The Victory Snapshot (A Chris Tyroll Mystery Book 1)

by Barrie Roberts

  ‘True,’ I said, ‘but that’s not usually at midnight when I’m drenched in whisky and paranoia.’

  ‘I did scare you, didn’t I?’ she said, looking at my face, which was probably still about as white as the refrigerator.

  She looked around and spotted the chopping knife which I had dropped when I realised who my visitor was.

  ‘My oath!’ she exclaimed. ‘What were you going to do, Chris?’

  ‘I thought the footsteps round the side were a house-call from the man in the sports jacket, so I decided to sell my life dearly.’

  ‘Oh Chris, I’m sorry,’ she said, and grabbed me again.

  We were interrupted by a discreet cough at the open door. Paddy leaned against the doorpost, tweed hat in hand, knuckling his bald spot with his thumb.

  ‘Hello there, Mr Tyroll,’ he said. ‘If you’re all right now, miss, I’ll be getting along.’

  ‘No, you will not!’ I said. ‘Come in and tell me what you and Sheila are doing here at this time of night. I’ve been worried sick!’

  Sheila, who will never get ulcers because her stomach remains unaffected by high drama, deathly danger or deep emotion, was already investigating my fridge and cupboards. ‘Eggs, bacon and coffee, gents?’ she offered.

  In minutes we were all around the kitchen table eating and I found it hard to believe how recently I had been hiding behind it, expecting to die.

  Paddy told me how he’d got worried for Sheila’s sake.

  ‘There was people dropping in at the camp,’ he said, ‘saying they was journalists and students and that, just wanting to talk to us or take photographs, they said.’ He shook his head. ‘They was no more students or journalists than I’m the President of America,’ he said. ‘I knew what they was after. So we started moving every day, a few miles, but some of them would still walk into the camp the next day and say, ‘Oh, here you are!’ like they was surprised.’

  He munched for a few moments in silence. ‘So I had a talk with old Queenie this afternoon,’ he went on, as if there had been no pause. ‘She agreed with me that the strangers was trouble for your young lady. She said you was out of your troubles and it was time the lady came back to you, you’d be better together now. So when it was full dark I brought her.’

  He took a long swig at his mug of coffee and heaved himself out of his chair. ‘That’s it, Mr Tyroll,’ he said, ‘I brought her safe here and now I must be off.’

  ‘Stay here, Paddy,’ I said. ‘Where have you got to get to?’

  ‘We’re up in Cheshire,’ he said, ‘but I can’t stay. The boys’ll be worrying if I’m not home by the morning. Thank you for the food and drink and goodnight to you both.’

  His hat was jammed back on. I grabbed his hand and shook it warmly. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Paddy,’ I said, ‘and Martin and Miley and Queenie and all of them.’

  ‘Ah,’twas nothing at all,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you when I’m about.’

  ‘See that you do,’ I said, ‘and travel safely.’ In a second he was out of the back door and gone.

  ‘Why were you drinking tonight?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘Because I have had a very hard day,’ I said. ‘By the time I got home I was tired, guilty, lonely and scared. And you didn’t phone.’

  She dropped her gaze. ‘I didn’t dare,’ she said. ‘You’d have told me not to come.’

  I had to admit she was right. She reached across the corner of the table and clasped my hand. ‘It wasn’t just Paddy and Queenie, Chris. I wanted to be here. I got you into this and I wanted to be with you, whatever’s happening.’

  I was silent. I wanted her beside me, but I was remembering Saxon’s warning and Saffary’s veiled threat.

  ‘What’s more,’ she said suddenly, ‘Queenie Connors said I should be here. You said you never ignored her.’

  I grinned and squeezed her hand. ‘No more I would,’ I said, ‘but we’re going to have to be damned careful.’

  I told her what had happened since I arrived back in Belston, all the way down to Saffary’s remarks.

  All she said when I’d finished was, ‘So old Queenie knew! How’s she do it, Chris?’

  ‘I think she’s telepathic. She picks it out of your own mind, she knows what’s worrying you and she finds the bit of subconscious that knows what to do about it.’

  Sheila nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘could be, but that doesn’t explain how she knew about the planted fingerprints.’

  ‘True, but I’m too tired to argue metaphysics with you.’

  She stood up. ‘Do they have hot showers and big double beds in Pommy houses?’ she asked.

  ‘Too right,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, so we did.

  Over breakfast we had decisions to make, like where Sheila could hole up. In the end we agreed that lying low at my place was as safe as anywhere we could think of. When I left for the office I had a list of groceries, clothing and feminine necessaries that Sheila had drawn up.

  ‘Don’t go shopping for them yourself,’ she said, ‘or every shop assistant in town’ll think you’re a pervert. Get Jayne to get them.’

  I only had to give Jayne the list for her to look up and ask, ‘Your raddled old academic’s back in town, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but that’s capital T Top, capital S Secret, OK?’

  ‘Never heard it,’ she said and slipped the list into her handbag.

  Back at my desk I remembered an unfinished task — finding out if Norman Berry was still about. He would be too old to be still working at Kerrenwood’s, but it occurred to me that a son might work there. I got the number from Enquiries and rang the plant, asking for Personnel.

  When they answered I identified myself and told them I was looking for a witness in a pub fight. Another witness thought that the man was called Berry and worked at Kerrenwood’s. Could they help me?

  I heard computer keys tapping, then, ‘Sorry, Mr Tyroll. There’s nobody of that name working for us.’

  ‘Perhaps he used to work for you,’ I suggested. ‘Could you check on that?’

  ‘If he’s on the Pension Fund, I could find him, but I couldn’t give you his address.’ ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘If you can confirm that there is such a man, I’ll write to him care of Kerrenwood’s and ask him to contact me.’

  More tapping, then, ‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Tyroll. There’s no Berry on the Pension Fund either. Of course, he might have worked for us briefly and had no pension rights.’

  I thanked her and gave up, puzzled. So, despite what Mrs Cassidy had said, Berry had never worked for Kerrenwood’s. Still, thinking carefully, I realised that she hadn’t said that. She’d said that Berry ‘put Francy into a job’ there. That might have been just influence, in Berry’s case maybe blackmail.

  I was still puzzling it over ten minutes later when the phone rang. Jayne had someone on the line who wouldn’t state his business, but needed to speak to me urgently. It happens — they’re embarrassed about being arrested in public lavatories or something, so they won’t talk to a secretary.

  I took the call. It was a man’s voice that I didn’t recognise. ‘Is that Mr Christopher Tyroll? The solicitor?’ it asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This is Tyroll’s, Jubilee Buildings, and this is Christopher Tyroll speaking. How can I help you?’

  The line went dead. After a few moments I put the phone down and waited for the caller to ring back. He didn’t. I buzzed Jayne and asked if he had.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I meant to ask — was it someone you know?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because he called in on the unlisted line. I thought you must have given him the number.’

  I sat and looked at the phone and puzzled for minutes before I realised. I had called Kerrenwood’s on the ex-directory line and a stranger had called in on it. To check whose it was. I’d made a mistake in giving my name to Kerrenwood’s — but what kind of mistake?

  The episode ma
de me uneasy and disturbed my morning’s work, but just before lunchtime John Parry arrived with a bag of sandwiches from the Rendezvous, a bottle of wine and a newspaper.

  When Jayne showed him in he was grinning broadly. ‘Thought I’d deliver the good news in person,’ he said and dropped the newspaper on my desk.

  It was the early edition of the Express and Star and the second lead on the front page was accompanied by a photograph of Superintendent Howard. BELSTON POLICE CHIEF RETIRES, said the headline, and the paragraphs below explained that Howard was taking early retirement because ‘recent changes in the criminal law have made the work of the police more difficult and given further advantages to criminals. I no longer feel that I can remain a police officer.’

  I read the remark aloud and looked up at Parry. He was still grinning. ‘Saw himself as Commissioner of the Met, he did,’ he said.

  ‘Well, since about this time yesterday,’ I said, ‘he has known that he wasn’t even going to make Chief Superintendent. Anyway, why are you so happy? They’re not going to give you his job.’

  ‘No, not yet,’ he said, ‘but it’s an ill wind. You see before you Acting Detective Inspector Parry. That’s what the wine’s for.’

  ‘And how did that come about? Have they sacked Saffary?’

  ‘No such luck, boyo, but rumour says he has been sent to reflect upon his misdeeds in the Traffic Cones Store.’

  Jayne, who had spotted John’s bottle, appeared with glasses and joined us in a toast to his promotion. When she had gone he put down his glass.

  ‘There’s another bit of what might be good news,’ he said. ‘Since Saffary’s reassignment, I’m back on the Brown and Cassidy case.’

  ‘Is that good news?’ I said, churlishly.

  He looked at me evenly. ‘I had a pep talk from the Divisional Chief Super this morning. Says he wants the case wrapped up quickly.’

  ‘And what, exactly, does he mean by that?’

  He unwrapped the sandwiches and selected a thick ham one before replying. ‘I think he means that I’m to find some little runt in a leather jacket who’s got a bit of form for assault and persuade him to confess.’

  That was about what I thought, too. Moodily I took a sandwich. ‘And is that what you propose to do?’ I asked.

  He refused to be riled. ‘Not exactly, no,’ he said from behind his sandwich. ‘I was thinking more of finding an ex-army type with a blue car and a button off his sports coat.’

  ‘And what’ll you do when you find him?’

  ‘I’ll check his DNA against the specimen from the old man’s walking stick, and when they match I’ll charge him with murder. If I can get the staff at the home to identify him, I’ll charge him for Francy Cassidy as well.’

  ‘And you know what’ll happen then?’ I said. ‘He’ll make one phone call and in minutes there’ll be a call from Whitehall to the Chief Constable with ‘national security’ repeated several times in an expensive accent. Five minutes after that you’ll be told to let him go.’

  He opened his mouth but I overrode him. ‘And if you’re daft enough to refuse — and you might be — the Crown Prosecution Service will take over the case and discontinue the prosecution. You’ll never get made up to full Inspector and not a word’ll appear in the press because there’ll be a D Notice slapped on it by the Home Office.’

  ‘You may be right,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you and Sheila saying I didn’t try. I can’t hang him myself, you know.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, John. After Saffary and Howard I’m a bit cynical perhaps. Pour us another.’

  He refilled our glasses and we ate silently for a minute or two. Then I asked, ‘Saffary said he was treating Sheila as a suspect. I take it you don’t want to see her again?’

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘was his idea of a veiled threat. Subtle sort of bloke was Saffary. No, Chris, I don’t regard her as a suspect. Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘Is that an official question?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘just wondered.’

  ‘She’s safe,’ I said, ‘I think.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Have a buttered bun,’ and pushed the sandwich bag across.

  At the day’s end I went home loaded with Jayne’s purchases and told Sheila the good news. She was sitting in my study, with the desk covered in the contents of her grandfather’s tin box, the two versions of the Victory photograph and her notes. A pad beside her was covered with scribbled questions and partly completed tables of facts.

  ‘Are you getting anywhere?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said and flung down her pencil. ‘I can’t find any kind of pattern in it, apart from the facts that out of the guys in the photograph too many seem to have died or vanished and that the death of one of them was connected with Grandpa’s murder and that there was something queer about the landlord’s ration book which Grandpa knew about and they’re all waving ration books in the picture. What’s that all mean, Chris?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But Queenie said, ‘Look in the picture.’’

  ‘I’ve looked in this damned picture till I’m blue in the face,’ she complained. ‘I know everything in it.’

  ‘Do you think,’ I said, ‘that there could be things in it we’re not seeing?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘I mean both of those prints are old and yellowed. Do you think if we had it computer-enhanced it might show us something we’re missing?’

  ‘Grandpa’s eyes can’t have been all that good,’ she said. ‘He was eighty-five. If he could see what’s in it, we ought to be able to.’ ‘Maybe he didn’t have to look for information in it. Perhaps he already knew what it meant from Jim Brown.’

  She frowned down at the prints. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. ‘Is Brown still around?’

  I shook my head. ‘I had Alan Reilly check. Brown died about a couple of months ago, so that probably was where your grandfather got the photo and he must have known what it meant.’

  She stood up wearily. ‘I am going to shower and change and stop looking like a tinker’s mot and while I’m doing that, you’re going to get the grub on. As to the picture — if you think that computer-whatchermecalling it will do any earthly good, have a go. I’m beginning to think we’ve got about Buckley’s chance of finding anything in it.’

  25

  I used to know about computers. That was back in the days when words came up on your screen asking you what you wanted it to do and telling you which key to press for it. Then you pressed the right key and it did what you wanted. Then it all changed so that now you get screen after screen that you don’t want and it takes you six unnecessary moves to get where you’re going and each screen is dotted about with silly pictures that don’t remind you of anything and this is progress and is making Bill Gates a hell of a lot of money. So I just stick to the simple stuff on the office system and a word processor at home.

  Alasdair, on the other hand, loves computers. He wasn’t happy with the boring old terminal in his room at the office, so he imported at his own expense a couple of thousand quid’s worth of machine with drive slots and lights all over it and stereo speakers and a modem and things. It’s linked into our system, but at lunchtimes he’s playing three-dimensional chess on the Internet with a schoolboy in New Zealand and in the evenings he engages in romantic chat with a lady in Seattle who’s probably a frustrated transvestite truck-driver in real life.

  Next morning I showed him the pictures and asked him about computer enhancement.

  ‘What are you looking for, boss?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Anything at all that’s in that picture. I want a bloke who can extract every last drop of information from it. I want to be able to see the pattern on the wallpaper and the fag ash on the floor.’

  ‘Pete could do it,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s Pete?’

  ‘He’s a tech assistant at Wolverhampton Uni.’

  I picked up
the phone. ‘Ring him,’ I said. ‘Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him I’ll pay whatever he asks.’

  Eventually he tracked Pete down on the phone and talked computer slang at him for several minutes.

  ‘He says he’ll start this afternoon if you want to bring the pictures over — and the money. Fifty up front and maybe more later.’

  Afternoon found me waiting for Pete by the Scott Library at the university. At last he came out of the library’s doors and held out his hand.

  ‘I’m Pete,’ he said. ‘You must be Alasdair’s boss.’

  He was a throwback, all long unkempt hair and beard, tatty flared jeans and evil-coloured shirt.

  He led me away through long corridors and up stairs, turning at last into what looked like some kind of science laboratory. Beyond the lab he pushed open a door marked ‘Staff Only’ and showed me into a gloomy, cluttered space, lit by the flickering gaudy light of several computer monitors. I should have guessed from the clothing that his workspace would reek of marijuana.

  He dropped into an office chair and pointed me to another. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what’s this picture that’s such a problem?’

  I passed him both prints and he swivelled his chair, switched on a desk lamp and examined them closely.

  After a bit he said, ‘Right. Two prints of the same picture. Both a bit faded. Taken about fifty years ago from the clothes. What do you want to know?’

  ‘All I know about that picture,’ I said, ‘is the identities of the people in it and the pub in which it was taken. That came from someone who knew them all, but she doesn’t know exactly why or when it was taken. I need to know everything at all that you can extract from either print that doesn’t meet the naked eye.’

  ‘Right,’ he said again. ‘Both about the same quality. I’ll scan them both on to disc and we’ll see which one works best.’

  While the pictures ran on a flatbed scanner he dug around in the gloom and produced leads with which he began to connect equipment. Two more screens, larger than the others, lit up at the far end of the room. One had a keyboard in front of it.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s on disc. Now I’ll put it up on the big screens and you can see what we’ve got.’