Seven hours travel brought Tobin back to his hometown. The taxi from the station, where he had left the last train from London, was climbing away from the town centre to The Ridge that overlooked Hastings, and in the distance the English Channel. It was a clear night and quiet and he leant back in the seat to stretch his travel weary legs.
‘Long day, mate?’
‘Yes; very.’ And what a day!
He had made his escape from Intercon Cuisine and the glowering Mrs Gould and, after fifteen minutes fast drive, had parked near Teri’s flat in a redbrick street in the Jesmond area of Newcastle, overlooking the great green area of the Town Moor.
After handing Teri the keys, with a warning not to try to move the car, but, find a mechanic, they had caught the underground Metro system to the station. Over a cup of coffee, for the fifteen minutes waiting for his train, he had brought her up to date.
She had said nothing, but there had been an imploring look in her eyes as she gave him an unusually fond farewell. Was she just thinking of herself? Or him? Or Alan? Or all three of them. He suspected, cynically, that it was the first, but hoped it was the last.
As the taxi approached the turn for the old house with all its childhood memories he became aware of all the new housing, the place was changing. He had visited it many, many times since, but the memories were always those of childhood. The lane that he remembered used to be dark and scary with not many other houses near, this road was made up and streetlights shone brightly. He was about to question the taxi driver when he saw the street name board and realised just how long it had been since he had last made this journey. The final two hundred yards were down the familiar rough track he was glad to see and he paid the driver off at the gate by the lights of the car.
He walked up the long, curving drive and stood at the front door. With his back to the house he could see the sea twinkling in the moonlight beyond the woodland that masked out the near part of the town below. He dropped his bag, took a deep breath of fresh air and blew it out again. He was tired, hungry and thirsty, in no particular order, but happy.
He turned back to the door, there was a new illuminated bellpush, ‘Mr & Mrs R.B. Foy.’ He pressed the button and heard a distant chime. The light in the hall brightened as a door opened and a figure was silhouetted behind the glass as the hall light was switched on. Hazel Foy was Russell’s second wife and twenty-five years his junior. The door opened.
‘Nick, nice to see you.’ She took him by the shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. She sounded genuine enough; he had hardly got to know her after their marriage and they had only met a couple of times since. He thought her voice had deepened in that time and he wondered if it was the effect of being around the sonorous tones of his uncle; which he now heard from somewhere within. ‘C’min, m’boy.’ He could feel the voice as much as hear, it rolled down the hall and enveloped them. Hazel smiled at it, shook her head with a laugh and led him down the hall and into the living room. Russell was stretched on an enormous settee, the picture of contentment.
Despite his sixty seven years and bulky form he sprang to his feet and strode across the room and pumped Tobin’s arm with a massive hand. ‘Good to see you, Nick. Long trip? Come and sit down.’ The heavy bag was taken from him and cast aside as if it was nothing more than a coat and he was propelled to a seat. ‘Here this is what you need. Gets rid of all those tensions!’ An expensive brandy was sloshed into a vast glass and pressed into his hand. ‘I was just working it out, it’s five years since you were here last. Too long!’
‘Yes. But, it was just after your wedding, so I didn’t want to stop long and then, with one thing and another, I’ve been busy. Time flies!’
‘Whatever the excuse it’s too long and I think you should promise now, before we go any further, that you will visit us again in the very near future!’
‘I promise. I promise.’ He laughed, he just felt so safe, so welcome and secure in this house. He didn’t need the brandy, the company was instantly relaxing, he felt as if he had been there only a week before rather than five years. This was the man he had hoped to emulate in his youth, not that he wanted to follow the legal profession, but he had always been greatly influenced by Russell’s presence, his character and his confidence. His personality so dominated everything and without any hint of arrogance, although he could turn that on as well and crush a person flat, if he wanted to. He had been famous for that in many court appearances, turning expert witnesses into mumbling wrecks. Fortunately, he kept that side of his nature just for work, the only trait that spanned private and working life was the wicked sense of humour, a truly cutting wit. It was quite childish hero worship, Tobin knew, but he still fell under the spell.
Russell was studying him over the top of his half-moon reading glasses, the twinkling, mischievous eyes generating a mass of laugh lines. He could still make Tobin feel like a small boy.
‘Don’t you think he looks better, now that he’s finally agreed to retire from that ghastly business?’ Asked Hazel, pointedly.
‘Yes … .’
‘Hah! A “ghastly business” that kept you in frocks and in the manner to which you rapidly became accustomed!’ His hand enveloped the brandy bottle and he splashed some more into his glass. ‘Hmmph!’ A huge smile spread across his face and he grabbed for Hazel as she passed by. She shook her head and rolled her eyes up at Tobin in mock despair at her husband.
‘Have you eaten?’ She asked Tobin.
‘Not much, actually.’
‘Good.’
Hazel was right, Russell looked a great deal better than Tobin remembered. For one thing his face had colour which did a great deal for the ready smile, displaying a full set of bright, white, original teeth and accentuating the lines on his face. He had always appeared relaxed, but, now he was positively carefree.
It was Tobin’s turn to watch now and he could see the genuine affection that they had for each other, Russell’s eyes followed his wife around the room and she regularly contrived to touch him whenever she was close. Tobin reckoned that Hazel was the rejuvenating factor in Russell’s life as much as the retirement.
Tobin thought of Aunt June, Russell’s first wife, and a greater contrast he could not imagine. June had always seemed older than her husband, whether she was or not he didn’t know, and had always maintained a very severe countenance. The atmosphere in the house had always been restrained when she was about, it was when she was away that Russell changed; and Tobin had spent a lot of time there. At first he had not liked her, but, as he got older he came to realise just how kind she really was and that the hard exterior hid, as so often was the case, a soft heart. Tobin had come to look upon the two of them as second parents, which the childless couple had worked hard to encourage, and he had been deeply saddened by June’s early death. He had been equally upset by family talk of Russell having driven her to her early grave by his increasingly high profile in the courts, and some of his outspoken comments in the press, which he loved to give just to watch the controversy. But, to June, all the attention was too much. It seemed to be crushing her with its intensity and she became more and more withdrawn and frail while Russell went from strength to strength. The truth was that she was very ill and encouraged him to get out and away, to stop him moping about the house, as he fretted about her and his inability to make right the one thing in his life that he didn’t want to lose. As the only really successful member of his family he was regarded with a combination of great pride and deep jealousy. Tobin could remember his own father being quite disparaging about Russell when reading a report of another successful court case of his brother’s.
Tobin’s mother had been quite tight-lipped about him; it was hard for him to do right in her eyes, too. As her husband’s big brother, the middle of five siblings, he was a monster for being successful – ‘he must have done it on the backs of others’ – and ‘deserved’ to fail when occasionally he lost a case. She was almost glee
ful when one of his cases failed, fortunately, a rare occurrence.
Russell sailed through it all, but with less and less contact with his family, Tobin realised now that the family had backed away from Russell rather than him leaving them. It had been saddening when Tobin had to persuade his family members to attend June’s funeral. And then afterwards he had tried to keep the peace, in this house, where he had always enjoyed himself, and was once again enjoying himself.
After June’s death Russell had buried himself in work for a few months and then burst back into the public life representing an actress in a well reported, and most said ill-advised, case. He had won her an apology from a national newspaper and modest damages. As the informed opinion at the time had been that he was on to a ‘dead cert. loser’, Russell’s image revived; much to the further disdain of his family.
When Russell announced that he was to marry Hazel Attaway-Smith, TV personality and great friend of the fortunate actress that Russell had just successfully defended, that sealed the future of his family relationship. There was an immediate outburst of sympathy and mourning for the once disliked June. Russell Foy hid his disappointment and went ahead and married his new love and had never been spoken to by his family again; except for Tobin, who was the only one to understand, and who, in return, had continued to be welcomed to his favourite home. For home was what it had been as he worked his way through university and drifted away from his own family. He, also, had changed, now.
Hazel had been, and still was in an occasional capacity, a minor TV personality and presenter. They had a whirlwind romance and were married and, despite all the gloomy predictions of being ‘on the rebound’ and ‘the age gap is too great’, they had made it work, with obvious success. She was far from shy and had no difficulties in coping with her extrovert husband and he in turn relished the challenge of the age difference. He had never really grown out of his twenties, anyway.
Tobin was slumped on the settee with his head back staring at the ceiling when he realised that the room was quiet and that the pair of them were watching him, Russell with a big grin on his face and Hazel standing in the doorway holding a pot of coffee. He sat up blinking with embarrassment.
‘You were off somewhere nice there, lad. Your face was a picture!’
‘Have some coffee before that stuff goes straight to your head, if it hasn’t already.’ Hazel sounded disapproving. She produced a tray of sandwiches and snacks to eat with the coffee and placed them on the table between them. Satisfied that they were all catered for she sat beside Tobin with a big smile. ‘We don’t see much in the way of family these days, and you are his favourite family, did you now that?’
‘You’ve been around a long while, haven’t you, Nick?’
‘Russ!’ She turned to Tobin. ‘You know I’ve always wanted to meet Nicholas Foy.’
‘Well, in a sense you won’t!’ said Tobin, hesitantly. ‘He doesn’t really exist anymore; he died with his books and childish ambitions; he’s called John Tobin now. That’s what everyone knows me as. I don’t think anyone up our way has ever heard of Nick Foy!’ He paused, embarrassed. ‘Did Russell tell you about him?’
‘No. I was a mature student and we had a lecturer at university who was nuts about ‘The Delicate Agent’.’
Tobin grimaced at the memory of it. ‘That was an awful thing,’ he said, embarrassed that part of his past that he most wanted to forget was being dredged up again. ‘That was a load of rubbish that was sold on the back of a load of hype. The reviews were terrible, and rightly so, but I think they helped, in a perverse kind of way.’
He gave a deprecating little laugh. ‘I couldn’t tell you what it was all about now, you know. I spent the minimum amount of time on it. I took the themes of about three popular books of the time, mixed them about a bit and put it into a trendy setting. Ugh!’ He shook himself. ‘I’m embarrassed thinking about it.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be,’ interrupted Russell, loudly.
Hazel waved down the annoying interruption. ‘I got the impression that it was very successful for you.’ She paused. ‘You know, you have to make mistakes to learn by them.’ That was a Russellism if ever he heard one. ‘What became of the other two books?’
‘You know about those?’ It was getting worse! ‘They were no better, were worse in fact! The technique was a bit better perhaps, but the content was abysmal. I never really found out what became of them because the publisher folded.’ Hazel frowned, interested. ‘The publisher of ‘Agent’ was a little fly by night company; none of the true publishers would touch it. Anyhow they struck lucky; with some cute marketing and a lot of luck, I believe. They made quite a bit of money, of which I didn’t see my fair share, I later discovered. They then wanted another two books, ‘to make a package’, they said. I knocked them both out in a year and was knocked out by it myself. I had never had a job before let alone worked alone and I couldn’t pace myself properly, it was either abject panic or total complacency.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘Terrible! I only got a part of the advance that they promised and none of the profits, if there were any! I was very green, very trusting in those days, I still am, I suppose. I had my head down, busy working away and never checked what was going on. Mind you if I had checked I probably wouldn’t have realised anything was going on. Anyway, they grabbed what they could and folded the company while I was away somewhere. I did get some money from the reissue of ‘Agent’, and TV rights that came to nothing, and that’s my nest egg, hardly touched. I live a simple, single, quiet life now and I’m comfortable not being Nick Foy.’ He stretched back wearily, not wishing to look at either of them.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever told that story.’ He admitted, after a long pause. He might as well finish it. ‘So, after that I teamed up with a friend and the two of us worked on many things like copywriting for adverts and promotions, odd scripts for broadcast, comedy sketches, but, eighty per cent was copy for one ad. agency. But, my friend was restless, thought we should be earning more, have more recognition. So, one day out of the blue he announced that he had contracted with another company and would I go with him? “We’ll show them what we’re worth; I’m never working for the other lot again!” All that kind of thing. I have to admit, the prospects were much better; but the money was crap! However, I really enjoyed it, but he got restless again. It involved a lot of travelling and he didn’t like that, so he negotiated for us to return to the first ad. agency, “just like the old days”. He assured me it was all arranged and I finished off the old contract with a terrible rush. He disappeared off on holiday and when I went to sort out about returning I discovered that I wasn’t, only my ‘friend’ was going back, they wanted to keep on one of the replacement people, a nice dolly blonde. I don’t mean that nastily, she genuinely was nice.
‘Well, he claimed he knew nothing about it, but I’ve been told different things by other people since. You can imagine what that did for my confidence. It took an awful lot of getting over, if I have got over it. Having your trust, your loyalty, betrayed like that hurts so much; it is like a physical pain. I had placed so much faith in that ‘friend’; I didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, someone wanted a driving job doing almost immediately and that was a bit of distraction. But, I was left high and dry because I relied on that one person for all the work, he had all the contacts and I just trailed along.’ The similarity to Tobin’s current situation did not escape him, he hadn’t learnt any lessons after all!
There was a pause while Russell and Hazel pondered on the burden that Tobin had just released. The dam had obviously been cracking for some time and had finally given with just the slightest push. Tobin suddenly felt very insecure; a trouble shared could be a weakness exposed.
‘So. What brings you down here then, m’boy?’
‘Russell!’ Her gaze rolled heavenwards. ‘Tomorrow!’
‘We understand each other, don’t we l
ad?‘
She gave an exasperated sigh; Russell just gave a great big grin. It was infectious, all three of them were laughing.
‘Alright!’ He said holding up his hand. ‘Tomorrow. But, before bed, the News!’ Russell picked up a bunch of remote controls and flicked through the news channels on the television, eventually settling on the American CNN. Tobin looked on; he must get himself up to date!
Wednesday dawned bright and Tobin was awake early, due to leaving the bedroom window and curtains wide open. He crept about making himself coffee and toast, showering and dressing and leaving a note before crunching down the drive. He walked down the unadopted road through the woods, a wide dirt track in reality, and emerged into a residential area. From here he found his way down into Alexandra Park. Wearing only T-shirt and jeans he walked briskly in the early morning sunshine. The park was as beautiful as ever and already busy with walkers, dog walkers and joggers. Groundsmen were already out tidying and the green keeper at the bowling greens was preparing for a hard day’s action. Beside the bowling green was a large timber shelter and Tobin could vividly remember tobogganing down the bank between it and the adjacent tree during schoolboy winters. It all looked so small now, and a little tame.
He left the park by the main gates and headed for the town centre. It was many years since he had walked down here and the changes in that time were quite dramatic. The gloomy gas works had long gone and there was a bright new supermarket, it’s carpark yet to fill with busy shoppers. As the street rose slightly it became more familiar again and Tobin remembered some of the shops, the little timber merchants was still there and the tool shop, where was the record shop he remembered with such affection? He walked on and saw the biggest change yet. The gentlemanly sport of cricket had finally given way to commerce and the much debated shopping centre had taken its place. For how many decades had that been debated? Into the town centre, he missed the memorial now that it had been removed, what did people call this place now? He turned half right and continued past the department store, that had also changed name and ownership, and on to the seafront and the great memories of the underground swimming pool.
The shingle beach at this point had disappeared, scoured out by the sea, and looking to the east he could see how much the beach had grown in that direction. He had to decide now, walk east into the sun or west and warm his back. He turned west to do the long walk first. His decision was aided by a girl in minimal summer wear walking her dog in that direction who he soon overtook as he strode out on familiar pavement, choosing to stay on the upper promenade for its warmth.
‘Hello, Hazel?’ The phone had hardly rung before it had been picked up and answered with a perfunctory, ‘Yes?’
‘Nick! Where are you, I was getting concerned.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve walked for five hours solid and I’m exhausted. Which bus do I get back to the Ridge? They’ve all changed!’
‘I’ll come and meet you for lunch, Russ is out all day with some of his cronies. You know the big carpark by the fountain? Wait by the entrance. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’ She hung up.
The rest of the day was lost to Tobin’s memory. A light lunch, with wine, in a small restaurant in the Old Town was followed by an afternoon stretched on a garden lounger in the heat of the afternoon sun, fast asleep. He woke up thinking the sun had gone in only to find himself shaded by a large garden umbrella. The next time he woke up the sun had gone, sunk behind the tall trees. He felt awful, but, some charming, cheerful company, some coffee and another shower had him feeling fine again, although his legs and feet were tired.
His fine feeling lasted until Russell burst back into the house bringing with him two friends and a haze of alcohol. He had to leave his car somewhere, being unfit to drive, and got a lift home. He was sure Hazel wouldn’t mind the extra guests! She didn’t. A lot of wine and Russell’s favourite spirit flowed, together with a wonderful meal created by Hazel, amid the noise and hilarity centred on their host.
Thursday morning was a different matter altogether. Tobin rose late, feeling much the worse for the previous night’s excesses and found that he had only just been preceded by Hazel, who was also a little quiet; heaven knew what time they went to bed!
Fifteen minutes later Russell breezed in full of the joys.
‘Good morning all!’ He beamed at the sound of his own bellow. ‘You look awful!’ He said, to no-one in particular. Hazel ignored him, except for one loving smile. ‘Well, I’ve got work to do, letters to write and so on! Come into the study and tell me all about it, when you feel up to it, lad!’ Scooping up the coffee pot and a mug he left.
‘How do you cope with that?’ asked Tobin.
‘You get used to it. I’ve developed this isolation switch.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘He does it on purpose, anyway.’
Tobin didn’t feel up to it till mid-day when he took Russell’s and his own lunch to the study. He found his uncle in a large, light and airy room, built to join the house to the garage. At one end was a fully equipped modern office, all windows; at the other end was the kind of study he would have expected a retired lawyer to occupy. An old leather three piece suite was arranged around a fireplace surrounded by bookshelves full of heavy looking tomes. Russell was sitting in one of the armchairs reading. Tobin was shown the other armchair with remarkable restraint; Russell obviously respected the quiet of his own room. After a token protest Tobin fetched his notes and papers and reorganised them while they finished their lunches. Once settled with fresh coffee Tobin was taken through his story, slowly, bit by bit. Russell took no notes, demonstrating his famed ability for memorising detail, gained from a lifetime’s experience listening to testimony.
They had just gone through it a second time, Russell this time making copious notes as he asked the most detailed and penetrating questions, when Hazel brought them afternoon tea.
‘There you are. I meant to ask you, Nick, is there anything you don’t eat?’ She bent and fondled Russell’s neck as she spoke.
‘Oh! Anything.’
‘Good. I’ll make some dinner, then.’ With a mischievous little smile and a flick of the hair like a shampoo advert she bounced out, leaving the tiniest trace of expensive perfume. Russell observed Tobin’s gaze.
‘Terrific woman, eh?’
‘Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … .’
‘There you go apologising again! Don’t! It’s a complement. It does me the power of good seeing other men watching her!’
There was a discreet cough from outside the study.
‘Right! Back to your intriguing friend, whoever he may be.’ He began to enumerate points on his fingers as he spoke. ‘My first thought is his use of an alias; you can use whatever name you like as long as you are not impersonating someone and gaining by that impersonation or causing them loss. Well, it’s debatable whether the real Alan Harper would have lost by the impersonation, but, there are all those declarations that he will have signed saying he is Alan Harper. For a start there’s Inland Revenue and Customs and Excise, his passport, driving licence, credit cards and a whole host of others that we all just take for granted and never even look at when we sign them. He must have gone about this very thoroughly to have survived this long. I think he’s been very clever and more than a bit lucky.’ He looked to Tobin for his agreement.
‘However, that’s not so much your concern as these deaths and his possible involvement. But!’ Russell’s finger was waving in the air. ‘It doesn’t need my experience to make me wonder why he has been living this extraordinary existence for so long. And, the very fact that he has been capable of such deception certainly makes me wonder if he is not capable of more.’ He paused again. ‘Was there a danger of exposure, and if so, has that driven him to kill to protect himself?’ He held up his hand as Tobin began to protest. ‘Hard to believe, maybe, but possible, nevertheless.’
Tobin
had to agree, grudgingly.
‘If you stop and think about it rationally, why go to such lengths? It can’t be because he’s hiding from some irate father or something, can it? It has to be something criminal.’
Tobin thought for a moment. ‘He could have begun it for a relatively minor thing and it’s just grown, overtaken him.’
‘True! What springs to mind is some comparatively, minor crime followed by a family feud. If these two men do look so alike, then perhaps that’s a possibility. But, perhaps you have worked that out for yourself.’ He said, generously.
‘Sort of, but it's good to talk it over with someone else. That’s what I’ve lacked so far, someone sensible, trustworthy, to talk to. It was all getting a bit bewildering, I didn’t know how much further I could safely go; how deep I was getting myself in.’
‘Safely go and deep in.’ Ruminated Russell. ‘You’re already ‘in’, in that you are an accessory, you know what he’s done and you haven’t informed the authorities despite being given the opportunity. That could expose you to charges of obstruction or similar. So going any further safely becomes a debatable matter. However, not that I want to encourage you in a life of crime, I can understand your curiosity. I think I’d be the same, given the circumstances. But, there’s one aspect that you do have to face,’ he sat forward and tapped on Tobin’s knee with each word, ‘and that is, are you truly sure he is not capable of murder?’ He again stifled Tobin’s response with a raised hand. ‘You came to me for advice, remember? So listen to it before you ignore it!’
‘OK. Sorry.’
‘Stop apologising! I raise the question because you cannot deny that a man who has successfully deceived you all for at least twenty years has to be suspect. After thirty five years practising law I’m a little cynical, that’s all.’ Tobin sat in deep thought, Russell was quite right, of course. He had been so intent on defending his friend that he had ignored the question of ‘was he defensible?’ and should he be defending him? He shuffled the papers about in his folder to cover his uncertainty.
Russell leant over peering at the papers. ‘Is that a photo?’ He reached for it, paper-clipped inside the front cover.
‘Yes. That’s Alan in the middle.’ He saw Russell do a double take at it.
‘Good Heavens! When was this taken?’
‘A couple of months ago,’ said Tobin. ‘He hates photos. I took that as the wife of one of those others on there was taking a snap. I popped up over her shoulder and took it. That’s the one that was published and Alan made all the fuss about.’
Russell was staring at the photo. ‘It’s uncanny.’
‘What is?’
‘How old are you … forty? You would have been one year old.’ He was thoughtful for a minute, Tobin waited, avoiding the temptation to ask the obvious. Russell had gathered his thoughts.
‘Early Seventies.’ He began, slowly. ‘The Mitchell boys; bunch of fools, really.’ He waved the photo gently, thoughtfully, in front of them. ‘I need to sort out some papers.’ He strode to the door at the garage end of the study taking a bunch of keys from his pocket. Tobin saw for the first time that it was a steel door. As Russell opened it, after unlocking two high security locks, Tobin heard the warning sound of an intruder alarm. Russell stepped inside and the alarm went off as he put on the lights out of sight. Inside, the back half of the four car garage had been walled off, the only access being the way they had just entered. Tobin hovered at the door gazing in awe at the floor to ceiling filing system that completely filled all four walls, even surrounding the door.
Russell walked straight to a particular cupboard and opened it, it was full of archive files, all marked with colour coded labels. He selected one set that occupied two shelves and began removing them to the table in the centre of the room.
‘This will take me a few minutes, lad, ask Hazel for some more tea and find out what time dinner is.’ Tobin was dismissed.
By the time he returned bearing the tray of tea Russell was back at his desk and the archive door was closed again. Several of the archive boxes sat by his feet as he waved a sheaf of papers and indicated for Tobin to prepare tea before anything further was to happen.
Happily sat with his cup of tea and knowing that there was two hours to dinner Russell waved the sheaf of papers at Tobin again. ‘These contain privileged information, so I can’t let you read it for yourself. I’ll spin through the bare bones of it and then I’ll copy out the bits that you can have. OK?’
‘Fine.’ Tobin felt a shiver of anticipation run up his body from his stomach, ending in a pins and needles sensation around his jaw and neck.
Russell spread his papers in front of him, adjusted his half-moon reading glasses and began. ‘Right. It was the week after the Whitsun bank holiday, what is now called the Spring Bank Holiday. The Mitchell brothers, William Henry and Sydney Francis, together with their nephew Bernard Arthur broke into some banking premises on the edge of the City of London. The bank was undergoing modernisation and expansion onto a bomb site next door. The builders in their chaos broke partly into the strongroom complex in the basement, but, for whatever reason hadn’t got the materials available to make good the alterations and kept quiet about it. Except, that is, for one labourer who told the Mitchells about it in the pub. Apparently, when the builder looked through the small hole into the vault on the Thursday night there was not very much in there, in fact they weren’t one hundred per cent sure it was the vault. But, when the Mitchells got there the following Sunday night, it was stuffed with money! No-one ever satisfactorily explained that, but, whatever, there was more than the Mitchells could carry. In their desperation and greed to get to it they made so much noise they attracted the night watchman, and shot him. Which of the older brothers pulled the trigger we don’t know; we only know that Bernie didn’t. The watchman survived, just, you’ll be glad to hear.’ He sifted through the papers a bit further, cleared his throat and continued. Tobin noticed that he hardly actually looked at the notes, but took inspiration from the window behind Tobin’s head.
‘In their desperation to get away they not only abandoned the wounded night-watchman, they left so many clues they might as well have signed the visitors book! Somewhere they split up and Bernie, the nephew, took the money with him and disappeared for a couple of days. He was found and arrested at an aunt’s house in Leytonstone, but had no trace of the money with him and would not say where he had hidden it, and never has. The two uncles where traced to here,’ he waved his right arm generally in a Westerly direction, ‘to a council house in Hollington. There was a big operation to arrest them on the following Sunday morning, but they came meek as mice. There was so much bitterness between the two brothers and their nephew that it wasn’t hard to put the story together. Except that is for the whereabouts of the money. There was some doubt as to how much was actually taken, but that was kept quiet and what I think was an underestimate was given out. All three got hefty sentences, mainly because of the wounding of the night-watchman.
‘The mystery that never got into the papers, or not much, was that of a younger nephew. James Charles, ‘Jimmy’. He disappeared at the same time and has never been heard of to this day, as far as I know. There was a suggestion that he had been a second getaway driver, and even that he had been bumped off for some reason, but no-one knows for certain, except perhaps Bernie, who’s never said a word. The two brothers accused Bernie of giving them away and young Bernie was just plain frightened and very bitter about the whole thing.’ He put down the folder and looked at Tobin.
‘Now, that photo you have there looks so very much like a young version of Bernie Mitchell, the last time I saw him. The whole family is very similar in looks, the two older brothers could be mistaken for twins they were so alike.’
‘So what happened to them all?’ Tobin was intrigued.
‘Hah! Bunch of bunglers to the end! Bernie is still around, or he was when I
retired. He was in and out of prison for quite a while, went very bad he did. He went from a shy retiring lad to a vicious mobster in gaol; over the period of time he got very bitter. Eventually he came out and stayed out, but you could hardly call it going straight. He worked around the clubs in the West End as a heavy. I used to see him from time to time around the courts, sometimes as a minder and, sometimes he would appear with bail for some unwholesome character, all that kind of thing.
‘Of the two older brothers, William got himself into further bother with builders. He was moved to a gaol well outside London and hated it and planned an escape. It would have been a tough one even for a younger, fitter man. It was well planned except for the weather and the road works. He climbed up some building works on the inside of the prison wall and ran along the top of the wall. However, it was raining, hard, and he had to go slower than intended and he was spotted. He made it to the corner of the wall, never-the-less, and here he was meant to jump into the back of a lorry which had a tarpaulin stretched over it for him to land on. The one thing that William hadn’t bargained on was the road works,’ Russell was savouring the story, he couldn’t hide the little smile as he recounted it, ‘which had started on the corner of the back lane. It was a tight fit for a lorry at the best of times and as William arrived at his jumping off point the vehicle was still trying to negotiate the obstacle and reverse in. He didn’t wait, or couldn’t on the wet wall, and leapt for it, missed the truck altogether, splattered himself on the road and for good measure the truck then reversed over him! Sad but true!’ He chuckled. ‘Then the younger brother just lost all heart and became very ill. Within two years he died, too. The end of the Mitchell dynasty! Or maybe not!’ He tapped the photo of Alan thoughtfully.
With a final flourish he pulled a collection of newspaper cuttings from the folder. They were photographs and, when put with Tobin’s picture of Alan Harper, they made a set of four. There could be no mistaking the family resemblance.
The Thursday evening meal had been every bit as good as the previous night’s and with a lot less alcohol. They were on to the coffee when Tobin returned to his seat frustrated that both the phone calls he had tried to make had ended at answering machines. Russell and Hazel both looked at him enquiringly. He put his phone back in his pocket, shook his head and sat down.
‘It’ll have to wait until the morning, one answering machine says to leave a message, the other just gives a message and takes none. I have to presume that no news is good news, that’s all. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.’
It wasn’t a particularly good night, however. He was tired but could not sleep. The Mitchell family history was churning around in his head. Had he, had they, found the real Alan Harper? Tomorrow would reveal … what?
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