Chapter 63

Harry had forgotten – or never realized - that Lillian McFry had never explicitly mentioned her age to Danny during their previous meetings – and he could be forgiven for giving himself a swift, mental kick as he worked out what he’d said. Little wonder, then, if Lillian was tempted to retreat behind the barricade she’d built up so successfully over the years.
‘Who are you, really,’ she was thinking to herself, ‘that you know more about me than I ever told your ‘son’?’
She pulled herself straight in her chair, wondering for a moment whether she should just stay there, safe in her past, or whether, after all, she could trust this ‘Mr Longhurst’.
“I think you owe me an explanation, Mr Longhurst. If that is who you really are,” Lillian said, casting a glance over towards a very discomforted-looking Danny.

Harry had to think fast. He knew, all too late, that he’d blown his cover, given too much information in a throwaway remark. He sensed this Lillian McFry was not only younger looking than her age, but a darn site smarter than your average centenarian. Maybe he could bluff it out: it had been a guess? ‘No good, Harry’, he thought – he’d been too specific. He heard the ticking of the clock on the sideboard, felt his collar getting tight. In an instant, he knew what he had to do.
“We’ve not been – I’ve not been – entirely truthful with you, Mrs McFry, he said, and waited for a reaction – any reaction – from Lillian. He caught the merest flicker of a smile cross the woman’s mouth, but he knew it said ‘I may be 102, but I’m still ‘all there’.’
“My name is Harry McFry. I’m a genealogical private investigator,” he continued, noticing Danny seem to shrink in his chair. This wasn’t going to be easy, Harry thought. Lillian appeared shocked.
“McFry, you say? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those McFrys!” Her voice spoke a genuine alarm, which made Harry wonder what it was that the McFrys had done to Lillian, to make her so – apparently – embittered.
“No, no … I can assure you it’s entirely co-incidental. I’m here merely because Danny contacted me about your medals. You see, I have reason to believe that someone is after them. Or, more precisely, the piece of paper that was with them.” Harry paused again, looking for a response from Lillian.
“You had better explain yourself further, Mr McFry,” was all she said. Danny was looking more uncomfortable by the minute.
“When Danny contacted me, I took the liberty of showing your medals to someone I know who deals in military memorabilia. He contacted someone who is an expert in the Spanish Civil War and, yesterday, I had the chance to meet him.”
Lillian was wondering what it took to become an ‘expert’ in the Spanish Civil War. It was galling to know that there were people making a living out of the experiences that she, and thousands of others, had gone through. But that, she supposed, was what ‘history’ was all about.
Harry continued. “Does the name Cyril Galloway mean anything to you?” he asked.
Lillian was sharp in her response. “Mr Galloway is a crook. I would not trust Mr Galloway to walk my dog – always supposing I had one.”
“Yes, I know. The thing is, Mrs McFry, I know that this Cyril Galloway has been to view your medals. I know that because he told Colin McAllistair so.” ‘Wait, Harry!’ the voice inside his head was saying, ‘see how she takes that!’
“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone called Colin McAllistair. But you are right, Mr Galloway did come to view the medals. What else do you know, Mr McFry?” Lillian was playing cat and mouse, Harry thought. And he didn’t enjoy being the mouse.
“I think someone else is behind all of this. I think that piece of paper with the medals may be a will of some sort. And I think someone wants to get their hands on it more than even the medals.” Harry paused, wondering if this last piece of information would open Lillian McFry up, but he sensed at the same time that this ‘little old lady’ was harder than any woman he had ever met in his life.
“Then it seems to me, Mr McFry, that you think too much!” Lillian seemed too be retreating again. ‘Try another tack, Harry!’ the voice inside him said.
“OK. Does the name Jonathan Harcourt mean anything to you?”
Danny felt the awful silence after Harry had asked the question envelope him like a blanket. Lillian McFry seemed to be struck speechless by Harry’s latest foil. He just hoped Harry knew what he was doing.

Chapter 62

Lillian McFry opened the door to Danny and Harry.

“Good morning, Mrs McFry,” Danny said. “This is my father.” He gestured to Harry, perhaps a little too obviously. Lillian looked Harry up and down, but he could see from the clouds across her eyes that her sight wasn’t good.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs McFry,” Harry said, reaching out his hand. But, if she noticed, Lillian didn’t reciprocate.

“You’ve got yourself a very nice son there, Mr Longhurst. Not like most of those his age. You had better come in,” she said, turning to walk up the passageway. Harry closed the door behind him, and followed Danny into the living room.

Lillian had found an extra chair from somewhere, and it sat next to the sideboard, ready for the additional guest. The room seemed crowded with just the three of them but, once Lillian had invited them to sit down, they soon fitted in quite reasonably: Danny in an armchair by the window, Harry on the dining chair by the sideboard.

“You will have a cup of tea, after your journey, I hope?” Lillian asked, hovering by the doorway.

Danny answered first: “That would be lovely. But I’m afraid my father only drinks coffee, if it’s no trouble?” ‘Nicely put, son!’ Harry thought.

While Lillian was away preparing their drinks, Harry surveyed the room. Behind Danny, he noticed the dull aspidistra that seemed to be anchored to a small table in the window. Harry couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen one of those – it must have been forty years ago, and it must have been on a visit to some family member or other, with his parents. At the time, it had seemed huge and, in a strange way, quite forbidding. Ever since reading Orwell’s Keep the Aspidista Flying, Harry had thought it a symbol of ‘Middle England,’ but it was a rare plant to come across these days.

He turned and looked at the photographs displayed on the sideboard, every one of them black and white or sepia toned. None of them looked like they’d been taken after the 1950’s, and most looked quite a deal older. It was as though Lillian McFry’s life had been on hold for half a century.

Two of them showed the picture of a young woman – it could only have been Lillian – in combat fatigues, a beret perched jauntily on her head, surrounded by a group of similarly-dressed men. She was very much the centre of each photograph, he noticed. He saw, too, the portrait that she’d had taken all those years ago in Ripon, and he thought how beautiful she looked – vivacious and fiery, even. It reminded him of Laurel McFry.

“What are you thinking, Harry?” Danny asked, in quiet aside. Harry replied in the same, hushed tone: “She was very like Laurel, when she was younger, don’t you think? Look at her eyes.”

Danny stood up to inspect the photograph, and was leaning over it as Lillian came back into the room with the tray of drinks. And the plate of bourbon creams.

“Oh, those are all from a long time ago, Danny,” she said, placing the tray on a side table. “They used to say I broke a man’s heart every week in those days!” Lillian smiled as she said this, and Harry again saw how much Laurel had inherited from her grandmother. ‘Probably an understatement, if ever I heard one!’ he thought.

Lillian passed him his coffee, and offered him the plate of biscuits. Harry was hungry – realized he’d skipped breakfast, and took two. Lillian seemed delighted: ‘Someone who knows how to enjoy himself,’ she was thinking – ‘not like that Dacre Lawrence!’

Lillian settled herself into the other armchair, and sipped her tea.

“Well then, Danny. You were going to tell me about my granddaughter…” she said, then turned to Harry: “I don’t know whether your son has told you, but I engaged him to find my granddaughter. For reasons that I won’t bore you with, I haven’t seen her for many years.”

‘Hmm…’ thought Harry, ‘there’s nothing like massaging history, is there, Lillian?’ But he merely nodded, politely, and said: “I believe so, Mrs McFry.”

Danny explained that her daughter lived near the park in Birkenhead, in a house which her father had left her when he died. She didn’t work, as she had a private income. She was, he said (and here, Harry noticed, he blushed a little) “a very beautiful lady - very much like the photo you’ve got there.” And he pointed to the small, framed portrait he’d been looking at when she had returned to the room.

“That was taken a long time ago, young man. I’m afraid my looks have long gone.” ‘You’re fishing, Lillian!’ Harry thought. But it wouldn’t harm to let her catch something. “You’re still a very beautiful woman, Mrs McFry,” Harry said, adding, for a reason he never quite worked out “for someone your age.” Even as he said it, he was kicking himself – he saw Lillian bristle a little.

“And how old might that be, Mr Longhurst?”

Harry looked embarrassed. “Well, I mean to say, there aren’t many women who have reached the age of 102 looking as young as you do, Mrs McFry.” Danny saw that it was Harry’s turn to blush. As well he might. Stupid Harry McFry just gave the game away!

*

Henry was oiling a hinge on the door to Mrs Shipman’s office when Elsie came across from her shop into Meldew Buildings.

She nodded towards the door – “She in, Henry?” Elsie asked, her voice a half-whisper.

“You’re OK, Elsie. She’s out shopping. What can I do for you?” Henry asked, standing up now and wiping the nozzle of the oil can.

“Have you seen Harry today?”

Henry knew Elsie well. Ever since her husband died a couple of years back, he’d thought he might get to know her better, and there were few days when he didn’t call into her shop for a chat.

“Sure, He was in earlier. He’s gone off to Telford, though. Not expecting him back until this afternoon,” he said. “Why?”

Elsie looked flustered. “Not sure, Henry. Just, there was someone in the shop asking about him. Said he’d been over here looking for Harry, but you said you hadn’t seen him.”

Henry smiled. “It doesn’t pay to let people know what Harry’s up to, Elsie. You know that by now. Yeah – Harry had a visitor. But it’s not my job to open my mouth where it’s not called for. What did you say to him?”

Elsie got the picture. Henry was almost as protective of Harry McFry as she was. “I didn’t say anything. But he left this,” she said, reaching under her cardigan for Cyril Galloway’s card.

“Hmm… “ said Henry, studying the card carefully. “Telford Auction Rooms. Maybe we better let Harry know.”

“That’s just what I was thinking, Henry. Seems to me like he needs to know about this Cyril Galloway fellow.”

Henry told her he’d ring Harry straight away, and to let him know if Galloway showed up again. And he took the opportunity of a rare visit by Elsie to his own ‘territory’ to ask whether she’d be interested in maybe going out for a meal with him that night. If she wasn’t doing anything else, that was.

When she returned to Meldew Buildings later that morning, Mrs Shipman might well have wondered how come her janitor seemed so happy all of a sudden. But Mrs Shipman wasn’t one for small talk with her staff, even if she noticed that her door didn’t seem to squeak anymore.

Technical Note: Wordless Wednesday?

Today is, apparently, 'Wordless Wednesday' in the world of blogs. I know, you're reading words I wrote on a Wednesday, but they don't really count, as they're not part of the Harry McFry story. I think I'm supposed to post a photograph instead, so here's a plan of Birkenhead Park, which is Harry's favourite place to spend a Saturday afternoon, catching up on the newspapers.
There's a much better version of it here. The other picture shows the park in it's heyday- long before Harry was even a twinkle in his mother's eye, although perhaps Lillian McFry's father might have been familiar with the scene. If you look carefully, you might just make out the impending cloud of drizzly rain, on the horizon.

I thought I'd pause today and thank my readers (and you know who you are!) for sticking with Harry McFry on his plodding quest to solve the mystery of Laurel McFry's 'Missing' Family.

I also wanted to particularly thank those readers who had taken a second to click on the 'Fuel My Blog' logo in the right sidebar, just below the Casebook list. Many of those who clicked came from Rootschat - which is (quite probably) the best family history chatroom in the world.

As a result of your efforts, Harry McFry Investigates currently ranks as No 7 in the 'Top 100' blogs listed by Fuel My Blog. That's quite an achievement, given that Harry's only been listed on the site for a couple of weeks - maybe less.

Apparently, you can vote once a day so, if you feel inclined...

If you're interested in the technical process of how Harry has been put together, you can always visit Harry McFry GPI, where I'm keeping an online diary as I write the story.

Ahem ... so much for 'Wordless Wednesday'!

Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

Kind Regards

THJnr

Chapter 61

Elsie Dean was watching the man who had just come into her shop carefully. Just after entering, he had positioned himself near the window, scanning the racks of magazines but, she noticed, now and then glancing out across at Meldew Buildings. He’d picked up one of the magazines, and appeared to be leafing through it, but Elsie could tell he wasn’t going to buy it. After a couple of minutes, he placed it back on the shelf and turned to leave, but paused, as if something had just crossed his mind. He slowly turned round and made his way to the counter, where a strangely nervous Elsie stood. What was it about him, she wondered, that gave her the creeps? He smiled. It was a thin, weak smile, his lips almost transparent.

“Good morning!” he announced, “I wonder if you can help me?”

Elsie was used to people coming into the shop asking for directions, delivery drivers foxed by the one-way system thereabouts. But this man looked different. He was smartly dressed. Carrying a briefcase, he looked more like one of the local solicitors from the Square. Even if one she would go out of her way to avoid, if she were ever to draw up a will.

“I’m trying to get hold of a Mr Harry McFry. I wonder if you know how I can best find him?”

Elsie bristled slightly, her eyes narrowing as if to inspect the visitor even more closely. She knew all about Harry’s financial problems, but it wasn’t for her to point the wolves towards his door. He obviously knew he worked over the road – why else all those furtive glances out of the window?

“Isn’t he in?” she asked, nodding slightly towards Meldew Buildings.

“Apparently not. I tried ringing him earlier, but there’s no answer. I really would like to talk to Mr McFry.” His tone was ingratiating.

“He does pop in now and again, for cigarettes, you know,” she said. “Shall I tell him someone’s looking for him?”

“That would be most kind. My name is Galloway. Cyril Galloway,” the stranger replied. Elsie fancied that if he’d been wearing a hat he’d have doffed it at this point. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. “You could give him this, if you wouldn’t mind. If you see him soon, that is.” He handed her the card, which Elsie studied. Telford Auction Rooms. That was a new one on her.

“Well, if he does come in, I’ll make sure he gets it,” she said, placing it on the cash till.

“That’s very kind of you. Very kind indeed,” Galloway said, and he bade the woman goodbye and left the shop. Elsie watched him move on up the street. She wasn’t sure who this Mr Galloway was, but something told her Harry needed to know about his visit. She pulled her cardigan closed, and walked towards the shop door, pausing only to pick up the ‘Back in 5 Minutes’ sign she used whenever she needed to leave the shop unattended.

*

For his part, Cyril Galloway was feeling frustrated with himself. Why on earth had he thought, even for one minute, that it was worth hanging about in this dreary, drizzle-bound town, in the hope that McFry would ring him? The guy was obviously off somewhere doing detective work, probably snooping on someone who might, or might not, be having an extra-marital affair. He’d even spent a futile ten minutes in an internet café, desperately Googling the name “Harry McFry”, but the results had been meager, to say the least. Nowhere was there a mobile number for Harry McFry. The caretaker at Meldew Buildings had said he hadn’t seen Harry that day. Wherever this McFry character was, he obviously didn’t want to talk to Cyril Galloway. McAllistair had been wrong.

And yet … and yet, he could smell those medals! He was sure they were still in Birkenhead somewhere, whether secreted away in Harry’s office, or maybe in whatever down-at-heel place he lived. Galloway was already building up a mental picture of Harry McFry, a patchwork made of the little that McAllistair had told him, together with the product of his own (sometimes fertile, he would acknowledge) imagination. Harry McFry was a loser, some two-bit private eye who didn’t see a financial opportunity when it was staring in his face. He’d give it until mid afternoon. If McFry hadn’t shown up by then, he’d have to work out another plan. With that thought, he walked into the Brass Balance, where he ordered a gin and tonic, sat by the window, and brooded.

Chapter 60

“How are you going to tackle Lillian McFry, Harry?” Danny asked, as he pulled the car off the motorway and they began the tour of roundabouts that would take them through Telford and to Lillian McFry’s door. Their journey had passed companiably enough, although Harry thought Danny’s driving was a bit too fast and loose for his own liking, and more than once found himself stepping on a non-existent brake pedal in the passenger well. Neither of them had felt the need to speak much – the relaxed silence between them was remarkable for two people who had only met earlier that week.

Harry had spent much of the journey thinking about their planned trip to Madrid the next day. This time tomorrow, he thought, they’d be at the airport, getting ready for their departure soon after lunch. And tomorrow night, if all went to schedule, he’d be meeting up with Ana again. He wasn’t sure yet exactly what he’d do with Danny then, but he was certain he could find a diversion or two that would interest a youngster on his first visit to the city. Alan, his brother, had sounded a little surprised that he’d have someone in tow – well, surprised that it wasn’t a woman, perhaps. His apparent ability to make light of the fact that he was in a relationship with Ana’s sister still irked Harry, and he hoped he’d get some time alone with his brother to explain how he felt about it. What exactly did he feel about it, he wondered, as the car sped along the motorway? On the one hand, why should it matter that Alan had fallen for Ana’s sister, Yolanda? She was beautiful enough, for sure – maybe not quite as striking as Ana, Harry thought, but she had the same fine features and ‘way’. Maybe he was jealous – but that was preposterous: if Alan had ended up with Ana, now that would have been a cause for envy.

In his time, Harry had come across plenty of cases of brothers marrying sisters in other people’s trees. It was always the sign of a good genealogical programme if it could record relationships like these and draw out a tree that didn’t look something like the London Underground map, Harry had always thought. But the idea of his own brother and he marrying two Spanish sisters was an easy one to dismiss. ‘That not going to happen, Harry,’ he was thinking, when he noticed, for the first time, that they had left the motorway, and that Danny was expertly navigating the car towards Lillian McFry’s house. What was that he’d just asked him? Oh, yes … how did he plan to deal with Lillian…

“Seems to me like you’d better take the lead with this one, Danny. She’s your client, after all. I’ll just play the interested father, see where it takes us.” ‘This’ll be a novelty,’ Harry thought. He’d never had to play ‘Dad’ before. Son, brother, brother-in-law, husband, son-in-law and uncle were the only roles he really knew. At least his ‘son’ was someone he might be proud of, if he really were his father. A bright kid. Someone who knew where he was going in life. Just a shame his ‘father’ didn’t have the same map.

They pulled into the cul-de-sac at Vale View just before 11am. Harry noticed the twitching curtains as they got out of the car. It looked like the kind of place where nothing ever happened, where the pulling-up of a strange car was something to remark on. He wondered how much her neighbours knew about ‘little old Lillian McFry’.

Whatever it was, it probably didn’t extend to knowing that she’d killed fifty fascists in Spain. If Harry had known that, too, then he might have been even more nervous than he already was as he walked, just a few steps behind Danny, up Lillian McFry’s short garden path.

Chapter 59

If Danny hadn’t been adequately able to describe Lillian McFry to Harry, it was little wonder. She’d learned, over the years, to keep close to herself many secrets. Other people – well, they didn’t matter. They could know what they needed to know. And that was all.

Sometimes, she looked at the faded photographs on her sideboard, and wondered if she had really known all these people. Faces from the past, hard to place. Even the small portrait of herself, taken when she was in her twenties, seemed like it might be someone else, a stranger to her.

She remembered clearly the day she had it taken. She’d taken herself off to town, while her father went off to a horserace meeting, no doubt to gamble away what little he had spare from his job as a carpenter. She must have been 22. Yes – she remembered now: on the corner, near the cathedral, there had been a group of miners collecting money to support their strike, and she’d dropped a few coins into their tin. That might have been the start of her interest in politics, an awakening of part of her she never knew she had: the thing that had drawn her to join the Independent Labour Party. They had seemed so pitiful, huddled on the street, in stark contrast to the well-dressed shoppers who mostly seemed to pass them by.

Lillian was working in a hospital in those days; long, tiring shifts they were, too. She came home from her job feeling exhausted, but somehow found the strength to complete the list of additional tasks that came with running a home. Today, though, she felt free, and the sun was shining: she had the whole day to herself, to do with what she would.

She’d seen the sign outside the photographers, inviting people to have their picture taken for just a few shillings. Catching sight of her reflection in the shop window, she’d thought ‘Well, you’re not bad looking, Lillian Blyth’. And then, two words she hardly ever uttered forced their way into her mind: ‘Treat yourself.’ She thought of her father, frittering away money at Ripon racecourse, ‘treating himself’.

So, it was a combination of vanity and anger that sent her up the stairs to the photographer’s. Quite a potent mix, all things considered. Thankfully, the photographer was up to the task of capturing precisely that same blend, which made Lillian Blyth look even more beautiful than she probably thought she ever could.

She looked in the mirror, and straightened her hair. Not long now before her visitors arrived.

*

Cyril Galloway was, meanwhile, cursing himself. He’d waited until almost 5.30pm the previous day, before checking again with the Telford Auction Rooms to see if Harry McFry had called. He hadn’t. By now, he’d found Harry’s number from directory enquiries, and determined to ring him. But there had been no answer. And he didn’t leave a message. Instead, he thought he’d better leave it until tomorrow. No sense in letting this McFry know how anxious he was to get the medals.

So, he’d found a hotel a few miles from the centre of Birkenhead, checked himself in and spent the rest of the evening wondering if he might not have been better simply returning to Telford and contacting McFry the next day. But he didn’t like the idea that Lillian McFry’s medals – and their accompanying documentation – were so close to him, and his instinct told him to stay as near to them as he could. A fretting Cyril Galloway is not a pretty sight, as more than one observer in the hotel bar noticed that evening.

Now, he’d breakfasted and, just after 9.30am, had tried the number for McFry again. No answer. Every last one of his senses, though, told him the medals were still in Birkenhead. And he was right.

Chapter 58

Alan McFry sat alone at a table outside a café in the Plaza Dos de Mayo, sipping a ‘café solo’ and idly leafing through a copy of El Mundo, enjoying the fresh January air and pausing now and again to watch the Madrillenos, dressed for winter in thick overcoats, passing by. It was Friday morning, and he was still wondering about the late-night call he’d received from his brother, Harry, the day before. He’d enjoyed Harry’s discomfort as he’d raised the issue of Ana’s sister and his new relationship with her.

“Of course I was going to tell you, Harry,” he’d said. But he’d never have mentioned it if Harry hadn’t. What business was it of Harry’s who he was living with? In any case, it may not work out. Adam must have told Carrie, his ex-wife; and Carrie, he surmised, must have told Harry. He wondered what Carrie had made of the ‘news’?

He’d spent a happy time re-acquainting himself with his son during his visit, showing him the sights of Madrid and taking the odd day trip out of the city with him. It had all seemed to go pretty well, all things considered.

Now, Harry was coming to Madrid and, of course, he couldn’t really refuse to put him up. Who, he wondered, was this Danny he’d be bringing along? It would be difficult enough dealing with Harry’s presence, with all the history of what had gone on between him and Ana, without a stranger being around. He’d been able to get away with hardly mentioning Ana during their infrequent telephone calls over the last few years.

Alan took a slug of coffee, followed quickly by a mouthful of anis, which coated his mouth with its sticky sweetness. In seconds, it had hit the spot that only anis can find – so that it felt like a warm cushion between his brain and his skull. Life was good, he was thinking. Better keep it that way, and not tell Harry anything at all about Ana.

*

Over breakfast in their hotel in Northallerton, North Yorkshire, Dave Morris and Jane Tobias were discussing their schedule for the rest of the day.

Yesterday, their unannounced visit to Dr Lawrence’s surgery had revealed more than they imagined it would. It was inconvenient to their investigations, of course, that the good doctor had chosen the day before their visit to hospitalize himself. But in some ways, his absence was helpful, as it had allowed them to examine his computer without any undue interference. And Lawrence had had no opportunity to erase the incriminating details they knew would be there.

Mabel Harris had, in the end, turned out to be helpfulness personified. Dave suspected there was no love lost between the two – that, in fact, Lawrence wasn’t popular with many of his colleagues at all.

“I’ll say you’re from our IT support company,” Mabel had said, “just in case anyone asks.” It didn’t matter to Dave and Jane how Mrs Harris chose to explain their presence to the rest of the staff at the health centre, but in some ways it was helpful to be able to get on with their business undisturbed.

They already knew that Lawrence had been accessing confidential medical records from patients all across the country that he had no authority to look at. ‘Gilbert’ had told them as much.

It wasn’t that practitioners couldn’t, or weren’t allowed, to do this. The whole point of the new NHS strategy for IT was that records should be available centrally, not squirreled away on paper in thousands of GP practices all over the country. And, if a patient was transferring to a new practice (whether because they didn’t like their existing one or were simply moving house) it was quite natural that the new GP would access their records. This had all been factored into the equation when the Gilbert programme had been written. What Gilbert was designed to find was obvious anomalies: and Dr Dacre Lawrence’s activities had stepped way beyond the norm.

Analysing the hard drive on his PC, Jane Tobias had quickly found the history files that backed up Gilbert’s findings.

“Looks like he’s downloaded the records of every single patient called McFry in the country, Dave,” she’d said.

Dave had been sat at a second desk in the corner of Dr Lawrence’s room, examining a foolscap pad and the doctor’s diary, which lay, still open at the page for that week.

“McFry? How many are we talking about, Jane?” he had asked.

“At a quick glance, about 200. Way out of order. Just doing that is bound to mean a disciplinary for him, isn’t it?”

Dave Morris wasn’t sure about that, and to Jane’s eye had seemed pre-occupied with another thought. He had been more interested in the appointments Lawrence had in his diary, just for that moment. In particular, one for a Lillian McFry, in Telford, just two days previous.

“Just pull up the record for Lillian McFry, 28 Vale View, Telford, will you, Jane?” he’d asked. “I may be wrong, but I think we’ll find she may be the one he was really after.”