. After getting up then putting on her housecoat and slippers she stepped carefully down the stairs and looked through the front window to see two officers of the Oxten constabulary waiting patiently outside.

  "Mrs Margret Simpkins?”

  The first officer questioned as she opened the front door.

  “Yes.”

  Came the reply

  “I am WPC Dodds and this is Special Constable Harris of the west Oxten constabulary, we have some important information to give to you, may we come in?”

  Margret did not reply, dumbstruck, her mind going into overdrive trying to figure out what possible news could be so important that it had to be delivered by the police in the middle of the night. They all sat down in her small front room and officer Dodds began.

  “I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband, Mr George Simpkins has been found dead.”

  Margret turned ashen, clutched both hands to her chest and gasped,

  “No no, you must be mistaken George is visiting his brother in West Barnsdale this week, he’s coming home on Saturday.”

  WPC Dodds paused, she hated this part of the job but she knew it had to be done. It usually went one of three ways; first, immediate acceptance, the recipient, numb with shock proceeded in a robotic manner, not revealing any emotion. Second total collapse with shock and emotion, almost uncontrollable, unable to comprehend rhyme or reason. Thirdly came denial, this was the current reaction, the information must be incorrect, clerical error or mistaken identity.

  “Let me ring his brother and I’ll prove it to you, I’m sure you're wrong.”

  “Mrs Simpkins I understand your distress but we haven’t made a mistake, I have his wallet with me including a photo I.D. For the John Little barracks where we believe he was employed.

  The second officer reached into his chest pocket and removed a plastic bag containing the aforementioned wallet and passed it over to Margret. Before she took it from him she recognised it immediately, it was an anniversary gift from her four years ago, his initials highlighted in golden metallic letters across one corner.

  Realisation hit her hard, clutching it to her breast and sinking back into the armchair, which still smelled of George she began to weep. WPC Dodds moved over and knelt beside her chair, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, a small solace for the whirlwind of torment heading her way in the coming weeks.

  When Margret regained her composure, WPC Dodds began;

  “There may be an investigation regarding the nature of his death.”

  Margret stared at the officer,

  “What do you mean, the nature of his death?”

  Margret asked, the officer continued.

  “Your husband’s body was found in his car in the car park on the edge of Robin common, it appears that he may have taken his own life.”

  Over the next few weeks Margret found her world turned upside down, the pain of losing George was just the beginning.

  George Simpkins led a secret life, he was a member of the local Conservative club and twice a week when Margret thought George was playing snooker with his Tory friends he was actually miles away at a casino gambling away all their hard earned retirement savings. However, that was not all, George was the sole signatory on their house deeds and had re-mortgaged everything he possessed and lost it all at the card tables. In his distress, he took the only avenue he could see left open to him and on that fateful night he drove his aging Ford Fiesta out to the edge of the common, taped a length of rubber hose to the exhaust and fed the other end through the driver’s window. Without even leaving a note of goodbye he started the engine then stuffed the gap in the window with a travel blanket. Five minutes later he slumped over the steering wheel and died. With the engine still running, the fume filled car was found an hour later by a courting couple who had driven to the common for some ‘private time’, as the report stated. While one of the couple drove to the nearest telephone box, The other stayed at the scene and opened the car door but it was already too late, George Simpkins was stone cold.

  Margret was penniless and homeless, everything was in Georges name and it was all repossessed. Her older sister Ada, begrudgingly took Margret in, letting her stay in the spare bedroom, but not a day went by without Ada reminding Margret how grateful she should be for her generosity.

  Months later, an old friend Professor Appleyard pulled a few strings, getting Margret a job as the dean’s secretary, which came with rooms within the college. A blessing for which Margret was eternally grateful.

  “Mrs Simpkins”

  The Dean had finished his phone call and was staring across the desk”

  “Mrs Simpkins, when you’re ready.”

  Snapping out of her daydream and back in the present, Margret readied herself for the fanciful explanation she was dying to hear. The dean cleared his throat and then began.

  “Mrs Simpkins, Margret, do you mind if I call you Margret?”

  Margret replied curtly,

  “Mrs Simpkins will do.”

  She had the upper hand and he knew it. He began again.

  “Mrs Simpkins I’m sure you are wondering what happened just now and so am I, but I believe that I have solved the conundrum. As you know Henry Jackson was in my office just before my meeting with Gilly, err Miss Taylor-Smith”

  He paused to gather his thoughts. The dean was becoming very uncomfortable felt a little short of breath. Margret found it hard not to smile so she covered it with her teacup and pretended to drink as he continued.

  “The only logical explanation is that Henry Jackson must have planted a virus onto my computer and triggered it off just before he left the office. Miss Taylor-Smith was most distressed so I opened the window to allow in some fresh air and a sudden rush of wind stirred up all the papers into the mess that you discovered.”

  Margret paused and took another sip of tea, making the dean wait while she decided her reply.

  “Why was the door locked?”

  The dean frowned at being questioned, but he continued.

  “The door wasn’t locked, the only explanation I can give is the sudden change in air pressure from the open window, held the door closed tight and this wasn’t released until I closed it again. I’m sure this clears up any confusion and I’m sure that you have plenty of work to do.”

  With that conclusion, the dean stood up and passed Margret his half-empty teacup. She knew this was all the explanation he would give, and as excuses go this was as bad as any she had heard before but it would not stop the gossip, this was one of the few pleasures Margret had left and she could dine out on it for weeks. As she turned to leave the dean added,

  “I’m sure that I can rely on your utmost discretion Mrs Simpkins and can you get a message sent to Mr Jackson to report to me at o
nce. That boy’s got some explaining to do.”

  Margret nodded in reply, carried the cups into her office and placed them on her desk. She then turned around to close the door but not before opening it again twice more, elaborately checking how well it fitted into the frame.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lunchtime on campus is a leisurely affair; very few lectures continue beyond twelve o’clock and do not resume much before two in the afternoon. Hot or cold food is available from a very well equipped canteen, there is a restaurant on the first floor of the central block, mainly used by the teaching faculty as it is heavily subsidised as a perk of the job, and various in house sandwich bars are dotted throughout the campus. There is also the student bar ‘Einstein’s’, during the day it serves ‘pub grub’ and alcoholic drinks for any poor soul in need of Dutch courage to face the rest of the day before the serious consumption can begin at night when half the tables are removed and the place becomes a night club. The main building itself was more congested than usual, students loitering in corridors and lobbies avoiding the popular alfresco lunches in the leafy gardens and shrubberies of this famous historic site, which was now colour washed by the watery rays of the noonday sun. Everything still glistened with crystals of pure white frost layered down by the overnight sudden drop in temperature to minus three degrees Celsius, quite remarkable as the surrounding area less than half a mile in any direction enjoyed a balmy plus five degrees, quite warm for the time of year.

  For anyone on a budget it is best to go further afield in the surrounding town of Huntingdon, something Henry did on a daily basis and this being no exception was what he intended to do today. Forehead damp with sweat, Henry removed his blue padded ski jacket which less than five minutes ago on campus he had zipped up to his chin with his hands buried deep into the pockets to stave off the winter chill. His brisk walk took him along Marion Way across the famous Adams swing bridge, a landmark of the town, recently painted with a generous coat of red oxide paint, a constant requirement to preserve the famous structure from rust and decay. A flash of reflected sunlight caught Henry’s eye as he passed the now defunct bridge operator's booth and looking for the source he saw a one foot square brass plaque, mounted on the booth wall. Closer inspection would reveal a dedication to John Oswald Adams, designer of great repute throughout the British Empire and most famous graduate of Huntingdon University. The railway bridge spanned the Chelsthorpe cutting, connecting the counties of Oxten and Somerset. It used to be a spur of the Midwest rail link that was severed, thanks to Dr. Beeching in the nineteen sixties and is now disused and overgrown, the bridge itself has not moved now for thirty years and locals use it as a shortcut over the canal. Across the face of the plaque a vandal had sprayed the word ‘DOG’ in black acrylic paint, a familiar tag of some idiot who feels the need to write his ‘street’ name all over town like a feral marker for everyone to see.

  As Henry approached his destination the aroma of apple pie filled his nostrils and his stomach growled in anticipation of some well-earned home cooked fare. He entered through a side door and received a welcoming wave from the owner as he looked for his friend.

  “Over here!”

  Henry looked around as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of ‘Ma’s Kitchen’ one of the most popular local eateries offering discounted prices for the poor student population of this fair city. The familiar voice belonged to Jim, his roommate who he spotted sitting at a table in the far corner over by the window.

  This independently owned eatery was decorated with a collection of American style farming implements hanging from the ceiling or screwed to the walls and the pine chairs and tables sported red and white checked tablecloths with matching chair seat pads. All the staff wore blue jeans, white t-shirts and fake leather waistcoats to add to the western vibe.

  Henry sat down opposite Jim who was already tucking into an enormous wholemeal chicken baguette, stuffed to overflowing with as much as you can fill from the salad bar, all for only one pound. Lettuce leaves adorned his shirt front and salad cream oozed from the sandwich as he munched his way through. Henry ordered a bowl of homemade vegetable soup, his favourite as it filled him up and the waitress often gave him free bread rolls to dip in.

  Barely a word was said until Jim finished, and after a silent belch he watched Henry blowing each spoonful, as he continued with his soup Jim began.

  “You’re remarkably calm for a man in so much trouble; the dean wants your head on a plate man!”

  Henry smiled,

  “Oh that, he’s got nothing on me, if Carl gets his finger out and replaces what we borrowed I’m in the clear, I can’t be accused of theft if nothing is missing can I?”

  Henry’s words carried more conviction that he showed, panic was setting in and Carl was not the most reliable person he would choose in a crisis. Jim looked confused as he continued,

  “I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about the computer and printer in the dean’s office going haywire just after your visit with him this morning. He’s been looking for you everywhere, ranting and raving about how you must have tampered with it when he wasn’t looking, says you must have planted a virus or something, I’d would be surprised if he didn’t blame you for the frost we had this morning as well.”

  Henry lowered his spoon and stared back in amazement as he replied,

  “I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”

  Not the whole truth, as he remembered watching the computer screen breathing in and out.

  “Where the hell have you been man? Taylor-Smith’s been telling everyone how the screen was flashing and paper flying from the printer; she was very upset.”

  Henry swallowed his latest mouthful and was now listening intently, He then asked,

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve just told you Henry, Marge Simpkins just told me, you know all the best gossip comes from Marge, she says that that Gillian and the dean were having it off on his desk but she couldn’t get in to confirm this as the door was locked and she reckons that they made up this story to cover their arses, if you know what I mean, nudge-nudge. They would never admit to it, but she saw Gillian’s blouse wide open as she ran from his office and the dean’s front shirt flap sticking out the top of his flies, and because of your prank everyone is going to find out.”

  Henry was astonished but still annoyed,

  “I’ve told you it has nothing to do with me, I haven’t done anything, and the dean can’t pin all this on me.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you’re innocent or not, the deans on the warpath and it’s your scalp he wants. Take my advice and lay low for a few days, or at least until everything calms down.”

  Henry did not answer straight away he thought for a moment then changing the subject, asked a question of his own.

  “Did you record the lecture for me or not?”

  Jim put his hand into the inside top pocket of his old leather jacket he always wore, removed Henry’s recorder and placed it on the table between them.

  “Hey man do you understand all that shit or what, it’s so dull, I was comatose in five minutes, and don’t forget you owe me a free meal.”

  “Tell you what,” said Henry “Why don’t you join me at ‘Romeo’s’ tonight and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the gang. What do you think?”

  “Will Mary Callaghan be there?”

  Jim asked eagerly as he sat bolt upright in his chair in anticipation.

  “Mary Callaghan you say, of course, you hot for her?”

  Henry asked, smiling at Jim’s eagerness but also a little sad because he knew Mary and she would never date someone like Jim. Mary was from a wealthy family and her manner very prim and proper. Jim on the other hand was from much poorer stock. Raised in a little village in south Yorkshire where most of the population was devastated when the local coal mine closed down leaving the majority out of a job. Jim’s father had not worked since and the family scraped by on state handouts. A small inherita
nce from his great uncle and a bursary allowed Jim to enrol to study engineering giving him the chance to make something of his life, but money was very tight and Jim struggled to get by.

  “You bet, wow what a prospect, get to meet the woman of my dreams and a free pizza all in one day; it doesn’t get any better than that!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Carl Barker and his female passenger finished their breakfast, washed the dishes and an hour later after another sex session to satisfy Carl’s appetite, he drove both of them across town in his old Mini Cooper van heading for Tyler Morgan’s house. As they ventured out into open countryside the grand driveway of Gisborne Hall came into view and Carl turned the battered old van onto it, heading down the half mile long gravelled road to the main house. Curious looks came from the gardeners as the car sped past, they were used to the sight of Bentleys or Ferraris, not Carl’s old banger rattling along belching out purple smoke from its exhaust pipe. They finally stopped behind the family chapel, got out and headed up to the private rooms in the east wing.

  “TENSHUN!” bellowed Carl, bursting unannounced into the bedroom of Tyler’s private rooms. He knew Tyler would still be in bed sleeping off the effects of last night’s experiment.

  “Go away “

  Mumbled a voice from somewhere under a huge royal blue duvet that adorned a massive four-poster Queen Anne bed.

  “Wake up Morgan, you have a visitor, of the female kind, probably the first one in here since your mother and I’ve got some equipment to return before anyone finds out that we’ve borrowed it.”

  An untidy mop of dark brown curly hair, followed by a sweaty round face, emerged mole like from beneath the duvet. Tyler blinked at the shaft of sunlight radiating through the open bedroom door as he reached for his spectacles on his bedside table.

  “C’mon, move yourself Morgan” barked Carl, as he maliciously opened the curtains wide on the ten feet high oval topped Elizabethan windows.