The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  He closed his eyes and his mother’s face swam into the space he had just created. It suddenly felt as if she were there with him. In his mind he could hear the low melodic tones of her violin, the bow caressing the strings as she smiled at him; the lark was ascending with each careful note and he felt wrapped and enveloped within the security of the fine, misty image; a mother’s love. It was in this state of peace that he thought he heard her whisper the words, Thank you, Cyril, thank you. We are now together.

  Suddenly confused, he quickly opened his eyes as if to grasp a semblance of reality. He felt a warm tear run from his eye before catching it on his cheek with his finger. “Don’t be a bloody fool, man!” he admonished himself before slipping from the bed and moving to the window. Julie stirred a little but immediately settled again. Parting the curtains, he allowed the morning brightness to stab his wet eyes. If Julie were to wake, at least he would have an excuse for the tears.

  He looked out across the garden. It was as if he had never been away; it seemed the same, so familiar, the place he had spent his formative years. The time rolled back and in his mind’s eye he could see himself, a small boy again, throwing the newly made balsa wood model aircraft with great enthusiasm, watching it take flight, lift, twist, soar and turn before slowly coming in to land. Cyril smiled at this memory.

  Out of nowhere, a figure moved into his peripheral vision, causing the phantom child to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. It was Wendy, his stepmother. How frail she seemed as she carried a small cutting-board of broken bread for the birds. He watched her scrape it onto the bird-table. Smiling, he noticed the birds begin to mass immediately within the outer hedges of the garden; their calls seemed clearly audible for the first time, a morning ritual.

  She had been brave at the funeral. Cyril was amazed that she had chosen to read the eulogy, an emotionally demanding task for any loved one. Standing proudly at the lectern, she had been in control and for her diminutive size, imposing. He was also surprised that she had mentioned sincerely his mother throughout her delivery; the warm words paid homage, celebrating the lives of both her husband and her dear friend and his first wife. She clearly loved them in equal measure. How difficult for her that must have been, how dignified she was.

  Cyril’s respect for her had grown over the days they had been together but it was that moment in the packed church when he realised what a wonderful human being she truly was. The years of resentment were immediately replaced with a deep respect and in some ways he felt a pang of regret that he had not really given her a chance to be closer to him, to be his surrogate mother in his early years.

  Swallowing his distress, he watched her retrace her steps and disappear inside. Lifting his eyes beyond the surrounding hedges, he followed the rise of the land across the fields towards the silhouetted copse of oak that lined the morning-fresh horizon. It brought a degree of comfort. Relieved, he smiled. If he had a pound for every time he had played in its hidden darkness he would be a wealthy man. His eyes then caught the fine straight line of a jet’s vapour trail bringing him clearly back to the present.

  “Is it fine or wet?” Julie’s mumbling emerged from beneath the sheets.

  “It’s fine, the same as yesterday. I’ll bring you some tea.”

  She released a hand from the covers and waved her approval. Cyril moved back to the bed, leaned over and kissed her forehead before grabbing a dressing gown and going downstairs.

  The blue Jaguar had been in the Harrogate multi-storey car park for twenty-one hours and would have been there longer had it not been for a driver scraping the rear bumper during a clumsy reversing manoeuvre. She could never reverse into gaps so why she had done so she would never know, but could only berate herself for trying. If her morning had started badly it was only going to get much worse.

  She had approached the car to place a note under the wiper-blade giving her contact details and an apology for her carelessness. What confronted her as she looked through the windscreen shocked and startled her more than the accident itself. Her scream pierced the relative silence as it echoed through the stark concrete building before finally rallying two members of the public to her assistance. Within twenty minutes, it had also brought the police.

  The kitchen was warm and the smell of baking bread was welcoming. Wendy was sitting at the large table, writing. She stopped and lifted her head as Cyril entered. A smile, as welcome as the bread’s aroma, flashed across her face. Cyril raised his hand and returned the smile.

  “Good morning, Cyril, I trust you slept well?” she asked as she replaced the top on her fountain pen and stood. “I’ll make some tea, the bread will be ready soon. Your father loved the smell of boiled eggs and fresh, warm bread soldiers.” She sounded quite carefree but her eyes spoke a different language and Cyril was quick to interpret the depth of her sadness.

  As she moved away, Cyril glanced at the book. The beautiful, blue handwriting seemed to flow in regimental rows across the page. He immediately spotted his name within the sentences; it seemed to be some kind of diary. Wendy glanced up and could sense his curiosity.

  “I write to her every day, it’s to your mother and now your father too. When your mother died, I promised myself to have a daily chat with her just as we did when she was alive. It was usually about your father or about the house, the news and the ever-changing world. I’d write about concerts and films and what we’d been doing. When I heard any news of you I’d tell her. There’s a book for each year she’s been gone.”

  Cyril, feeling himself blush slightly, immediately looked away from the diary and focussed on Wendy as she busied herself making the tea.

  “I’ve told your mother about the funeral and how your father was so pleased that you’d come to see him before he passed away. You’ll never know just how much pleasure I felt telling her about those precious moments, how much it meant to your father. Sadly, Cyril, neither of us will understand what it would have meant to your mother.” Wendy moved across the kitchen and put her hand on his shoulder. “What I do know is that God is good and that one day we shall all meet again.” She paused and went to close the diary. “When I die, these books, my private conversations with your parents, will be yours to do with as you see fit.” She turned and smiled. “But until then, my ramblings must stay with me.”

  She brought the tray and placed it on the table. “There’s one for Julie. You take it to her. I’ll put the cosy on the pot so you can pour yours when you come down. I know you like it strong.”

  3

  The blue and white police tape fluttered lazily across the entrance to Tower Street car park, a sixties concrete monstrosity that could only be politely referred to as an architectural blot on Harrogate’s elegant Edwardian stone buildings. A degree of traffic confusion had been created by the discovery of the body as regular users of the car park were turned away. Most of those already parked would not need their cars for an hour or more but additional police had been drafted in to keep the traffic flowing and sightseers away.

  Owen leaned against one of the concrete columns, his fingers dancing on the keypad of his phone. He made a few further notes and then tucked it into his inside pocket as the Crime Scene Manager approached.

  “One dead, no suspicious circumstances from first inspection but...” The CSM shrugged. “The car doors were unlocked and left open, can you believe? Not fully, ajar like. Laptop and phone are in the car. According to one of the lads the key might well be in his pocket, does everything for you, the Jag… keyless entry. It’s one of the flash sporty type cars. No room in it at all and so if you’re not interested in going fast it’s bloody useless, if you ask me!”

  Owen immediately thought of Cyril when he heard the word Flash. It had been Cyril Bennett’s nickname ever since he had known him but very few brave souls would say it to his face. Many thought he had been given the sobriquet because of his love of smart clothing but they were wrong. He was originally given the cognomen, Gordon, after the nineteenth century publishing m
agnate, James Gordon Bennett. Someone thinking Gordon was his real name called him Flash Gordon and it had simply stayed with him.

  “The lad thinks all those electronics can be a nightmare if they go wrong; he’s a bit of a petrol head, see? The guy in the car probably had a heart attack after having to fill the bloody thing with petrol.” He chuckled to himself as if realising that he might have made a joke but it was short-lived. Owen’s facial expression never altered.

  “Who’s attending?”

  “Caner.”

  Dr Isaac Caner was one of four Home Office pathologists designated to the north east. There would have been a day when the thought of meeting Caner at a crime scene would have brought a sinking feeling to Owen’s stomach, but over the course of time they had warmed to each other; Owen knew that Caner certainly was impressed by his ability to stomach an autopsy.

  Owen grunted. “May I?” He pointed in the direction of the car.

  The CSM simply smiled again and lifted the tape offering the pad for Owen to sign himself into the sealed area.

  As Owen walked up the incline to the next level and approached the second row of police tape, he noticed a white Suzuki Swift parked away from the Jaguar. The repeated flash from the camera accompanied by the echoes from the passing traffic and the chattering of voices created a strange ambience within the close confines of the car park, not enhanced by the slight but distinct whiff of stale urine. There seemed to be a chill, even on this warm morning. The damage to both cars was evident. Caner was clearing items into his case while his assistant continued to take more photographs. The driver’s door was still gaping and Owen could see the occupant’s legs.

  It took a moment for Dr Caner to spot Owen. “Morning, Owen, still lurking in the shadows? Didn’t think this would be Cyril’s bagatelle even though he just lives round the corner.”

  “He’s away, father’s funeral. Died a week ago. Cyril’s had to travel to Nantwich. Surprisingly, that’s where the family home is and that’s where he was born. I always thought he was from this neck of the woods but apparently not.” He shook his head emphasising his disbelief. “You work with someone all this time and you still don’t know everything about them.”

  Caner looked at Owen, his facial expression saying everything. “Cheshire? Bloody hell! Thought he was carved from Yorkshire grit stone and his features were weathered by the four winds and the driving rain. Always did play his cards close to his chest. Still, waters certainly run deep within Bennett.”

  Owen chuckled. “Might be from a different county but he still has all the traits of a Yorkshireman; bloody short arms and deep pockets and as you know, he certainly calls a spade a spade. True there is a real depth to his character.”

  “Not too good in an autopsy, Owen, whereas you my lad… ” He smiled before turning to point at the Jag. “Our man here’s been dead for about twelve hours but I’ll give you a more accurate time of death once he’s back on the slab.”

  “What do you guess to be the cause of death?”

  “No sign of any visible injuries and, Owen, a word to the wise, we never guess.” He exaggerated the word elongating the sibilant. “So, in answer to your question, my professional judgement right at this minute would be natural causes. If that checks after examination I’ll file my report with the coroner.”

  “David Stephens is the owner of the Jag according to the DVLA, not had it long either, poor bugger. Fifty-six and lived in Leathley. From what we’ve managed to ascertain, he owns a couple of bars and a restaurant. Officers are on their way to interview the family. Interestingly, he was reported missing yesterday just before two in the morning. He’d phoned home at 9pm to say he’d be there in about forty minutes but he never arrived.”

  “Age is about right. Well done. We’ll see what the coroner has to say but I feel that there’ll be no need for you to attend this one, Owen. Cut and dried. No signs of distress, nothing taken from the car as far as I can see and no damage to… Stephens, did you say?”

  Owen nodded.

  “So, apart from the scrape to the back of the car, there’s nothing to suspect foul play. Is this car park attended at night?”

  “No, locked at nine-thirty and opened again at around seven.” Owen pointed to the CCTV camera. “That doesn’t work either. According to the chap downstairs it was reported a month ago but as yet nothing’s been done about it. I bet they’ll sort it now.”

  “Could your boffin chaps not have tracked him by his phone?” Caner asked as he ducked beneath the tape.

  “Most people prefer to have that facility switched off for very obvious reasons.” Owen looked at Caner and winked. “We’ve checked his phone records and last call made was from the area where his bar is.”

  “I see. Forgive my naïvety, Owen. I’m but a simple doctor.” He removed his blue protective clothing, dropped it in a yellow clinical waste bag before walking towards the ramp, his assistant in tow. “I’ll be in touch. My condolences to Cyril when you next communicate.”

  Cyril left Julie and Wendy chatting as he walked to the garage. Once inside he reread the letter addressed to him by his father. The writing was almost illegible but the content was quite clear, he had requested that Cyril keep the car. It mustn’t be sold. If you will not cherish it, then it must be destroyed, scrapped. He read it over again and glanced at the car. What was he going to do with this aged behemoth? It was the only request his father had made. Cyril opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat running his hands on the wheel. It had a smell of its own, it always did have and that was the problem; it hoarded memories, to him it was a Pandora’s box on wheels. To his annoyance his phone rang.

  “Bennett.”

  “Owen, sir. Just wondering how things went yesterday. Wanted you to know we were all thinking about you.”

  Cyril’s annoyance immediately waned. “As well as funerals go, Owen. Thank you for your concern and please pass my thanks on to the team.” He paused for a moment. “Anything to report?”

  “Body found in a car in the multi-storey just by your place but looks as though it’s natural causes, no suspicious circumstances as far as they can see. Forensics have done a check and the body is with Caner so we should hear within twenty-four hours. He seemed fairly confident. Family called to say he was missing. There might not be an inquest. Car was locked in the car park overnight. Shakti’s on leave, somewhere near Nice, that’s in the South of…” He stopped himself going geographically further and quickly changed the route and subject. “…April’s busy with a cold case. She sends her best wishes. You could say that we’re sailing along fairly smoothly without the captain at the helm. No choppy seas just yet but when’re you back?”

  “Do we have a name?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The deceased, Owen?”

  “Yes, sorry. Stephens, David Stephens. Family didn’t seem overly traumatised by his sudden death. He’d been diagnosed with a heart condition a while back. Had a bit of a scare a few months ago too, heart attack, but they were assured it wasn’t anything too serious. DVLA didn’t see fit to cancel his driver’s licence but the CAA has put a temporary stop on his pilot’s licences.”

  “Licences? Plural? He held two?”

  “Two, yes, fixed wing and rotary, I think the correct terms are. He owned a small helicopter that he kept at home and also flew an aircraft at Yeadon. All that from some bars and a restaurant! I’m in the wrong bloody job, sir. You used to fly, didn’t you?”

  “I did indeed, learned to fly at Liverpool, Speke, as it was known then but that was many years ago, now it’s named after a Beatle. My flying is another story and as for your career? Believe me, Owen, you’re where you should be, trust me.”

  Owen glanced at his watch and remembered the words inscribed on the back of the case, Keen as mustard. It had been a Christmas gift from Cyril and it meant a lot. “I know, thank you. When do you feel as though you might be ready to return to Castle Greyskull?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Beckwith
Head Road. The station.”

  Cyril chuckled. “Greyskull! I’m ready now to be honest but just need to finalise a few things here, a couple of days at most. Keep me informed of anything, Owen, anything. And Owen?”

  “Sir.”

  “What would you do with an old Bentley and I mean old?”

  There was a sudden silence. “My gran used to watch a cop show where the detective had one with a black roof, Morse, I think he was called.”

  “That was a Daimler, Owen. Never mind. I was just thinking out loud. Thanks for the call. Means a lot.”

  “Never watched it myself.”

  Cyril smiled as he popped the phone on the bench seat of the car. “What on earth am I going to do with you?” he said out loud, tapping the steering wheel with more affection than he had imagined possible.

  Julie and Wendy had moved to the garden. Slowly, Cyril’s childhood past was being revealed as if Wendy were explaining the Bennett family life story. Although Julie was fascinated, she also felt uneasy; secrets were being disclosed to which only family members should be privy. On more than one occasion she had tried to change the subject but it was clear that Wendy had but one objective in life and that was to ensure at least one person knew the truth. They stopped as the Bentley moved slowly from the garage and down the gravel path to the road. The gravel crunched under its tyres as though in protest.

  “I know Cyril, Wendy, he’s a torn man. That car holds conflicting memories. May I be honest with you?”

  Wendy nodded. “Please. Now is the time for honesty on all sides. We’ve nothing to hide and therefore nothing to fear.”