Sandra Hickman had been polite but cool on the phone that Friday morning, ‘inviting’ him to call at the office ‘at his convenience’. Tobin made a point of not hurrying. Now he sat opposite her looking at some letters.
Two were photocopies sent by the deputy chairman of the board, Peter Charlton. Tobin knew that Charlton would not be sad to see the back of Alan Harper, but, with the largest sum of money invested in the paper, he also had every reason to try and hold it all together. The photocopies were letters from two other members of the board, both supposedly friends of Alan’s, resigning their memberships and putting their shares up for sale. Sandra’s worry was that if any of the remaining six members were frightened into similar action the future of the paper was in real jeopardy.
One of the sellers was Colonel Ferguson, father of Tobin’s béte noir Nicola. Not wishing to appear cynical, he did not make the observation that her departure would probably save the paper more than the loss of her father’s investment. The other resignation was almost to be expected, Alan had often referred to him as the original fair-weather friend, so any effort spent on trying to encourage him to stay was probably wasted. But, realistically, Ferguson would be the loss. He and Alan had always got on so well; the military man had found something in Alan that he liked and from then on Alan could do no wrong. Ferguson was a difficult man who lived in a black and white world, anything grey was intolerable to him. His loss would be very damaging; it would also attract a lot of attention and could lead to further resignations.
He put the letters on the desk and let out a big sigh. Was he getting this thing out of all proportion? The private investigator, in his report to Norris, had found that the businesses were sound. It was just the confidence factor. The Ferguson factor, Tobin thought.
He would have been content to leave the whole matter there, play it down and just see if it would blow over and resolve itself, but for the third letter, which lay to one side on the desk in front of him.
It was addressed to the editor and intended for publication. Tobin counted the signatures – ten, prominent among them was that of Brian Dale. It was hardly surprising to find his name included in a group such as this, having witnessed the man‘s animosity. Tobin was becoming increasingly puzzled by the strength of feeling that he was witnessing. There was more to this than a simple business squabble, that was obvious.
The letter quoted a lot of the press reports of recent days, most of which were out of context clips from small reports in other newspapers, including some nationals. Individually, the items were inconsequential, but, when collected and summarized, as they had been here, and in the article earlier, they gave the story a considerable negative bias. It had been very cleverly assembled and gave the impression that the news had attained a national coverage far greater than it had. The really interesting statistic, though, thought Tobin, was that there had only been two mentions on television, first on the night of the discovery and then on the morning after, and that had only been on the local stations. The letter then rambled on and eventually came to its prime purpose, demanding to know, publicly, what action the police ‘and other authorities’ were taking in investigating the life and professional conduct of Alan Harper. Unfortunately, the letter stopped short of calling him a murderer or Tobin could have done something about it.
‘That’s why you’re here.’ Sandra indicated the letter he was holding. ‘We’ve got to do something about that … these bastards are not going to let go. For whatever reason, they’re out to at least discredit him and they’ll not worry who else gets damaged in the process.’
Her tone had changed pretty quickly, Tobin thought. The fundamental problem for Tobin’s was trying to defend a person who didn’t actually exist, and not being able to explain it. His first thought, and his only idea so far, was to stall for a bit and see what happened; typical of him! The one positive point was the miss-timing of Dale’s letter, arriving on publication day, helped a bit. That gave them a few days grace.
‘Contact as many people as you can who will take Alan’s side and sign them up. I’ll do the same over the weekend and on Monday we’ll compare notes and take it from there’. Tobin hoped he sounded convincing. He had only one firm idea and he could not imagine how that would really help.
On his way back to the flat he called into the small supermarket. Three quarters of an hour later he staggered out laden with carrier bags of goods that he had not realised he needed. Luckily for him Longalnbury was not a big town and he didn’t have to walk far to reach home. His fingers felt even more like they had been cut off when he had finished filling the fridge freezer. He made himself a cafetiere of coffee and retired to his office.
He retrieved the business card from his wallet and dialled the number.
‘Good morning. Mr Norris, please. It’s John Tobin in Northumberland’. He quickly explained his problem, made his request and hung up. That was that! He would try and forget this business for the moment and distract himself with things that were hopefully more pleasurable. But, where to start? He returned to the carrier bags in the kitchen and unpacked all the cleaning materials that he had just bought. He opened all the windows wide, turned the C.D. player up loud and set to.
For the rest of the day he cleaned and tidied and polished and vacuumed. The rotating washing line in the backyard took two full loads of washing and the tumble drier took a third that he didn’t want the staff and customers of the chemists downstairs to inspect. Two sets of curtains were taken down and carried to the cleaners and he made a couple of phone enquiries regarding carpet shampooers. After a late, healthy tea of salads that he made himself he sat and surveyed his transformed home. It hadn’t been this clean since he moved in!
But, he had only tackled the easy part. His office door stood open, he couldn’t shut it for the stacks that lay in the doorway. The paperwork and books had been piled there as he found them around the flat. There was no more room in the office, he had been stepping over piles of things for weeks now and something was going to have to be done. He was just contemplating this and trying to find something else to do when the phone rang. Blessed relief! It was the reply to the call he had made earlier to Norris, the private detective. He made an appointment for Sunday afternoon and noted down the address.
He spent a further two hours attempting to bring some order to the chaos, with moderate success. By packing the cardboard boxes of files more neatly and tighter he found he could reclaim some useable space in which to sort out the unfiled paper work and research notes. At the end of that time he found that he had one completely empty cardboard box. He immediately filled it with the contents of the desk and pushed it to the back of the kneehole.
The address he had written down earlier was in Gateshead, he found, when he looked it up in the A – Z of Newcastle. How handy, he could kill three birds with one stone.
A group of craftsmen and women in the area who were exhibiting at the Gateshead Flower Show had asked him to help with a promotion, he could visit them; he could also call into that Scandinavian furniture store and buy some storage shelves and units and then keep his appointment. Excellent. He wrote all this down and added it to the lists already laid out on the kitchen work surface, then rewarded himself with a cold beer from the fridge.
After a shower and another beer he stretched out on the settee and tried to read. His mind kept wandering off the book and back to the same old subject. He had managed to distract himself with the physical effort of the afternoon’s work but now he could not escape thoughts of Alan Harper, or whoever he really was. He hadn’t a clue what to do about it; it was not something that you could prepare for. You don’t expect a good friend to suddenly disappear and turn out to be non-existent! Who could you turn to for advice? Who had experience of such things? Nobody that he knew, certainly. He didn’t dare confide in anyone, for fear of feeling foolish or not being believed and possibly giving the game away; knowing his luck it would be all
three!
What if Norris was somehow mistaken? Perhaps there were two Alan Harper’s and no-one had noticed. It was a bit extreme he had to concede, but, no more incredible than what seemed to have actually happened.
What about Teri? First she finds her own mother dead, and regardless of what she had said she must feel something for her. Even just as another human being. Then she finds that the man she knew as ‘father’, and finally come to respect, didn’t even exist; or, not in the guise in which she knew him.
What about all of Alan’s businesses and money? Who really owned them? If he didn’t exist what became of his wealth? Was it forfeit? Could Teri inherit any of it? Did any of the money that Rosemary had hidden away actually belong to her in the first place? If not, what would happen to it? Did that leave Teri penniless? The more he thought about the situation the more questions crept into his mind. Two further beers from the fridge didn’t help; he just became morose and sleepy.
He eventually managed to drag himself off to bed and he lay and listened to the radio till he drifted off to sleep.
It was a disturbed night and he woke early from a dream where he kept chasing someone he didn’t know, who kept disappearing before his eyes. A return to sleep seemed impossible, so he rose at an hour he hadn’t seen for a long while. By seven-o-clock he had showered and had two coffees. It was a wet morning with the rest of the day promising to be the same, so the windows were only open enough for ventilation purposes as he attacked the office. First, he disposed of yesterday’s untouched cafetiere of cold coffee. Then, out came the previous night’s boxes, to be stacked in the corridor at the top of the stairs and marked with a felt tip marker. He now had space to move and he began to rearrange the bookshelves into subject order.
He stopped only to go to the stationers for files and envelopes and, most importantly, labels. Lunch was made quickly and eaten on the go as he vacuumed the office for the first time he could remember. By teatime, order had been restored. Only the material to be stored in the new furniture, being bought that weekend, was not back in the room. It was astounding, the space, the light, and he could reach the window to open and close it, now.
He was exhausted, he had been driven all day by his desire to forget, to ignore, but he couldn’t understand why. However, he was pleased with what he had achieved. He looked around him and saw what McColl, the detective sergeant, had noted two nights before. It was a smart place and was worth having; another legacy of Alan Harper. Alan had found the place and seen the potential and persuaded the previous owner of the chemist’s downstairs to sell off the floors above his shop. Tobin had the cash to buy the shell and, guaranteed by Alan, had borrowed a bit extra to do it up. Once again, he speculated on the cost of fitting out the attic as an office. He would definitely enquire, and added a note to that effect to one of his lists, as he made yet more coffee.
His reward to himself was to eat out. He phoned the Italian restaurant and booked himself a table for one at eight p.m. After shaving and showering he dressed in some of the lightweight clothing he had found and washed yesterday; it was still warm from ironing. He went to select a book to take with him and saw again the worst pile of papers from the day’s work. It was nearly three feet tall and bore the rough label of ‘work in progress’, so many things started and not finished! He felt a bit ashamed to look at it all. He used to joke about it once, in self-defence, that life was like that, ‘you’ve started, but God knows when you’ll finish it’. He stopped, looked at it and sighed. Near the top of the pile was a thickish file, the writing on the spine not yet faded. It had been a good idea, that one, for a who-done-it. It was so nearly finished and he had abandoned it in a fit of pique. He gathered it up, with a couple of pencils and his wallet and left.
He rewarded himself very well. Antipasto followed by pasta in a cream and asparagus sauce with Tiramisu to finish. Half a litre of red wine had helped considerably over the two hours that he spent sat at the corner table. That was his favourite table, it was under a light so that he could read and was large enough to spread papers about while eating. He had flicked through the file and reminded himself of what he had been doing. The outline was virtually complete and there were a lot of notes, most of them loose and escaping all over the table. He had got a long way with the draught copy and had only ground to a halt at some technical points. He could remember the day when he pulled the last sheet of paper from the printer and bundled it all up in frustration, meaning to follow up the problem. But he never had, properly. Somewhere in there should be some notes that he remembered writing at a later date, when he had had an idea for getting out of his problem. He couldn’t remember what the idea was now, but he had written it down, so it should be somewhere.
He couldn’t concentrate for long though; his thoughts kept drifting back to the same old subject. He couldn’t deny, he was missing his close friend; the one on whom he had relied far too much. Or should it be depended on. His contacts had always come through Alan. It was Alan who had the enthusiasm to make things happen, regardless of who had the idea in the first place. Alan was the one who provided or created his living, to a great extent. Now that he was gone Tobin was going to have to fend for himself. It was a bit like leaving home all over again, it filled him with trepidation. He saw now how he had quite selfishly retreated into his own small world, a world that suited him and him alone.
Tobin knew, also, he was guilty of much that he criticised in Teri and what it must be like for her; but, she had friends and work that would help to keep her going. Tobin had no such support; Alan had been the friend as well. By keeping a low profile to avoid responsibilities he had also completely missed out on the social aspect of a large part of his life. Certainly, he had met people and made friends but he had never had to find or prepare the road ahead. He was going to have to learn, and quickly, how to establish and keep contacts. Downhearted and disillusioned with himself, now, he paid his bill and trailed home. The clean, bright flat, which had filled him with pride earlier, did nothing for him.
As he made coffee and had a long drink of cold spa water from the fridge, he put the television on for the first time in two days and watched the end of the late night news while drinking his coffee.
The bedside radio helped him off to sleep.
Sunday morning was a slow start; the previous night’s red wine prevented him from tasting very much when he rose. Vigorous teeth cleaning and gargling with mouthwash, followed by two slices of cinnamon toast and several coffees finally uncovered his tastebuds. Tobin was not a drinker, so when he did overindulge the effects where out of all proportion. His self-pitying mood of the previous week was still with him.
Fortunately the car was feeling better and started on order. He set off south, eventually passing through Ponteland, past the airport and on to the A1 where it began to skirt the Western side of Newcastle. He picked up the signs for the flower festival soon after crossing the river. Getting there was easy compared to talking his way in. No arrangements had been made for him and much flourishing of his ‘Mid Northumberland Reporter’ card eventually gained him access. He was now running late and had to dash around the marquees to find his party. Tobin took particular care with names and details as he shot a series of photographs; the party seemed very impressed with the amount of photography. He didn’t let on that he was unfamiliar with his back up camera and that he was merely being extra cautious.
His duty done, goodbyes said and having bought some raffle tickets in support of the local hospice, he headed off for the furniture store and some lunch.
His well-worn A-Z of Newcastle led him to a street of Tyneside flats in an old part of Gateshead and he found a parking space immediately outside the address given him on the phone. It was the only available space in the street and he carefully reversed the fully laden car in to the opening, he had difficulty seeing around the stack of flatpack furniture that surrounded him.
The number
he was looking for was the second in the row of four doors in the unique architectural style of Tyneside flats. The street was a sequence of two windows then four doors then two windows and so on down the row, both sides of the street. The outer two doors were for the downstairs flats on either side, and the inner doors for the upstairs flats on either side, he therefore was ringing the doorbell of the upstairs left hand flat.
There was a quick patter of feet on stairs and the door was answered with remarkable speed.
‘Oh!’ Tobin could not hide his surprise. ‘I’m sorry. I was expecting to see someone quite different. I’m looking for Mr Vincent Chapman’
‘You’ve found him. Who were you expecting?’
‘A big man with short white hair and a very pale complexion.’ The man standing in the doorway could not have been more different. He was medium height, dark hair slicked back and with a healthy tan from a recent holiday, but, he was sturdily built.
‘Well. The wife’s got him well hidden, then. You Mr Tobin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come up, then.’ He left Tobin to close the door as he ran back up the stairs two at a time. He was also in complete contrast to the private detective Tobin had met a few days earlier in Nottingham. In place of the suit was a cardigan and slippers and in place of the smart offices Tobin was shown to a corner of the living room.
‘Put the kettle on, Belle!’ He called into the back of the flat and seemed unconcerned at the lack of reply. Tobin took the proffered chair and noticed that the desk, at least, was as grand as Norris’s. Chapman’s was an antique roll top bureau that he opened as he sat down. Inside was as neat as Tobin’s desk had been untidy. The shelves on the wall behind Chapman held a few legal books, a combined answerphone and fax machine, a lap top computer and some expensive camera gear. A wireless router blinked at them. In the corner behind the desk was a stack of box files.
‘So who’s this white haired gent that I’m supposed to be, then?’
‘That’s it exactly, I thought it was you. I’ve not met this person myself, but that’s the description of someone who’s been making enquiries around town – Longalnbury. Rather indiscreetly, I might add. I thought I had put two and two together and got you.’
‘Not me, I’m worth more than two and two.’
‘And not someone working for you?’
‘No. I work alone. If it’s a job for more than one I pass it on.’
‘I see,’ said Tobin, thoughtfully.
‘Mr Norris said to help you – if I could.’ He placed great emphasis on the last three words.
‘If you would. I’m a friend of Alan Harper.’
‘Who’s just done a bunk, leaving an embarrassingly dead wife behind.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Tobin was a bit taken aback with the directness of the smaller man. ‘There’s a great deal of trouble brewing at home, as well as the death. There’s a small group of men who are out to do whatever they can to take advantage of Alan Harper’s misfortune.’ The detective looked sceptically at Tobin. ‘So. I was thinking about your report to Norris.’ Chapman was already shaking his head.
‘Sorry, no can do. That sort of information has to remain confidential, like the informants. You should know that, Mr Tobin. Besides, I haven’t many contacts left in that area, now. I can’t afford to lose any.’
Tobin did know that but had vainly hoped that he might have gleaned a little help.
‘But, I think you should look further afield.’ Tobin looked puzzled at this.
‘Intercon Cuisine.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You don’t know about Intercon Cuisine?’
Tobin shook his head, what now?
‘Intercon is Mr Harper’s biggest concern. You didn’t know? It’s on the Airport Industrial Estate. On your way home.’
‘I never knew!’ Alan’s ‘biggest concern and he knew nothing about it!
‘Mrs Gould runs the place. Very helpful, I found. Should be on your side, I think.’
‘Thanks.’ Chapman pushed a sticky-note pad towards him to write down the names. ‘Thanks – again.’
‘So, who’s making trouble in the sunny vale of Longalnbury, then?’
‘Do you know the area?’
‘Oh, yes! After I did my national service, I signed on again, as a driver, and then I became an instructor. I was at Otterburn with the transport quite often and discovered Longalnbury close by. When I was de-mobbed I joined the Ministry of Transport; a civil servant would you believe; and found myself back up here again. Anyway, cutting a long story short, I did well and used to supervise tests and inspections on Heavy Goods Vehicles and suchlike. We lived in Longalnbury for a few years, didn’t we Belle,’ he addressed his wife who had just made a timely entrance with the tea, ‘37, Main Street, right next door to the chemist.’ The address seemed to bring back pleasant memories.
As Belle poured the tea Tobin asked, ‘Brian Dale?’
‘Huh! Yes; he’s still around isn’t he? Shouldn’t be. Enough people have tried to put him away! He inherited a perfectly good business from his father and quickly ruined it. But, it keeps going, and there’s not a few folk who’ve tried to find out how. Me included, once. No-one’s nailed him yet, though; can’t prove anything, no details. No proof. You can guess though, can’t you?’ Tobin wasn’t sure, but he was listening.
‘My late partner worked hard ‘in that area’,’ he said pointedly, ‘that’s where we met and became great friends. When he retired and started this business I took a chance and joined him; people thought I was mad leaving the civil service, but, it wasn’t for me.’ He looked, fondly at the wall above him at some old photos of a young policeman and at the same man out of uniform. ‘Very sad, he died last year. AND, he never nailed Dale! Believe me, he tried. His nephew’s up there, now. Symmonds?’
‘Yes. Great guy.’
‘Gets it from his uncle. Very alike.’
Belle handed them both cups of tea and bustled around the already spotless living room. She smiled and nodded shyly to Tobin as she left.
‘I live at 35A, Main Street, above the chemists.’ Tobin said, conversationally.
‘Really? Mrs Harton still got the café over the road?’
‘Yes, she’s still there.’ Tobin thought of the grumpy, somewhat eccentric little lady and her wonderful home baking.
‘Her husband Mick worked for Dale.’ Chapman said, casually.
‘Really?’
‘Aye. Went to jail for him, too. But, still they never managed to get Dale. He’s the boss, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mick’s wagon was stopped, and inside it was a load of cigarettes and alcohol. “I don’t know what it’s doing there”. He threw his arms up in imitation of innocence. ‘He protested his innocence. Did no good. Dale fired him immediately, of course, and ‘co-operated’ with the inquiry. He fired another couple of drivers at the same time. Their faces didn’t fit, basically, and he grabbed the opportunity to get rid of them. Mick got a couple of years for ‘handling’. He didn’t do that long, fortunately, good behaviour and so on, but he was wrecked, bad experience. He’s never worked since! Never been out of the house since, I don’t think.’
‘It explains a lot, now you mention it. I only ever see him through the window across the road.’ Tobin sat thinking about never going out for years; he couldn’t imagine it.
Chapman drained the last of his tea. ‘Well. Mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’ve got things to do, building furniture, from the look of your car!’
That was a quick piece of observation, Tobin thought. He placed his cup next to Chapman’s and they headed for the door. He received the same shy smile from Belle and a mouthed ‘Bye-bye’ as they reached the head of the stairs. Chapman led the way down at a trot. Tobin, following, saw that the cardigan and slippers image of the detective was quite misleading. He could see the broad
shoulders and thick neck hidden beneath the baggy garment. The impression was reinforced when they shook hands inside the front door and Tobin felt Chapman’s grip. The other hand whipped out a business card and popped it into Tobin’s shirt pocket. Tobin fished out one of his crumpled cards from his wallet in exchange.
‘Call in next time you’re up. We can have a cup of Mrs Harton’s best.’
Chapman cheerfully agreed.
Tobin’s parting impression was very different to when he arrived, although he was unsure what he had achieved. There was the powerful, stocky figure, of indeterminate age, standing at his door with a wave of farewell. He had guided Tobin through the meeting giving him just enough information, which he ought to have discovered for himself.
Tobin drove home kicking himself for his ignorance.
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