Only the Dead

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Lawrence bent and looked at the large, steel safe and punched in six numbers. The keypad illuminated on the first push. An electronic note confirmed the correct code before he began turning the lever handle and swinging open the door. Inside were eight more rusting relics and the final one went on top. He carefully closed the door, glanced at the Hammertons and smiled. He removed his glasses, held them up to the light and squinted. They were clean enough. His hand reached out and straightened the third volume so that it was positioned precisely. He moved Old Bill back where it always stood, next to the books.

  “Their future was uncertain but they faced it with smiles,” he whispered, “and so shall I.”

  He tapped the mascot on its tin hat, smiled, moved to the steel door and turned the key. He always locked it whether he was inside or out and as he left, his trailing arm flicked the light switch and the room fell into total darkness. The only noise was the dying buzz from the stubborn, fluorescent tube and the turning of the key, top, bottom and centre of the door. Lawrence could never be too safety-conscious.

  Chapter Four

  Cyril Bennett wiped his face paying particular attention to his chin. Morning number five and he still felt like a freak. This was just not what the doctor ordered in the middle of a busy month... it wasn’t. He’d joked about that and received a number of sick but humorous, jibes in return.

  ‘You can’t sleep on the job now!’ ‘The ever watchful copper is amongst us,’ were but two. It was also amazing how many Bell’s palsy jokes arrived on his phone.

  He could live with all of that but what he couldn’t tolerate were those who had to tell him about someone they knew and... the consequences. If he heard just one more story about some ancient relative he’d take a life. His doctor had advised some time off, not long he was assured, ordering Cyril to be sensible if he wanted a swift and full recovery. He was a copper for God’s sake and now an ugly one at that, so taking rest and taking time off to help the initial recovery period which, the doctor pointed out, could be six months, neither registered within his vocabulary nor his work ethic, it simply fell on deaf ears. Even though he had nodded his agreement, he never actually committed himself, so as long as the doctor prescribed the steroids and the eye drops, he could work. He’d been stared at before so a little facial, short-term paralysis and disfigurement were easily managed once the office jokes had run their course.

  He couldn’t remember a time when any illness or injury had kept him from his job. He had simply decided to grow a beard and that contradicted all he stood for. The one thing Cyril Bennett was proud of was his appearance and his dress sense. Clothing had to be well designed, neat, pressed and always clean. Colleagues would remark that the baddies could tell he was a cop by the shine on his shoes. He was also considered slightly strange; he lived mostly alone but didn’t have a television; yes he watched things on his laptop on catch-up but had never had a television, Idiot’s lanterns he often called them.

  He added artificial tears to the ever-open eye. He was taping it down at night to protect the cornea and was very much aware that he now possessed no blink reflex in the lid. He vowed he would be extra careful with his pencil and not jab it in his bad eye. Luckily, at this moment in time, nobody shared his bed. To wake up and see a one-eyed, ugly bastard staring at you would soon frighten off the most devoted of his lady friends.

  He dressed quickly and tried to drink the luke-warm, sweet tea he had poured earlier but he only managed to dribble some down his chin; he was prepared and caught the droplets in the strategically held tea-towel.

  ‘Should’a bin in slips for Yorkshire,’ he said out loud, his Yorkshire accent deliberately over done, blunting the ends of the words trying to imitate Geoffrey Boycott. He had, however, noted his enunciation had taken a turn for the worst since the palsy and he was more than a little concerned that he sounded as though he was batting for the other side. He swilled the remaining tea away. He sure as hell wasn’t going to use a straw and he certainly wasn’t using a geriatric’s sip mug; the way the years flew by, that would come soon enough. He checked his watch against the radio time check.

  The morning was warm, a few streaks of orange in the cirrus sky added to the feeling that summer was beginning to recede.

  ‘All downhill from now on, nights drawing in, kids’ll be playing conkers, heating will soon be on and still years from receiving the winter fuel allowance!’ he muttered to himself as he headed down Robert Street and then across the Stray; 200 acres of open grassland that sat within the urban landscape of Harrogate, zigzagging with myriad pathways linking one area to another; the lungs of the town.

  He faced a thirty minute walk to work but that gave him time to put his thoughts into a perspective that only he seemed to understand. His latest case had puzzled him for some time but slowly the plodding grind of focussed policing had begun to pay dividends. It had been a confusing case. A grave had been unearthed in the grounds of the old Ripon Teacher Training College; now, apart from a few strategic landscaped areas, most of the old College grounds were built on and the protected, red-brick college buildings had been converted into apartments. The shallow grave containing the remains of two infants had been unearthed during the laying of land drainage pipes. Initial indications supported the belief that they had been in the ground for some years and Forensics had taken their time in discovering an approximate date of death and their ages. This was complicated by the fact that they had been very young at death and that at some stage the grave had been disturbed. The peaty-quality of the soil, however, had supported their preservation.

  The New Police Headquarters was never designed to be in keeping with the general grand architectural style Harrogate was famous for and so it was built on the outskirts. It was certainly state-of-the-art, modern and ‘green’. What with its heat pumps and solar panels it was designed to be extremely energy efficient, eighteen million pounds worth of efficiency. It was not, however, unusual to see the occasional bucket strategically placed to catch the rain water. A significant number of water leaks not only angered the local tax payers but also led to those working within it, calling it the Sieve!

  After the customary greetings and questions about his health he found himself in his office. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a black, electronic cigarette, pressed the button and inhaled. The menthol vapour filled his lungs. Opening the door he called out as usual.

  “Owen!”

  DS David Owen filled the door space taking up a good deal of the light as he knocked on the open door.

  “Sir. Good morning. How are you feeling today, Si...”

  He didn’t complete the sentence, his boss’s countenance said everything.

  “I’ve checked Forensics on the two kids, both between one and two years old and buried together, one deeper by some way than the other although only God knows how they fathom these things, late 60’s and early 70’s maybe later.”

  “Before you were born I guess,” Cyril mumbled as he looked up from the computer screen, his rimless glasses on the end of his nose. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled again. “And?”

  “DNA match for both so same mother, different father or vice versa. I’m running info on College students covering the time period. Interestingly, it was an all girls’ Teacher Training College until 1969 when twenty-four boys started and then they slowly increased the male intake annually. In 1971, there were five-hundred and eighty students of which ninety-five were extremely lucky lads. The College amalgamated with St John’s of York in 1974 so if we have to come to this date, we add considerably more possibilities to the equation. I’m also looking for any students who left suddenly or lived in Ripon for the full year. I’m also rounding up a list of all the staff. Interestingly, Sir, the College was linked in some ways to the various, local, military establishments from RAF Leeming to Claro Barracks which was just up the road from the college. Leeming was full of trainee, young pilots! Who knows what temptation was available. We are talking of the Swinging
Sixties which, from what my father disclosed, were extremely liberating sexually.”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment as my long term memory fails to go back that far.” Cyril stared ahead and paused and either a grimace or a smile came to his lop-sided lips.

  “By the day’s end I want two lists on this screen,” he nodded to the computer, “showing the details of students and staff. I want to know where they are now and a list of all military personnel who were within a fifty mile radius from 1965-1974. This is either going to be a simple search and find, or ...” He failed to finish.

  David found himself staring at the paralysed eye and thinking of a Cyclops as he suddenly detected a small dribble of saliva running from the corner of Cyril’s mouth.

  “Anything else, Owen?” he grumbled, suddenly feeling a little sorry for himself as he wiped the corner of his mouth with a tissue.

  “I have the first list ready. It’s available now,” Owen interrupted.

  He walked round the desk. His fingers danced on the keys and a list appeared, a small grin indicated that he was feeling pleased with his own efficiency.

  “Bloody hell! How many do we still have breathing?”

  “More students than staff but still a good number. You’ll also notice they are spread all over the country with some abroad. Some have ‘kicked it’ but they generally seem a healthy lot, probably all the physical exercise!” Owen laughed but checked his mirth as the eye turned to meet his.

  “Mmmm...close the door on your way out. And Owen, do yourself a favour and bring me a coffee! Make sure it’s a clean cup and don’t forget the saucer!”

  David Owen smiled and left, turning to look again at the ever-staring eye. He had always been known as Owen from his early training days as there had been three Davids on his first Police Training Course.

  Cyril watched Owen leave. ‘Keen as mustard that lad,’ he said under his breath before placing the cursor on the screen. He began to scroll slowly down the list resigning himself to the fact that this was going to take some time. He was fairly sure it would be some silly girl needing to get rid of two unwanted kids, happened all the time but most resorted to giving them up for adoption, not putting them in the ground. He hated to think of the man hours this was going to take.

  ***

  Lawrence Young parked his bicycle on the stand and attached two padlocked chains. He stood back and then checked the locks twice more as always. He removed his helmet and his leather attaché case that had been secured to the metal saddle rack by two bungee cords. His bicycle clips remained in place.

  The Lockwood Hospital had been his place of work for fifteen years. He was a very competent Clinical Scientist specialising in Cytogenetics. He had progressed to a senior level and his reputation for accuracy, sound assessment and support diagnosis enhanced his professional reputation. He was known for his commitment, his almost obsessive eye for detail and cast-iron work ethic. He ran a tight ship and expected first rate results from the top scientists within his team. He would not tolerate sloppy time keeping, untidy work areas nor inefficiency and although his department was respected professionally, it did not necessarily make for good work colleague social friendships. It suited Dr.Young. All he expected in return was full support from the Chief Executive and the Board. If he had that, he had funding.

  His badge opened the security doors. He made his way to the changing room, hanging his cycling clothing in his locker before progressing to his office. A full day’s work lay ahead, one which was apparent immediately on entering his office by the small tower of paperwork on his desk; this was always welcome. He would remain totally focussed.

  ***

  It was about two years ago that his mother, with whom he had been living, had suffered a number of small strokes. Lawrence had been dutiful, ensuring that she received the greatest care and the best medical support during her initial hospitalisation. Even when she returned home he had spent every moment he could with her. He could manage the fact that she could no longer speak but losing her ability to smile proved a challenge. He had organised the carers to be with her first thing in the morning, at lunch time and at bed time, but slowly he had realised that she needed greater support than he could give.

  After a number of disappointing visits for a permanent placement, Willow Gate Nursing Home had appeared perfect. It had come with glowing references and Lawrence had been pleased with the three visits he had made, one official and two ‘drop-ins’ as he called them to make sure everything was as he expected. On the 12th January they had travelled together and Lawrence efficiently moved his mother into room 22.

  The room faced west and the large Victorian bay window offered open views across the Stray. She could pass the day watching the world go by from there. He had felt more relaxed knowing that she was now receiving better attention than he could ever give and so he trusted his beloved mother to their professional care. For a short while he could get on with his work and in a way normality was resumed.

  Chapter Five

  It was Owen who saw the wood for the trees first. Mary Nixon had been a first year student in 1968 and therefore was on the front line when the boys appeared. She seemed to enjoy the company of a number of the fresh faced boys and according to the College records had been hauled up in front of the Principal on three occasions. How she had remained at the College was anyone’s guess but it appeared she had lived in Ripon the whole year, odd jobbing during the College holidays and even working at the College as a temporary gardener.

  “She left in 1972 with a 2:2 B.Ed. Degree,” Owen couldn’t help but giggle, “and went to work in a middle school in Bingley, stayed one year then went to Richmond, married a Dr. Peter Flint and then dropped out of teaching altogether.”

  “And? Why is Mary Nixon our infanticide mother? Because she enjoyed opening her legs on occasion or the fact that she obviously had few, if any, close relatives. Is it because she always remained in Ripon or that she married a Doctor or drove a mini or picked her nose when nobody was looking? Owen?”

  “She changed her name.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me take a stab in the dark. Mrs. Flint?” The eye locked on Owen and wouldn’t blink. It was most un-nerving.

  “No, she never took his name. It appears Dr. Flint never had a woman in his house apart from a housekeeper, a Miss Boyle. Our Mary concluded her teaching at the start of the long summer school holiday but didn’t return for the autumn term, neither did she resign. Just went and got married...not for long either. The good Doctor reported that she had gone for a short holiday to France with old friends and she hadn’t returned. It made the National press. The reports are on their way up. Just makes no sense, not to me at any rate, Sir””

  “Where was Doctor Flint in 1969?”

  Cyril could see from the look on Owen’s face that the question had hit the target; it had been eagerly anticipated.

  “The College had its own sick wing and dedicated Matron. It also had a local doctor who could be called upon, day or night to tend the sick. It just needed a call from the College Matron.”

  “Let me guess...ummm his name wouldn’t be Flint?” Cyril shook his head and placed it in his hands.

  “Correct and our missing maiden was recorded as having a number of stays in the sick bay and was attended by Dr. Flint.”

  “But Matron would be chaperone so we’re just clutching at straws.”

  “Or a threesome, a ménage ã trois.”

  Cyril lifted his head, more in shock that Owen would know the expression for a threesome in French. He removed his eye-drops from his pocket, dripped three artificial tears into his ever-staring eye, closed the eye-lid manually and gently massaged it.

  “Do we know why she was in?”

  “Pleurisy, pleurisy, pleurisy and yep, pleurisy. Two nights, three nights, two nights, two nights.”

  “Are you making this up just to upset me when I’m feeling like shit? Are you telling me that truth is stranger than fiction? Do you have dates?”

>   “November, 1969, December, 1969, September, 1970, October, 1970, May, 1971.”

  There was a pause as Cyril massaged his eye.

  “What do you deduce, DS Owen?”

  “Nine month breaks and these are only the recorded assignations. Who knows what went on?”

  “We need to make a surprise call on the good Doctor and we need to be able to look and take. I want that to happen tomorrow morning so collect me at 6am. I want to find him in and I want the small team to be ready to appear at the door should we feel the necessity. I also want the address and details of his original housekeeper. We may pay her a surprise visit too.”

  Owen nodded and left. Cyril checked his watch and as with most days shook it, amazed by the swift passage of time.

  Chapter Six

  Dr. Young was usually the last to leave. He strategically organised his desk in preparation for another day. It was known amongst his colleagues as his ritual, it was positively religious, definitely anal.

  The changing room was quiet and untidy. He changed before checking his appearance in the full-length mirror, instinctively inhaling as his eyes fell to his midriff. He leaned forward and breathed on the glass cleaning away a smudge. He then performed the same procedure on his spectacles. The cycle helmet was collected, he left the changing room and made his way to the cycle store. The sky was darker, grey clouds had bubbled up contrasting with the green of the surrounding trees. He paused for a moment before unchaining his bike. Helmet and attaché case secured, he cycled through the gate.

  ***

  The lights of the workshop performed their usual ritual. Lawrence looked at the offending tube. It was the only dysfunctional part of his life and somehow he liked it, it offered a small degree of security. From a cabinet he took a full protective NBC suit, gloves and breathing apparatus. He had been amazed at the cost of these pieces of equipment, £6.95 including tax from a military surplus store in Leeds! They were new and vacuum sealed. He broke the seal and dressed donning overshoes and gloves. The rusting cylinder was extracted from the safe and placed onto the work-bench. He put on his full breathing mask and moved the shell to the angle-poise, illuminated magnifying glass. He soaked the detonation fuse in the nose of the shell with a strong penetration fluid and watched it search for the threads that had allowed the fuse to be screwed into the shell case. With a small, bronze, metal brush he stroked the surface, sloughing small flakes of rust from the brass fuse. In between every five or six strokes, he liberally applied more fluid. He did this with each shell before storing them vertically. He left leaving the light humming quietly. It was midnight.