by Tony McHale
He quickly took one from each file and placed them under the photo album. Then one by one he scanned them in, replacing the original statement back in its appropriate place once it was done. The scanned copies he slipped into the front of the photo albums.
He’d just slipped the statement from the business section for May 2009 back in its file and was scanning the personal statement for October 2009 when he heard a noise. He turned and saw his father standing there.
“Hey … dad.”
“How many photos are you showing them?”
“Only a few.”
“You’ve been in here ages.” Then Jed saw the scanner working away. “What’s that thing going for?”
“Scanning the photos. Didn’t want to give them the originals. That’s what’s taking the time.” Charlie then noticed the filing cabinet drawer, which held the statements, was slightly ajar. Casually he moved over to the cabinet, hoping not to draw his father’s attention to it.
“Which ones are you giving them?” asked Jed.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” Charlie said whilst easing his leg against the cabinet drawer and gently pushing it until it closed.
“I’m not. But I don’t want no shocks when I open the paper tomorrow.”
Charlie took out the copies he’d already done and showed them to him. Jed studied them for a few moments.
“Not the ones I’d have chosen, but I’m not the expert.”
Jed handed the photos back to Charlie and then looked at the scanner, which had stopped scanning.
“What’s in there?”
“Just another photograph.”
“Let me see it.”
“It’s just a photo.”
“I want to make sure you’re mother’s looking her best.”
Charlie looked at his dad. He’d been caught out. If his father discovered he’d been copying his bank statements then their already rocky relationship would be well and truly over.
“It’s this one.” Charlie suddenly said as he plucked from the pile one of the already copied photos and held it up. “This copy’s too grainy for the newspaper print,” he bluffed. “So I thought I’d try get a higher res one.”
Jed looked at him. He hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but who was he to argue.
“And that old machine will do that, will it?”
“Yeah … sometimes these old machines are the best. Not too complicated. Just do as you ask.”
Jed gave a nod, quite pleased with himself that he’d made such a good choice when he bought a scanner. He then left the room.
Charlie quickly took the bank statement out of the scanner and dropped it back in the appropriate place in the filing cabinet. He then copied the remaining statements, took them over to his room and hid them in the pocket in his case. If his father found them there, then it would be Even Stevens – he’d have to be going through Charlie’s belongings. They’d both be as bad as each other.
Charlie flipped through the photos, made sure he was happy with his selection, took a deep breath and headed down to meet the furore that was waiting for him in the bar.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Farrah had been manning the bar alone and if the truth be known, she’d been enjoying it. It was buzzing like Farrah had only dreamt it could.
By the time Charlie stepped into the bar, there were a dozen or so locals including Lucas, Amos, Old Atkinson and Jenny Pearson, plus about twenty assorted press, all print media except for one Internet news channel. Up until Charlie’s arrival Jenny had been the main interest. She told of Kyle’s murder and how as yet the police had not charged anyone. She also mentioned the robbery and that some charitable, decent soul had returned her dead son’s things. Now with Charlie there, it was like the bit players moment in the spotlight was over and one of the leading players had walked on stage. Lights flashed, cameras digitally clicked away and already images were being sent on line.
Charlie knew quite a few of the gathered media people and went amongst them chatting, exchanging greetings and receiving their sympathies. Slowly this initial social chitchat gave way to a more formal intercourse. Charlie positioned himself at the corner table, the telling-table, away from the bar. The media gathered obediently round and the locals watched on. They’d never seen anything quite like this. There was a ritual taking place and the ones partaking in the ritual knew their roles and their positions.
Charlie was normally in with the pack, camera poised, but today he occupied the position of the fox, he was the hunted, the one the pack would pounce on and rip to shreds if he showed any sign of weakness. Charlie had no intention of allowing that to happen.
“Thanks for coming all the way up here to the wilds of North Yorkshire,” he began. “I don’t intend to go into any details about the crimes that have been committed, or whether they’re connected in any way, or how the investigation is proceeding. That’s information you need to get from the police.”
“Will you just tell us if you’d had dealings with Chief Superintendent Sam Naylor, the police office found murdered in his home along with his wife?”
Charlie nearly smiled. He knew this trick. The question wasn’t technically contravening conditions laid down by the fox, but everyone knew that in actuality it was right in the middle of the ring-fenced territory. So he was prepared.
“Sorry … I can’t answer that. Again another question for the police.”
“Could you tell us when you first heard about your mother’s death?”
“The morning of her death.”
“And you came straight here?”
“Yes.”
Charlie knew it was probably a little early, but he didn’t want to be forced into answering too many questions negatively and he wanted to give the pack enough to go away with and hopefully never return, so he introduced the photos.
“I have a number of old family snaps, you’re more than welcome to take copies …”
Charlie placed the pile on the telling-table and they were soon gobbled up by the hungry press.
“What’s it like coming back home after all these years?” was a question fired from the back of the pack.
“Strange.”
“Is it true that since you left sixteen years ago, this was your first time back?”
“Yes.”
“Sixteen years … a hell of a long time.”
“It is.”
“Had you argued with your parents?”
Charlie knew he had to tread carefully; he didn’t want to upset his father.
“Not exactly. I was sixteen. I wanted to be the world’s greatest photographer and they didn’t think I would be. They were right, I was wrong.”
There was a little ripple of laughter.
“So there was no animosity between you and your parents?”
“There was tension … I was a teenager, what teenager doesn’t have some sort of tension with his parents?”
The interviewer’s face suddenly became visible to Charlie. He knew him straight away. His name was Gary Turner, a freelance, dirt-digger chancer. He’d turned door stepping into something slightly more invasive than open heart surgery. The majority of the articles he tried to sell were turned down, many editors considered them too litigious. They didn’t mind taking a risk now and then, if it was worth it, but Turner’s articles could easily end up in court receiving a hefty fine, all for some story about a person nobody knows or cares about. The last one Charlie knew about revolved around small time lawyer and his penchant for sheep. It was straight out of Woody Allen. The problem was that it was all hearsay and the photographic evidence was clearly creative photoshop. Charlie was wondering why Turner was here. He must be smelling some dirt. All Charlie could think of was that Genesis had got drunk and spilled the beans about the break-in, or Justin
had sold the story anonymously. Charlie needed to think of a strategy that would circumvent the problem … if that was the problem. Turner couldn’t have any real proof, so the best thing Charlie could do, would be to ridicule it. The notion is just too ridiculous …
“I know you said you couldn’t talk about any of the crimes that have been committed, but in the case of Devika, your partner … I’m right in calling her your partner, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I was under the impression that she was involved in a traffic accident.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you saying there was someone else involved?”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”
“So you think there was someone else involved?” Turner persisted testing the rules Charlie had set out at the beginning. Charlie was trying to figure out where this was going and even though everyone knew Turner was out of order and Charlie was one of them nobody rushed to offer support, they were all interested in the outcome.
Charlie looked at the faces crowded in front of him, all colleagues, but not one friend.
“Devika’s death was tragic …”
“More tragic than your mother’s?”
“You expect me to give you that headline … eh? You just think I’m going to say I loved my girlfriend more than my mother, or my mother more than my girlfriend. You know what Gary, if you think life is that simple, then being in your head must be like wading through candy-floss. My mother was killed, that lady’s son was killed,” Charlie pointed at Jenny Pearson, “and Devika, a seriously beautiful person was killed. I miss them all, I miss them all in different ways. Don’t try and cheapen what I feel for these people by looking for a headline.”
Turner knew he’d hit a nerve, which was brilliant for him. As for the others in the bar - did any of them care? Probably not any of the media crowd, but the locals knew what Charlie was talking about. They knew the pain he was in and for that moment they were behind him.
Turner wasn’t going to give up and in his heart of hearts Charlie knew he wouldn’t give up. That’s not what this lot did. If they gave up when they went after a quote, an article or a photograph, then they wouldn’t be in the job that long. They were like those packs of foxhounds; they just kept coming.
“Hey … this isn’t about cheap headlines. This is about a situation that the public wants to know about. And let’s face it … not seeing your mother for sixteen years isn’t normal.”
“I spoke to her regularly.”
“What about your father … did you speak to him regularly.”
“Yes.” Charlie chose to lie.
“That’s not what I heard,” Turner looked Charlie directly in the eye.
Charlie was wondering where Turner had got his information. He couldn’t have just gleaned this in the last hour.
“What do you want me to say? I left home at sixteen. I was a stupid teenager that didn’t know any better. I wasn’t the best son in the world. Will that make you happy?”
“I don’t mean to upset you man,” Turner oozed in a pseudo-chilled approach, “I’m just trying to help here.”
“Please – I’d love to know how you considered this to be helping.”
“Charlie …”
Charlie knew the voice and he turned and looked a familiar face, Richard Lewis a journalist for The Daily Express. “I’d say the cat was out of the bag. Sixteen years. People will want to know what was kicking around.”
“There was nothing kicking around. They were up here, I was down there. Simple as that.”
“And it was all because you wanted to be a photographer?” It was Turner again.
“Yes.”
“Nothing to do with you getting a girl pregnant.”
There was a pause. Charlie had to think whether he’d heard right or not.
“Pregnant?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that why you really left here?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“You’re saying there was no child?”
The locals were watching and listening intently. Farrah was the one who carried the most concerned expression.
“Yeah … that’s exactly what I’m saying. There was no child. Where you getting this from?”
“Does it really matter where it’s coming from?”
“Yeah it does to me. Because whoever’s telling you all this, they’re lying. This is ridiculous.”
“So why is your name on the birth certificate?” Turner launched his guided missile and waited for it to land.
Charlie really didn’t know what he was talking about, but there was something about Turner’s accusation that told Charlie he had an ace to play. And Turner played it.
“You can check it … Somerset House … Father - Charles James Ashton …” continued Turner.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m just telling what I saw.” Turner was now enjoying this. This is why he did it, he liked to see them squirm and Charlie wasn’t squirming yet, but Turner was convinced he would be soon.
“Look this is just some stupid rumour,” Charlie tried to assert himself. This was a game. A Turner game and Charlie nearly fell for it.
“Okay … then you’re saying you never had a relationship with a girl called Cassandra Rook.”
“Cassandra Rook?” Charlie hadn’t heard her called Cassandra for … well sixteen years.
“Yeah … she’s now Cassandra Samson,” persisted Turner.
Charlie’s feeling of confidence was ebbing away suddenly, like a tide drifting back to its ocean.
“I’m sorry what has this to do with my mother’s murder?”
“Maybe nothing … but maybe everything. Here’s a scenario for you … Budding young photographer gets underage girl pregnant. Parents go ballistic. Young photographer decides to do a runner and try and seek fame and fortune. Young photographer succeeds and bags himself glamour model. Parents remind him of the responsibility he’s ignored for sixteen years. Young photographer doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to spoil his perfect set up. He argues with his mother and bang …! She’s dead.”
The room is quiet for a moment.
“You think I killed my mother in an argument over a non-existent kid.”
“But the kid isn’t non-existent. The kid is very much real. You had a relationship with Cassandra Rook … yes or no?”
Charlie paused looking at him.
“We were kids …” he eventually said.
“Teenagers,” Turner confirmed.
“Yeah … I was fifteen … sixteen …”
“And she was around the same age?”
“But there was no kid.” Charlie was quite emphatic.
“Not what the birth certificate says. Her parents were convinced you were the father.”
“You’ve spoken to her parents?”
“On the phone,” said Turner getting into his stride. “You might remember them … Maurice and Marion … both very religious. Couldn’t take the shame when their little girl got pregnant. They didn’t believe in abortions, so Cassandra went on and had the child and her parents moved away. They didn’t want to have anything to do with Cassandra or her baby. She was fifteen and all alone.”
Charlie was quickly thinking back, working out the dates … what Turner was saying could be true. But wouldn’t Cassie have said something? Wouldn’t her parents have demanded he be made to pay for the child? Wouldn’t his parents have said something?
Charlie looked round the bar. Everyone was looking at him, most with pity, but there was Lucas and Amos, both looking oddly guilty. What were they looking guilty about? The fact that Cassie had a child by him must have been one of those village rumours that had been hanging in the air ever since Charlie left
. A rumour nobody could face him with, because he wasn’t there.
Charlie’s eyes moved to Farrah who was motionless behind the bar. He knew that if she could have done anything to help him she would have, but there was nothing she could do, mainly because she believed everything Turner was saying about Cassie’s child to be true. Almost imperceptibly Farrah shook her head. She was indicating for Charlie to get out of there. He wasn’t going to win.
“Where did you get this information from?” Charlie calmly asked.
“You know I’m not going to tell you,” replied Turner, almost with a laugh in his voice.
Charlie’s eyes flicked back to Lucas and Amos and he knew where Turner had got his information. He would put money on Turner driving a Vauxhall Astra hire car - the car Charlie had seen Lucas and Amos climbing in to.
Charlie took a deep breath.
“Okay … that’s all there is for now. Thank-you for your time.”
Charlie strode out of the bar, not even looking at Farrah.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Charlie headed straight for the Samsons’ cottage. He didn’t care if Tyler was there or not, he wanted to speak to Cassie … and he wanted to speak to her now. Part of him believed that Cassie would just ridicule the whole notion. Georgie couldn’t possibly be his. But Turner had seen the birth certificate … and his name was on it.
Charlie knocked on the cottage door. He had no idea what he would say if Tyler came to the door. But nobody came to the door. Nobody answered.
Charlie jumped back into the Range Rover; he had an idea where Cassie might be. He didn’t want to ring her, because he didn’t want to warn her. He wanted her true reaction – no time for her to think. He headed off towards Whitby and the Holiday Inn.
En route he had to slow down to pass the spot where Devika was killed. Four policemen were now involved in making sure the traffic flowed safely and that the ever-growing numbers of roadside mourners didn’t cause a problem.
Charlie inevitably slowed down as he stared at the tree, which was cordoned off, but the trunk could be seen to be gnarled and scarred from the impact of Devika’s car. One of the police officers urged him, almost aggressively, to keep moving on. Charlie wanted to stop the car and get out and shout at the small female officer, but he didn’t. He kept moving, albeit slowly.