by Neil Watson
It made entertaining reading for the majority. But 700 miles across to the east in Allentown, Pennsylvania, for one particular family—that of Yushi’s sister Mitori—there was only sadness and sorrow as the media coverage continuously brought the name of her beloved late brother to the fore.
Mitori felt compelled to write a letter to the man behind the ‘Young Sherlock’ pseudonym.
CHAPTER 46
(WEDNESDAY, 31ST JANUARY, 2018)
Zac Drops a Bundle
“A re you sure I’ve done the right thing in writing to him?” Mitori Jarvis asked Jerry, her husband, as she churned over in her mind the contents of the letter that she’d neatly addressed to Oliver Markland and taken to the Post Office a couple of days earlier. On hearing Jerry’s comforting reassurance, she nuzzled back into his arm that reached strongly around her shoulder as they lay together on the sofa. “At least I’ve said my piece, and explained about Yushi, and I hope now that all this can soon come to an end. Yushi didn’t deserve this treatment. What do you think, Jerry?”
The truth was that Jerry was sick to the back teeth of listening to his wife going on and on about her ‘dear beloved brother’. He was stressed out enough as it was, thinking about the three jobs he was doing his best to hold down. When he wasn’t running a local radio station, he was fitting venetian blinds at clients’ homes. When he wasn’t doing that, he was selling and installing telecommunications equipment to anyone who wanted the fastest and most up-to-date internet connection. It was a booming, important and pressured time for him, and the last thing on his mind was a man who he never knew personally, and had been dead for over twenty years.
But he daren’t let on that by now he’d absolutely had enough. While rolling his eyes from his safe position out of sight from Mitori, sprawled out on the sofa behind her, he muttered with as much sincerity as he could muster: “I think you’ve done exactly the right thing, MJ,” he answered with words he knew she would appreciate hearing. “For the sake of Yushi’s memory, darling” he added for good measure.
“But you know everything I wrote in my letter was completely the truth,” Mitori retorted abruptly, almost confrontationally, despite her husband’s empathy.
He rolled his eyes yet again before finishing. “I know, my darling. I know.”
***
The offices at the Terre Haute Daily Times were becoming quite chaotic—not only since the increased activity caused by the recent Bike Radio Murder coverage, but generally. Advertising was on the up, and because of that, the size of the paper grew to an enormous 128 pages. Circulation was growing healthily and, all in all, business was booming. Ursula was pleased, and so was her boss in Indianapolis. For some while, it had been on Ursula’s mind to take on a new member of staff to help with the increased workload.
Zac Brightmore, on the face of it, had all the right qualifications for the job that didn’t require any—none. Ursula had wanted to put something back into the local community by offering a position to someone who hadn’t been fortunate enough to go to university and get a degree. She advertised, and Zac, along with thirty-four others, applied. In the successful candidate’s role, tea-making and Post-Room duties wouldn’t require proof of higher education, and for the time being, Ursula wanted Zac to start at the bottom anyway. As he was the least qualified out of the 35 hopefuls, she offered him the job. She thought that once he’d gained some experience, she’d then see what else he could do within the organisation to contribute towards its, and his own, progression.
Likeable as he was, always happy to engage in conversation with anyone who had the time, and with his cutely rounded, sometimes red face expressing unbounded enthusiasm, Zac did appear to be initially lacking in some basic skills that would be useful in his job. Being somewhat accident-prone, he would occasionally drop things. And sometimes he would get the coffee and tea orders mixed up, other times he might forget altogether to collect the outgoing mail from the staff writers until he was reminded a few minutes before his shift was due to finish. Neither of these crimes were serious enough for him to be reprimanded, and Ursula had the patience to stick with him while he developed his proficiency. The main thing was that everyone liked Zac, and that’s what Ursula saw as his most important attribute. A happy ship leads to good results, she always maintained.
On the day Mitori’s letter had arrived, addressed to ‘Oliver Markland, c/o Indianapolis Daily Times, 3420 East Street, Indianapolis, IN.’ and had subsequently been forwarded to the Terre Haute office, it was among a batch of ten or so others that Zac had unwittingly dropped off the trolley.
There the batch fell to its temporary resting place between the fridge and the stationery cupboard, and there it would remain for quite some time.
***
At the Dickinson’s household, Chris, Kerry and Sam had pulled out all the stops to welcome Oliver home. A banner had been tied across the front door, so that when the car, kindly organised by Ursula, had collected Oliver from The Imperial Hospital, at the point of arrival he would get an eyeful of the message: ‘WELCOME HOME TO OUR SPECIAL YOUNG SHERLOCK’. Chris and Kerry had decided not to grant permission to the local TV station for Oliver’s homecoming to be filmed, but they did allow a photographer to be present to take some pictures for the following morning’s newspaper.
Oliver was feeling physically very well, having recovered faster than the doctors had expected. His arm wound was also healing nicely, and the sling and the bandages would be removed in a couple of days. After careful consideration, he had made up his mind that it was now time to return to England. Drinking a pint or three of Guinness in his favourite pub, the Black Buoy, was the first thing he promised himself he would do on his return to Wivenhoe.
Although he’d had a lot of fun in the States, Oliver wanted to put his life-threatening experience behind him and move on—or rather move back. But what that practically meant job-wise when he returned to England, he didn’t know. Maybe, he thought, he could continue writing his blog and column for the East Anglian Chronicle, or perhaps he really would write that book that had been suggested in one of the recent newspaper footnotes—the one that had also been seen by Paul and Katie Copeland.
As to a movie being made, mentioned in some of the online reports that he’d become all too aware of, and the subject of much jovial teasing from his newspaper colleagues, Oliver was wise enough to recognise made-up sensationalism when he saw it. It would be fantastic if there were ever any truth in the rumours, though, he daydreamed.
Before allowing his mind to wander too far into the realms of fantasy, for now he concentrated on getting through the Dickinson’s front door, and showing gratitude for the trouble the family had obviously gone to with their welcome. As Oliver entered the house, Kerry was in the kitchen and came towards him, her arms out wide. She was genuinely emotional as she hugged and greeted him. “Don’t you ever go and do something like that again, will you?” she said with mock scorn as she held him close for a few seconds longer than Oliver felt comfortable with. He thought he was going to suffocate while his head was squashed close to her bosom. For a moment he enjoyed the fullness of Kerry’s ample breasts before checking himself. When he was eventually let go and he stepped back, he found himself looking at her in a whole different light!
A pang of guilt at enjoying Kerry’s embrace rather too much ended as he turned to Chris, who was standing with a pint glass of Guinness ready to hand to their house guest-turned-family member. “Welcome home, Oliver. Good to see you,” he said.
Oliver took a sip from the glass, and raised it in the air. “Cheers!” he exclaimed emphatically, in the most English accent that he could muster.
Chris, Kerry and Sam laughed and copied him. “Cheers!” they replied.
Then it was the turn of Sam to step forward. Saying nothing, she just put both arms around Oliver, and swung him left and right as if she were doing the waltz, lifting him off the ground as she did so. He winced a little as he felt some pain shoot up his slinged arm, but
for the sake of not causing Sam any embarrassment, he took it in his stride. She was ecstatic that her friend had survived such a serious ordeal, was ecstatic now that he was safely in her arms, and ecstatic that he was at home to spend time with her now that his investigations had finally come to an end.
Chris eyed Kerry in a way that said, ‘let’s leave them to it for a while, shall we?’ and they both sneaked off to the TV room. Sam whispered in Oliver’s ear. “I’m so happy you’re back here with us again. We can be together properly now, can’t we?” Without Sam noticing, Oliver squirmed, knowing that soon he’d have to break the news to her that he’d already booked his BA ticket to Heathrow, and that his flight would be on the approaching Saturday. He only had two full days left in which to say goodbye to Ursula at Terre Haute, return the pool Hyundai to the Indianapolis office and say goodbye to Steve Borowitz, although he guessed that would take all of ten seconds if indeed he were able to get a word in edgeways. He also needed to update his blog, newspaper and magazine articles, pack his bags—and of course to see Siobhan. So much to do, so little time.
But for now, he decided on focusing on what was clearly on Sam’s agenda for this evening. He doubted whether his arm in a sling was going to present too much of a problem, and as it turned out later, it didn’t.
CHAPTER 47
(THURSDAY, 1ST – SATURDAY, 3RD FEBRUARY, 2018)
Ursula Makes a Presentation
“Y ou make sure you keep in touch with us, y’hear?” demanded Ursula, as she presented Oliver with a farewell gift—a token of her gratitude on behalf of all the staff at the Terre Haute, and the Indianapolis Daily Times. “We’ll surely miss you.” Judging by the thunderous applause given by the crowd squeezed into her boardroom-office, it was obvious that she wasn’t far wrong.
Oliver looked down at the wrapped object he’d just been presented with, and tore off the paper to reveal a genuine 1980s bike-handlebar radio, presumably very similar to the one at the centre of the Bike Radio Murder investigation. Constructed from red and black plastic, it had two silver knobs that Oliver instinctively twiddled. The one on the left operated the ‘on’, ‘off’ and ‘volume’ functions, while the one on the right was for the tuning. Someone had thoughtfully fitted some batteries. And with a turn of the left knob it sprang to life. In between the two knobs was an orange-coloured rectangular button, with the word ‘HORN’ embossed above it.
He looked around at the gathered group before settling his gaze on Ursula, sitting next to Peter the photographer and David the journalist—or was it the other way round? Was Peter the journalist, and David the photographer? Oliver couldn’t remember, but no matter, he thought, as he pressed the button to the delight of the crowd, and himself.
Reacting to the loud buzzing noise by jumping backwards in mock surprise, he looked around at the people in the room, every one of them laughing. About to make a few light-hearted quips expressing his gratitude to his colleagues for their support and friendship, Oliver suddenly became overwhelmed by the heavy emotional impact of the afternoon’s gathering. Holding the radio tightly in his hands, he realised that the object represented a snapshot of his life ever since buying a key in Florida when on holiday with his dad. It also represented the more recent traumatic events he’d been through in which he’d had a narrow escape from death.
Oliver found it necessary to turn around quickly, hiding the emotion that engulfed him. After he’d heard a series of schmaltzy ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’, he wiped his eyes and took up his position once more to face everyone. His attempt to regain his composure was this time successful, and he just about managed to coherently thank all his temporary colleagues for their kind wishes and generous gift.
“I will never forget my time in your great country. Thank you, all of you. And especially Ursula, and Siobhan,” he said, turning to the two ladies next to him. Although Oliver thought he’d been discreet about his relationship with Siobhan, it was nevertheless blindingly obvious to everyone else. A cheer erupted, making Siobhan go red when she sensed all eyes focussing upon her.
Ursula was conscious of her niece’s discomfort, and called an end to the proceedings. “Come on, you guys,” she commanded, with a smile in her eyes. “We have a newspaper to bring out in the morning. Now get back to work!”
After all the assembled personnel had left the room, including new recruit Zac Brightmore, she turned to Oliver and said sincerely: “You’ve done us proud here. I hope that Siobhan will do your folks proud when she comes over to your great country. Look after her, won’t you? She’s very precious to me.”
Oliver had almost forgotten that Siobhan was due to work at the East Anglian Chronicle, but he was very pleased to have been reminded. He looked forward to welcoming her and showing her around Wivenhoe, his village on the river estuary that he loved so much. He also looked forward to working further with her at The Chronicle, and eagerly anticipated introducing her to his friends and dad at the Black Buoy. He looked forward to being with her, full stop.
***
Oliver woke early, on the day of his journey home. His last night in America had been something of a non-event because by the time he’d returned his car, got back to the Dickinsons’ home in Plainfield, prepared everything for his early morning departure, had a shower and dinner, it was already 11.30p.m., and everyone was tired, including Sam and himself.
That night, there had been no farewell party, no last supper at a local restaurant, and no ‘after-midnight delights’ with Sam. An all-too-brief hug and kiss in front of Kerry and Chris was to be their rather unsatisfactory farewell. All in all, as far as Oliver was concerned, the evening had been an anti-climax, but by the time he crawled into his Indiana bed for the last time, he was too worn out to care. He just about had enough energy to run a last couple of thoughts through his mind.
The first was to go over his travel arrangements. Chris had helpfully offered to take him to the airport for his early-morning check-in. The second was a little deeper, and involved him questioning his own morals. Had he been slightly using Sam? he wondered. Maybe more than just slightly? Had he been taking advantage of her friendship, and that of her parents? A wave of guilt swept over him. But perhaps there had also been an element of Sam enjoying his Young Sherlock adventure. Oliver recalled that she had told him how exciting it had been to witness his progress with the Bike Radio Murder story, so just maybe she had also taken advantage of him too, in her own way.
While Oliver mulled these complex thoughts over and over, he was unable to prevent a losing battle with sleep as his eyelids grew heavier by the second until he could fight no longer. Soon after drifting off, he entered into a dream in which he was drinking in the Black Buoy with Siobhan, and not Sam, at his side. Oddly, as is the case with most dreams, the most important aspect is often the most trivial. This one involved the Guinness, which instead of being served at ice cold temperature like they did in the States, had to be at room temperature, just the way he preferred it.
The following morning, Oliver awoke feeling refreshed. He pulled back the curtains and viewed the sun just allowing a peek of its glow above the horizon. With Sam and Kerry still fast asleep and Oliver deciding to have breakfast and coffee at the airport, he got dressed and went quietly downstairs and out of the front door, carrying his bags that he’d already packed the previous evening.
Taking in the final few moments that he’d be spending in his now-familiar surroundings, he stood by Chris’s car and waited for him to appear, which he did ten minutes later, when Oliver heard the familiar crunching sound of footsteps upon the shingled driveway.
“All ready?” Chris asked, quietly. Oliver nodded, as the car doors unlocked when Chris pressed his key fob. The early morning cool mist hovered just above the lawn. It was going to be another pleasant day in Plainfield as the sun began to rise rapidly higher in the sky, with the trees casting horizontal shadows in the distance. For Oliver it was going to be a brilliant day—he couldn’t wait to get home.
As the pla
ne carrying him back to England left the tarmac, he breathed out, scratched his now unbandaged arm and let the waves of anticipation and excitement engulf him.
PART SIX
BACK IN WIVENHOE
CHAPTER 48
(WEDNESDAY, 4TH JULY, 2018)
Return
P oor Zac Brightmore. He’d been keeping his head down, doing his best to get on with his job. Five months had gone by since he started at the newspaper, and he’d finally managed to get the tea and coffee orders right. Not only that, he now managed to collect the outgoing post in plenty of time on a regular basis. He also handled the incoming packages and mail, delivering them to their intended recipients with proficiency. He was pleased with his work-performance, and Ursula was relieved that her protégé had finally turned the corner.
But on one particular Wednesday morning, Zac was filled with horror when he bent down to pick up his marker pen that had fallen between the fridge and the stationery cupboard, and noticed a bundle of envelopes laying there, covered in dirt and dust. Merely puzzled at first, he used a thin ruler to pull the bundle towards him. Once the letters were close enough, he picked them up to make a closer examination, looking for any date stamps. Most of the letters had no obvious markings, but two of them did.
Zac looked at the calendar on the wall and turned back the pages to the date in early February shown on the two particular envelopes. He went into a cold sweat when he realised that the date was from after he’d begun his job. So, he reasoned, it must have been he who had dropped the bundle without realising. What should he do? he wondered. Own up and feel humiliation and embarrassment at best, or run the risk of being fired at worst. Ursula did seem like a very reasonable and fair employer, but maybe he was taking too much for granted by assuming she’d let this error go. And he needed this job. What if any of the letters were of crucial importance? Zac made himself a cup of herbal tea and stewed about what he ought to do for the best.