Alternative outcome

by Peter Rowlands

  Well, I had one clue. “West End Lodge” suggested that perhaps the house was, well, at the west end of the street. The problem was that because of the dog-leg it didn’t really have a west end – more of a north end and an east end. Without much confidence I decided to try the north end first.

  As it turned out, the street didn’t actually have a conspicuous end at all – it just ceased to be at a crossroads. I turned and started to work my way back, and then not far along I noticed a double-fronted brick-built house that I’d managed to miss before. It certainly looked old enough to fit the bill. I pulled over and got out, scanning the gateway and frontage for a nameplate.

  Yes! There it was on the gatepost – a wooden plaque with the name engraved on it: West End Lodge. So it really did exist! A little nervously I walked up the driveway and pressed an elaborate brass bell-push set into the wall.

  Nothing happened. No sound; no response. I looked around. The driveway was empty and the black timber doors of the free-standing double garage were closed.

  I started to turn away, then heard the front door being unbolted. An elderly woman, possibly somewhere in her mid-eighties, was standing on the top step, staring down at me with a hostile look on her face.

  “What do you want?”

  I switched on what I hoped was my most reassuring smile. “I’m sorry to trouble you – I’m trying to track down some people who used to live in this house in the 1980s. The Markhams. Do you by any chance know what happened to them – where they moved to when they left?”

  “In this house?” She squinted as if the idea was beyond comprehension. “What name did you say?”

  “Markham. Desmond Markham.”

  “Never heard of them. Markham? Markham? No idea what you’re talking about.”

  I stood there at a loss. Evidently this conversation was going nowhere. I decided discretion was the better part of valour, and started to retreat down the driveway. “Well, thank you anyway. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  She was still standing on the doorstep as a reached the gateway, clutching the door. I had a fancy that she was still muttering, “Markham? Markham?”

  I stood by my car, wondering what to do next. Possibly the woman had younger relatives who could tell me more, but who were currently out at work; or possibly not. Should I come back later? Then I noticed movement in front of the house opposite, a sprawling structure with a large lawn and a low hedge. A woman was playing with a small child on a swing.

  I wandered over. She was close enough to hear me from the verge, so I called out, “Hello!”

  She turned her head and gave me a pleasant smile. “Good afternoon.” She looked somewhere in her mid-forties, and had shortish blond hair. She was dressed mostly in white.

  “I was trying to track down some people who used to live across the road a long time ago. I couldn’t get much sense from the lady who lives there now.”

  “Oh, you won’t get a lot out of Betty. Sharp as a knife, but not the most communicative soul.” She finished straightening her child’s jersey and patted him away. “Who was it you were looking for?”

  “Their surname was Markham. This was back in the 1980s. Desmond Markham.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell with me, but my father-in-law might know – this is his house.” She turned towards the building and shouted, “David!”

  A man in his sixties emerged from a glasshouse adjoining the main building.

  “Do you remember some people called Markham across the road? This gentleman is looking for them. Betty couldn’t help him.”

  He strolled over. “Heavens, that’s going back.” Like his daughter-in-law, he gave me a pleasant smile. “Yes, I do remember the Markhams. Desmond and Shirley. And they had a daughter. Was it Tina? Something like that.” He scratched his head. “They suddenly left. Never told anyone where they were going. One day here, the next day gone forever. The house stood empty for a couple of years, then Ron and Sally moved in. They’re away for a month, but Betty is their live-in housekeeper.” He smiled. “She’s Ron’s mother.”

  “That’s really helpful.”

  “D’you mind me asking why you’re interested? It seems rather a long time ago for you to be a debt collector.” His eyes twinkled.

  “No, I knew them slightly on holiday in the West Country when I was a boy, and I’ve taken it into my head to find out what happened to them.” I smiled. “I’ve tracked them down this far, but I seem to be twenty-five years behind. It probably sounds a bit daft.”

  “So you’re doing a bit of under-cover detective work, are you? Well, they should make good subjects. The word was that they had some dubious connections.” He smiled conspiratorially.

  “Really?”

  “Oh, I never gave it much credence myself. There were just a few mutterings about how they came by their money, that kind of thing. You know what people are like. But I must say they didn’t help their own case much – they were quite secretive. Didn’t mix with the neighbours, never came to any of our parties or held any of their own.” He straightened his back. “Not that they had any obligation to.”

  “How long did they live here?”

  “Only two or three years. Here today, gone tomorrow. That pretty well sums them up.”

  Chapter 16

  I could have driven back to London that night, but I had other plans. I stayed the night at a motel near Northenden, a suburb to the west of Manchester, then in the morning I drove over to Trafford Park.

  This part of Greater Manchester was mixed – the modern Salford Quays development, with its TV studios and its trendy shopping; the famous cricket and football clubs; and a sprawling hinterland of light industry stretching out to the M60 motorway and beyond.

  I finally found what I was looking for. Ray Noble Rental occupied a broad yard fronting a main road in the industrial district. A row of sparkling blue and white vans and light trucks faced out towards the road as if eager for action, and pennants fluttered from white poles along the boundary.

  I pulled into a layby opposite and studied the plot. At the back was a single-storey brick structure, presumably containing offices. The premises were clearly not new, but looked bright and appealing. This was unmistakably a business going places.

  So this was the company Janni Noble now co-owned, and had possibly funded at least in part from the proceeds of the people-smuggling enterprise – the one for which his brother had been arrested. It was hardly any surprise if Tommy felt resentful. I wondered who the Ray was in Ray Noble Rental. Maybe it was just a brand name. “Janni Noble Rental” wouldn’t have had quite the same ring to it.

  Nobody went in or came out while I watched. I didn’t know sure quite what I’d learned from this, but it felt useful to have a first-hand sense of the place.

  * * *

  I’d expected to feel nervous scoping out Janni’s business, but in fact my next landfall made me much more apprehensive. I drove straight down the M6 past Birmingham, then turned off at the exit for the National Exhibition Centre. There was a logistics show in progress here, and I’d decided to drop in.

  I’d forgotten the sheer size of the NEC site, but visitor management was as good as ever, and in a surprisingly short time I’d parked my car in the right place and was walking over to the exhibition complex. The show I wanted was being held in one of the smaller halls, but it still seemed vast when I walked inside. I registered myself as a journalist, and before long I’d been let loose among the stands.

  Prior to leaving London I’d rung Phil, the editor of the materials handling magazine, to ask if he would accept some copy about the event for his next issue. “It’s not quite our thing, but yes, see what you can pick up that would fit in with us.” At least my report would help cover my costs, and the commission made me feel I had a purpose here.

  I wandered for a while among stands showing fork trucks and roller conveyors, noting down the things the exhibitors said were new. Eventually I gravitated to the logistics section. On a couple of the stan
ds I was greeted by people I knew, and I paused to chat. However, I’d seen the Latimer Logistics stand looming further down the aisle, and I kept moving steadily towards it.

  “Mike! Good to see you again.” Bob Latimer, the managing director and grandson of the founder, was standing on a currently empty stand, smiling with what looked like genuine goodwill. He was a slim, gangly man in his early forties with flopping dark hair, and he radiated energy and focus. I’d met him when I visited the company. I shook hands with him, noticing the blow-up of my article once again displayed on the wall behind him.

  “How’s it going?”

  “We’ve been very busy. A good show. Lots of the right kind of visitors. It’s important to us to show we’re a national concern – we’re not just cut off in the far west.”

  We chatted for a while, then I asked diffidently, “Is Ashley around today?”

  He looked around the stand. “Yes, she was here five minutes ago. I think she’s gone off to lunch somewhere. She should be back later.”

  A party of Chinese visitors walked up, and Latimer went over to greet them. I slipped away and headed for a self-service restaurant on the other side of the hall.

  I immediately spotted Ashley standing next to a table and talking to a bald man in a grey suit and an open-neck shirt. I paused for a moment, watching her gesticulating as she underlined some point she was making. She was just as pretty as I remembered – and presumably also just as engaged.

  I moved into her field of vision, and instantly her face broke into a smile.

  “Mike! What are you doing here? No, scrub that. Stupid question. You’re a reporter, and you’re reporting.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  She waved away my concern. “Andrew is a stand designer. We were just talking about our stand. He reckons his people could do a better job than ours did.”

  I looked at the man. I’d interrupted him making a sales pitch to Ashley, but he was putting a brave face on it.

  To Ashley I said, “Will you still be here if I go and get myself some lunch?”

  “I might be.” A quick smile.

  So I left them to it and queued for a cold platter, then wandered back. Ashley was now seated at the table and the bald man had gone.

  “Jesus! He was a nice guy, but he didn’t know when to stop.” She broke off and smiled. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “Not as far as you.” I pulled up a chair and sat down. “Anyway, have notebook, will travel.”

  We chatted for a while about the show and the business, and I ate my salad. Part of my brain was telling me that spending time with her was a lost cause, and rather dishonourable to boot. Another part was telling me an altogether different story.

  However, the small talk gradually seemed to peter out. I was probably just looking at her and marvelling instead of listening to what she was actually saying. Finally, in a tone of amused frustration, she said, “Sorry, am I boring you?”

  “God, no way!” I looked her directly in the eyes. “You don’t think that, do you?”

  She appeared to consider for a moment. “Look … I don’t know how long you’re planning on being here. I’ve got to go back to the stand now, and I have to go to some dinner tonight, but if you’re still here when they close the halls, maybe you’d like to meet up for a quick drink?” She looked suddenly hesitant. “If you want to, that is.”

  Chapter 17

  I spent the first part of the afternoon wandering among the stands in the materials handling section to make sure I hadn’t missed anything important. When I ran out of enthusiasm for that I looked at some of the other stands out of sheer curiosity. Then I sat in a café for a long time, checking my emails and reading the BBC news.

  When the show finally closed for the day I collected my car and drove the short distance to the hotel where the Latimer team were staying. It seemed to have been taken over by the show, and the bar was buzzing with post-event chatter. People were standing in small groups or lounging in clusters of modern olive green armchairs.

  Ashley was already there, seated among colleagues. She was wearing a green top and dark business trousers, and had brushed her hair back behind her ears, accentuating a pair of iridescent green earrings. I waved acknowledgement to her party, but she stood up to intercept me and ushered me away towards the bar. “They can manage without me for a while.”

  We sat at a table for two – still partly in sight of the others, but not within hearing distance. It struck me that I’d hardly spent any time with Ashley out of the company of her actual family or her extended business family. She always had a chaperone on hand.

  We sat back for a moment, looking a little warily at each other. Then, as if some impostor had taken over my powers of speech, I heard myself saying, “In case you wondered, I’m thirty-eight, divorced, boring according to my wife, tidy in my personal habits, kind to animals, but sometimes disenchanted with my job.” I leaned back. “Just by way of background.”

  As I spoke, a voice in my head announced that what I’d just said was tantamount to a proposal of marriage. Had I completely taken leave of my senses? I watched nervously for her reaction.

  She looked at me for a moment without saying anything, then smiled inscrutably. “Well thank you for sharing that, Mr Stanhope. I don’t recall asking for this fascinating information, but I never reject details willingly vouchsafed.”

  I laughed, relieved.

  She smiled back at me. “For the record, I’m twenty-nine – I’m never boring, and I kick the dog frequently.” She sipped her gin and tonic and frowned. “And I’m engaged.”

  “Right.”

  She sat back and twisted the stem of her glass round with her fingers, watching me. For a while neither of us spoke.

  I cleared my throat. “I’ve just been to Altrincham.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Altrincham, as in … ?”

  “Yup. I found the house where Trina Markham lived. Extremely posh. Her parents were Desmond and Shirley Markham. They lived there for a couple of years, but then left without telling anyone where they were going, and were never seen again. And get this – the neighbours considered them altogether shady.”

  “Wow! You really are a journalist, aren’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I don’t know. I feel as if I’m on the trail of something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Your life doesn’t sound boring to me.”

  “You’re just getting the edited highlights.”

  We sat for a while in silence, then she said, “You were going to tell me how come you were suddenly looking for this girl. You said it was a long story, but you’d tell me one of these days.”

  “Ah. So is this that day?”

  “Could be.”

  I thought for a moment. Keep it simple. “I’ve written a novel – a mystery. No big deal. No formal publisher. Nothing like that. I just stuck it online.”

  She was looking at me with raised eyebrows, but offered no comment.

  “Anyway, I got some ideas for the plot from the holidays we spent at Falmouth. I invented a fictitious place like the Fairmile, and some of my characters are based on the real people I met there. Or at least, on an imagined version of them. And I thought now I would try to find out what happened to those real people.”

  “Is your book any good? Could I buy it?”

  “Hah! You’re welcome, if you’re interested.”

  “Don’t put yourself down, Mr Stanhope. Why not go with the flow?”

  I looked at her. “I thought I was.”

  * * *

  We continued to chat amiably. I asked her whether she enjoyed this kind of event.

  “Gets me out and about.” An ironic grin. “I enjoy the travel and the people. It can sometimes get a bit wearing, but you never know who you’ll bump into.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “You seem very competent at your job.”

  “God knows how. I’ve never
done any formal training in marketing. I just pick things up as I go along. The Latimer team are great. It really helps.”

  “Have you always lived in the West Country?”

  “Pretty much – although I went to college in Bristol.” Another ironic smile. “It seemed a long way away at the time.” She picked up her glass and peered at me over it. “What about you, Mike? How did you get into logistics journalism?”

  “Luck, really. Probably the same as you in your job. Events just seemed to take over, somehow.”

  “You seem very resourceful. You were probably born to it.”

  I shrugged. “A lot of the work is just daily grind.”

  She nodded. “So you’d rather be a novelist?”

  “If only.” I smiled at her reflectively. “The grass on the other side is always greener, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, how right you are.” I sensed that she was talking about more than just my job.

  We shared a long look. She shook her hair back and the light glinted in her earrings. She seemed to have none of the overt self-awareness that I remembered from other beautiful women I’d briefly known. The thought that she actually seemed to be attracted to me still filled me with amazement.

  My thoughts seem to take control of my speech again. I found myself saying, “I’m glad you were able to make time for this.”

  “Sometimes I surprise myself.”

  * * *

  In due course several of Ashley’s colleagues rose, preparing to head off to whatever function they were attending, but she seemed in no hurry to usher me away. The throng in the bar gradually thinned around us.

  Eventually I glanced at my watch. “I suppose I ought to think about heading back to London. God knows what the traffic will be like on the motorway.”