"Scott North?"
"That's me," was the slightly indifferent and uninterested reply. "Can I help you?" said the builder, still studying his awkward door but giving a split second to note a stranger standing in the hall wearing white shorts and a safety reflector band over his dark track-suit top. In those initial seconds of reunion Simeon Hogg made a number of interested observations. He was looking at a man who was exactly his own size. In 1960 everybody looked up at Scott North the tallest lad at Howitt. Yet it was recalled that Dobba, Scott, Danny and Brian Forrester were all born within days of each other. The voice was a surprise. It still had its confidence, it was still rich, deep, with the same slight lilt of John Wayne, but, on the evidence of one word alone, appeared to have lost some of the local vernacular. Scott sounded the 'h' in 'help' which was as odd as seeing Danny get out of an expensive car. On arriving in the United States, the young Simeon Hogg with his thick Derbyshire accent found that he had to learn to sound his H's very quickly when listeners thought he was referring to his bottom, when in fact, he was speaking of his house - not his 'ass'.
Then there was the face. The face of 1960 had been beautiful, indeed, had been stunning. Here was the face of a stranger who could not be recognised. The Scott North of 2003 could have passed him in the street with hardly a first look, let alone the second. The effect was mutual. Mr North showed little interest in his visitor and no signs of recognition. Truth to be told, had Simeon not been expecting Danny at Bog Hole, would he have recognised Danny? But Danny was no Scott and a face which was once greatly alluring - has a long way to fall.
"You can help me, Mr North. Just a few moments of your time? I'd appreciate it."
Somewhat unwillingly, he left the problematic door and motioned that they be seated in the kitchen. Outside, the notice proclaimed that the property was 'For Sale' and Scott North had learned many years before never to despise any potential customer, even if they turned up on a push-bike. The Adonis had gone, but the firm body which swung around to be seated had been respected and well exercised by a lifetime of hard physical work. Any 58 year old would have been grateful for such a body. Even so, Simeon was doubtful that the former champion athlete would still be able to jump over the standing squat little history mistress, Mrs Buxcey, as was enthusiastically claimed by his supporters at that time.
Face to face, Simeon was now able to discern traces of the familiar countenance he had so admired four decades before. Again, it had to be said that any man pushing 60 would be happy with this face which any woman would have considered handsome, possibly very handsome.
"Like it?"
"Very impressive, Mr North. As it happens, I'm looking for such a house, but I was hoping to live up in The Peak - out in the wilds."
"You'll pay a pretty penny for that! Not that I can reduce the asking price on this one. Not the best time for buyers at the moment - it's a sellers market. Can I show you around?"
"Sorry, but I've not really come to buy ... Haven't we met before?"
Mr North was now becoming bored with the conversation and keen to return to work. A great deal of interest had been shown in this executive residence in a much sought after location with excellent views over to Shipley Park. It was a busy day. Many niggles had to be sorted out, not least the landscape gardener who was more than a week overdue. He rose, gave the cyclist a cursory glance -
"I don't think so. You'll have to excuse me ... "
"Do you know, I'm certain that we've met. My name is Dobba."
Scott North stood very still studying his visitor. Seconds passed. The serious business-like look gradually, very gradually softened to a half smile of wonderment.
"Dobba." It was a whisper - and then, falling into his native dialect with a familiar full beaming smile - "Wot ya done we ya pimples?"
They sat down and they laughed, they laughed until they nearly cried. The exchange took similar amusing twists and turns around their personal history and the geography of William Howitt Secondary Modern School as it did with Danny just 24 hours before. Scott demanded his favourite - a personal performance of Dobba's raving, boggle-eyed, half-mad hermit, who would leap out at them anywhere in the playground without warning -
"Repent! Here me, ye vile lusting lascivious sinners!"
As the anecdotes continued to fly, two large mugs of tea were brewed up. Jollity subsided into nostalgia and nostalgia subsided into sadness for a time and a world lost, a world they both knew and loved.
The conversation turned to the appalling standards of modern youth, contempt for authority, disrespect, vandalism and obscene language. Scott was reminded about the time when Dobba had occasion to visit Mrs Cook in her room about half an hour after school. He was surprised to see a chastened and humbled Scott North emerge from her small stockroom holding a tray of jars containing paints and brushes -
"Where do I put these, Miss?"
Her face hardened before delivering a firm answer. Dobba's friend was clearly under punishment. A small incident in the annals of time, yet that image of a relatively tough lad, obedient and compliant in those few moments, came to have a great meaning in the light of future experiences in the teaching career of Mr Hogg. Even though Scott towered over the little old teacher, it would never had entered his head to refuse orders, be difficult, remonstrate or threaten to go home. Dobba's appearance did not trigger any silly or foolish behaviour. Having reason to impose the detention, Mrs Cook would not have hesitated to punish the mighty Scott North - possibly the most feared boy in the school. Mrs Cook was a teacher and in 1960, teachers were obeyed without question.
At a point in this retrospective binge, the recent conjectures of Gary Mackenzie came to mind and Simeon tried (and failed) to visualise the young Scott North as a pimp and co-conspirator to murder. The gleaming new expensive BSA 'Golden Wings' 10 speed racer was mentioned, but Simeon felt unable to find a suitable form of words to suggest that a paper round alone could never have financed such a fine bicycle; consequently, the question remained unasked and unanswered.
Several times Simeon was severely distracted by one of the boys, tittilatingly attired in tight jeans and tee shirt, passing by conscientiously attending to his duty. Since Scott was seen to note his interest, Simeon felt obliged to make a suitable and, hopefully disarming comment -
"Your sons must be a great help in the family firm."
"Grandsons!"
That was a shock! How could he ever be a grandfather? The two terms 'grandfather' and 'Scott' seemed to Simeon to be totally incompatible. 'Grandfather' was more the image of Uncle Wilfred. 'Scott' had always been associated with 'young', 'modern and stylish'. But then, what could possibly be more modern, contemporary and bang up to date as 1959 with its bright colours and bold patterns? What could be more modern than the sleek image-conscious Scott North, the envy of Howitt who sported his new 'backsweep' or his 'bop' or, perhaps the next day - his 'bebop'?
A little later, one of the lads entered the kitchen, politely apologised to the men in deep conference and quickly removed a set of tools from a top cupboard. Again there was distraction. Simeon twisted his neck for a full view of this brief operation and ogled the hunk until he was completely out of the room. When those eyes had returned to the man opposite (who had been in full flow speaking of a memorable football match) they found that man silent, meditative and appraising. Scott asked a question -
"Did you ever get married, Dobba?"
Following a short moment of mutual reflection, curiosity on the one side and acute embarrassment on the other, both faces dissolved into, first smiles and then broke out into loud laughter. It was a comfortable laughter, the laughter of long past friends which is forgiving and eases tension. Scott North had a shrewd intelligence, but in this instance, he did not need to be all that shrewd - or intelligent. In the midst of such mirth born out of unspoken understanding, Simeon felt that the old chemistry had been re-activated, re-established between Scott and Dobba. At that instant questions flashed through his mind - was this
then, the secret of Howitt? Was that particular chemistry, he had just felt, part of the magic, the secret of his past happiness? Was it something to do with the sheer humanity, common decency and tolerance of this man who was once the King of the School?
Inevitably, the subject came round to the very last time they saw each other and to the friend they never saw again. They exchanged ideas. Simeon outlined his suspicions about a possible paedophile ring -
"You mean somebody fancying Brian Forrester! You've got to be joking!"
The one time 'Cock of the School' was highly amused. They moved on to loss of memory. Many years before Scott did some research on the subject -
"There's something to be said for these new cycling helmets, if Brian Forrester got clobbered with a severe head injury, he'd get what they call 'post-traumatic amnesia' causing 'a complete loss of identity', but even that rarely lasts more than a few weeks."
"I really must get a helmet - hate the thought of it though. 'A complete loss of identity' ... " mused Simeon.
"Apparently ... " continued Scott, " ... there are other psychological angles. You can get folks with a hidden motive who (granted subconsciously) use an accident as an excuse to leave their past behind them, you know, making a fresh start."
Scott, staring at his empty mug, was gently turning it with thumb and forefinger. Absently, Simeon was enjoying the distant view through the large patio windows. His eyes rested on a cluster of giant beech trees, green and brown, just breaking out into leaf, which surmounted an attractive green hill. This was the former site of the long demolished splendid Shipley Hall, home to the mighty Mundy family who once owned all of Heanor and most of the population. Scott was still speaking and took his guest by surprise -
"How well did you think you knew Brian Forrester, Dobba?"
"Oh! Well ... How well can any 15 year old know another one? He was a joker. Gentle chaffs and gibes: he'd wind me up a bit. No harm in him but, well ... not really like Danny."
"No. Not like Danny. Not many as good as Danny - completely frank and inoffensive. Good old Danny."
"Do you think Brian's dead, Scott?"
"No, Dobba, I don't. Did you know that most people who vanish into thin air do so because they actually want to disappear?"
"In that case he'll be the very Devil to find!"
"That's if he wants to be found. I shouldn't look too deeply into the past, Dobba, if I were you - it could be a dangerous past."
"Dangerous to who?"
"Dangerous to us all."
On that cryptic note, Scott North took the two empty mugs over to the sink and rinsed them. He turned to the man who was once known as Dobba, smiled, and spoke to him in his native tongue -
"It's bin a long time ant it, Dobba? But it's bin rate grand seein' ya again. Ad better get on."
They walked out of the house and along the drive to the bicycle. A sound of hammering caused Simeon to, yet again, observe the two young men precariously perched on top of their separate ladders doing something to barge-boards. Scott was amused -
"Should have introduced ya to me grandsons, Dobba."
"Just as well ya didn't," laughed Simeon. "They're probably safer where they are. So long, old friend. Look after yourself."
On the road there was indecision, but, on the spur of the moment Simeon, in nostalgic mood, made a decision. He continued north-east towards Heanor, down the hill, past the site of the old laundry, pushing himself up the final hill to descend into the rough old mining town. As in the days of Dobba, it was now a free ride. Gravity speeded him down still further into the nostalgic east gate of the one time William Howitt Secondary Modern School. There it was, unchanged for half a century, a lovely leafy glade enclosed by the mighty lime tree and an equally splendid copper beech. He wheeled his bike past the old canteen up to the hallowed location of Mrs Cook's prefabricated glassy classroom. An emotional moment for this man who stopped, stood silently and reverently gazed at the site of the happiest years of his life. It was late afternoon, the place was silent and deserted.
He approached and entered. For Simeon Hogg this classroom was a shrine. This classroom was all that was left of Mrs Cook. Now long dead, she existed only in the minds of those who remembered her. He felt the need to pay homage, to grieve for the Lady and the long lost time. He sat in the place where he used to sit and looked around at the approximate places of his friends. He looked over to Titch's place. Poor Titch. He would never see him as an adult and never be able to ask him about the lost lad. The room seemed smaller than he remembered, a room which was once filled with the powerful laugh and personality of Rex Lloyd. Simeon day-dreamed and indulged in dramatic reconstructions of jolly times. He heard the on-going circus, their lively voices, the endless censures of Mrs Cook and recalled the Ghost of Christmas Past telling Scrooge -
"These are but the shadows of things which have been. They cannot see us. They do not know we are here."
Simeon Hogg left that special place and spoke a silent 'goodbye' to his good friends and the Lady who had given him back his self respect and made it possible for him to become a teacher.
Chapter 30
The Thoughts of Simeon
It was now the last day of April. In spite of warnings and a horror of unpleasantness, Simeon Hogg, armed with his Sheet 19 1:50,000 Ordnance Survey map, was motoring north-bound on the A6 en-route to find the elusive and remote Cressbrook Hall and its even more remote and elusive master - Charles Hardman. A small part of his mind instinctively and mechanically attended to driving the car, the larger part was in a whirl of re-capitulation of facts, theories, opinions and prejudices.
He had his own memories which were based on his own knowledge of the five friends. Gary Mackenzie's thoughts had been abhorrent, yet Simeon was forced to own their logic. Scott was a magnificent specimen in 1960 and he may well have been approached and tempted by men with money, but that was more of a Detroit, rather than a Heanor view. Detective Inspector Derek Russell had laid before him an impartial narrative outline, a sequence of events which included consideration of his five principal suspects - Algernon Hardman, Simon Tonks, Adolphus Coggan, Jasper Wormall and Toby Piggs.
Hardman seemed to be the favourite. He was repressed, cold, remote and had just suffered a personal disaster. Simeon was far from convinced, but as a 'whodunit' enthusiast, he tried to curb his natural tendency to eliminate the most obvious candidate and, at the same time, tried to keep a grip on the simple fact that there was 'not a scrap of evidence' against Hardman.
The complete antidote to Dr Hardman was his funny little servant, Simon, a popular little queen who appeared to be exonerated by popular opinion. Yet it was Simon Tonks who said that Brian Forrester was alive and well, far away, happily enjoying his new life. He had said that just before Christmas, 1960, in the 'cycle seance' and also on Radio Derby just two days ago. Simon had a reputation for talking a lot of nonsense but at least he was consistent. Russell had warned that "Simon is no fool." Simple Simon or clever Simon?
There was no evidence against Dolly the gardener: funny little fat Dolly of the silken silver tongue. If paedophilia were afoot, then here was a reasonable probability: an enterprising rotundity who enjoyed delivering a service - but it was all speculation, no evidence. Indeed, Dolly had offered practical suggestions: a disoriented Brian may have wandered into the woods ... he could have fallen down a hole ... the police cannot look everywhere. Simeon supposed that his friend's skeleton may well have lain for years in deep nettles and weeds.
Evidence. There was evidence, the only solid evidence in the whole business to link the alleged abduction of Brian Forrester with one suspect, a very likely suspect: the hideous little goblin who lived in a crooked cottage under a writhing blackness of cawing crows.
"Perhaps in real life we should make the obvious connection between Jasper Wormall and the bicycle he was trying to hide. An ugly old queen: isn't he exactly the type to be a chicken hawk, the type who might try it on?" continued the thoughts of Simeon, half n
oting a sign proclaiming Matlock Bath. He visualised a dazed and injured Brian Forrester, picking himself up, staggering into the woods, collapsing into unconsciousness and coming to with no memory. He mounts his bike and instinctively pedals off in the direction of Heanor, but somehow ends up in a little wooded nook of Belper - entirely possible. A kindly old man would promise to find out who he was and get him back home. There would be hospitality, tea and cakes, followed by a squeaky voice saying -
"Shall ya 'ave a rest on t' bed. Let me tek ya britches off. Ooo that's a nasty scrape! Let me joost ... "
At some point a reaction of sheer horror to the smile which had now become a leer and the kindly intentions which had become lewd and lascivious. Who knows what followed? Panic? Violence? Russell admitted that the Belper search had been intensive rather than extensive. Lots of woodland around Belper: Belper with its flowing river ...
"Hang it on the fags." is what Gary had said. Perhaps Simeon himself was falling into this homophobic trap. Detective Sergeant John Winter had said Brian's bicycle had been 'planted', but by whom? Guzzly Granddad was keen on young boys and they liked Guzzly Granddad. Perhaps they would do anything for him. Perhaps one of them would ride a bike from Derby to Belper and park it outside the cottage of Granddad's sworn enemy - entirely possible. These 'Granddad boys' were well treated. By all accounts there was a close camaraderie in that version of 'Fagin's kitchen' where beer and fags were freely available to any boy who kept Granddad supplied with his 'daily mouth-full of vitamins'. Would such loyalty extend to covering up murder - if murder it was? Did Brian Forrester, once having been 'initiated', eventually find himself at some other sleazy residence and become a 'street boy' in some other city? Guzzly Granddad's boys have now all grown up into men. They could be anywhere.
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