by Ford, P. F.
‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Maunder leapt to his feet – impressively for a man in his eighties – and rushed to the door, flinging it open with a flourish. ‘Get out of my house!’ he shouted.
‘Good heavens,’ said Lady Maunder in the kitchen, as the sound of her husband’s shouting reached them. ‘Whatever is going on?’
‘I think maybe my colleague and your husband have finished talking,’ said Norman. ‘Thank you for the tea, and I really enjoyed talking to you, but I think I’d better be going, too.’
He stood and made his way back to the hall where Maunder was berating Slater as a disgrace to the police force. Then he spotted Norman coming from the kitchen.
‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing wandering around my house?’
‘Err, your wife offered me a cup of tea-’
‘You’ve been talking to my wife? How dare you?’ Maunder roared. ‘Get out of my house, the pair of you. You’ll pay for this. It’s harassment. I’ll be talking to the chief constable, and to my lawyer.’
‘Right,’ said Norman, as he ducked past Maunder to join Slater by the front door. ‘We’ll let ourselves out then, shall we?’
‘That seemed to go well,’ observed Norman, tongue firmly in cheek, as they drove off.
‘The guy’s a real charmer, just like you said,’ said Slater. ‘He didn’t like it at all when I suggested there was something fishy about their break-in. And when I asked him about Winter… Well, he denied knowing Winter, or about any letter. But he went crazy. I thought he was going to go into orbit.’
‘Yeah. See, I told you he was an arse,’ said Norman. ‘But how does a guy like that end up with such a lovely wife? She’s his polar opposite, honestly. She’s sweet, and gentle. She made me a cup of tea and we had a cosy little chat. She tells me it was her husband who was supposed to put the jewellery box away that night. And she assures me there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his memory.’
‘That more or less confirms it, then. I bet if we get a search warrant we’ll find the stuff’s still there somewhere.’
‘Yeah. Good luck with getting someone to sanction that. I think we’ll have more luck coming at him from the other direction. His wife confirms they have no kids. She says, to make up for it, he’s always done lots for children’s charities. And get this – he used to spend loads of his spare time down at Hatton House when it was open.’
‘Do you think she knows what he was really doing down there?’ asked Slater.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Norman. ‘She sees him as spikey on the outside but with a heart of gold on the inside. She thinks he’s one of the good guys.’
‘I’ve found you a real, live ex-staff member,’ announced Jolly, when they got back to the office. ‘Gordon Ferguson. He lives in a nursing home down Portsmouth way. I’ve spoken to the staff there. They say he’s a bit of a loner, keeps himself to himself. He’s quite frail, but he’s also quite lucid, and he never gets any visitors so he’d probably appreciate someone going to see him.’
‘Now, we’re getting somewhere,’ said Slater. ‘Well done, Jane.’
‘I’ve also located some records to do with Hatton House,’ she said. ‘They’re archived at the County Council’s offices. The only problem is they’ve got no-one to sort through them, so this afternoon I’m going to go down and start sorting through it all myself.’
‘Are you okay with that?’ asked Norman.
‘It’s got to be done,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure I can do it a lot more efficiently than you two.’
‘Ouch,’ said Norman. ‘I felt that.’
Chapter 25
When Jolly had finally tracked down the whereabouts of the records she was looking for, she had been warned about the likely condition of both the records themselves and the place where they were kept. Now she had reached that place, she could see they hadn’t been joking. She was surprised to find the archive appeared to be run by a young man who looked about thirteen years old. He introduced himself as Ryan.
‘Everything you want will be down the far end there,’ he said, pointing to the far end of the basement area. He was obviously none too keen on actually going with her to help in any way, although he didn’t say as much.
‘Right. Thank you,’ she said, doubtfully, surveying the rows of dusty shelves packed tightly with boxes and boxes of paperwork. ‘Do I get any sort of clue about exactly where it might be? Or what it might look like?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been down that far, so I couldn’t tell you what’s down there. I suppose it’ll be in archive boxes like the rest of it.’
‘Oh, great. That’s really helpful,’ she said, testily.
‘Old Mr Rodgers would know exactly where everything was,’ he said.
‘Where’s he today?’ she asked, hopefully. If he was on a day off, maybe she could come back tomorrow.
‘In his grave,’ Ryan said. ‘He died all of a sudden. He had a heart attack. Left me in charge of this bloody lot but I’d only been here a week so he never got round to showing me what’s what.’
‘That was very inconsiderate of him,’ said Jolly, acidly, but her sarcasm was wasted. If the youthful Ryan had detected her tone, it certainly didn’t show.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘He was a bit of a selfish old git.’
‘It’s been lovely talking to you,’ said Jolly. ‘But I’m afraid I need to get on. It looks like I’ve got a lot to do.’
She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and made to walk past him.
‘Sorry. You can’t take that in there.’ He pointed at the rucksack.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know what’s inside it, do I?’
‘But it’s just overalls, face masks, and stuff, so I don’t get covered in dust and other assorted crap.’
‘You might want to smuggle something out,’ Ryan said, gravely. ‘I can’t allow that.’
‘I’m the bloody police, you moron,’ Jolly snapped. ‘I’m looking for evidence, and I can assure you if I find any I don’t need to smuggle it out. I’ll bloody well walk out with it under my arm! Are you clear on that?’
Ryan looked distinctly embarrassed.
‘Alright, alright,’ he said. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
‘No, Ryan,’ said Jolly. ‘You’re not doing your job, you’re obstructing a police inquiry, and the police are beginning to lose their patience. Now, are you going to let me past?’
The young man looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and quickly stood aside.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
She stepped past him and started to make her way through the basement. At the beginning it was all neat and tidy and relatively dust-free. But she couldn’t quite get her head around the sheer volume of paperwork that seemed to represent just one month’s work. If this was the paperless society computers were supposed to have heralded, she thought, then we’re all in serious trouble.
By the time she had gone back fifteen years, to the turn of the century, the dust was thick enough to write her name. It was time to don the blue smurf suit she’d persuaded Ian Becks to part with. When she told him why she wanted one, he’d also supplied her with goggles, a face mask with several spare filters, and a head torch. She wasn’t sure she’d need the goggles, but already she could see the face mask had been a good idea. As she headed deeper into the archive and the lights became less effective, she knew she was also going to be grateful for the head torch.
It took her an hour to locate what she was looking for. The dust was so thick on the top of the boxes it was obvious they hadn’t been opened in years. She was undecided if this was a good sign or a bad sign, but at least it meant no one else had been looking here, so perhaps, for once, they were ahead of the game. Then again, she thought, it could mean there was nothing here to find. Finally, she realised all this speculation was getting her nowhere. She wasn’t going to know, one way or the other, unless she opened th
e boxes and looked inside.
Over the next two hours, she looked through six of the archive boxes, but found no reference to Hatton House or any other orphanage. The filing system seemed to be a bit hit and miss. Some boxes seemed to contain everything from a single year and some contained documents relating only to a single subject. The head torch proved to be invaluable in the gloom, but even so, she could feel a headache beginning to develop. She decided to take a break and get away from all this dirt and dust for a while, and made her way back up to the front end of the archive where the air was cleaner and the light was better.
‘Jesus,’ said Ryan when she emerged, covered in dust and grime. ‘Look at the state of you!’
‘Yes,’ said Jolly. ‘Look at the state of your archive, you mean.’
‘I honestly had no idea it was that bad,’ he said. ‘That’s disgraceful.’
He jumped up from his desk and pushed at the bars of a fire door.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Come outside and get some fresh air. I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
She was totally unprepared for this change in his attitude, but so grateful to see daylight and fresh air she didn’t pass comment. She stepped outside, dragged off her overalls and face mask, and sank onto a chair.
‘Here you are,’ said Ryan, carrying a mug of tea out to her. ‘You shouldn’t be working down there in all that shit. It can’t be doing you any good.’
‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’ she said. ‘It’s got to be done.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we load the boxes onto my sack barrow and bring them up this end where there’s some decent light?’
‘We?’ she said, surprised. ‘Are you offering to help?’
‘I’ll give you a hand if you like. I’ve got nothing else to do. This job gets so boring I sometimes wonder if anyone actually knows I’m down here. It’ll make a change to have something useful to do. If anyone asks what I’m doing, I’ll tell them I’m starting to sort out the archive. They won’t know the difference anyway.’
‘I’d really appreciate that,’ said Jolly. ‘Thank you, Ryan.’
‘To tell the truth,’ he said, quietly, ‘I think I owe you that much. I don’t know why I was so shitty earlier. P’raps it’s because I’m so bloody bored, but it’s not your fault, is it? There’s no excuse for it. I was just being an arsehole because I could I suppose.’
‘That’s alright,’ she said. ‘What are you? Eighteen?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded, shyly.
‘Well that explains it then.’ She smiled at him. ‘Being an arsehole sometimes goes with the territory. It’s part of what being eighteen’s all about.’
‘You’re alright, you are,’ said Ryan. ‘I tell you what, you drink your tea and then we’ll get started.’
Having led Ryan down to the back of the archive and shown him which boxes she wanted to look through, the whole operation began to move more quickly. He proved to be a keen, willing worker, despite the dirty conditions, and was happy to do as directed.
Jolly eventually made her first breakthrough late in the afternoon when Ryan wheeled out a whole box devoted to child welfare. After much sorting, she finally came up with a list of all the children who had been sent to Hatton House from 1956 up to 1965 when it closed. Then, in the very next box, she struck gold in the form of records and documents from Hatton House itself.
She beamed a smile at the now grubby, dusty teenager.
‘Ryan,’ she said, beaming. ‘I could kiss you.’
‘Steady on,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘You must be old enough to be my mum.’
Then, he noticed the look on her face.
‘No offence, like,’ he added.
Chapter 26
Slater was heading south towards the coast and The Belmont Nursing Home, which sat on a hill, high above Portsmouth, overlooking the town, the old naval dockyards, and out across the sea. He was driving alone as Norman had booked the afternoon off for reasons unknown. Slater was nosey enough to ask, but also understanding enough to accept Norman’s stonewalling of his questions. If he didn’t want to share his business, that was okay.
The subject of his visit was Gordon Ferguson, the sole surviving member of staff from Hatton House. Ferguson had been the gardener at Hatton House from 1950 when the home had opened, right through until it had closed in 1965, so Slater was optimistic about his chances of learning something useful from his trip.
It was a sunny day, and despite the fact it was late afternoon in February, there were a few hardy souls huddled together on the benches that were dotted about the sun terrace at the back of the building. And then there was one man who sat alone on a bench apart from the rest, staring out to sea. He was wrapped in a huge black coat, with a blue and white scarf coiled around his neck, and a matching woollen hat on his head.
‘That’s him,’ said the carer, pointing. ‘On his own as usual. He spends most of his time out here on his own, even when it’s freezing cold. He prefers to keep himself to himself, and he can be a bit grumpy, but mostly he’s okay.’
She gave him a kindly smile.
‘Do you need me to take you over to meet him?’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ said Slater, looking at the badge pinned to the front of her uniform blouse. ‘Thank you, Maggie. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘If you need anything else, you’ll find me in or around the reception area. Just ring the bell if you can’t see me.’
She hurried back inside. Despite the warm sunshine there was an icy wind blowing in from the sea, and Slater was grateful for his own thick, warm coat, which he kept in his car just in case. He turned the collar up and walked towards the solitary old man. He eased himself onto the bench, close, but not too close, to the old man, who studiously ignored him and continued staring into the distance.
‘Mr Ferguson?’ he said, after a minute or so. ‘My name’s DS Slater. I believe they told you I was coming.’
The old man turned to look at him, and Slater’s heart gave a little flutter of excitement. His face had the weathered look of a man who had spent his life working outside in all conditions, but he was unmistakably the man in the photograph with the little girl, which was in his pocket.
‘Aye. They told me,’ the old man said, eventually. ‘But they didn’t tell me why.’
His voice was a low growl, with just a faint trace of a Scottish accent remaining.
‘We’re running a murder inquiry,’ said Slater. ‘Our investigations have led us to an orphanage that was open in the fifties and closed in the mid-sixties. It was called Hatton House. Do you know it?’
‘I can’t say I do.’ Ferguson brushed an enormous, gnarled hand across his face.
‘That’s funny,’ said Slater. ‘Because there’s a Gordon Ferguson listed as a member of staff. He was the gardener. With hands like that, I reckon you were probably a gardener. Am I right?’
‘I’m an old man,’ said Ferguson. ‘My memory’s not what it was.’
‘According to the staff here, your memory is just fine,’ said Slater.
‘You’re wasting your time. I can’t tell you anything.’
‘I haven’t asked you anything, yet.’
The old man just grunted in response.
‘You must have been good at your job,’ said Slater. ‘I mean, you were there from the day it opened. And I’ve seen those gardens. They’re beautiful, even now. And that walled vegetable plot. I bet you grew some stuff there.’
‘You’ll not flatter me, with your fancy talk,’ Ferguson said. ‘I told you. I can’t tell you anything.’
‘Maybe you just need something to jog your memory.’ Slater slipped his right hand into his pocket. ‘How about this?’
He held the photograph out in front of Ferguson so he could see it. The old man’s face seemed to almost fold upon itself but then he quickly looked away.
‘Remember now?’ asked Slater, gently.
T
he old man continued to stare into the distance but said nothing. The photograph obviously meant something to him, so Slater decided it would be worth his while to be patient and wait a few minutes if he had to.
‘Where on earth did you get that?’ the old man asked at last, but he wouldn’t look at Slater.
‘I told you. We’ve been making enquiries,’ said Slater. ‘We found this in a log cabin in the gardens at Hatton House.’
‘Is the house still standing?’ Ferguson sounded surprised as he turned back to Slater, the track of a solitary tear still wet on his face.
‘The house is just about falling down,’ explained Slater. ‘But the gardens are still beautiful. The lady who lives in the log cabin has looked after them really well. She’s kept them just as you did. I bet you would be proud if you could see them now.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Ferguson looked at the ground. ‘I told you I can’t tell you anything.’
‘Her name’s Florence,’ said Slater. ‘She told us she was looking for someone called Dougal. Do you remember anyone called Dougal?’
The old man’s face crumpled again, but this time he didn’t hide it and a sob shook his body. Another tear escaped and began its course down his cheek.
‘Aye,’ he said, sadly. ‘I know Dougal. No one ever called me Gordon. I was always Dougal.’
‘You’re Dougal?’ cried Slater in surprise. ‘But she’s always asking for you!’
‘Why is that such a surprise? I was the only one who ever showed her any kindness.’
‘But I thought…’ Slater’s voice trailed off. He studied the photograph again. ‘But, in this photograph she looks terrified. We thought that was because you were abusing her.’
‘Me? Ferguson looked appalled. ‘I didn’t abuse any children.’
‘But, this photograph-’
‘She wasn’t terrified of me, you bloody fool.’ Ferguson shook his head furiously. ‘She was terrified of the man taking the photograph. And so was I!’