Chapter 57

Harry had already been in the office for over an hour when Danny arrived at Meldew Buildings at 9.30am, the time they’d agreed to meet to start their journey down to Telford to visit Lillian McFry.

Harry collected his file of papers together, pulled on his overcoat and grabbed his hat, pausing only to double-check that he’d locked his office before he made his way down the stairs into the foyer.

He found Danny chatting to Henry, who had paused for a moment from his never-ending task of brushing away the street detritus that always seemed to accumulate in the entrance.

“What was he saying to you?” Harry said, as they walked up the street to find Danny’s car.

“Not much. Just you seemed a bit happier today, that’s all. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for my unannounced visit earlier in the week,” Danny replied. But he noticed Harry did seem a little more ‘chipper’ than he’d seen him over the past couple of days.

“Don’t you worry about Henry, Danny. He’s just doing his job. You’ll find he’s OK when you get to know him.” Harry handed his file to Danny.

“Here – hold this a minute,” he said, pausing to drag a cigarette out and light it, cuffing it against the wind and drizzle. Harry read every nuance of Danny’s glance.

“What’s the matter, Danny? You going to deny a man a smoke before he has to sit for an hour and a half in a car without one?”

But Harry was smiling, as he spoke, and Danny appreciated the implicit sacrifice he was about to make.

“Thanks Harry,” he said, smiling back.

“Now. Tell me about Lillian McFry,” Harry said. “What kind of person am I going to be meeting?”

It seemed a strange sort of question to Danny. They’d started l walking to where Danny had parked his car. What kind of person was Lillian McFry, he wondered?

“Well … I think you’ll like her, Harry. I never knew anything about that Spain stuff when I saw her. But she’s quite a remarkable person.” Danny tried to think back to his first meeting with Lillian McFry. Back then, she’d just been a client, an old woman who had asked him to find her granddaughter. Now, he was beginning to realize, Lillian McFry had lived a life extraordinary.

“She doesn’t look like she’s 102,” he said. Harry looked at him, quizzically.

“In what way?” he asked.

“Well … put it this way. If she was my grandmother, I could make a fortune setting her up in a booth and asking people to guess her age. I don’t think anyone would say she was over 90, and I’m pretty sure I’d make a lot of money from the one’s who said she was in her eighties.”

Harry seemed to enjoy the idea of the young Danny Longhurst stood in a market place, enticing passers-by to guess the age of his centenarian grandmother, even if he was simultaneously doing the maths and working out that unless Danny’s mother had been in her forties, and unless his grandmother had been in her forties… Sometimes, Harry thought, it was a trial being a family historian. It just seemed to destroy illusions. He pulled himself back from the precipice of genealogical angst just in time, however, and said to Danny:

“But what is she like … as a person?”

“She’s on the ball, Harry. You know, I never knew anything about all that Spanish Civil War stuff when she gave me those medals. I really thought they must have belonged to her husband. You just don’t imagine…”

Harry paused from walking for a moment, and Danny pulled up by his side. They were close to the car now, in Hamilton Square, the rain making the Victorian monument at its centre seem to shimmer. Danny fished his keys out from his pocket.

“Let me tell you something, son,” Harry said, his tone becoming grave. “History is really made by women. Sure, they might try to tell you something else, in the books. But we neglect the role women play in history at our peril – just you remember that, Danny. And the same holds true for family history.”

The profundity of what Harry was saying hit Danny hard. He’d spent a year compiling his book on how rebellious women had made their mark on the Wirral. But he’d never for a minute thought about how family history was, well … just plain impossible … without women.

Harry was right. So much time was spent following the male line in genealogy, that it became easy to neglect the mothers.

Harry saw the dawning of a realization in Danny’s eyes.

“Hey, kid! You just got the third rule!” he said.

With that, he stubbed out his cigarette, they climbed into Danny’s car, and made their way through the (quite intricate) one way system that would take them out of Birkenhead, out of the Wirral and down the motorway into Shropshire, where Harry McFry would finally meet a woman who (if truth be known) he anticipated he would find quite daunting.

The Pudding Almost Got Very Sticky...

I am indebted to the (anonymous) correspondent who noticed that the estimable Cyril Galloway had somehow adopted a new christian name in Chapter 40. This glaring error has now been corrected, so hopefully the somewhat litigious individual he may otherwise have been confused with will stay his hounds. Many thanks for your eagle eye!

THJnr

Chapter 56

“Say Harry – you look like the cat that got the cream! What’s the matter – you just get four balls in the lottery?”

It was Charlie the Post, catching Harry as he made his way into Meldew Buildings. And yes, I suppose, Harry McFry might have seemed happier than he had done for a long while, if you had seen him, as Charlie did, that Friday morning in January. Even the desultory drizzle didn’t seem to bother him – it was Springtime in Harry’s heart, and he wasn’t about to let a few raindrops worry him.

“Things are OK, Charlie. Things are OK,” Harry said. But Charlie knew Harry well enough. Even as he handed him his mail, he could tell that he’d be shrugging off any bills that were there with ease.

“Want to tell me how come you’re so happy all of a sudden, Harry?”

“Let’s just say everything’s falling into place, Charlie. Maybe we can catch up on a drink next week, sometime – I’ll tell you all about it?” Harry asked, already knowing Charlie wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to catch up with him.

“Sure thing, Harry! It’s a date!” Charlie said, as he turned to continue his deliveries. Whatever it was that had changed Harry’s fortunes, Charlie had an inkling that there was a woman involved.

And any dispassionate observer of Harry McFry over the last few days (and I hope I number you among them, reader – it doesn’t pay to make easy judgements about people) would have to agree that there was a change in his demeanour. Maybe he was dressed just a little more smartly, or maybe it was just his bearing .. whatever it was, anyone who knew Harry McFry would say he was a happier man.

“Morning, Mr McFry!” said Henry, sweeping the foyer as Harry walked towards the stairs,

“Morning, Henry!” Harry replied.

“Guess you sorted that rent problem out – that’s if I know Ma Shipman, that is!” Henry beamed at Harry. Harry smiled back – a smile that said ‘Yes, she won’t be bothering me in a while’.

Harry had slept the sleep of an angel. He’d woken early, made himself a modest breakfast and savoured the aroma of the coffee as it brewed in the jug. He’d even walked the whole way from his flat to Meldew Buildings. Somehow, life was looking up!

*

In her tiny bungalow in Vale View, Lillian McFry had made her own slight breakfast, and settled into her chair, watching the few comings and goings in the cul-de-sac to pass the time. So – Danny Longhurst would be ‘passing by’ today: with his father in tow, to boot. She wondered why Danny hadn’t yet managed to get the medals to Lauren yet. It couldn’t be a difficult task, after all.

He was young, though. Maybe he didn’t appreciate the urgency of her commission? It was easy for youth to forget that time passed more quickly for the elderly. It seemed sometimes, to Lillian McFry, that the clock’s hands had a life all of their own. A hundred years … now that was something in the scheme of things: a whole century. And she had lived through it. She wondered if, when her mother gave birth to her, she had imagined (even for one minute) the life her daughter would lead? Her mother had died when she – Lillian - was less than twenty years old. To her had fallen the task of ‘keeping home’ for her father. That was no life for her, cleaning the house, cooking his meals. Emptying those pots under his bed. Small wonder, then, that she’d taken the first opportunity that presented itself to escape that drudgery. Spain. The McFry brothers. It had all seemed so romantic, so natural .. Yes! Let’s just go there!

She’d never imagined, for even a minute, that she’d be a ‘heroine’. That came later. So did Thomas McFry.

Chapter 55

It was late. Harry was settled snugly in an armchair in his flat, listening to the mellow tones of Artie Shaw played out of a small CD player on a shelf by the window. A glass of whisky in his hand, he had just lit a cigarette, the crumpled cigarette packet landing perfectly in a bin in the corner of the room. Someone was certainly rocking Harry’s dreamboat. Someone – Ana, of course – was invading his dreams.

He wondered if she still lived in that airy, second-floor flat off the Plaza Dos De Mayo, where they’d sometimes spent whole weekends together in bed, exploring each other and opening the windows in every room to evade the sweltering heat of summer. Six years was a long time for someone not to move on, he thought. He’d put off the call long enough, he determined, and jumped up to pull open a drawer in the small desk that sat in the corner of the room opposite his ‘kitchen’. He drew out a battered, old address book and started to flick through it until he found her number. What if she had married now? Surely his brother, now living with Ana’s sister, would have told him if she were – even if, somehow, he’d ‘forgotten’ to mention his own, new relationship.

Back in his chair, he scanned the still-familiar number. It was past 10pm, and it would be an hour later in Madrid. Late to call, he thought, but not too late if Ana still kept her normal habits. He took another slug of his drink and nervously punched her number into his phone. It rang for a few seconds, Harry’s pulse starting to race against the tone, before a voice he thought he’d maybe forgotten answered “Hola?”

He ached to tell her what a mistake he’d made all those years ago, how he wanted to be with her again, how … but it was no use. The only words he could muster were “Hello, Ana. It’s Harry.” ‘Pathetic, inadequate, useless Harry McFry’ a voice was shouting in his brain. The pause while Ana processed the information seemed interminable. Nobody had called her ‘Ana’ in a long while.

“Harry? Harry McFry? Why you ring me now, Harry?” she asked, her voice tired, wondering and soft.

“I’m ringing to tell you I still love you, Ana,” his heart begged him to say; but a short bout (awarded on points) meant his stupid head won out again: “I’m ringing because I need your help, Ana. I’m going to be in Madrid on Saturday. Can we meet?” As he said the words, he was praying she’d say ‘yes’.

*

Danny Longhurst normally slept pretty well at night. But not tonight. He was thinking over the last couple of days with Harry McFry. It seemed to him that Harry might easily be characterized as a chain-smoking alcoholic. Yet he’d seen him at work, and knew, too, that he seemed to know his stuff. Earlier that night, they’d spent an hour in the bar reviewing where they were up to with Laurel McFry’s ‘missing’ family, and Danny had to admit that Harry was properly ‘on the case’. And he couldn’t help but admire the guy’s connections. The episode with Mrs Shipman had un-nerved him, though. It seemed like Harry might have sent him there to do something he didn’t want to do himself, as if he might even be afraid of the woman. And why on earth had he told Colin McAllistair that Lillian McFry was dead? He’d listened to Harry’s account of his conversation with McAllistair carefully. Harry seemed to think there was someone missing in the equation – didn’t think either McAllistair or this mysterious Mr Galloway was behind the expurgation of Laurel’s family from the records.

But at least he’d taken the idea of playing the role of his father quite amicably – had even seemed impressed at the cover Danny had invented for him. Why he’d insisted Danny should drive them both down to Telford was another matter.

The prospect of a few days in Madrid was something Danny was apprehensive about, too. Why go to the time, trouble and expense of a trip to Spain when they could have had that document translated by any of a dozen, local, people? Harry was hiding something, he was sure.

Altogether, Danny was beginning to think there were depths to Harry McFry’s character which he hadn’t got anywhere near plumbing. He thought about the meeting at Stan’s shop. It had seemed to him that Harry already knew McAllistair from somewhere, even if McAllistair didn’t seem to know him.

And what had that been about, earlier, when Harry had left him sat in the bar, saying only “Stay here a minute, Danny – I’ve got to sort something out”? He’d only been gone a couple of minutes, but he’d seen Harry, through the window of the bar, disappear into Meldew Buildings, only to re-emerge a short while later, and re-trace his steps back to sit next to him?

Harry McFry. ‘That’s one complicated individual’, Danny thought, as he turned on his side and tried to get off to sleep.

Chapter 54

“Something on your mind, Harry?” Danny Longhurst asked, once he’d finished the call to Lillian McFry. He thought Harry looked a bit on edge. It was getting late in the day, and Harry had started printing out reports from his genealogical software, a copy for each of them.

Harry had a couple of things to say that he didn’t relish broaching with Danny. ‘Better get it over with,’ the voice in his head was saying.

“I need you to do one last thing before we shut up shop, Danny,” he said, opening a drawer and pulling out a chequebook. Danny watched as he wrote out a couple of cheques, which he handed to Danny with what looked like a degree of embarrassment. “Here,” he said, “this is your first paycheck. You’ll need some money if we’re going to Madrid, I’m sure. The other, I want you to take down to Mrs Shipman. It’s the rent for the office.”

Danny smiled as he folded the first cheque away: “Thanks, Harry. I’ll take this other one down right away, should I?”

Harry seemed relieved: “Yes, that would be good,” he said, as Danny stood up. “I should warn you Danny … she’s quite a ‘powerful’ woman.”

Danny disappeared out of the office, leaving Harry to wonder whether he’d sensed his reluctance to confront the redoubtable ‘Ma Shipman’. As he collated the reports, he thought it might also be a respectable time to suggest to Danny that they convene in the Brass Balance for a drink or two, the better to relax and mull over where they’d got to so far with Laurel McFry’s case. Just then, the telephone rang. “Harry McFry, GPI,” he said, lighting a cigarette as he cradled the receiver on his shoulder.

Colin McAllistair was already back in his North London flat, and had wasted no time in ringing Harry.

“Mr McFry – it’s Colin McAllistair here: we met earlier today…”

Harry recognized the soft Scots brogue immediately. “Mr McAllistair … what can I do for you?” Harry sensed a slight hesitation in McAllistair’s tone, as if he was ringing on a rather delicate matter, although he knew it could only be about the medals.

“I .. need to tell you something. It’s something that has a great bearing on your medals, Mr McFry. You see, I know there’s a certificate of some sorts that came with the medals.” Harry instinctively glanced at the box, still on the corner of his desk.

“I’m listening,” was all that Harry said.

McAllistair continued: “The dealer I mentioned to Stan – Cyril Galloway from Telford. He’s already seen them at Lillian McFry’s house. And from what he told me, the certificate with the medals – whatever it is – I get the sense that it might be more valuable than the medals themselves.”

Harry was considering this new information – wondering why McAllistair might have volunteered it. He’d already worked out that McAllistair’s relationship with Galloway was more than casual: how else had he known to ask about the box that housed the medals, in the first place?

“I’m not sure where you’re coming from, Mr McAllistair,” Harry said, guardedly.

“You see, I have reason to believe that Cyril Galloway might go to extreme lengths to get his hands on that piece of paper. Of course, he’s interested in the medals, too, but I got the sense earlier that they’d become more … how can I put this? … ‘incidental’.”

Harry homed in on only one word McAllistair had said: ‘earlier’. Did this mean he’d spoken to this Galloway character already?

“Why didn’t you tell me all this when we met at Stan’s?” he asked.

Colin realized he would have to tell Harry all about his lunchtime meeting with Cyril Galloway, and perhaps even about his previous encounter with him a quarter of a century ago. And that is what he did, in the kind of confessional conversation which can relieve a man of a heavy burden. He may not have mentioned the precise details of how he had sold Jonathan Harcourt’s medals – little sense in that, he thought – but he painted a picture of the auctioneer that made Harry start to wonder about that transaction.

“Can I just ask you,” Harry said “how it was you came to meet up with Mr Galloway today?” McAllistair was frank in his response, explaining how he’d received a call, out of the blue, from Galloway just the previous day, shortly after he’d heard from Stan and made his arrangements to travel north.

Harry was wishing they’d had this discussion earlier. He didn’t like the co-incidence of those calls, and he’d like to be able to see McAllistair, face to face: he was conscious, instead, that he’d have to rely on the tiniest inflexions transmitted down the phone. It was McAllistair’s turn to ask questions, however.

“Mr McFry, I’m very anxious to meet Lillian McFry. May I ask you how you and she are related?”

It was an obvious question, Harry realized, and he kicked himself for not anticipating it. “We’re not. Not at all. It’s a pure co-incidence,” he said, thinking the truth might serve him best just now.

McAllistair seemed to pause before he replied. “But your uncle – he was a McFry, wasn’t he?” Harry remembered he’d told McAllistair that the medals had come from his uncle. No sense in making it easy for McAllistair, he thought, before replying “No.”

“Well, what’s important is that I believe Lillian McFry and Lillian Blyth are one and the same person. That’s the only thing I can think. And I’d very much like to meet her. She may be one of the last living testimonies to the contribution made by the International Brigades. Her story deserves to be told. How can I contact her?” McAllistair seemed genuinely concerned. Harry was wondering whether he was motivated by academic desire or by something else. Could he trust him? What if this was all a ploy, to get nearer the medals?

How best to protect Lillian McFry was uppermost in his mind at the moment. Until he knew for sure that Colin McAllistair still wasn’t in league with Galloway, he’d better play it safe.

“I’m afraid that Lillian McFry died, Mr McAllistair. Just last week.” His tone sounded suitably grave, but even as he said it he wasn’t sure his listener would believe him.

*

It was a reasonably novel feeling for Harry to be walking through the foyer of Meldew Buildings, and not to have to worry about a bark from Mrs Shipman’s office. As he and Danny passed her door, he noticed his companion shaking his head slightly from side to side. “You might have warned me about her, Harry!” Danny said, his voice low, almost a whisper. Maybe it had been cruel to send Danny on that errand, Harry thought. Still, he might as well get to know the woman the hard way. “She’s one scary lady!” Danny continued, his voice still low even as they left the building.

“Thanks for doing that, Danny. She is pretty formidable, isn’t she? Now Doris, she’s an altogether different type. Let me tell you all about Doris…” he said, as they crossed the road to the bar, where Harry revealed to Danny the peculiarities and the foibles of his non-existent secretary. But not before he’d ordered the drinks.

Chapter 53

It had been a busy day in Birkenhead, all things considered. Cyril Galloway and Colin McAllistair had finished their meal on cordial enough terms, agreeing to contact each other if either heard anything more from this Harry McFry (but with Galloway had nonetheless pledged to himself that he would contact this McFry character if he heard nothing himself within the next day). After paying the bill (another part of his debt expunged, he reasoned), McAllistair braved the drizzle to walk the short way down to the ferry terminus, where he joined a straggling line of tourists waiting to have their every last illusion of the romance of the ‘Ferry Across the Mersey’ comprehensively squashed. A wind was whipping up the grey waters of the estuary, so Colin took a seat inside, his mind playing over the conversation he’d had over lunch as he watched the squat forms of Liverpool’s ‘Three Graces’ getting closer. So far as he was concerned, he had discharged any duty he owed to Galloway. It wasn’t pleasant to be reminded of his role in disposing of Jonathan Harcourt’s medals, a shameful part of his past he had tried to bury. There was no doubt about it, the money he had gained from the transaction with Galloway all those years ago had served him well, allowing him a degree of freedom in terms of the work he did and the commissions he took on. But he was not fundamentally a crooked man, and the memory of his misdeed wounded him acutely. Perhaps it was seeing Galloway’s weasel face again, and sensing his hunger for money, that led him to begin to think that perhaps he could redeem himself by somehow preventing Galloway from getting his hands on Lillian Blyth’s Civil War medals?

Whatever the reason, by the time the short journey over the river had been made, McAllistair had resolved to do two things: contact Harry McFry to warn him about Galloway’s interest in the medals and (more particularly) the paper that accompanied them; and to find Lillian McFry, who could surely only be Lillian Blyth. Galloway had said she was over 100 years old, which would make her one of the oldest surviving veterans of the International Brigade. He could tell her story, expatiate whatever vestiges of guilt he still felt about Jonathan Harcourt. Maybe there was even a documentary in it?

*

That same afternoon, Laurel McFry saw her bank manager and signed the papers to dispose of her shares in McFry & Sons. She’d have a precise account of their value the next day, she’d been promised, but it was a concerned and worried Laurel McFry who made her way back to her house, unsure, still, whether she had done the right thing.

*

In the offices of the Birkenhead Beagle, Bill Blunt had been musing some more over Jonathan Harcourt. After his call to Harry, he’d rung through to the national offices of the NUJ, where he spoke to the union’s head archivist. He’d surmised, correctly, that the NUJ would keep records of all the aliases used by its members: how else could they have prevented non-union members from writing for newspapers? The archivist would be busy the rest of the day, he’d said, but hoped to be able to check the records tomorrow. As soon as he had anything, he promised, he’d ring Bill back.

*

Cyril Galloway, meanwhile, was reluctant to leave Birkenhead. He’d rung through to the auction rooms in Telford to check whether he’d had any calls from a Mr McFry. When told there hadn’t been, he let it be known that he wouldn’t be returning to the office today. Should he call McFry? Maybe that would give too much away – he didn’t want him knowing the true value of the package he had. First of all, he’d better appraise Dacre Lawrence of the situation, he thought. And so it was while sitting in his car, in the shadow of the town hall, that Cyril Galloway first learned that his colleague had been disabled by a stroke.

Chapter 52

By the time Harry and Danny had processed all the BMD information into the PC, it was getting towards the end of the afternoon. Harry had seemed preoccupied with something, Danny noticed, even as he expertly keyed in the data. Although he didn’t say anything, Danny could sense his mind whirring over the facts.

Or maybe not. Harry was really thinking how much he could do with a drink. It was still a little early for him to suggest to his companion that they might adjourn their work and discuss the case further in the bar across the road. But even as he dismissed the idea, another part of his brain was planning ahead.

“What are you doing at the weekend, Danny?”

Danny thought for a second. “Nothing much, why?”

“How do you fancy a trip to Madrid?” Harry realized it must have sounded an odd proposition to the boy, so he quickly followed it with “Business, of course.”

“Sounds pretty cool, Harry … but why Madrid?”

“There’s someone there we need to see – someone who can help us with the translation of this,” Harry replied, pointing to the folded piece of paper by the medal box. Harry had replaced the medals in their bed of tissue paper, and the box now sat on the corner of his desk.

“Couldn’t we just get someone local to help with it?” Danny knew there were dozens of Spanish students around the Wirral who could provide translation services.

“No. I’ve got a gut feeling this piece of paper is more valuable than we think. More valuable even than the medals. I don’t trust anyone else knowing about it.” It sounded plausible enough, Harry thought. The fact that he was plotting to get to see Ana again was something Danny didn’t need to know.

“Can the budget stand both of us going?” Danny asked.

Harry thought for a second. He hadn’t really considered that Danny didn’t really need to accompany him, and had thought instead that he’d quite enjoy having him around. Apart from that, he’d already learned that Danny could earn his keep. A couple of flights to Madrid were cheap enough these days and, anyway, Laurel McFry would be footing the bill, even if she didn’t know it yet.

“The budget’s not a problem, Danny. You been to Madrid before?”

Danny shook his head. “You’ll love it. Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll book us a couple of flights going out Saturday morning and returning Monday night. We’ll stay at my brother’s place – he’s got enough space and I know he won’t mind. We should have enough time to get a decent translation of the document and maybe even find out a little more about Lillian Blyth or McFry or whatever else she’s called, while we’re out there.”

Danny remembered he’d promised to ring Lillian. “Say, Harry – can we fit in a visit to Shropshire tomorrow, do you think?” Harry looked into the middle distance. Friday. It would certainly be helpful if they could get to see the old woman before they went off to Madrid. They’d have to approach her carefully, but maybe she could throw some light on this mixed up family called the McFry’s.

“Sure – if she’ll see us. It makes sense.”

While Harry booked their flights online, Danny rang Lillian McFry.

Yes, he told her, he’d met Laurel today, but no, he hadn’t been able to give her the medals. Yes, the medals were safe. Yes, he could tell her what Laurel was like, now if she wanted him to, or else how about if he called in to see her tomorrow, while he and his ‘Dad’ were passing? He shot a quick glance at Harry, who was too busy inputting his credit card details to be listening. Lillian agreed that they could both call in to see her, tomorrow morning at 11am. As he ended the call, he couldn’t help wondering how Harry would take to his new role in life, as Danny Longhurst’s father!

The Proof of the Pudding...

It would be remiss of me not to pause a while and thank those kind readers who plough their way through Harry's casebook, and sometimes send me a note to point out the odd typo or other error. Without such corrections, Dacre Lawrence might have suffered from a 'stoke', and Colin McAllistair and Cyril Galloway might have had to share a glass of wine...
Many thanks!

THJnr

Chapter 51

Thomas McFry’s death certificate should have proved to be most useful for Harry and Danny’s immediate investigations. It showed that Thomas had expired from a coronary thrombosis at the age of 68, at 22, London Road, Telford, Shropshire, on 15 July 1970. A trades union official when he died, the death was registered by Lillian McFry, his wife, of 28, Vale View, Telford. That was enough to set Harry wondering. They’d need to find out about this 22, London Road. It might be a private address or, just as likely, something like a nursing home or an institution of some kind. It wasn’t unusual to find a hospital listed under a street address on a death certificate. But at least there was a link to Lillian McFry. Even if Danny had been unable to find a marriage reference for Lillian Blyth to Thomas McFry or, indeed, any marriage of a Thomas McFry to anyone at all between 1935 and his year of death.

Harry was mulling this information over in his mind, when the telephone rang. As he reached to pick up the phone, he instinctively grabbed his pack of cigarettes, ignoring Danny’s slight – but noticeable - grimace.

“McFry, GPI,” he answered, lighting the cigarette. He’d tried hard not to smoke while Danny was around, but a telephone call to Harry was almost Pavlovian in its association with a smoke.

“Well, now, Harry, my friend.” It was Bill Blunt. “What would you like first?” He didn’t wait for Harry’s response. “How about McFry and Sons? Seems that the majority shareholder is – and has been for a number of years – the Banco Bilbao. Not an insignificant operation, if you don’t mind me saying so. Over 70 million customers across Europe. How’s that grab you, Harry?”

Bill was reading from the crib sheet prepared by young Julie, in his office.

“Any idea why the share price might be falling, Bill?” Harry asked.

Blunt squinted at the notes he’d been given. “Looks to me like they’ve been offloading shares for the last month. Maybe they know something you don’t, Harry?”

Harry thought about Bill’s news. He’d heard about the Banco Bilbao – knew it’s reputation for aggressive buy-outs of smaller banks and building societies across Europe. Only last year, they’d acquired a major British bank, as part of this same strategy.

“If they know something I don’t know, Bill, they’re in a long queue,” was his response. He thought he heard Blunt stifle a laugh at the other end of the phone. A small, quiet voice in Harry’s brain was saying ‘Follow the money, Harry! Follow the money!’

“Bill … who actually owns the Banco Bilbao?”

There was a silence at the other end of the line, while Bill Blunt scanned the notes Julie had passed him. “Not sure, Harry. Something we need to look into later, maybe.” Harry didn’t like the sound of that: it sounded as if Bill might already be putting a story together.

“I do, however, have a little bit of news for you about your Jonathan Harcourt. I don’t mind saying, he’s led me a merry dance. You’re on the ball with Spain, though - we’ve got some copies of his articles in the archives here. You have to admire his style. It almost had me reaching for my passport and signing up to defend the Republic! But that’s all I found. Nothing at all after 1937. Have you considered it might be a pen-name, Harry?”

Harry hadn’t, but he was certainly considering it now. If Jonathan Harcourt was a nom-de-plume, that might at least explain why Danny hadn’t been able to find a birth reference for a Jonathan Harcourt across the three decades between 1890 and 1920.

“I don’t think I can find that out for you definitively today, Harry. But if you give me a day or so, who knows?” Bill was thinking he’d contact the National Union of Journalists. The newspaper industry had been a ‘closed shop’ for most of its history, and he felt sure that the NUJ would be able to identify who this Jonathan Harcourt really was.

“That would be helpful, Bill – thanks,” Harry said.

“Do you think he died in Spain, Harry?” Bill asked.

“No. In fact, I know he didn’t. I was talking to someone this morning who met him in 1975. He may have died not long afterwards, but he was certainly alive then,” Harry said, hoping he hadn’t given too much away.

“In that case,” Bill replied, “just give me a couple of days, and I’ll sort him out for you,” and he’d hung up, leaving Harry wondering how Jonathan Harcourt was linked to the Banco Bilbao - co-incidentally, the precise thought that was going through Bill Blunt’s mind.

*

Mabel Harris eventually had to leave the hospital, and return to work. She’d expected ‘’situation as normal’ back at the surgery, rather than what she found. Barbara, on reception, was holding off two smartly-dressed strangers, telling them that Dr Lawrence wasn’t available this afternoon. Could they come back tomorrow, perhaps?

As it was, they said they couldn’t, so Mabel had to take them through to her office, at the hub of the health centre, sensing that they were a cut above the normal parade of drug reps she spent her life dismissing.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, taking their coats and hanging them on a hook on the back of her office door, “but we have a bit of a crisis on at the moment.”

Dave Morris pulled his wallet from his coat, as he handed it to her. “Crisis?” he asked, flicking the wallet open. “We’re from the Family Health Services Counter Fraud Offices,” he said. He always enjoyed saying those words, felt they dressed him in an authority not easily found in a uniform. He saw that Jane Tobias, the young officer he’d particularly asked to join him on the case, seemed to relish his description, too.

They’d had an easy enough rail journey, without delay, to Northallerton, North Yorkshire, and he’d shared with Jane the data ‘Gilbert’ had unearthed. Her background as a policewoman meant she appreciated the detail. A short taxi journey later, and they were in Thirsk, at the reception window at Dacre Lawrence’s practice. An unannounced visit.

‘Well done, Barbara’, Mabel was thinking. “Now. I wonder if you can tell me why you are here, Mr… Morris?” She asked, staring him full in the face. She could think of a thousand reasons why someone might investigate ‘her’ practice, but was feeling slightly nervous, nonetheless.

Dave Morris unzipped a file he’d carried into the room. This Mabel Morris didn’t seem as concerned as she should be. Maybe she was in league with Lawrence?

“We have some data, Mrs Harris, that seems to suggest that Dr Lawrence has been accessing the medical files of quite a few people who we’re not exactly sure he has the authority to do so. I wonder if you might ask him to join us?” Dave asked.

“Normally I would have no problem with that. But it is quite out of the question at the moment, I’m afraid, “ Mabel said. “You see, he had a stroke yesterday. I’m afraid he couldn’t join us even if he wanted to.”

Dave Morris saw that Jane Tobias looked alarmed.

“We’ll need to look at Dr Lawrence’s computer, Mrs Harris. Just to be sure, you understand,“ Jane had said. ‘Nice one, Jane’, Dave thought, as he continued to check Mabel Harris for signs that she may not be telling the truth. But Mabel Harris wasn‘t about to sacrifice her NHS pension for Dacre Lawrence.

“Of course. Please do what you need to do. I can tell you his password, if it helps,” Mabel said.

“It will help us a great deal, Mrs Harris. A great deal indeed,” said Jane, catching Dave Morris’ glance as she did so. They already knew every password Dr Dacre Lawrence ever used, but it was as well if they pretended they didn’t….