Mercy or Mercenary?

by Sheila Parker

  Duncan picked up the phone on the first ring and was startled when a muffled voice said, ‘If you value your life, stop working on Adare’s biography.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Isabel nearly died, Ralph did; it could be your turn next.’

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Duncan, but it was too late. The caller had rung off. Shrugging and thinking it was some silly fool trying to scare him, Duncan reached for his notes on the penultimate chapter and soon became engrossed in his work.

  It was later that afternoon, and Duncan was standing, waiting for the traffic lights to change at a busy crossing, just beyond the Victoria Rooms, when he felt himself being pushed towards the edge of the pavement and the fast-moving traffic. Retaining his balance, he spun round to find a short, white-haired woman gazing up at him. ‘Changed your mind, luv? You don’t want to cross over?’

  A plastic carrier in each hand, it would have been impossible for her to push him and, unaware that people were staring, he lowered his voice: ‘Did you see where the person standing behind me went?’

  ‘No. People were getting impatient, some moving away.’ Then as the lights changed, she asked, ‘Are you going, or staying here?’

  ‘Going.’ As they reached the opposite pavement, Duncan noticed she was looking rather tired and asked, ‘Have you far to go? Can I carry your shopping?’ And when she stared up at him in astonishment, ‘I won’t run off with it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. I only live round the corner,’ and relinquishing the carriers, ‘but they are rather heavy.’ Turning off the main road, away from the noise of the traffic, she asked, ‘Won’t your friend be looking for you?’

  For a moment, Duncan was at a loss, then remembering his original question he quickly fabricated, ‘We didn’t have a definite arrangement. He probably changed his mind.’

  ‘There were several people in front of me, and being rather short, I couldn’t see who was directly behind you.’ And, in the next breath, ‘Ah, here we are.’ Stopping outside a tall grey-stone house, Duncan’s companion gazed up at him again. ‘I recognise you. You’ve been on television, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, but you may have seen my photograph on the cover of one of my books.’

  ‘That’s it, you’re Duncan Sinclair! You write those lovely historical novels. I’ve read every one and thoroughly enjoyed them. And to think that you have carried my shopping home for me. By the way, my name is Eunice Cole. Can I offer you a cup of tea?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but no, thank you.’

  Duncan waited until Eunice had unlocked the front door, then the door into what was obviously the ground floor flat, handed over her carriers and as he walked down the path could hear her saying, ‘Well, fancy that! Meeting someone famous – my friends will be jealous.’

  When Detective Inspector Kershaw had first met Marina, he had been interested to learn about her work as an air courier but now, late Friday afternoon, he groaned with frustration. This was not team work, so there had been no colleagues to question.

  At the same time, Detective Sergeant Small had spoken to the personnel officer of the travel agents for whom Marina had worked. Although this had been six years ago, Tom learnt that Marina had been an excellent courier, always cheerful and courteous to the holiday-makers and capable of dealing with emergencies. She was also knowledgeable about the culture, customs, food and wines of the countries to be visited. Unfortunately, there were only two couriers who had known her still working for the company; they were on tour until Sunday evening and would both be available on Monday.

  Marina’s date of birth had been given by both companies and this had immediately been passed on to the constable at the registry office, but there had been no record of her birth having been registered there which meant that it would be necessary to check at St Catherine’s.

  However, by midday Saturday, Kershaw and Tom were amazed to learn that Marina was Ralph McGuire’s daughter! She had been born in a London hospital and her mother, Felicity Bushell, had given Ralph’s name as the father. ‘Unless her mother told her when she was younger, she must have known that ever since she applied for her own passport,’ said Tom.

  ‘We know Ralph has not seen any visitors for the last two years; however, I wonder if she ever tried to see him before his condition deteriorated – she’s been in Bristol for six years,’ said Kershaw.

  ‘And if her mother did tell her, Marina has known that he was her father for some time. It’s possible that her mother, or even maternal grandparents, blackened Ralph’s name to the extent that she didn’t want to know him,’ offered Tom.

  Kershaw studied the photograph of Ralph McGuire on the back of his latest biography. It had obviously been taken several years ago, and he considered that McGuire had not been good-looking. A high forehead lengthened his already long and heavy face, bushy eyebrows drooped over deep-set eyes while a prominent nose emphasised thin lips. There was certainly no family resemblance between him and Elspeth, who was a very attractive woman.

  ‘The news that Ralph had an illegitimate daughter will be a nasty shock for Isabel and Elspeth.’

  Tom’s voice broke into Kershaw’s thoughts who, in spite of this, said, ‘It’s not for us to tell them.’

  14

  ‘Are you hurt? Would you like to lean on me?’ Duncan was grateful for a shoulder to lean on and winced as he put his foot to the ground.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be fine in a moment.’

  Duncan glanced at the broad-shouldered young man who had grabbed and pulled him back from the constant stream of traffic that was coming up Whiteladies Road. Again, he had felt a hand pushing him forward and was surprised when his rescuer said, ‘I saw an arm reaching out, the gloved fingers pressing against your back,’ and, indicating a nearby tea shop, ‘would you like a cup of tea? Or shall I accompany you home?’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ said Duncan, then noting the concerned expression, relented, ‘yes, let’s have a cup of tea.’

  Surprised at such courtesy from a complete stranger, Duncan was even more surprised when a waitress greeted his companion, ‘Hullo, Sergeant, still hungry? What would your friend like?’

  Tea and toasted teacakes ordered, Duncan looked at the young man sat opposite him and asked curiously, ‘Are you in the habit of rescuing careless pedestrians?’

  ‘That was deliberate. I’m just sorry that I didn’t go after the person who pushed you.’ After exchanging names, Duncan watched as Norman poured the tea and found himself recounting what had happened on Friday and the phone call.

  ‘Sounds as though someone’s got it in for you. Have you any enemies, or could they be jealous of your literary success?’ Norman licked the butter off his fingers and grinned at Duncan’s expression. ‘I recognised your name. My mother’s an avid reader and a great fan of yours. She’s read all your books.’ And before Duncan could reply, ‘Have you had any more phone calls?’ and still with apparent concern, ‘I only just grabbed you in time. Do who know who the caller was?’

  ‘No, the voice was muffled,’ and in reply to Norman’s next query, ‘It must be someone who knows that I’m working with Isabel McGuire.’

  ‘And followed you when you finished work.’

  Although Norman said he only had a fleeting glimpse of someone pushing their way through the crowded pavement on the opposite side of the road, Duncan thought the young sergeant had probably noted some detail and volunteered, ‘Eunice Cole said she was too short to see who pushed me on Friday.’

  Norman knew that this had happened at a busy crossing near the Victoria Rooms and now learnt that Duncan had accompanied Eunice home, and made a note of her address. Then, looking up, he enquired, ‘How is Mrs McGuire coping?’

  ‘Very well, considering everything that’s happened, which you probably know, especially if you’re on Inspector Kershaw’s team.’

 
‘Although her husband’s condition was deteriorating, it must have been very distressing that he died under such suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, the mysterious visitor has yet to be identified. However, I mustn’t detain you.’

  Duncan reached for his wallet but Norman forestalled him. ‘Please, let me do this.’ And as they reached the pavement, ‘How’s your ankle? Would you like a lift home?’

  ‘No, thanks; it’s feeling much better, but give me your mother’s address and I’ll send her a copy of my latest book.’

  Ten minutes later, Norman replaced his mobile in his jacket pocket and fastened his seat belt. Chief Inspector Kershaw had been surprised and somewhat alarmed to learn about Duncan Sinclair and requested that Norman, although off-duty, should come in to give him a more detailed report of what had happened.

  ‘What have you done to your leg?’ asked Isabel as Duncan limped across the study and sat down.

  ‘I slipped off the pavement on my way home yesterday afternoon, but it’s nothing serious.’

  It was some time later that morning. Isabel was in the kitchen making coffee, so Duncan answered the phone and was startled to hear the familiar but muffled voice again: ‘You’re still alive, pity! Why don’t you pay attention to what I’m saying? If you don’t stop working on that stupid biography you won’t be so lucky next time.’

  ‘Why are you doing this? Who are you?’

  Duncan was still holding the receiver. The caller had rung off abruptly as before, when Isabel’s voice startled him. ‘I don’t want to be inquisitive but what’s happening? Who was that awful person?’

  Seeing her pale face and that her hands were shaking, Duncan stood up quickly and took the tray from her. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘You can tell me to mind my own business,’ said Isabel, sitting down, ‘Are you being threatened?’

  ‘Is that why you’re limping?’ This came from Elspeth who was standing in the doorway holding a mug of coffee.

  Duncan groaned with exasperation. ‘You’ve enough worries without bothering about me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ retorted Elspeth and Isabel together and the latter continued, ‘What’s been happening?’

  Elspeth moved further into the study and leant against Isabel’s desk, sipping her coffee as Duncan recounted the incidents that had occurred on Friday and the previous evening, and his encounter with Norman, the young off-duty sergeant who, as far as he could see, wouldn’t inform Inspector Kershaw.

  ‘But the inspector should know!’ exclaimed Isabel while Elspeth said, ‘Whoever it is knows about everything that has happened – Ralph, Isabel, and certainly doesn’t want the biography to be completed.’

  ‘But why? What is this person going to gain if we don’t complete? As we said before, Leo will find someone else to work on it,’ and without pausing for breath, Isabel told Duncan, ‘phone Kershaw.’

  After complaining that he didn’t want to waste the inspector’s time, Duncan duly did as he was told, then, replacing the receiver, he said, ‘The inspector will be here early this afternoon and also wants to see both of you.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the caller is and why he’s so adamant about Adare’s biography?’

  ‘No.’ Duncan was grateful that Kershaw had listened without interruption and resumed, ‘I’m not sure it’s a man. The voice is muffled and, although I’m quite capable of defending myself, definitely menacing. Whoever it is is very determined.’

  Kershaw had been annoyed that in rescuing Duncan the young sergeant was unable to chase the offender and he now asked, ‘Did you notice anything particular about any of the pedestrians waiting to cross?’

  ‘There was a young couple standing next to me, but I didn’t turn round to see who was behind. I didn’t think there would be another attempt to push me off the pavement, and I was certainly very grateful to your sergeant.’

  Kershaw nodded, well aware that Norman was a keen, observant officer but, as Duncan now knew him, not the man to ensure Duncan arrived safely at the McGuire household every morning, or his flat every afternoon. As he stood up, it occurred to Kershaw that Duncan had not been present when he questioned Isabel and Elspeth about Ralph as a young man and he now asked, ‘Can you remember any of Ralph’s girlfriends? Did he ever have any serious relationships?’

  ‘I’m sorry; I can’t help you in that respect, Inspector. I’ve never heard of Ralph’s friendship with a young woman. As you probably gathered from his colleagues who attended his funeral, he was an ascetic, scholarly type and they, like myself, were very surprised when he married Isabel. I’m sure they would agree with me that his increased success, since his marriage, was due to her ability and hard work.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sinclair. You’ve been most helpful,’ and as he stood up, Kershaw asked, ‘is it convenient for me to see Isabel and Elspeth?’

  ‘Yes, they’re in the lounge.’

  As he drove back to the station some fifteen minutes later, Kershaw considered it was a pity that, once again, neither Isabel nor Elspeth had been able to help him regarding Ralph’s younger days.

  His thoughts then turned to Marina and the little he knew about her. He had learnt that she had been a good worker while employed by the travel company but always short of money and envious of other people’s good fortune. This information had been supplied by the two young women who had known her and still worked for the same company. He now wondered about Marina’s present financial position.

  Marina walked across the Downs towards the sea wall, angry and frustrated. Although it was a sunny and warm afternoon, she thrust her hands deeper into the trousers of a drab grey tracksuit and muttered to herself. She had been surprised when Duncan Sinclair answered the phone and spent the remainder of the morning wondering how he had escaped the heavy traffic thundering up Whiteladies Road. She had again turned and pushed her way through the crowd about to cross the road and quickly mingled with office workers and shoppers heading towards Blackboy Hill.

  Marina’s thoughts went back to the dinner party, when she had been jealous that Duncan should be so attentive to Isabel, who was also younger than she had expected. Even now, she recalled her anger that while no mention was made of Ralph or the biography, Isabel appeared to enjoy herself. Marina took a bar of chocolate from her pocket, broke off four squares and thrust the remainder back, remembering her visit to Ralph McGuire.

  She had been eleven years old when she learnt that he was her father and had been preparing to spend part of the summer holiday in France with a school friend. This information had come as a great surprise. Until then, she had always thought that her father was dead, which was what she had been told. There were no photographs, and neither her mother nor grandparents had ever spoken about him. This continued, and any questions she asked about him were ignored and there was no suggestion that she should meet him and she had often wondered why her mother had bothered to tell her his name. She was fifteen when she heard two teachers talking about a new book, a biography written by Ralph McGuire, and was immediately curious about this and the man who had written it. What kind of person could ignore his own daughter? There had never been any birthday or Christmas cards from him, and she had again wondered, as she had done on many occasions, if he knew of her existence.

  Years later, after she had met and was living with Kieran, she thought it was a coincidence that Ralph, her father, should be writing the biography on Kieran’s uncle, Leo Adare. She knew that Leo had neglected his sister and nephew at a time when they were in need of help and was not surprised that Kieran did not approve of the biography.

  The telephone directory had provided Ralph’s address and she had easily found the large house when exploring the Clifton area. On the day in question, she had brushed past Joanna, who she knew was Ralph’s niece and head receptionist at the same hotel as Kieran, and hurried up the stairs. She could clearly remember her reaction and what
had happened during her brief visit…

  Ralph had been leaning against propped-up pillows, his face drawn and haggard – the photograph that appeared on the dust cover of his latest biography had obviously been taken some time ago. The eyes that gazed at her were dull, the thick eyebrows and nose more prominent. My God! He’s my father but looks older than my grandfather did, thought Marina. The faded eyes peered at her curiously, the thin lips moved but there was no sound. A bony finger pointed at her when it suddenly occurred to her that he wanted to know who she was.

  Her words, ‘I’m Marina, your daughter’ were forced, then in a rush, ‘I’m twenty-seven and my mother was Felicity Bushell.’ Marina watched, mesmerised, as with harsh grunts and vague gestures, Ralph indicated that she should remove the hat, scarf and coat. Discarding these garments so that they fell across the white bedspread, Marina stood for a moment, tall and slim in black t-shirt and trousers, still finding it difficult to believe that the man in bed was her father.

  He opened his mouth, his thin lips almost invisible, but still no sound came forth and his features distorted with frustration as he pointed to the empty glass and bottle on his bedside table, and the door leading to the bathroom. Pouring some lemon barley into the glass, Marina then crossed the bedroom, pushed the door open, at the same time thinking, how awful! He could go on like this, probably get worse, for weeks or longer. She remained in the bathroom a moment longer and then flushed the toilet.