After the Flood

by Peter Turnbull

  Following the directions given to him by Mrs Wall’s housekeeper, he turned right at the top of Victoria Road and continued to walk towards the city centre with Woodhouse Moor on his right, and came, at the next set of traffic lights, to the unmissable university. He enquired of likely-looking people and eventually found the offices of the Faculty of Accountancy.

  ‘Doubt if we could help you.’ The administrative officer was polite, warm, efficient. ‘We would only keep a note of our alumni’s address and class of degree awarded.’

  ‘If you could check the address? The name is Quinlan, Andrew, and he would have joined the university about thirty years ago.’

  ‘We record by date of graduation, so I’ll check twenty-seven years ago. Quinlan. If you’d care to take a seat, I’ll be as speedy as I can.’ Hennessey sat in the chair indicated, and glanced out through a wide window to white buildings of angular concrete-and-glass design. Very ‘space-age’, very twentieth-century. The room itself was decorated in pastel shades, with exotic plants in very dry pots. The administrative assistant returned looking pleased with herself and holding a piece of notepaper. Hennessey stood.

  ‘278 Brudenell Road,’ she said. ‘That’s very near here. I can give you directions.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The administrator glanced at the notepaper she held. ‘He took a first.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Oh yes, according to his records. You’re trying to trace him, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the Institute of Chartered Accountants might help you; they keep a register of all CAs. They probably won’t release the details without a court order, but they may be prepared to contact him and ask him to contact you. That’s if he’s in the UK. A first in accountancy from this university is a very saleable qualification globally, so he could be anywhere in the world.’

  ‘I see; that’s one avenue I could explore.’ Hennessey paused. ‘Would anyone here in this department remember him? Does any member of staff still teach that taught here when Quinlan was a student?’

  ‘Dr Folding—he would remember him, I’m sure. I think all other staff joined within the last twenty years.’

  ‘Andrew Quinlan, that’s a name from way back. But yes, I remember Andy. I wasn’t much older than him then. My, have I been with this department thirty years or more?’ Dr Folding was a short, rotund figure with silver hair. His office was kept immaculately tidy. ‘He took a first, you know. That’s the nature of teaching: you remember the good ones and you remember the bad ones, but the middling ones you don’t remember. But Andrew, one of the good ones. Yes, I can still remember him—short, finely made guy; a bit retiring, timid; threw himself into his studies. His mates threw themselves into the bar, and had to work at exam time, but Andrew wasn’t a social animal. Bit of a hanger-on, really. I have a photograph of his year group.’ Folding stood and reached for a photograph album that rested on a shelf. ‘Keep photographs of ‘em all. Started it the year before Andrew came up to the university, continued it ever since. Photograph the year group upon joining.’ Folding resumed his seat and turned to the front of the album, then handed it to Hennessey.

  ‘That’s Quinlan’s year group, the second photograph down, and that…’ Folding leaned over the album and with a ballpoint pointed to a lanky-looking, bespectacled, dark-haired youth at the end of the second line of students, ‘that is Andrew Quinlan.’

  ‘So that’s him.’

  ‘That’s how he was. Now, if he’s still with us, he’ll be podgy with good living, as all accountants and solicitors are. He was eighteen, nineteen then, now he’ll be in his fifties. So your guess as to his current appearance is as good as mine. But that photograph does tell you about his personality. We don’t place people for their photograph, just put a row of chairs out, invite people either to sit on a chair or stand behind. I’m no psychologist but I have noticed that the ones who have a sense of worth, or even self-importance, go for the chairs, and as near the centre as they can. Those who have a sense of humility or modesty, or lack of self-esteem, gravitate to the standing line, as near to the edge as possible. And look where Quinlan put himself, standing at the edge.’

  ‘So I see.’ Hennessey’s eye was drawn to a well-built young man sitting in the centre of the front row. He had cold, piercing eyes. ‘Quite the opposite to him, in fact.’

  ‘Him?’

  Hennessey pointed to the young man in the centre of the front row.

  ‘Oh…you remember the good ones and you remember the bad ones. That was an arrogant piece of work. Now he was called…called…excuse me, can I take the album?’ Folding took the album from Hennessey, removed the photograph from its comer mountings and read the reverse. ‘Oh yes. Drover, how could I forget that? Clement Drover. He was a Drover of the brewery firm. Drover’s Ales.’ He replaced the photograph. ‘He failed his degree, disappeared into the ether. Doubtless went back to the family firm and was accommodated, employment-wise. It’s interesting you should notice him, because he and Andrew Quinlan became friends, shared a house together. I think Andrew was awed and impressed by Drover, but I worried for Andrew; I thought he was easily led and was getting into bad company…But I feared for nothing, because he got his first.’

  ‘Do you know where he went after leaving Leeds?’

  ‘Do you know, I think I do…I remember giving this information to a lady who came looking for him. She said she was his sister, and I believed her.’ He leaned forwards and picked up the phone on his desk. He pressed two buttons and when his call was answered he said, ‘Mrs Watson, the file on Andrew Quinlan—can you access it again? There’ll be a copy of the reference we wrote for him. Can you let me know which firm he applied for a job with, please?’ He replaced the phone.

  They waited for about ninety seconds. Folding picked up the phone, said, ‘Hi,’ listened, wrote on a notepad, then said, ‘Many thanks,’ and replaced the phone.

  ‘A firm called Vernon and Scott and Company, Selby.’ Folding handed Hennessey a piece of notepaper. ‘He must have got the job because he only asked us for the one reference.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hennessey copied the name on to his notepad. ‘Tell me, would you say that Andrew Quinlan had what you might call public-school mannerisms?’

  ‘Oh, not at all. Not very polished at all, really—but I liked him, very sincere bloke—but he may have now, thirty years an accountant, those manners will rub off on you. He could be really quite polished now.’

  Hennessey followed the administrative officer’s directions to Brudenell Road and found that he was effectively retracing his steps. Brudenell and Victoria Roads were practically parallel with each other and just a few hundred feet apart. Number 278 was run down, with a small front garden in which domestic refuse and beer cans, pizza plates and hamburger containers had been allowed to accumulate. He stepped up to the front door, pressed the bell and heard the ding dong, ding dong echo inside the building. The door was opened by a cheery girl in jeans and a woollen jumper. ‘Hi,’ she smiled.

  ‘Hi,’ Hennessey responded. ‘Police.’ He showed his ID. ‘I take it this is a student house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Absentee landlord?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is…?’

  ‘Which is, really. It’s a business more than a landlord. It’s called Leeds and Bradford Rents.’

  ‘Leeds and Bradford Rents,’ Hennessey repeated.

  ‘They have an office at Hyde Park traffic lights.’ She pointed up Brudenell Road towards Woodhouse Moor. ‘Turn left at the top, come to the traffic lights, it’s to the left of the pub amongst the parade of shops.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We have property in both cities. All let to students. It’s good business. They always move and they always pay. Nice number to be in.’ The man at Leeds and Bradford Rents leaned back in his chair. He was in his twenties, with a gold watch and expensive jewellery on his fingers. Behind him the wall was adorned with photographs of hous
es, all save one or two with small circular red stickers in the bottom right-hand comer. Hennessey presumed that the sticker indicated the property had been let. If it meant the opposite, then the company was in trouble.

  ‘I’m interested in the property at Brudenell Road.’

  ‘We have a few down there.’

  ‘278.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘How long have you owned the property?’

  ‘Not long. About four or five years. Came on the market when the previous landlord died and his estate was sold off. He owned ten houses. His beneficiaries clearly didn’t know what a nice little earner they were selling. They were run down and we bought them for a song. He wasn’t getting the most out of them, only four students in that property when we bought it. We’ve divided up the rooms, there’s eight in there now. Stretches the fire regulations a bit, but doesn’t break them. For the lay-out of a few sheets of hardboard, a little bit of paint and some electrical knick-knacks we doubled the income in that property.’

  Hennessey did not find it difficult to see where the young man’s jewellery came from. ‘So you have no idea who was living there thirty years ago?’

  ‘Ha!’ The young man laughed. ‘No way. No way at all.’

  ‘I knew it was a long shot, but they’ve paid off before.’

  ‘Your only hope is the city library, centre of the town, as you’d expect. A lot of students register to vote at their university address. If you ask me, it’s a statement about leaving home. If the occupants of 278 Brudenell Road did that thirty years ago, the library will have the voters’ roll in their archives.’

  Hennessey forgave the young man his jewellery.

  ‘Thirty years? No problem.’ The lady in the Local Studies section to which Hennessey had been directed smiled confidently at his request. ‘We go back to the old parish Burghers’ Rolls, in fact, which preceded the present electoral roll. Do you know the ward?’

  ‘Well the address is Brudenell Road, number 278.’

  ‘Headingley South. I live in that ward myself. If you’d like to take a seat?’

  Hennessey sat and enjoyed the building. Nineteenth-century, built as part of the Victorian Civic Pride movement, when cities in the north tried to outdo each other with buildings designed to evoke Augustan-era splendour. As the story had been related to him, the city fathers of Leeds had waited until Bradford had built its town hall, then had theirs designed so that it was one foot wider and one foot taller than Bradford’s. His own particular favourite example of Civic Pride in the north of England was the facade of Huddersfield railway station: neat, proud, magnificent. It could easily be the facade of a stately home. And the building in which he presently sat was clearly of that era—stone-built with arched windows, the woodwork of tables and shelves clearly the work of craftsmen carpenters—and it had the silence and solemnity of all libraries.

  The electoral roll for Headingley South of thirty years previously was contained in a large, leatherbound volume which the librarian, holding it in both hands, handed to Hennessey. ‘I’ve dusted it down,’ she explained, ‘but it’s still a bit mucky.’

  Hennessey carried it to a nearby table, drew a scowl from an elderly dog-collared cleric as he placed it opposite the man on the table, and began to leaf through the pages. Thirty years ago, four people had registered to vote at the address 278 Brudenell Road: Andrew Quinlan, Simon Inglish, Thomas Gibbon and Clement Drover. And of those names it was ‘Clement Drover’ that seemed to leap off the page at him. Clement Drover, who was sufficiently full of himself to sit at the centre of the front row of the year-group photograph and yet who had insufficient about him, in terms of application or brainpower, to pass the course. He took a note of the names and returned the roll to the enquiry desk, with thanks.

  It had, he thought, been a very successful afternoon, though a trifle foot-wearying. Rather than return speedily to York via Crossgates, he chose the slower, scenic route, relaxing as the train crossed over the beauty of Wharfedale basking in the late-April sun, and enjoying the view of the gorge at Knaresborough. For his money, of the two rail links between York and Leeds the Harrogate line was infinitely preferable, and he never tired of it.

  At York he walked the short distance from the station to Micklegate Bar Police Station. He signed in at the enquiry desk, checked his pigeonhole and then walked to his office to write up his afternoon’s work in the steadily growing file on Amanda Dunney, now cross-referred to the file on Andrew Quinlan.

  He drove home, just catching the last of that evening’s rush-hour, and arrived at his four-bedroom detached house on the Thirsk Road in Easingwold at approximately 6 p.m. He smiled with pleasure as he approached his house and saw a silver BMW parked on the verge. He turned into his driveway and parked in front of his garage.

  Charles Hennessey leaned on the fence that ran between the house and the garage and served to confine Oscar to the garden and house in George Hennessey’s absence. Father and son smiled and nodded to each other as Hennessey senior got out of his car, and Oscar ran in circles on the lawn, barking with joy.

  ‘Still a few blanks, I see.’ Charles Hennessey looked at the sheet of paper that lay on the tabletop as George Hennessey poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot.

  ‘Yes, just five or six, I think. Strange, the same thirty-plus names were shouted out each weekday morning in term-time for five years, give or take the occasional departure and late arrival. You’d think I could remember them, but about six elude me.’

  ‘You’re too hard on yourself. Dad.’ Charles smiled as George joined him at the kitchen table, carrying a tray of tea and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Have to keep the grey cells active. What’s your news?’

  ‘Children are well, thank you; they’re off to their other grandparents this coming weekend. That should give me a chance to paint the patio doors. That’s one job that is hugely outstanding.’

  ‘Home ownership is a series of jobs; one follows another.’

  ‘So I’m finding.’

  ‘How’s work?’ Hennessey poured the tea.

  ‘Plenty coming in at the moment. I seem to be in demand. I’m in Hull this week, thankfully going G to a serious assault which took place in front of plenty of witnesses. It’s the only thing he can do, throw himself at the mercy of the court, but he’ll collect anything up to five years.’

  ‘That serious an assault?’

  ‘It was very serious. Put the other fellow in hospital for a long time and with permanent physical damage, with the possibility of brain damage emerging later. My client’s problem is that he just can’t keep his fists to himself, nor can he control his temper. He has a string of previous, nothing psychiatrically wrong with him—that defence has been well explored—and he’s going in front of a hanging judge.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So there’s little I can do for him, and he knows it. He knows the form, knew the wisdom of going G. without me advising him. A pubload of witnesses, for heaven’s sake, no provocation, just didn’t like the look of his victim. He’ll come out, then do it again, then go inside and come out and do it yet again—in-out, in-out, in-out—and then when he’s in his forties he’ll bum out and take an allotment.’

  ‘Tell me the old story. Keeps us both in employment, though. I nail ‘em and you get ‘em off.’

  ‘Not this time. But I find something honest about this man: he acts before he thinks, but will plead guilty if he is guilty. Far better than the people who’ll swear blind that they didn’t commit the crime in question, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, even managing to convince themselves of their own innocence. Insisting on going N.G. in the face of evidence like that is only going to invite a very heavy sentence. But will they listen?’

  ‘Will they ever?’ Hennessey stood on the veranda at the rear of his house, looking out over the back garden as soft rain fell vertically. The garden had been designed by Jennifer when she was heavily pregnant with Charles. They were still newly-wed
s when they bought the house. It had a dull garden, just a square front lawn and a large rectangular patch of grass at the rear of the house. One evening, when her condition precluded her from doing any physical work, she had sat down, pen and paper in hand, and designed the back garden. The large, rectangular lawn, she decided, would have to be divided widthways by a privet, and set in the middle of the privet would be a wrought-iron gate. Beyond the privet, the garden shed or sheds would be placed, and apple trees planted. Beyond the apple trees would be an area of waste ground, or ‘going forth’ as she had called it, having read the term in Francis Bacon’s essay ‘Of Gardens’. The ‘going forth’, she decided, would be a band of uncultivated land, about fifteen feet wide, in which a pond should be dug to attract amphibia. And the young George Hennessey, newly promoted to the rank of Detective Constable and thrilled by the prospect of parenthood, had dutifully set about creating a back garden to his wife’s design. She had yet, she had said, to turn her thoughts to the front garden.