by M J Porter
Sam had never seen grief festoon someone so entirely. As Chief Inspector Fullerton had told her the news, she’d aged before their eyes. It had taken his quick reflexes to ensure she didn’t collapse to the floor on the bright red doorstep, her young daughters, wide-eyed and sobbing as they watched their mother, hands clasped tightly together, as though they could hold their mother up with such an act.
There’d been a time when Sam had wished Chief Inspector Fullerton hadn’t told Mrs McFarlane in such a way, his words hard and unfeeling, and yet, he’d come to appreciate that there was no right and wrong way to impart such terrible news. It was almost a kindness to say the words, ‘your son is dead,’ as quickly as possible. There was no need to use superfluous words, to offer sympathy, to say anything but the facts.
Her accusing eyes had followed him through the years. Why they’d said that day and many days since, is my son dead, while yours yet lives?
It was not Mrs McFarlane who’d marked the anniversary of her son’s death, each and every year for the last twenty years, but rather, her daughter. The older one, Rebecca, had taken on the responsibility for ensuring that no one ever forgot her brother when her mother sadly passed away, worn down by grief and loss, by the need to survive in a world turned upside down, with nothing but a war pension to ease the burdens.
It was Rebecca who routinely sent letters asking for updates on the case. It was Rebecca that he tried to avoid at all costs when he saw her at church, on the tram or along the High Street. It was Rebecca who’d broken Chief Inspector Fullerton, in a rare show of emotion that shocked him to recall, even now. He’d never seen Fullerton like that. He’d never imagined Fullerton could be so very emotional that tears would run from his brown eyes, that he’d tear at what remained of his hair in frustration.
Chief Inspector Fullerton had retired a few years ago, but he’d not lived long enough to enjoy it. Sam shook his head. One murder and so many lives destroyed, and still, the murderer was out there, perhaps hiding, perhaps luxuriating in what he’d managed to get away with, or maybe, he was dead as well, getting away with his crime for all time. Twenty years was a long time.
Sam was snapped from his reveries by a bowl appearing before him. Somehow, he’d become so lost in the past; he’d not even heard his wife stand at the stove for the last many minutes.
A cheeky smile from her, driving away the wrinkles and the grey streaks in her hair, making her look twenty years younger, and he looked down at the bowl before him.
“Custard?” he asked, enjoying the unusual light-hearted look on her face.
“I know it’s your favourite. There’s even some apple in there, somewhere, and some blackberries, picked from the country lane on my walk yesterday afternoon to Pype Hayes Park.”
“How did you get it?” he asked, eagerly spooning the sweet mixture into his mouth.
“I’ve been saving my packets. I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t be able to wait.”
“Then you have my thanks,” he grinned, fully returning to the present. He couldn’t do anything about the past. No matter how much he wished he could.
“This is delicious,” he complimented his wife, leaning back, hand on his full belly.
“Well, now you just need to wait another year, and then you can have more.” But there was a lightness to her voice when she spoke, and the flash of joy in her eyes cheered him. There was so much wrong with the world at the moment, and yet here, beside his wife, in their cosy front room, everything was well. Even if only for now.
Chapter 2
Sam Mason settled into the uncomfortable hard-backed chair with a grimace that only intensified when he realised that someone had been kind enough to leave him a copy of yesterday’s Birmingham Mail on his immaculately tidy desk. He didn’t like anything to be out of place. Neither did he appreciate the reminder, not after the convivial evening he’d enjoyed with his wife.
He glanced around the room, considering who it might be, only for his eyes to settle on Sergeant Jones’ stubborn back. It would be him. He was sure of it. Jones had been around back then. His resentment at never advancing beyond the role of sergeant was matched only by his maliciousness towards Sam, especially considering the McFarlane case. Jones had always believed he could solve it. The fact that all of his leads had been useless and had never amounted to anything didn’t seem to concern Jones. He was sure he’d been right, and that was all that mattered.
Yet, he didn’t want to give Jones the satisfaction of knowing that the paper upset him. Instead, he unfolded it and once more peered at the black and white image of young Robert, taken from a school photograph, the rest of his classmates removed.
Robert had been a lively child, a little bit cheeky because his mother had allowed him far more leeway than his younger sisters. And yet, for all that, there didn’t seem to be anything malicious about Robert. He’d been a good lad, bright at school. His teacher, the strict and unbending, Mr Williamson, had condescended to admit that, even while looking down his nose at the Chief Inspector. And Robert had been a firm friend of John’s. That had accounted for more in Sam’s eyes than anything anyone could have said about him.
Sam had liked Robert. He’d made him smile with his bright humour.
Jones had been convinced that Mr Williamson, Robert’s teacher, had known more than he’d ever said, but Sam had never agreed. Mr Williamson had been as scarred as the rest of them by the events of the Great War. Jones had simply refused to see it and still did, even though he’d not been recalled with the outbreak of the new war. Sam found it ironic that Jones claimed to understand so much when he couldn’t even determine his personal motivations.
Robert hadn’t deserved such a death. There might well have been a smile on the boy’s face when he was found, but he knew it would have been a terrifying and painful death.
“Mason,” Sam found his eyes rising from the newspaper to fasten on Constable Williams. He was young, filled with enthusiasm, his uniform smart and bright, the numbers on his collar easy to read. His blue eyes offered the hint of an apology from beneath his smartly cut brown hair.
“What is it?” there was exhaustion in Sam’s voice, and he cursed Jones for it when the day had only just begun.
“Sorry, Chief Inspector, but she’s here.” There was no need to explain who ‘she’ was. Williams had managed to lower his voice, knowing not to alert Jones.
“Bring her in, and make her a cup of tea. A decent cup of tea,” he commanded with a caution, moving to fold the newspaper once more and place it in the top drawer of his desk. There’d be no need for Rebecca to see it. She would have reminded the newspaper of the anniversary; he was sure of it.
“Miss McFarlane,” he stood to greet her, noting her carefully styled hair, the figure-hugging coat and the smart leather shoes on her feet. Rebecca smiled shyly at him, pulling her gloves from her long fingers, and he felt a flicker of delight as he saw the sparkling band around her ring finger.
“Not for much longer,” she exclaimed, her voice high and bright, as she delicately touched his hand with her own and settled onto the seat on the far side of his desk. Her voice was filled with excitement, very different to the young woman who’d sat there last year and in all the years since her mother had died.
Rebecca had grown into a careful young woman, minding her words, warding her emotions; Sam had considered how scared she must be, all the time, that those she loved could just be taken from her, without any warning. Now, it seemed, something had changed that.
“Congratulations,” he complimented her, hoping her beau was not off fighting in the damn war.
“Thank you. We’ll be married when Frank is next back for his leave.” He nodded, keeping the smile on his face, even though his heart sank at the news. She was an attractive young woman, blessed with a fuzz of curly blond hair and bright blue eyes. But her mobile face and slim build masked the turmoil she’d felt ever since that terrible day when Fullerton had knocked on her door.
A brief silen
ce filled the space between them, and then they both opened their mouths to speak simultaneously, and he indicated she should go first.
“Thank you,” she muttered. “I just came because I always do. I know you won’t have discovered anything new. I trust you to tell me, even amid this horrible war. But, I didn’t know what else to do with myself, not today.” Her hands twisted one inside the other, speaking of her unease.
Such a terrible day to try and skip over every year. He knew how hard it was. He could try and forget, but he always remembered, no matter what. In the years immediately after Robert’s murder, it had been his son’s confused face that had begged him to remember, had forced him to pick over once more the notes of the case on the anniversary, see if there was something new to investigate.
With every one of John’s birthdays, Sam had thought of Robert. And he knew his wife did the same, as did John. He’d failed his son, or so it had always felt. John, so proud that his father was a policeman, and had fought in the Great War to protect them all, had never understood why he’d not been able to protect his friend, Robert.
As Rebecca spoke, Williams placed an ungainly mug of muddy looking tea before her and even a plate with four dry biscuits on it. Rebecca turned and thanked him with a smile that flashed bright teeth behind her red lipstick. Williams flushed with pleasure. Sam didn’t have the heart to demand where his mug of tea was. Perhaps he’d not been clear enough. These recruits didn’t have the sense with which they were born.
“I saw the paper last night,” Sam confirmed. “I was expecting you. And no, I’ve nothing new to offer. It’s been many years now, and while I would hope one day to catch the perpetrator, I just don’t know if that’s possible. Not now.”
Rebecca nodded, almost too eagerly, her hand hovering over the mug of tea, waiting to pick it up until the movement had stopped. Her cheeks were flushed, and he wondered what else she’d come to tell him.
“I don’t truly know what I’d do if we ever found who murdered my brother. I like to think I wouldn’t spit in their face, but I can’t make such a promise. He’d have been a man now, probably off fighting in the war and maybe with children of his own. He certainly wouldn’t be the brother I remember when I think about him, the one who used to pull my hair and laugh at my squint.”
He nodded. Rebecca was wise beyond her years. She always had been.
“And how is your sister?”
Rebecca lifted the mug to her lips to cover her feelings, but he knew that the younger sister had struggled through the death of her brother and mother. It was unlikely that she’d ever marry.
“Patricia lives with my Aunt now, in Weston. They, well, it pains me to say it, but they’re good for each other. Both of them live firmly in the past. My Aunt lost her husband in the Great War as well and her only son in the air raids a few years ago on Weston. She married a wealthy man, though, and has enough money to support them both without either needing to work. It’s just better this way, although I do miss her.”
There was both regret and relief in Rebecca’s voice, and he well understood it. Living with the embodiment of what had happened was a draining experience. It seemed right that at least one of Robert’s sisters were able to live a full life, as untainted as it could be, by what had befallen him.
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Rebecca’s sudden change of tack startled him, and he realised she was fumbling in her petite blue handbag, the shade perfectly matching her coat. He almost groaned when she pulled a crumpled newspaper from its reaches and passed it across the desk, over the plate of untouched biscuits. He was just about to say that he already had one when his eyes focused on the headline.
“The Weston Mercury,” and then he scanned down, and he couldn’t help himself. His hand snaked the newspaper towards him, his eyes focused on the grainy image of the smiling boy who looked so much like Robert. He checked the date, a month old, and then he read the headline.
“Murder victim would have turned twenty-four today. Family still seeking answers.”
He glanced at Rebecca.
“What is this?”
“I found it on the train, on the way home. It reminded me of what happened to Robert.”
Sam was already nodding, his mind trying to filter through the possibilities. It was all too familiar.
“But we asked other forces, and none of them ever said they’d had anything similar.”
“This was after Robert’s death,” and her red-polished nail pointed out the date when the young lad had disappeared and been found murdered. There were few enough details, not so long after the fact, yet he could immediately see why Rebecca had brought him the newspaper.
“I’ll look into this,” he promised, already feeling a strange stirring of anticipation. After all this time, was it truly possible that their murderer had struck again? Had Robert’s death not been an isolated occurrence?
“I thought you might,” Rebecca nodded, relief on her young face. He had the feeling she’d been torn about whether to share the information or not.
“You’ve done the right thing, thank you. I’ll get in touch with the police force in Weston and see what they can tell me.”
“It was a long time ago,” she breathed, as though already resigned to failure.
“It was, yes. But it could make it easier, perhaps. It might not, and it could all be happenstance, but it feels like too much of a coincidence to me. I’ve always wanted to solve this, as did the Chief Inspector before me. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll keep you informed. Are you still at the same address?”
Rebecca was already shaking her head.
“No, when my sister moved away, I decided to make a fresh start as well. You can find me at 56 Bracken Road now. I should have made the change years ago, but well, something kept me at the old address, some half-hope that he might come home one day. I know it’s ridiculous, but well, I can’t deny that I didn’t think it might all be a nightmare that I might wake from one day. I didn’t want him to come home and find no one he knew at the old house.”
Wisely, Sam held his tongue, allowing the flurry of emotions to calm on her reddened face. When he thought she was in control of herself once more, he changed the conversation, even as he pulled the newspaper to one side and placed it with the more local edition that showed her brother’s photograph.
“Tell me, what does your beau do?”
“He’s a mechanic in the air force.”
“A clever man, then?” The news cheered him. A mechanic was more valuable than a pilot. There was hope that he wouldn’t be sent into the fray anytime soon, provided he wasn’t in the firing line of the air raids.
Rebecca’s face glowed again, and she nodded rather than speak.
He stood, and she followed him, as he’d hoped.
“I’ll see you out. But, I’ll follow this up, and thank you for bringing it to me.” He couldn’t deny that even the glance he’d had of the boy and the details of his murder had sent a spurt of energy into his tired, broken body. Could this be it? After all this time, could there be the possibility of solving the crime that had driven his old Chief Inspector into an early grave? He certainly hoped there was.
Chapter 3
“What do you think of this?” Sam slid the newspaper toward his new superintendent. The man was younger than him and had only come to the station after the furore of the unsolved murder had long since settled down. Smythe knew of it without being stained by the failure of it. It was a position Sam thought he might have enjoyed.
“What?” He might have been younger, but the superintendent’s eyesight was poor. Sam took pity on the superintendent and thrust the newspaper even closer over the old wooden desk, pitted and marked by years of action, but serviceable all the same.
It took only moments for Superintendent Smythe to absorb the details from the Weston Mercury. And he was a quick-thinking man. Immediately, a flicker of understanding spread around his scrunched-up eyes.
“Who brought this in?”
> “Rebecca McFarlane. She saw it and thought it might be relevant.”
“Might be relevant!” Smythe exclaimed, sitting back in his chair and meeting Sam’s eyes with a hint of reproach in them. “Didn’t the station inform every district of what had happened here, Sam?” The accusation stung; he couldn’t deny it. He paused to allow himself the time needed to remove the outrage from his voice. He was always amazed by how raw the experience remained.
“Of course, they did. But nothing ever came back to us. I’m not surprised. This is dated after the death of Robert. They’d probably forgotten about it by then or never known about it in the first place.”
“Bloody hell. This could be it. You need to get in touch with them and see if it’s worth travelling down to look at all the evidence. Just think about it, if we managed to solve the case, after all these years!” Sam couldn’t deny that he shared Smythe’s enthusiasm, but he didn’t want to look too keen, not without official sanction. He’d heard of the chief inspectors who became obsessed with long-unsolved cases. He didn’t want to be thought of in the same way as those other ‘crackpots,’ laughed about by their fellow officers and derided by the superintendents who’d risen above the scandal. Sam was only too aware of what others had said about Fullerton.
“So, you think it might be important?”
“It can’t hurt to find out more. You know the case well. You know the questions to ask. See if you can speak to the Chief Inspector who investigated the case. And if not, then have them hunt out the case file.”
Sam nodded.
“I’ll get on with it now.” And he turned to leave, only for Smythe to call him back.
“Shut the door, would you,” he cautioned, and Sam did as asked before turning an arched eyebrow to look at his superior. Smythe was a fit man. He wore his old army wound lightly and had never let it stop him from accomplishing a great many achievements. Yet, in the wrong light, it was still possible to see the puckered skin that ran down the left side of his face and beneath the neckline of his police tunic. That it made his eye useless, even while it looked normal, often fooled anyone who didn’t know him.