by Ernesto Lee
Ms. Abigail Whitchurch, Chairwoman, Tyevale on the Wold, Women’s Institute.
I think for a moment to cross out the word ‘Chairwoman’ and replace it with ‘Cougar’ but decide not to be so childish. I drop it on the bed next to the bags and head down to see Catherine with the file under my arm.
In fairness, it’s only a few minutes past 6, but I can see that she is not impressed at my lack of punctuality.
“That’s twice in one day that you’ve kept me waiting, Sean. I hope it was for a good reason?”
“Sorry, Cath. Mum was stressing about me being away. Let’s grab a table over in the corner where it’s a bit quieter and we can talk over what we need to do over the next few days.”
I order a pint of Stella and another glass of red wine for Cath and we move away from the bar to the table furthest away from the bar. As soon as we sit down, one of the waitresses comes over and hands us the bar-food menu and I suggest to Catherine that we order a few bits to nibble on as we go through the case file. We order and, as soon as the waitress is gone, I open the file and lay out the contents on the table for Catherine to see.
“Okay, so our missing person is Ms. Lucy Partington-Brown. She was last seen at the O’Hanlon Brothers Carnival here in Tyevale at around 11 pm on Tuesday March 14th, 1972. At the time of her disappearance she was 22 years old.
“As you know from DCI Morgan’s briefing, she was, or is, the daughter of Sir David Partington-Brown, the former Member of Parliament for Spalding. She has one sister, Joanna Partington-Brown. Joanna keep her maiden name when she married a guy called Edward Wells. Her mother, Beatrice, passed away of natural causes in 1974.”
I pull a creased black-and-white photograph from the file and hand it to Catherine. “The date on the back is December 25th, 1971 – Christmas Day – so this is quite possibly one of the last photographs of the family together.”
The image of the two girls with their parents standing in front of a Christmas tree screams of aristocracy and old money. All are formally dressed as you would expect from the times and their social status, but what strikes you most of all about the picture is the sisters themselves. They are both tall, slim blondes and both are incredibly photogenic.
Your eyes are almost drawn to them and while it’s horrible to even think such a thing, it would be easy to understand what a would-be kidnapper would be attracted to. We both stare at the photo for a few seconds and then Cath breaks the silence.
“Are the sisters twins, Sean?”
“No, but you might think so looking at this picture,” I reply. “Joanna is a year older than Lucy, but you’re right, they are very alike.”
“And what about suspects, Sean?”
I hand Catherine the case summary from 1974.
“Flip to page 3, Cath. Quite a long list of suspects – I’ve made some notes next to the names.”
I give her a few minutes to read it through and then I take the summary back.
“Okay, so top of the list, as always, are the close family, primarily the father and sister. Next is the sister’s boyfriend at the time, Edward ‘Eddie’ Wells, a local farmer. As I said earlier, He’s now married to Joanna. They married a year after Lucy disappeared.
We also have the owners of the carnival, two Irish brothers, Jed and Tighe O’Hanlon – both provided identical statements. They say that Lucy was with them until just after 11 pm but then she left and didn’t say where she was going. Unfortunately, both are also now deceased, so no chance of us exploring that avenue.
“Then we have a group of local lads. It seems they had a gang thing going back then and were known for causing a bit of bother around town. One of them, Paul Oliver, was an ex-boyfriend of Lucy’s. Her father didn’t approve, of course, and he forced Lucy to end it.”
“And where is he now?” Cath asks.
“Unfortunately, we have no idea. According to the file notes, he skipped town a couple of weeks after Lucy went missing and nothing has been heard of him since.”
“Wow, so is he our prime suspect then, Sean? This must surely have raised a flag back in 1972.”
“Yep, you would think so. He was pulled in for interview three times, but in the end, it looks like he had a firm alibi for that night and was ruled out.”
“So why skip town then? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s why we are here, Cath,” I reply. “To try to make sense of this and to find out what happened to Lucy.”
Cath nods and points down to the case summary.
“I guess so. And the last suspect, Sean?”
“Oh yes, finally, and the most unlikely, is this guy.”
I pull out another black-and-white photo of a young man in his mid-twenties and I hand it to Catherine. The picture has been taken during the winter and his overcoat is pulled up close round his neck, but you can still see the top of his white dog collar poking out over the top.
“Jesus, he looks about 14-years-old and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” Cath says. “Pardon the reference to Jesus, no pun intended, Sean. So, what’s the connection with this guy, are the family Catholic?”
“Nope, that’s the interesting part, Cath. The Partington-Browns are Protestant Church of England through and through. The interview notes seem to indicate that our young Father James Beale was working on Lucy to convert her some time before she went missing. Also, possibly some romantic attachment, but there is nothing conclusive to indicate that anywhere in the file.”
Cath smiles and then says, “It wouldn’t be the first time that a young woman has fallen for a handsome young priest. So, where is he now? I don’t imagine he is still in Tyevale. The Catholic Church would have moved him quicker than a woman un-tagging an ugly picture of herself on Facebook at the first whiff of any scandal.”
“You’re right, Cath. After he was interviewed by the police, he was moved to a parish in Scotland. For the last two years, though, he has been responsible for another parish here in Lincolnshire: the Parish of Beckhampton. It’s just twelve miles away. We passed a sign for it on the way here.”
“Okay,” Catherine asks, “apart from the close family, what ties all of the others to her disappearance?”
“The carnival mainly, Cath. Lucy was at the carnival with her sister and Eddie Wells. The last confirmed sighting of her was by the O’Hanlons just after 11 pm. Prior to that, there was a disturbance involving the three of them – the O’Hanlon brothers, Paul Oliver, and a few of the local lads. It seems that Lucy might have been having a bit of a thing with one of the O’Hanlons while still flirting with Paul.”
“Wow, she sounds like quite the slut,” Cath exclaims. “Do you think there is anyone in this town that she wasn’t shagging?”
We both laugh and then I give Cath a fake look of disapproval that DCI Morgan would be proud of. “Detective Constable Swain, a bit of respect if you please.”
This causes even more laughter and after we finally compose ourselves, Cath asks me what the plan is for tomorrow.
“We start with the family. Joanna and her husband Eddie live with Sir David now on his estate just outside of town. Sarah Gray has already made an appointment for us to visit them tomorrow morning at 10.”
“Okay, that sounds like as good a place as any to start. So, what about this evening, what’s the plan, Sergeant McMillan?”
I call the waitress over and then I turn back to Cath. “I think a couple more drinks, then we get an early night and regroup over breakfast tomorrow to discuss strategy for our meeting with the Partington-Browns.”
Cath smiles and after two more glasses of red wine for her and two double Jameson whiskies for me, I pay the bill and we get up to leave. Whilst I head towards the lift, Catherine turns towards the garden and the outside terrace to stretch her legs and I wish her goodnight.
It’s still only around 7:45 pm and I can’t risk traveling until I am sure that Cath is asleep, so I use the next few hours to research life in 1972 and to try on my outfit.
Although
I am feeling tired, I also drink two beers and another whisky from the minibar as a precaution against insomnia. At just after 11 pm, I shave, shower, and get dressed ready to travel back to March 1972. I must hand it to the Oxfam Cougar, she wasn’t wrong when she said she was a good judge of sizes.
The clothes and the shoes fit well apart from the blue flared trousers being a little snug around my groin. The rest of my outfit consists of tan leather platform boots that add at least three inches to my height, a white woolen turtleneck pullover and a checked polyester jacket with the widest collars that I have ever seen.
To finish the look, I smear a generous portion of Brylcreem into my hair and then I stand back to admire myself in the mirror. According to the cougar, this look would have got me all the girls back in the seventies. Looking at myself now, it does make me wonder exactly what kind of girls she was talking about.
If you want my opinion – I think I look like a massive bell-end and the boots feel like lead weights strapped to my feet. If it helps me blend in, though, so be it. If the girls go wild for the look – well, that’s just a bonus.
My plan tonight is to travel back to the week before Lucy’s disappearance. The O’Hanlon Brothers Carnival was in town from the middle of February until the third week of March in 1972, so my intention is to start there. At just past 12, I drink the last miniature bottle of whisky from the mini-bar and lie down on my bed with a crumpled photograph of Jed and Tighe O’Hanlon standing next to one of their carnival rides in a field on the outskirts of Tyevale.
I stare at the photograph for a full minute to memorize as much detail as I can and then I close my eyes and begin my chant.
“Seventh March, 1972, Seventh March, 1972, Seventh March, 1972, Seve …”
The Past – Tuesday, 7th March, 1972
The first thing I notice is how bloody cold it is. Even in this thick, wooly turtleneck and jacket, I am still shivering slightly, and I’m surprised to see a light covering of snow on the surrounding fields and a thick wall of dirty brown slush on the side of the roads to indicate a recent snowfall.
The next thing I notice is how quiet it is in comparison to 2018. The O’Hanlon Brothers Carnival is spread out across three fields in front of me and two hundred yards behind me is the start of Tyevale high street. The lack of cars and general hustle and bustle compared to modern life is striking.
My intention had been to take a look at the carnival first, but it is only just after 2 in the afternoon and it looks completely deserted. Instead, I turn back towards the high street and carefully take my first steps in platform boots. The boots themselves are hard enough to walk in, but the addition of the slush-covered streets makes it all the riskier for a novice such as myself. After a few close calls, I make it to the top of the high street unscathed.
This is the furthest that I have ever traveled back in time and standing here now I can’t help but wonder if we were better off in the past. The high street is full of shops, but every single one of them looks like an independent.
There is a butcher, a greengrocer, and a baker and I don’t see anything wrapped in plastic or prepacked. There is a small supermarket, a fish and chip shop, a post office, a bookmaker’s, and a small branch of Barclays Bank where no doubt the manager will know the name of every one of his customers.
I can see two pubs, a church, a scout hall, and a police station with the front door open.
The streets are clean; there is no graffiti. There are far fewer cars and I don’t see anyone staring into the screen of a smartphone as they walk along.
I know of course that life in 1972 was far from perfect and had its own share of problems, but looking around at the people passing by, they seem to look generally happier and healthier than they do now. McDonalds and KFC have a lot to answer for.
Halfway down the high street I step into a small newsagent’s and pick up a copy of the Daily Mail to check the date. I had been hoping for anytime between 7th and 9th March, so I am pleased to see that it is Tuesday 7th.
I browse the store for a few minutes, trying not to look like a geek in a museum before I take the newspaper to the counter and hold out a ten-pound note to the young girl serving. From the look she gives me, you would think I was handing her a human head, but I can understand why when she speaks.
“It’s five pence for the paper. Don’t you have anything smaller? If I give you change for a tenner, I won’t have anything left and the bank only gives out change first thing in the morning.”
The whole point of doing my research is so that I don’t make such basic errors as this. Now I look like a right flash bastard and in a town like this, word soon gets around. The average weekly wage in 1972 was just thirty quid and here I am flashing ten-pound notes around like they are going out of fashion.
I awkwardly check my pockets for change, but I know that I don’t have any. I take out my wallet again and pull out a five-pound note and sheepishly hand it over. It’s not much better, but she reluctantly accepts it and then takes unnecessarily long to fumble in the till and hand me back four pounds and ninety-five pence in coins.
As I turn to leave, she shouts back to someone else in the stockroom that I can’t see. The comment is clearly meant for my attention though.
“Beryl, I need to pop out for change. Some bloke just paid for his paper with a fiver. Watch the shop for a few minutes while I check with the supermarket.”
Keen to get away, I cross the street and head into the closest of the two pubs, the Tyevale Arms.
Inside there are half a dozen middle-aged men chatting and supping on pint pots of dark bitter at the bar and the air is thick with cigarette and pipe smoke. Four young guys in their late teens and early twenties are gathered around a juke box listening to ‘American Pie’ by Don McLean and two pairs of old age pensioners are sitting at a table in front of an open fire playing dominoes.
The young guys barely give me a glance, but as I pass the pensioners on the way to the bar, they look me up and down with disgust. One of the old fellas doesn’t even bother to keep his voice down when he comments on my appearance.
“Look at the state of him! It’s a bloody disgrace, I tell you, men wearing high heels. I blame the parents myself.”
The barman hears him clearly enough and probably agrees, but he doesn’t say anything himself. After looking me up and down suspiciously, he asks what he can get me to drink.
Unlike the many choices in bars today, my options in The Tyevale Arms are decidedly more limited and comprise of John Smiths Bitter, India Pale Ale, Guinness, and Carling Black Label Lager.
Generally, I drink Stella Artois, so the Carling should be the obvious choice, but teenage memories of drinking the piss that is Carling Black Label preclude that as a choice and I opt for a pint of John Smiths.
The barman carefully fills the pint pot from the tap and then places it onto a beer towel to allow the head to settle and I hand him twenty pence. It’s almost a shame that none of my friends can dream travel. With prices like this, we could get trashed for less than the cost of a movie ticket in 2018.
Apart from the music from the jukebox and the chatter of the customers, the pub is eerily quiet in comparison to a pub in 2018. There are no screens blasting out MTV or SKY sports and you can hear the crackling of the log in the fire when the record in the jukebox finishes playing.
The other thing that is noticeable in its absence is the lack of menus and chalk boards announcing the day’s special offers. UK pubs in 2018 make a significant chunk of their profit through food sales. If I get hungry in here, I think the best I could hope for would be a bag of nuts or a packet of pork scratchings.
I pick up my pint and take a seat at a table close to the fire to warm up and to read my newspaper. From my earlier research I know already that Edward ‘Ted’ Heath is the Prime Minister and has been in power with the Conservative Party for nearly two years.
The country is rocked by unrest in 1972 and the big stories are the recent ending of the miners’ strike
and unemployment that has topped the 1,000,000 mark for the first time since the 1930s. There is also a lot of coverage about the bombing of Aldershot Barracks by the Official Irish Republican Army on February 22nd.
This bombing was in retaliation for the killing of fourteen people when troops from the Parachute Regiment opened fire on demonstrators in Derry, Northern Ireland on 30th January.
Even today, the story of ‘Bloody Sunday’ is well known by nearly everyone in the UK as it has been in and out of the news constantly for nearly fifty years.
The sports pages at the back are dominated by horse racing and football. Three days ago, on March 4th, Stoke City beat Chelsea 2-1 at Wembley Stadium to win the 1972 Football League Cup Final and, sadly for them, this is the one and only time that they have won a major trophy or competition.
I finish reading the newspaper. Just as I stand up to get another pint, the door opens, and three young women walk in and head towards the bar.
The sisters, Lucy and Joanna, are instantly recognizable, and in the flesh they are even more stunning than they were in their photographs. I had not been expecting to see them today, and for a second I stand there like an idiot staring as they walk towards the bar. Thankfully, I am not the only dribbling fool held captive by their beauty. The young guys by the jukebox are also looking at them. One of them wolf-whistles and calls out, “Looking good, Lucy!”
Until now, I hadn’t been exactly sure which of the girls was Lucy, but her smile makes it clear. It’s obvious she heard the comment from her admirer, but she doesn’t turn around or break her stride. At the bar, the barman greets the girls with a smile.
“Good afternoon, ladies. I’m just about to call last orders. What can I get you all?”
Lucy orders two half pints of lager and lime for herself and Joanna and then asks their companion what she wants.
“What about you, Abigail? Do you want the same or something else?”
Abigail is around the same age as the sisters and looks familiar to me. I think at first that perhaps I may have seen her name or picture in the case files, but the answer comes to me when she answers Lucy.