by John Creasey
Then, in a husky voice, Martin asked: ‘Why is a similar photograph so important?’
‘Because this one’—Coppell pointed to the one still in Martin’s hand—’has a distinguishing mark on the chin, a small scar which normally doesn’t show because it’s underneath, but is particularly noticeable in this one, probably because of a trick of the light. Do you see the scar?’
Martin stared down at it, and Coppell began to have a strange, cold, near frightening feeling. The boy’s reaction was not at all what he had expected; and there was no possible doubt now of the fear in those bright grey eyes.
‘Yes, I see the scar,’ he said. ‘Dad has one, just there. But—’ He gulped, and seemed to have great difficulty in speaking. ‘You’ll think I’m just saying this so as to—to defend my father. But I’m not. That’s the scar all right and in the same place but that’s not a photograph of my father.’
Chapter Five
Reunion
Coppell thought with a kind of distress very rare in him: what else can he say? He watched the strong, broad face, the slightly crooked nose, the sensitive, well-shaped lips. The last words had brought fresh tension into the room and Coppell wanted to find a way of breaking it. He said almost the first thing that came into his head.
‘Can you be sure?’
‘I am sure.’
‘Can you prove it?’
Martin said: ‘It doesn’t need proof. It isn’t my father.’
‘Martin,’ Coppell said, ‘there is just about one way of finding out for certain. That is by having a photograph taken of your father in that position. As there’s no doubt about the scar I have to take the matter up much further – you see that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Martin answered shortly.
‘And it would be much better for me to talk to him, or one of his associates at the Yard. That way your mother wouldn’t have to know—’ Coppell faltered. ‘Well at least she wouldn’t have to know the compromising nature of the picture.’
Martin looked at him very steadily for a long time, frowning. His face did not clear as he replied in a voice which he kept level and unemotional only with a great effort: ‘So I just say nothing, is that what you mean? I come home unexpectedly from Australia, and they kill the fatted calf, and I jump for joy and pretend I don’t know that in the morning my father is going to run into this blockbuster and for all they know you’ll prove what isn’t true and smash their lives. Oh, that’s going to be easy for me, the dutiful son, isn’t it? Kiss Mum, shake hands with Dad, tell them how wonderful they look, say how glad I am to be back home, how are tricks at the Yard, Pop, what’s your latest triumph? You see how easy it would be, Commander. Well, let’s have one thing crystal clear: I tell him. I show him that photograph. He decides whether to let Mother see it or not. Not you, the A.C., the Commissioner or any of you who aren’t worth—’ He gulped. ‘Or anyone else. Have you any idea where they are?’
‘They’re out at dinner.’
‘Then they won’t be too late. May I have this photograph? Or will you send another?’
Coppell hesitated. ‘You can keep that one.’
‘Thanks.’ Martin looked back at him speculatively. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Commander.’
‘What deal?’
‘You accept my right to help my father as much as I can in this case, and I’ll tell him you called here to see him and I managed to persuade you to tell me what it was all about. That way he needn’t know about your snooping or about our fight. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?’
Coppell answered: ‘Yes.’ But his voice was guarded. There was obviously something which lay very heavily on his mind, although he couldn’t bring himself to say it. But at last he did, moving across to a chair and sinking into it as if he were physically weary.
‘You could help us, too.’
‘You mean, against my father?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘You must be off your head.’
‘Didn’t he teach you to listen before making up your mind about anything?’ asked Coppell, and won first a blank stare and then a slow, amused smile from the younger man.
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
‘There is one way in which he could be involved.’ Martin didn’t break in with a hot denial, so Coppell went on: ‘He could be deliberately involved. He was, once before: he joined a gang of criminals so that he could work against them from the inside. You probably aren’t old enough to remember the case, but—’
‘I’ve heard the story,’ Martin interrupted, and nodded: ‘I suppose it’s possible this time.’ He gave a humourless smile and went on: ‘Okay, I’ll try to find that out.’
‘Without letting him know what you’re doing?’
‘I won’t tell him unless it’s unavoidable,’ Martin promised.
‘I can’t ask for more than that,’ Coppell said, getting slowly to his feet. ‘I’ll be on my way then.’ He added drily: ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful that you didn’t break my arm.’
Martin gave a rather shamefaced grin, as he turned and went downstairs ahead of Coppell. Across the road at least twenty people were standing and staring at the magnolia tree, and a policeman was on duty, moving traffic on and keeping the pedestrians to the path. No one appeared to take any notice of Coppell or Martin, who turned slowly back to the house, went inside, and closed the door quietly. Then he let out a long, slow breath which grew into a whistle and as he walked towards the stairs, he muttered: ‘How I wish old Richard were here!’
Well, Richard was not there, nor was he likely to be home for several weeks. The burden of trying to help his father rested solely on himself.
He carried the athletic and sporting pictures back to the drawer, tidied the bed, straightened two or three chairs, and then went slowly to the table where the photograph lay. He looked at it hard and long, and could almost hear the echo of his own voice, saying: ‘That’s not a photograph of my father.’
But already doubt had begun to creep in.
It was remarkably like him. He could remember coming into the room one morning he had been very young, and seeing his father like that. He could remember his father calling in his deep, happy voice: ‘Come on, old chap!’
And he had raced towards the outstretched arms and leapt into them, been held tight and lifted high and then turned towards his mother, who smiled back at him. It had been a golden moment and there had been many of them, especially in his early days: five, six, seven years old.
That photograph could not be of his father.
He wondered where they had gone and how late they would be. The recent letters, mostly from his mother, had said they were going out together more, that Roger wasn’t under so much pressure, and they could now afford …
That photograph could not be of his father.
He went into his own room, where Coppell would have seen a battered suitcase and a hold-all, a folding easel, a few unframed paintings; part of his work in Australia, which had hardly been a brilliant success. He unpacked a few things, and then began to go downstairs. He was only halfway down when a key was inserted in the front door, although it couldn’t be nine o’clock. What were they doing home so early? Had someone told them of the photograph? He had to fight against that thought, had to look as if he hadn’t a thought in the world except for them. And they would be astounded! He had meant to call from Rome, and failed; and there had been no answer when he had called from Heathrow. He stood a few steps up from the hall, just standing and smiling, and wondering who would see him first.
The front door opened and a girl appeared: a complete stranger. His grin froze on his face, and he gaped in astonishment. At any other time he would have been intrigued by the girl, who was slim and rather attractive, with light hair and a fair complexion. She stood in the doorway, her hand on the key, staring, as astounded as he. Beyond was the street with passing people; cars, the trees, dusk, street lights already on.
She drew back a pace.
‘Who—’ she
began.
‘Who?’ he demanded.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice rose. ‘Don’t come nearer or I’ll scream for help.’
‘You’ll scream for help!’ he gulped. ‘From the police, I presume?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, sharply, ‘and don’t think I won’t. There’s one outside.’
‘There will soon be one inside, too,’ he said, and went down a step, but obviously she was stiff with fright, and she not only backed a pace but looked round as if to run. So he schooled himself to go on in a much calmer voice: ‘There must be some kind of mistake.’
‘I haven’t made a mistake. I live here.’
This girl? Living here? That was utter nonsense, and she couldn’t possibly expect him to believe it. And then suddenly there was a change in her expression, the fear seemed to die away, something like laughter showed in her eyes.
‘You’re Martin!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well, you haven’t made a mistake about that, anyhow,’ he conceded. ‘I wish I knew who you are. I’ve only been away three years so you can’t be a sister no one told me about.’
‘Ass,’ she said. ‘I’m just a – friend.’
‘Who lives here.’
‘Yes. You see, my parents had to move to South Africa in a hurry, Daddy’s a civil engineer and something went wrong with a bridge over the Zambesi or some other river—’
‘The Limpopo,’ Martin suggested.
Her eyes lit up. ‘That’s it! The Limpopo! How on earth did you know?’
‘A bridge fell down into the Limpopo River a few weeks ago,’ Martin answered, ‘so it seemed probable. How—er—how long have you lived here?’
‘A month.’
‘And it’s a month since I left Port Darwin,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had any letters.’ Now he walked down the stairs and she closed the door behind her and came towards him. ‘I suppose I should know your name.’
‘Oh, yes! Anne.’
‘Boleyn?’
She laughed. ‘Anne Claire.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘My, you’ll get it from your mother when she arrives home.’
‘Oh,’ Martin said. He spoke in a softer, more diffident manner, although there was nothing diffident about what he said. ‘I’d rather hoped she might be pleased but you’ve known her more recently than I have.’
‘She’ll whoop for joy! But she hasn’t heard from you for six weeks and she’s not at all sure you haven’t been eaten by man-eating tigers.’
‘Now hold it,’ Martin interrupted. ‘Kangaroos and koala bears don’t eat would-be artists, nor do dingoes unless very provoked. The biggest danger in Australia comes from snakes, and they are fairly fastidious, too.’ He laughed. ‘Mother will be all right once she’s over the shock. As I hope you will be.’
‘Well so far I like what I’ve seen of you,’ declared Anne with refreshing candour. ‘But you were the last thing I expected to see. Have you had dinner?’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you let me cook you something?’ suggested Anne.
‘You mean my mother allows you the freedom of her kitchen?’ Martin said faintly. ‘This isn’t simply going to surprise her, it is going to kill me. I—’
He broke off.
He did not know what it was that brought Coppell’s visit so vividly to mind; what made him see a vision of the photograph, which was still upstairs in the main bedroom. He must get it away or there would be alarm the moment either of his parents entered. He did not know, either, what a change it made in his expression, but he did see alarm suddenly chase contentment across hers, and tension was with them again.
‘What is it?’ Anne demanded.
‘I—ah—I just remembered a message I have to give them and I’m not very happy about it,’ answered Martin, ‘and it’s nothing I can discuss with you, I’m afraid. I’m sorry—’
‘There isn’t the slightest need to be sorry! But do come and have supper. Would bacon and eggs be all right?’
‘Perfect!’
‘And there are some potatoes I can fry,’ Anne went on. ‘Why don’t you have a wash while I get supper, and then I’ll go up to my room – Richard’s really – and watch television or read until you’ve had your confidential talk with your parents.’
He did as she suggested. She cooked bacon and eggs and her fried potatoes were crisp and flavourful. They washed up together, and by that time it was after nine o’clock. Martin went to the foot of the stairs with her, and quite suddenly she gripped his hands tightly, looking up into his face with a raking, searching glance.
‘You aren’t going to hurt them, are you? You haven’t—haven’t come home in disgrace?’
Across her words came the sound of a car engine and a moment later light from headlamps shone momentarily through the glass of the front door as Roger West turned his car into the garage, only a few feet away.
Anne pulled herself free and ran upstairs, calling: ‘They needn’t know I’m home!’
He heard her door – Richard’s door – close quietly, heard the sounds which always came from the garage, but not his mother’s footsteps. So they were coming in together, after locking the garage doors. His heart began to beat fast; painfully. His surprise arrival would have been enough to cope with, but there was the awful business of the photograph.
He remembered he had left it, face upwards, on the sideboard.
He ran in, flipped it over, changed his mind and slid it between the pages of a family photograph album, and went back to the hall. As he reached it the door opened and his mother stepped in, with his father only a step behind her.
Chapter Six
Joy to Anger
Janet stopped in her tracks.
She looked beautiful; her face slightly flushed, her eyes round with surprise. She stared at Martin—damn that photograph!—and the colour seemed to ebb from her cheeks. Roger West, coming up behind her, looked over her shoulder.
‘Martin!’
Janet still did not move; it was as if she were in a trance. She stared into Martin’s eyes, searching, probing, as if she could not really believe what she saw. Then with a curious little sound, half-sob, half-cry, she flung herself forward, and he enfolded her in a bear hug which drove the breath out of her body. She looked up at him, pale, tense, still only half-believing.
‘Oh, Martin,’ she said, huskily. ‘Martin.’
There was a lump in Martin’s throat as he forced himself to say: ‘You mean you haven’t forgotten me?’
‘Martin?’ Roger West said again, in a deep voice which had an edge to it.
Martin freed his right hand, and gripped his father’s. They stood like that for a few moments, and then Janet put her face up to be kissed, brushing his lips with her own.
‘Why on earth didn’t you let us know?’
Martin gave a sheepish grin. ‘Well, you know me. Lowest ever on organisation. As a matter of fact—’
‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter,’ Janet decided, ‘you’re here. Oh my dear, how I’ve longed to see you! How long have you been here? Did you get yourself anything to eat? How are you—you haven’t come home because you’re ill, have you? You haven’t picked up some dreadful disease over there?’
Martin grinned, counting solemnly on each finger.
‘Two hours … Yes, I’m fed … No, I haven’t got the plague or anything serious I know of. I just—’ He moved forward and lifted her off the ground, whirling her round before putting her down again. ‘Where did you get the elixir?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The elixir which makes you grow younger.’
‘Now that sounds more like Richard – Richard isn’t here, is he?’
‘I haven’t seen him. Isn’t he supposed to be televising the Arabs in Timbuctoo or somewhere?’
Janet took off her hat and ran her fingers through her dark hair, then unbuttoned her coat. Beneath, she wore a simple sheath dress of primrose yellow. ‘If I’d dreamt you’d be home I shouldn’t have set f
oot outside the door.’
‘There’s gratitude for you,’ Martin said, with a wink at his father. ‘I’ll bet you’ve been nagging Dad to take you out for weeks.’
‘Months,’ corrected Roger.
Janet turned to him and slid an arm through his, then one through Martin’s, and – Janet in the lead, the men slightly behind because of the narrowness of the passage – they went into the living-room, where Janet placed her coat over a chair, raised her face and said: ‘I sense eggs and bacon – are you sure you had enough?’ And then: ‘At least we’ll have some coffee, or would you two rather have a beer?’
‘Coffee for me,’ Martin said.
‘I’ve had all I can drink tonight,’ Roger assured her.
‘Then I’ll put the coffee on and then run upstairs and tidy up.’
Both of them knew that this was one of her discerning moments; that she realised father and son needed a few minutes on their own together and was making it easy for them. She moved with unstudied grace about the kitchen, putting water in the percolator, measuring the coffee, plugging in the pot. Then she said: ‘You can put the cups out,’ and gave Martin a little, breathless hug, reached the door, and then spun round, alarm on her face.
‘Martin!’ It was always ‘Martin!’ in times of stress or crisis.
‘Yes, mother dear?’
‘You’re not going away again right away, are you?’
‘Not for several weeks, at the very earliest.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ she said, and turned and hurried along the passage by the stairs, then up them; her footsteps were feather-light, and ceased altogether when she went into the main bedroom. Both men smiled with warmth and affection, feeling her presence still hovering about the room. Then Roger took the initiative.
‘You look fine,’ he said. ‘What brought you back?’
Martin said: ‘I suppose it was homesickness as much as anything. Mind you, I don’t think I would have felt so homesick if I’d done better.’
‘No luck at all?’ asked Roger.