by Mark Eklid
23
Silverwood Court was not, as it turned out, a street name. Evelyn Dawes’ estranged husband Frank lived, so it appeared, in a large, bright and modern retirement village with its own fitness suite, bar, restaurant and function rooms.
As he entered the lobby area, the rush of warm air reddened Martin’s cheeks, prickling them back to life from the icy wind’s deadening bite, but there might also have been another reason causing his blood to rise. Though he had tried not to think too often about the last time he had set out to confront Frank – the plan he now acknowledged was astonishingly, recklessly stupid, and the mortifyingly inept way he had handled it – the raw horror of that night came flooding back.
What on earth was I thinking?
Had he been given the right address, Martin was certain now he would not have gone through with the plan. He would have realised as soon as he checked it out on the map that there was no way he could. That would have saved an awful lot of anxiety and trouble.
But what if the falling branch had not stopped Mrs Dawes from coming here, as she had set out to? She must have been in a desperately unstable state of mind to think that threatening her former husband with a gun was her best – maybe her only – option. Would she have gone through with it?
He pictured her for a moment, sending terrified pensioners scurrying for cover behind the tall pot plants around the broad central ground floor piazza as she wielded the ancient Luger above her head like a modern-day Ma Barker, and he cringed. That was a prospect too appalling to contemplate – especially as, so it emerged, the gun did contain live ammunition.
The scene before him was considerably more serene. Martin had not expected it to be so plush. Raise the temperature outside by twenty degrees and throw in the faint sound of gently lapping waves and he might just have easily imagined he was in the reception of a four-star hotel, the type that specialised in offering oldies winter-long breaks in the Costas as a way of escaping the British freeze. The pace of the residents, none of them giving the impression they were in a particular hurry to get wherever they were going, was also positively Balearic.
There was a reception desk to the right and behind it sat a wiry middle-aged woman in blue-rimmed glasses. She wore a green fleece, protection against the occasional withering blast of cold air that announced someone had stepped through the main lobby doors. It had ‘Silverwood Court Village’ embroidered on the left and a metal name badge pinned to the right. She stopped what she was doing at the computer as Martin approached.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked with a textbook friendly receptionist smile.
‘Hi. I’ve come to see one of your residents – Frank Dawes?’ He did not intend the last part of his opening line to come out as a question, but he was still not convinced Evelyn’s information was entirely reliable.
The name did not appear to ring any bells.
‘Mr Dawes?’ the receptionist repeated to herself as she conducted a brief mental search before turning to the computer for a more exhaustive one.
‘I can’t recall us having a resident of that name,’ she mused as she scrolled down her list. ‘We’ve got a Mr Davies.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Definitely Dawes.’
‘Hang on, I…’ She spun on her chair to face the door of the largely glass-fronted administration office behind her and looked to see who was within beckoning distance.
‘Charlotte, do you know if we’ve ever had a Mr Dawes with us?’
Martin suddenly realised there was another very real possibility. Given the age of so many of the people living here, they must have a fairly high turnover rate of deaths and newcomers, he thought. Could it be that Frank was no longer with us?
The woman in the office considered the question. ‘It’s not a name I’ve come across. Do you know the apartment number?’
‘Do you know the apartment number?’ relayed the receptionist, unnecessarily.
‘I believe it’s number fifty-two.’
She returned to her records.
‘Fifty-two,’ she said. ’Fifty-two. The resident in number fifty-two is called Frank Elliott.’ She looked apologetically back at Martin as if to say, ‘I know it’s not the exactly the result you were after but it’s the best I can do.’
It definitely was not the result Martin was after. He tried to consider his options and realised he might not have any. He had half-expected his efforts to hit a dead end and maybe this end was literally dead. That would not be easy news to break to Mrs Dawes.
At least the man in number fifty-two had the same first name. The trail may not be entirely cold.
‘Are you sure he doesn’t live here – or lived here fairly recently, like the last three years? I’m a friend of his former wife and she had a letter from her solicitor a couple of weeks ago which gave this as her husband’s address and, well, it’s very important that I find him.’
The receptionist’s expression became grave with empathy, like she wanted nothing other in the world than to come up with the solution. She tapped at a few keys on the computer keyboard again, just to be sure, but could only draw another blank.
‘Sorry,’ she said, biting her lip.
Martin puffed his cheeks. There had to be a possibility he was in the right place. There had to be at least a trace of Frank Dawes.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to be a pain but, as I say, this is important. Is there a chance you could just ask this Mr Elliott if he had a wife called Evelyn? If the name means nothing to him, I must have been given the wrong address. I know it’s a bit of a long shot.’
‘I suppose I could…’ She picked up the telephone and swiftly pressed four keys. ‘I’ll just see if he’s in his apartment and if not, I could put out a call to the bar and restaurant areas in case he’s – Oh, hi! Mr Elliott?’
She shot him an encouraged look. He’s in!
‘Hi. Sorry to bother you. It’s Wendy at reception. Hi. I’ve got a gentleman here and he’s trying to find someone he thinks might live here. He’s been given your apartment number and, could I just ask, did you used to be married to a lady called Elaine?’
‘Evelyn,’ Martin corrected.
‘Sorry, Evelyn.’ She fell quiet, listening to his reply, and a smile spread across her thin face. ‘You did! Was she? Oh, really? 1968? I wasn’t even born then! Did she? Aw, bless!’
Martin waved to try to distract her attention from the unfolding life story. He wanted to see if this really could be his man.
‘Could I speak to him?’ he mouthed.
‘Yes, I bet you were. Mr Elliott. Mr Elliott, the gentleman would like to know if he could speak to you. Yes, he’s here now. Would you? That’s lovely, I’ll let him know.’
She hung up. ‘He said he’ll be down in a couple of minutes.’
‘That’s great. Thanks.’ Martin was trying not to raise his hopes but at least this was better than no progress at all.
‘You can wait for him over there if you like,’ said the receptionist, pointing towards a lilac sofa opposite her desk. ‘He might be a while.’
She was clearly used to dealing with older people.
He accepted the advice and took a seat.
This was about the first time in the last couple of days that he had time to do nothing. Since the mysterious Brian had come to his café to hand over those documents, it had been absolutely full on – the planning, the calls, the excitement. Then, after the press conference, there had been the interviews with all sorts of news outlets and more requests had still been pouring in as the rolling story gathered momentum. Their affiliated national body had begun the process of lobbying MPs to call for a national inquiry into what, it was now broadly accepted, was a huge scandal. This was big and getting bigger. It was tremendously thrilling to be a part of it.
One call he was contemplating, if he could find the time and the courage, was to get in touch again with the vampish Valerie. Though he had no regrets about making his excuses and leaving that night in the wine bar, there was ju
st the smallest niggling thought that maybe she did have information that was useful to them. Could the toe-curling dirt she said she had on Cranford Hardstaff be tied in with the contaminated waste dumping site? If he could keep her at a safe distance, at the other end of a telephone…
But that was for a later time. His thoughts now had turned to the faint chance that he might be about to face the man Mrs Dawes had described as a spiteful monster. The man who had denied her access to their only daughter for no reason other than malice.
If he really was that man, Martin felt safer seeing him in a sedate retirement village for reasonably comfortably-off older folk than he had as he approached that door on a dark residential street. The wrong door, it emerged.
There had been nothing in what he could hear of the conversation with the receptionist to make him fear he was about to come up against a man Mrs Dawes believed was best tackled at gunpoint but there could be a possibility he would turn nasty when Martin asked him about why he had poisoned his daughter’s mind against her mother. This would have to be dealt with delicately. He did not want to provoke an ogre.
With growing trepidation, he watched to see who would approach the reception desk.
A lady wearing a loose-fitting pink t-shirt with a towel around her neck, her face still carrying the faint glow of the recently exercised, wandered to the reception with no apparent purpose other than to have a chat. Martin took his phone from his inside jacket pocket to check if he had any more messages and, when he looked up again, a man was at the desk too, patiently waiting to attract the attention of the receptionist.
She managed to interrupt the flow of the gym lady long enough to point the old man towards Martin.
He was comfortably into his seventies but upright and slim, like he was reaping the benefits of a life of having taken good care of himself, and around five foot eight tall. His thick greying hair was combed back and he glanced curiously through gold-framed spectacles towards the figure on the sofa for only a moment before limping towards him, slightly lame on his left side. Martin rose to meet him midway. They exchanged tentative smiles and handshakes.
‘I’m Martin. Thanks for coming down to meet me.’
‘Frank. No problem.’ He nodded towards Martin’s bike helmet. ‘I see you’ve cycled here. You must be frozen.’
He had forgotten he still had it on. ‘Yeah. It’s a bit cold but it’s OK once you get going.’
‘They say it’s going to snow next week. This weather’s all over the place, isn’t it? It was like spring a fortnight ago.’
Martin could have responded with something pointed about climate change and global warming but, instead, settled for a more neutral, ‘I know. Crazy.’
They looked at each other slightly awkwardly, neither wanting to extend the small-talk stage but not sure how to move the conversation on, until Frank took the lead.
‘Wendy says you know Evelyn. Is she all right? There’s nothing wrong, I hope.’
Martin screwed up his face, as if he felt a jab of pain.
‘She’s fine, but the thing is,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if you’re the person I’m looking for. The Evelyn I know has the surname Dawes. I was looking for Frank Dawes.’
‘Really?’ Frank winced, the clear light in his brown eyes dimming slightly. ‘That was my Evelyn’s maiden name. She’s gone back to using her maiden name, has she?’ The news seemed to hurt him deeply. ‘We broke up three years ago. We went through a rough time and Evelyn, well, it hit her hard. It hit both of us hard but…’
There were tears in the corners of the old man’s eyes. He was the right man. Martin felt sure enough to want to talk it through properly.
‘Do you think we could sit for a while?’ he said.
Frank shook himself from the soreness of his memories. ‘Sure. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to lead them towards the arcade of shops at the heart of the building. Martin unclipped his helmet to take it off.
‘You know I used to do a lot of cycling, right up to when I was almost seventy,’ Frank announced. ‘I had to give it up when my hip packed in. I’m waiting for a new one.’
They stepped into a large, warm room which curved around the sweeping bar at its core. Well over half the tables and bays were already occupied as couples and groups talked, sipped at drinks or played cards. Gentle music, barely discernible, lingered in the background as if not daring to overstep its boundaries. Frank headed for a small circular table with two chairs.
Barely had Martin unzipped his jacket to put it over the back of his chair than a woman in a black and white checked apron came to their table, poised with notepad and pen.
‘Evening, Frank. What can I get you?’
She was old enough to have been a resident. She most likely was. None of the people Martin had seen so far looked in the slightest ready to give up enjoying a normal life.
‘Just a tea for me please, Gill. Martin?’
He had finished with his jacket and was midway to lowering himself into the chair.
‘I’ll have a tea as well please.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘I don’t suppose you have soya milk, do you?’
The woman glanced over her shoulder as if the answer might be there. ‘I’ll have to check…’
‘It’s OK,’ Martin interrupted. ‘Just black, if not, and no sugar, thanks.’
She smiled, scribbled the order and left them.
‘So, how do you know Evelyn?’ Frank asked.
‘We’re neighbours. She lives in the house opposite mine.’
‘Oh, yes? Where abouts is that?’ Frank leaned forward, his interest keener.
‘Crookes.’
‘Crookes,’ he repeated, adding sadly. ‘We lost touch.’
Martin nodded.
‘But she’s all right, you say. Have you seen her recently?’
‘I see her every day,’ said Martin. ‘She’s been in hospital –‘
‘Hospital!’
‘– but, as I said, she’s fine now and about to be allowed back home. She was hurt in an accident. Nothing too serious.’
Frank’s face was etched with anxious concern. Beyond that, Martin could detect a depth of long-standing regret, stirred again by this unexpected visit and tormenting him again.
‘So, why did she send you to find me? I’ve not heard from her for such a long time and we didn’t part on the best of terms.’
‘Well.’ Martin steeled himself. This had to be said. At least he could see nothing in the man opposite to make him fear a violent reaction. Quite the opposite. He was practically pleading to be told.
‘Mr Elliott, can I –‘
‘Frank. Please.’
‘Can I be fr... Can I speak openly?’
He nodded consent.
‘It’s about your daughter, Tanya.’
‘Tanya?’
‘Mrs Dawes wants to see her again. She says she wants the chance to be able to set all differences aside and be reunited with her daughter.’
‘She said that?’ Frank bowed his head.
‘Look, I don’t know what went on between you and your wife and it’s not my place to judge but I promised I would come to meet you to try to broker some sort of dialogue so that the three of you could maybe offer each other the chance of a fresh start. If you could have seen how upset it made her to talk about –‘
The woman in the black and white checked apron, now carrying a tray, interrupted his flow.
‘We did have some soya milk, love. I’ve put it in this little jug for you,’ she said, transferring everything on the tray to the table.
‘That’s very kind. Thank you,’ said Martin.
Frank said nothing. As the woman turned to leave, he buried his head in his hands. Martin did not feel the need to return to the point he was making. What he had already said was clearly having a profound impact.
‘What did she tell you – about Tanya?’ Frank said at last, his words muffled b
y his hands.
Martin hesitated, not sure what he was being asked to disclose. Was it a test to see how much of their private wrangling he knew about? There was no point being anything other than honest.
‘She told me that when the two of you were splitting up you had said something to your daughter to turn her against her mother. She said Tanya wouldn’t return her calls anymore and that when she went to Tanya’s home there was no reply. She said all she wanted was the chance to put her side of the story and explain that whatever had come between the two of you that…’
‘Tanya died,’ said Frank.
Martin was stilled, stunned.
Frank emerged from behind his hands and raised his head. His eyes were watery.
‘She went on holiday with her new fiancé, Ryan. They went touring in the Caribbean for three weeks. It was the first time she’d had a decent break in years because she was always working so hard but Ryan persuaded her to go and we’d been encouraging her to allow herself to take a holiday for years. Anyway, she went. They were just a perfect couple, her and Ryan, made for each other. He’d done a fair bit of sailing in the past, so one of the things they decided to do was to hire a yacht and get around a few of the smaller islands but something went wrong. The boat went missing. Nothing was seen of it or them again. They just disappeared. Some said they must have been caught in a freak tropical storm. Nothing was ever proved. It’ll be four years ago in September since it happened.’
Martin felt utterly foolish. He had taken Mrs Dawes at her word. He had no reason not to. You wouldn’t just make up something like this, surely?
‘Evelyn was devastated,’ Frank continued. ‘At first, she fought like fury for the authorities to keep searching because she refused to give up on the hope that they might still be found alive, however unlikely everybody told her that was. She and Tanya were so close, it destroyed her to think she had been taken from us and she wouldn’t accept it. I suppose she had some sort of breakdown. She reached the stage where she convinced herself Tanya was still alive and that anybody who told her otherwise was lying to her, like there was a conspiracy to keep them apart. She wouldn’t go to get help from a counsellor or whatever, somebody who could help her deal with everything she was going through, and she especially wouldn’t listen to me. The more I tried to tell her to let go and that she should allow herself to grieve in the normal way, the more I became the enemy. In the end, it broke us.’