If he could just get down to the school within the next half hour...
Sam made it in fifteen minutes. He showed the secretary his badge and retold his story about two local residents who had hired him to research their family histories. They wanted the venture to be carried out locally, not online through some impersonal computer system. The secretary nodded earnestly. What did he have to go on? Not a lot, replied Sam. Just the name of the school and a couple of pupils from seven decades ago. Sam was reluctant to show her the piece of paper in his pocket. The secretary raised her eyebrows and gave him a thoughtful smile. Sam watched her walk over to a bookshelf and pull out a large, leather-bound photo album. She held it out in front of her and blew on the cover, sending a small cloud of dusty cobwebs flying into the air.
'The albums are in fifty year blocks. This one is for the first half of the twentieth century, 1900-1949. We've been keeping yearly pictorial records of our pupils ever since 1863, you know.'
Sat there with a fixed smile on his face, Sam was impressed. He would be absolutely overjoyed if the woman would stop talking and give him the damn thing to look at.
'We've got every class photo, from every year, going back...'
Sam let her drone on. Her enthusiasm for the school and its history knew no bounds. Eventually, she ran out of steam and handed the book over. Sam was taken by the sheer weight of it, this historical tome carrying so much potential significance to present events. The secretary got up out of her chair.
'Here, use my desk if you want. Would you like a drink?'
Sam told her he would absolutely love one, talking in a voice that had never sounded so parched. As soon he heard cups rattling in the adjoining kitchen, he flicked through the pages of the album until his eyes rested on the one he wanted. The class of 1941, a black and white memento taken during the final school term. Sam scanned the picture, studying the rows of proud, upright teenagers about to embark on their journey into the wider world. He immediately picked out Geoffrey Compton at the back, his features recognisable from the later photos found in the chest at his cottage. At the other end of the group, next row down, Sam recognised his future wife, Marjorie.
Sam had the right picture.
He took his camera out and snapped a quick picture. Then he put it away and looked at the names underneath the photo. In the front row was Erica Wright. Sam ran his finger along the line of seated children until it came to rest on Erica. Those same twinkling, mischievous eyes peered back at him from a youthful, delicate face. Sam suddenly felt very humble, glad to have known the woman, even for the tiniest fraction of her life.
He found Billy Dunker, far right in the middle row, a short boy with rather large teeth. Sam was alarmed by the nagging sensation he had seen the face before. Now, how could that be? Joe Sale was standing right behind Billy in the photo. Even in this old, fading picture, Sam could see the resemblance to his grandson. He was suddenly struck by a slight tinge of sadness. These young people, still no more than children, their lives full of hope and promise. He wondered how many were still alive. Hopefully, he would find at least one.
Sam took out the piece of paper from his pocket and examined the scattered letters again. The name at the top of the list revealed only its first three letters clearly. G-E-O. Sam looked along the names under the photo. He already had Geoffrey Compton. Here it was, second row. George Howell. It was the only other possible match. Now, he had three for definite.
Geoffrey Compton, Billy Dunker, George Howell.
He needed to find out more about Billy and George. As for the other three names on the list, Sam was still certain the bottom one was Erica Wright. He couldn't get anywhere with the other two, the few letters he had of their names not matching any of those in the class photo. Sam could only think they were friends from somewhere else. Another school, perhaps?
The secretary returned carrying drinks.
'How are you getting on?' she asked.
Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He didn't want to divulge too many details.
'Well, I've tracked down a name or two. Were there any other schools in Newgate in the early forties?'
The secretary shook her head immediately.
'No, this was the only one. Newgate was only a small town back then. It wasn't until ten years later that people really discovered it and started moving here in big numbers.'
***
'Mrs Dunker. Pleased to meet you.'
Greta Dunker had a large blanket over her, despite the stifling heat permeating throughout her house. Her tiny body looked lost in the armchair, highlighted by the fact her head was the only visible part Sam could see. She was studying him like a hawk watching its prey, sharp eyes never once deviating away from its target. She was also clearly losing her marbles.
'What's your name again?' she screeched.
Sam gave her the same false name and story for the third time since his arrival five minutes ago. A newspaper reporter researching Newgate before it became the popular resort of today.
'What do you want to know about that for?'
Sam sighed in response to the shrill question. Finding Billy Dunker's wife had been easy. Too easy. A look in the phone book, a quick call, and here she was. Now the mad old hatter was going to balance it up.
'People are interested in that sort of thing, Mrs Dunker. They want to know about the history of Newgate...how people lived years ago.'
Mrs Dunker screwed up her nose as though something foul had just dropped on her lap.
'Can't see why,' she said, her eyes widening for some unknown reason. 'I lived through it, and I didn't find it interesting.'
This brought on a wild cackle of laughter. Sam shook his head. He needed to get to the point before he lost his own sanity.
'And your husband?' he asked.
The inane laughter stopped, replaced by a scathing look.
'What about him? Useless lump of-'
'What was he like?'
Apparently, Billy Dunker was the most worthless, laziest excuse of a man ever to walk the planet. Sam took this with a huge dollop of salt. Of more interest to him was Mrs Dunker's account of her husband's death four years ago. How he had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck while she was at her day care centre. How the silly old sod had never so much as tripped up before in his life.
***
Sam left deep in thought. Billy Dunker had fallen to his death. Geoffrey had committed suicide. Erica appeared to have been literally frightened to death. None of these replicated the slipping away of life so common at the end of elderly people's lives. There was too much violence. Too much suspicion.
What was Sam investigating here? Some kind of pensioner hit list? Somebody with a grudge against Geoffrey and his friends? It didn't make sense. The main suspect was a man half their ages.
George Howell was next on his list. This was the man Sam knew the least about so far. All he had was the picture of him in the school photo, tallied up with the partial name on the piece of paper. Fortunately, George Howell, ex-pupil of St Josephs, had been a minor celebrity in the area, running businesses in the town, even standing for mayor later in life. Sam was able to read numerous articles on him from archive material on the web. That wasn't all. As a former mayor, his funeral service had been recorded on film. Sam played the footage of the slow, respectful parade weaving its way through Newgate. The year was 1992. Sam went back and viewed the reports surrounding George's death. A multiple pile-up on the motorway caused by a lorry driver falling asleep at the wheel. Skidding in the hazardous weather conditions. Bringing carnage to the road as he fought with his runaway truck. Sam stared at the related pictures, scenes of twisted metal in the snow. The lorry driver survived and received a paltry sentence. George Howell died at the scene.
Sam switched off his laptop. That morbid news had scuppered his theory somewhat. George Howell's death could hardly be described as suspicious. It was an anomaly on the list. Three fairly recent deaths, all highly questionable, and now this.
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It didn't fit in.
Chapter 22
Sam decided he would still go and talk to George Howell's widow. She lived in a care home, an impressive complex overlooking the pier, a place befitting an ex-mayoress. Joan Howell was the polar opposite to Greta Dunker. She had the same watchful expression on her face, but the mind behind it was as sharp as a tack.
'Mr Carlisle. Please do come in. Now, how may I help you?'
Sam reverted back to the story he had given the school secretary about researching a client's family tree. Mrs Howell expressed interest in the project, passing comment that such work must be rare for the likes of Sam nowadays.
He furrowed his brow in confusion.
'Ancestry websites,' she smiled. 'The internet is full of them.'
Sam laughed. Her eyes glinted as though she knew Sam's real reason for being there. He dismissed the notion. She was just a bright spark for her age.
'Well, I'll help if I can,' she said. 'Who are you trying to track down?'
Sam was getting to that point of desperation again. It was time to throw caution to the wind.
'Geoffrey Compton.'
Sam waited, watching her reaction. He was taking a huge risk, playing dumb about a man who he knew so much about. Whose home he had occupied. Whose family he had met. Whose grave he had stood beside. But Geoffrey's death had been the catalyst for all this, and it was time to put his name out there and see what came back. Anyway, despite Mrs Howell's strident intellect, Sam couldn't imagine she was exactly out and about much.
'You're trying to track down Geoffrey Compton?'
The question was quiet, considered. Sam nodded.
'And you want to find anyone who might know him?'
'That's right.'
Mrs Howell stared down at the carpet for a few moments. Something about the name had distracted her. She definitely knew it. Suddenly, she got to her feet and went over to an old ornamental cabinet. She pulled drawers open and searched through the cabinet itself, but whatever Mrs Howell was looking for, it wouldn't be found.
Sam watched her as she came to an apparent halt. She folded her arms and gazed absent-mindedly up at the ceiling. Then she began whispering to herself urgently.
'Where is it? Where is it?'
Sam was beginning to think the madness was catching. Then Mrs Howell remembered.
'I know where it is!' she exclaimed, disappearing into a room next door. She came back with a silver cigar case. As she lifted the lid, Sam was initially confused. It was empty inside. However, Mrs Howell placed a finger on the piece of material tucked in the base and dragged it out. Underneath was a photograph.
'My husband put it in here years ago. I knew he'd kept it, but it's been so long I couldn't remember where.'
She gazed down at the photo with clear affection and handed it to Sam.
'There you go. Everybody in this knew Geoffrey Compton.'
Sam took the picture off her.
He recognised it immediately.
It was the photo of Geoffrey during the war. The picture Benjamin had discovered of the five men in uniforms sitting on a tank. Sam recognised Billy Dunker in the picture. That explained why Billy had looked familiar in the school photo. He also recognised George Howell sat astride the tank.
'You know all these people?'
'I know some of them,' she confirmed. 'Geoffrey, Billy, my husband, of course. We all went to school together, although I wasn't really in their gang at that time.'
Sam looked from Mrs Howell back down at the picture. He was reminded of Erica's sad description of the men of Newgate going off to war. He thought of the school photo still fresh in his memory. Now this, a few years later. Geoffrey Compton, Billy Dunker and George Howell having gone through school together, remaining united as they fought for their country.
'Who are the other two men in the picture?'
Mrs Howell shook her head.
'George did say, but I've forgotten their names. They were from just outside Newgate. I've never met them.'
'You said you weren't in the gang at school. You sound quite sad about that?'
Mrs Howell smiled. It was the melancholy expression of someone looking back over many years.
'I was too shy to go anywhere near George when I was a girl. I don't mind admitting I was infatuated by him. So, I kept my distance. I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Especially with Erica Wright-'
'You knew Erica?'
'I told you,' nodded Mrs Howell. 'I went to the same school.'
Sam frowned. He hadn't seen a Rita Howell in the photo. Then it dawned on him why.
'Do you mind if I ask what your maiden name was...your surname at school?'
Mrs Howell gave him a puzzled look. Sam had to be careful here. He had already asked the wrong questions to one person today. However, the reply was swift and forthcoming.
'Speight. Speight from Newgate, they used to call me. Another reason I was glad to change to Howell.'
Sam remembered the name vaguely. Rita Speight. One of the girls on the front row. He was taken back to Erica Wright.
'Did you and Erica not get on?'
Sam expected an antagonistic look in Mrs Howell's eyes, but there was nothing. No jealousy or hostility. Just that same reflective look.
'No, it wasn't that,' she replied easily. 'I was just too shy, and Erica was the most gorgeous girl in the school. George and myself didn't start courting until we left school. He started spending more time with me...less time with his friends.'
Sam handed the photo back to Mrs Howell and thanked her for her time. One final question came to mind as he was leaving.
'Did the group remain friends after the war? Did they keep in touch with your husband at all?'
Mrs Howell shook her head.
'I don't think anyone kept in contact...they certainly didn't with George. I know Erica emigrated, and Geoffrey and Marjorie tied the knot. But-'
Mrs Howell stopped, that wistful look on her face again. Sam wondered how long it had been since she had shared these memories.
'We all had to grow up so quickly during the war,' she mused quietly, to herself. 'Nothing was ever the same again afterwards.'
Sam had heard that before. Had seen that same faraway look.
***
Sam returned to his flat, fully intent on sifting through the photos he had taken at Benjamin's bungalow. Instead, he deleted them off his camera. Sam had very few scruples when it came to hunting down the truth, but sifting through Benjamin's private documents just wasn't on now his reason for stalling had become clear. The only one he kept was the photo of Geoffrey and his pals on the tank, the same one Mrs Howell had just shown him. He printed it off his computer, the copy slightly hazy but good enough. Newgate had a war museum on the edge of town, and if Sam could get the other two men on the tank identified, he may be able to garner further information about Geoffrey's younger days.
An officious-looking, bespectacled man took the photo off him at the War Museum's reception desk. While he studied it, Sam gazed around the former air base. It was packed with families enjoying their day out, taking in the replica fighter planes adorning the enormous hangar, or sat in the picnic area watching the artillery display.
'Well, I can tell from the uniforms they're from the 18th Infantry Division. The unit served in France during the Second World War.'
'You know your stuff,' Sam told him.
The man puffed out his chest in pride.
'We're all volunteers here,' he replied. 'Military history is our passion.'
Sam asked if there was any possibility the men in the picture could be identified. The man gave him a peculiar look. Sam explained he was helping families trace their ancestors. The lie was coming second nature to him.
'I already know the identity of three of the men,' he said. 'It's these two I'm interested in...'
He pointed out the unknown soldiers.
'Mmmm, it's possible. Let me take a copy, and I'll get back to you.'
***<
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Sam was getting accustomed to having visitors outside his flat today. This time, he was slightly concerned to see Benjamin waiting by his front door.
'What are you doing here?' he asked. 'I thought we agreed to keep contact to a minimum.'
Benjamin shrugged in that stiff way of his. Sam ushered him upstairs and out of sight.
'Well?' he asked, back in the flat.
'I just wanted to know what you'd found out,' said Benjamin, blushing. 'You sounded like you were onto something when you asked about my father's school.'
Sam told Benjamin to sit down, then passed him the piece of paper he found at the cemetery. Benjamin gazed at it.
'What's this?' he asked, his brow creased.
Sam explained how he had come by it. Benjamin's eyes widened when Sam told him of his further enquiries.
'Blimey, Sam! You have been busy. Are you saying this is a list of people this man is intending to kill?'
Sam got up and walked over to the window. He stared out of it, giving Benjamin's question serious thought.
'That's what I think, but every discovery I make seems to be clouding the issue. We've got partial names on a piece of paper...suspicious deaths...and a mystery man still hanging about.'
'And how are we supposed to find him?' said Benjamin despondently. 'He seems to have vanished-'
'We don't have to,' said Sam.
'Why?'
'Because he's over the road watching us right now.'
Chapter 23
'What?!'
Benjamin tried to push his way past Sam to pull back the net curtain. Sam took his arm.
'Play it cool, Benjamin. Don't make it obvious we know he's there.'
Benjamin moved away from the window. He looked crestfallen.
'I am so sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have-'
'It's okay. In a way, you might have helped things along.'
'How?'
'Well, I didn't have a clue where he was hiding out. At least I know where he is now.'
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