Chapter 79

As Harry edged his way into the kitchen, Carrie was stirring a pot of home-made tomato and basil soup. He saw she’d arranged a couple of candles on the table, which seemed to turn the kitchen into an intimate bistro, and he noticed she’d already poured two large glasses of red wine from a bottle that sat at the table’s centre.

She turned round and smiled at him. “You feeling more relaxed now, Harry?” she asked.

He shouldn’t have been, he knew. But slowly, one by one, all his senses were being tripped. “Sit yourself down and have a drink,” Carrie said, and she saw him catch sight of an ashtray on the edge of the table. “I only don’t like it around the kids, Harry,” she said, with a wry smile.

Harry took a seat, and watched Carrie as she carved hunks from what looked like a homemade loaf. He took a mouthful of the wine and swirled it around his mouth to obliterate the whisky taste. There was no doubt about it, Carrie was a fine looking woman. And, although she was his sister-in-law, she was divorced. Can you even have an ex-sister-in-law, Harry wondered? Better make some small-talk, he thought.

“How’s the job?” he asked, but it sounded like he was making small-talk.

Carrie turned and brought the bread basket to the table. “It pays the bills, Harry. How about you – anything doing?”

Harry thought about the week that had just gone by. He’d never spent so much time on one, apparently simple, case. And it wasn’t wrapped up yet. He still had the trip to Madrid ahead. An image of Ana, in her own apartment kitchen, came to mind, but he dismissed it quickly. Maybe she was with someone else, now, anyway? ‘You’ve got to stop living in the past, Harry!’ a voice inside him cried.

“A busy week, all things considered. It’s paying the rent, anyway,” he said. He was thinking about his flight time tomorrow. Danny was picking him up at ten. He still had a bag to pack. Some instinct – or maybe guile - made him decide not to mention his planned trip to Carrie.

Carrie crouched to pull open the oven door, and blew a wisp of blonde hair from her face as the heat escaped. A rack of lamb was nestled in a bed of roasted vegetables. ‘This woman might be a domestic goddess!’ thought Harry. The wine was getting to him, he knew. All things considered, Carrie was starting to look like an attractive proposition. His brother had been stupid to leave her, even if he had ended up with Ana’s sister. He considered whether he owed any loyalty to Alan, now that he and Carrie were divorced. It might complicate matters a little for him – but he doubted Alan had considered that he might be complicating matters when he’d hooked up with Yolanda.

“Right – you ready to eat now, hon?” Carrie asked, cupping a bowl in one hand while stirring the soup with a ladle in her other.

“Sure,” Harry said, with a smile. “You’re right about one thing, Carrie – I’m starving!”

*

Although Laurel McFry had reached Harry’s answer phone and left her message, as she lay on her sofa she began to think that maybe the letter she’d received from the mysterious ‘D Lawrence’ was more important than she’d at first thought.

She spent an hour reading a book, to try to clear her mind. Then, as she got up to make herself a light tea, she found herself thinking about the letter again. Why hadn’t Harry rung her back, she wondered? Surely, he’d got her message by now?

What if he was out of town, and didn’t get the call? She realized she knew very little about Harry McFry, even though he probably already knew a lot about her. Was he married? She doubted it. Each time she’d met him (and it had only been twice, she recalled) he’d seemed just a little too disheveled to be a married man. No self-respecting wife would let her husband go to work in shirts that looked so patently un-ironed – even if she had to force him to iron them himself. But he wasn’t unattractive: he had a child-like quality behind that tough exterior of his, and she could see how that might make some women – not her, of course - want to mother him. She imagined he might have had an affair at some time. Probably divorced, then. He looked the sort that might be easily seduced. Not that she herself was interested – he was old enough to be her father, after all. But it was easily possible to imagine that women might fall for his his easy way with them.

She decided she’d better ring Danny Longhurst. She found his number in her address book, and dialed it.

Danny had finished his packing, had just tucked his passport into a side pocket on his bag, when his phone rang. He hadn’t expected a call from Laurel McFry, and sounded surprised when he heard her voice.

When she told him about the letter, he wanted to know why she hadn’t rung Harry.

“I left a message for him, but it seems he’s either not there, or he doesn’t think it’s important enough to call me back,” Laurel said.

Knowing what Harry already knew about Dacre Lawrence, Danny couldn’t imagine for a minute that he’d had Laurel’s message and hadn’t thought it worth ringing her back. When he’d dropped him off at his flat earlier that day, Harry hadn’t mentioned he was going anywhere. Why didn’t the guy just get a mobile phone, – it would make life so much easier!

“Listen, Laurel,” he said. “I want you to keep that letter safe. Harry and I are going to Madrid tomorrow. It’s all mixed up with your case. But I know Harry will want to see it. Can we call round to look at it on the way to the airport?”

“Madrid?” Laurel replied, not hiding her astonishment. “Why on earth would you be going to Madrid?”

Danny realized he’d said too much. “I better let Harry explain when we see you tomorrow,” he said. ‘Harry’s going to love me for that one’, he thought, as he ended the call.

Chapter 78

Dave Morris had a hunch that they would need to visit Lillian ‘McFry’ before he could complete his report on Dacre Lawrence: or Lillian ‘Blyth’ as she was recorded in her medical records. They were en route back to Cardiff, but wouldn’t get there until until just after 11pm. He’d have to hope Tom Gauntless, his boss, would accept a little delay: he’d need to see if they could schedule a trip to Telford on the Monday. It was almost 5.30pm and, although he knew his secretary would be packing up for the weekend, he had no choice but to call her. When she answered, Dave sensed the slight deflation in her voice: “It’s OK, Angela,” he said, as if to re-assure her that she wouldn’t be working ‘too’ late tonight, “this is just a quick one.” And he asked her to contact Lillian McFry, and to see whether she would mind if they called to see her on Monday. Sometime in the afternoon would be best. Could she book tickets for the train for the Jane and him – maybe that could wait until first thing Monday?

That done, he settled back into his seat opposite Jane, and tried to think what it was that would make someone pay a teenager so much money to alter on-line census records. Jane, meanwhile, was wondering what law Dacre Lawrence might have broken, and whether they had enough evidence to make a charge stick – but that’s police training for you, I suppose.

*

“You look hungry, Harry!” Carrie exclaimed, suddenly. “Why don’t we go through to the kitchen?” If Harry looked hungry, maybe it was a mixture of anxiety and the desire he had, which he had done his best to mask, for a cigarette? He knew Carrie didn’t like him smoking in the house. That was her business – it was her house, after all. He was accustomed, on his visits there, to wandering out in the garden whenever the craving got too much for him. Suddenly, the garden seemed like a good idea – somewhere he could collect his thoughts.

“I need a cigarette first, if you don’t mind, Carrie,” Harry said, standing up and carrying his drink towards the French windows.

“Sure, but …” Carrie tried to protest, but Harry had already opened the doors and was out in the damp greenery of the spacious back garden of the house. Carrie disappeared into the kitchen, shouting “Just come through when you’re ready, Harry – no hurry.”

As he drew the smoke deep into his lungs, Harry wondered if maybe he was mis-reading things. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d got the cues wrong with a woman, had even missed them completely. He wondered what he’d been doing at school when they’d had the ‘How to read a come-on’ lesson, because he sure as heck didn’t remember anything even if he’d been there.

Maybe if he’d had time to think about it, maybe if he’d remembered he was supposed to be round here tonight, he could have anticipated what to do – had a plan, a scheme … something, at least, up his sleeve? There was no doubt he’d been summonsed here under false pretences: all that ‘the kids would love to see you’ stuff, when all along they were organized to be whisked away. And Carrie looked like she’d made a real effort with her appearance – that short, black dress she was wearing hadn’t just been thrown on, he realized. He took a slug of whisky. His glass was empty now, but the alcohol wasn’t relaxing him. Maybe if he had another, he could think a bit straighter? He stubbed the cigarette out under his heel, and turned back to the lounge. He caught the opening bars of Charlie Parker’s “All The Things You Are” coming from the kitchen. Boy, was this woman pulling out all the stops!

Chapter 77

Sometimes fate has a way of kicking you in the teeth. Or sometimes, maybe, you just hold out your jaw to it and say “Kick me!”

By the time Harry made it back to his flat, it was 5.30pm. As he opened the door to his bedsit, he saw that the answer phone was blinking away in the corner. That could wait a minute, he thought, as he automatically headed for the cupboard to pull out the coffee. He lit the gas for the kettle, and spooned a few heaps of the fine-ground Java into the cafetiere. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he wondered who might have rung him – one thing was for sure, it wasn’t going to be a date for Friday night! Harry hadn’t seen much action that way for quite a few weeks now, and he didn’t expect this Friday was going to be much different. He had in mind an easy night ahead: he’d pack a few things ready for the trip tomorrow, and maybe just relax, listen to a bit of music. The idea was appealing – might help empty his brain of all those McFrys.

He pushed the plunger down on the coffee maybe a bit too quickly, but he needed the quick buzz from the caffeine sooner rather than later. He took a few gulps of the brew, and felt it hit the spot. ‘Better check those messages, Harry’, he thought, having put it off as long as he could, and made his way over to the phone.

The first message sent a chill through his spine. It was Carrie – Harry’s sister in law, her pleasant, warm voice managing to jolt Harry, nonetheless.

“Hi Harry. Thought I’d better ring to remind you – I know what you’re like. Dinner’s at 6. See you then – the boys are looking forward to seeing their uncle so much.”

Click. Harry stopped the machine, and checked his watch. It was a quarter to six, and (of course) he’d forgotten all about Carrie’s invitation to dinner. Those post-it notes were slipping off in Harry’s brain more than he liked to think, these days.

He could still (just) make it. He rang for a cab in five minutes, and rushed into the bathroom out on the landing, grabbing his razor and shaving soap as he did so. He looked in the mirror at his own stupid reflection. ‘You need to get a grip, Harry my boy!’ he said to himself, as he speedily soaped up his face.

He’d just finished his shave when he heard the toot of the taxi on the street below. He grabbed his hat and coat, and ran down the stairs, where he found Jimmy’s smiling face.

“Where to tonight, Harry?” Jimmy asked, as his passenger jumped in the front seat beside him.

“Going over to see Carrie – and I need to be there by six.”

Jimmy didn’t wait for any further instruction, but sped away, determined to get Harry there as near to time as he could.

“Say, Harry,” Jimmy said as they pulled over the flyover “you seeing quite a bit of Carrie these days – twice in one week!”

Harry got Jimmy’s drift. “Don’t be silly, Jimmy. She’s my sister-in-law, the mother of my nephews. That’s all.”

Jimmy smiled back. “Didn’t look like no sister-in-law look she gave you when I dropped you round there the other day, Harry!”

Harry was embarrassed, just a little, at Jimmy’s suggestion, but that might have been because he hadn’t noticed anything special about Carrie that day.

“Nah! You’ve just been reading too many cheap novels, Jimmy. You see things that aren’t there,” Harry said, a little less convincingly than perhaps he’d intended.

He’d never thought of Carrie in ‘that’ way. You don’t – not your brothers’ wife. Sure, she was attractive, easy to get along with, great with her kids. But she was ‘off limits’. As the taxi pulled up outside of Carrie’s house, however, Harry could be forgiven for wondering whether the limits had moved, just a little. He’d better watch himself, or it could all get very complicated.

“See you later, Harry,” Jimmy shouted, after Harry had paid him and got out the cab. Harry wasn’t sure whether he saw him wink, before he turned away and drove off. The wink, if it was there, might have said ‘or then again, maybe not!’

*

As the doorbell rang, Carrie was busy in the kitchen. She checked the clock: 6.05pm – not bad for Harry, she thought.

She checked herself in the hallway mirror on the way to answer the door. ‘Not bad – not bad at all, woman!’ she thought to herself. She’d had the afternoon off work, had treated herself to a new hairstyle, a facial and a new dress. Whatever it was about that Ana that Harry was so fixated with, she had plans to de-fixate.

When she opened the door, Harry couldn’t help but notice the effect. Of course, Carrie was attractive but, clearly, she’d gone the extra mile tonight. In spite of himself, he found himself saying: “You look stunning!” And he’d stepped inside, unbuttoning his coat as he caught the slightest blush on her face.

“Why, thank you Harry!” she said, as she took his hat and coat to hang it up. “It’s nice you noticed.”

Harry was blushing just a little, too. This felt like unknown territory for him, and he wasn’t comfortable here.

“Go in the lounge for a bit, Harry – the kids are in there. I’ll go fix you a drink.” He watched her disappear into the kitchen. Fine legs that woman’s got, he thought, dismissing it as quickly as it came. ‘Watch it, Harry!’ a voice inside him said.

In the lounge, he found his nephews on the Playstation. As he entered the room, they all stopped and he enjoyed the pandemonium as they climbed all over him. “Did you catch any villains this week, Uncle Harry?” the youngest asked. Harry laughed: “No – not yet. But it’s only a matter of time. Why – do you know any?” They laughed – except that Harry noticed Adam looked a little sullen with it.

Carrie came in with the – suspiciously large – drink. “There you go, Harry – bet you could do with that!” she said. Harry thought he’d never heard Carrie speak a truer word. It might just calm him down. Remember, Harry – you’re only here to see the kids and have a meal. That’s all.

“You boys better get ready now – they’ll be here in a minute!” Carrie said. Reluctantly, they disengaged themselves from their uncle. Harry wasn’t sure what was going on. Adam thought he knew, though.

“Oh, I err … should have mentioned it, Harry. The boys are all off to a sleepover at their cousins tonight. My sister’s picking them up any minute. So we’ve got the place to ourselves.” There was a glint in her eye when she said it.

Harry felt like an actor who’d been asked to stand in for someone at short notice. Whatever script he had, he wasn’t sure what page they were on, wasn’t even sure what the whole play was about. But he was pretty sure Carrie McFry had written it, and he thought he had an idea how she planned it to end.

He’d already drunk half the whisky, he noticed. Not a sign that he was in control of himself. Then there was the hoot of a car horn outside, and within minutes the kids had been bundled out with their sleeping bags and a flurry of ‘See you’s!’. Suddenly, the stage seemed very empty to Harry. Apart from Carrie, that is who, after seeing her brood drive off up the road, was relishing the prospect of getting to know Harry McFry just a little bit better.

Chapter 76

Bill Blunt didn’t garner much more information from Galloway over their late lunchtime drink. Their conversation was interrupted by a call his companion received on his mobile phone. Galloway had turned slightly away from Bill as he took the call, but it didn’t stop him noticing that Galloway was angry about something. And why wouldn’t he be? It was Colin McAllistair, informing him, cold as day, that McFry had ‘disposed’ of the medals. And with them, no doubt, the box, and the very valuable piece of paper it contained.

When he rang off, Galloway looked flustered.

“Bad news?” Bill asked, chummily enough.

“You could say that. This Mr McFry is leading me something of a dance, and it seems my visit here today has been a waste of time,” Galloway replied, not hiding his bitter tone.

“Well, if you have to go back to Telford, maybe there’s something I can do to find this Harry McFry character for you? Why don’t you leave me your details, and I’ll see what I can do?” Bill’s question was expressed with such affability it was hard for Galloway to turn down the request. He pulled out a card and passed it to Bill.

“That would be a great help to me, Mr Blunt. Feel free to ring me any time. And now, I’m afraid I had better go. No sense hanging around here much longer,” Galloway said, rising from his seat.

‘Hmph!’ thought Bill: the cad might have just bought him a drink before he left, even as he bade his companion a good trip, and nodded his goodbye. He fingered the business card as he watched Galloway leave. This was another piece in the jigsaw, he was sure.

*

Meanwhile, across town, Laurel McFry had returned from a day out visiting a friend to find a letter waiting for her. She didn’t recognize the writing, but the postmark was for Thirsk in North Yorkshire. She wondered idly who it might be from as she pulled it open. Inside, she found a handwritten note, hard, at first, to decipher:

“My dear Laurel

I have no doubt you will be surprised to receive a letter from a ‘stranger’ that includes a warning to you, but believe me I mean no harm to you and just wish you to take heed.

My dear girl, I have never had an interest in my family history, but I learned something today that links our families more than you could imagine. How I wish I had taken interest in these matters sooner.

There is a man named Cyril Galloway who I fear is after what is rightfully yours. Please take care and do not trust him - I have learned that the hard way.

Yours Affectionately

D Lawrence”

The letter was undated, but postmarked Thursday – the day before. It was franked with the name of the Chapel Road Health Centre.

Lauren struggled to place the names. The tone of the letter was very familiar, but she didn’t know a ‘D Lawrence’, nor had she ever encountered the Cyril Galloway he felt he had to warn her about.

And what was it that was ‘rightfully’ hers that this Galloway character wanted? She thought she’d better ring Harry – it could only be wrapped up in the case she’d employed him to work on.

She found his number and dialed it, and after a short while heard the click of the answer phone and Harry’s cool voice, requesting callers to leave a message, and he ‘would get back’ to them. She left a message, saying she’d had a letter, and that it might be something he needed to see, and asking him to ring her back. It would be useful, anyway, to hear where he was up to.

She kicked off her shoes and walked to a sideboard where a bottle of vodka sat, poured herself a small drink and mixer, and lay on her sofa. This was already the worst week in Laurel McFry’s life, and the slight chill she’d felt when she’d read the letter didn’t help – it didn’t help in the least.

Chapter 75

Dave Morris and Jane Tobias made their way up the path to the block of masionettes that lay on the edge of a small council estate on the outskirts of Thirsk. They’d told the taxi driver that brought them to wait, as they didn’t expect to be long. He’d smiled, pulled out a newspaper and started doing the crossword, happy to be paid to do so.

They found flat 14 on the first floor, and Dave rapped on the half-glazed door panel, loudly, officiously. It was a while before it opened, to reveal a tall, lanky youth wearing a t-shirt, jogging pants and trainers. Although it was mid-afternoon, he looked like he might have just gotten out of bed.

“Stephen Garbutt?” Dave said. Without giving the youth a chance to reply, he had his foot in the door, and flashed an ID card at him that might – just – have passed as a police one. Jane had warned him not to mention the word ‘police’, or they’d be in big trouble.

The boy stepped back: “Yes, that’s me. What am I supposed to have done?” His response was sullen, but not angry.

“Can we come in please? We have some questions we need to ask you about Dr Dacre Lawrence.” Dave was almost in the corridor to the flat as he spoke.

“Yeah – OK,” the youth said, walking awkwardly towards a room at the end of the corridor, which was his lounge. Jane noticed the pile of unopened mail pushed up against the wall as she closed the door behind her. She caught a glimpse of a computer screen blinking away on a desk in what looked like a bedroom, as she passed on down to the lounge.

“My name is Dave Morris,” Dave said, as he pushed away a pile of magazines to one side of a sofa, and took a seat, and this is Jane Tobias.”

Stephen took Morris’ cue, and moved another heap of magazines that lay on a chair onto the floor, so that Jane could sit down, too.

He sat himself on the floor, against a wall. “So what is this about?” he asked.

“Stephen, we understand you used to work at the Chapel Road Health Centre – is that right?”

The response was still sullen – maybe that’s just how he spoke all the time, Jane thought: “Yeah. Two years. On a scheme. £25 a week and me bus fares. Lovely.”

“Did you know Doctor Lawrence very well?”

Stephen eyed Dave suspiciously. “Sort of. He was the chief doctor. I helped him with his computer a few times. Why”

“But you saw him two weeks ago, didn’t you? What was that about?”

Stephen Garbutt didn’t think he’d done anything that was actually illegal, when he’d taken on Lawrence’s ‘commission’. No sense, then, in hiding it from the police. But you never knew …

“Just business. That’s all.”

Jane Tobias made a decision. They wouldn’t get anywhere so long as Garbutt thought they were from the police, although the duplicity had been helpful to get them into the flat.

“We’re not from the police, Stephen. And we’re not from the Social Security, either. So you can relax. We’re from an organization that investigates doctors. We’re not here to have a go at you. We just need to know what Dr Lawrence was up to.”

Dave was glad Jane had intervened, and he saw Stephen visibly relax.

“He asked me to change a few things on some websites for him, that’s all. I don’t really know why. It was all something about family history. Census records. He paid me well enough.”

“So what did you actually do, Stephen?” Dave Morris asked, intrigued.

“I had to get some random census images and cut and paste them over some particular ones that Dr Lawrence wanted me to get rid of. Make them look authentic, like. And then I had to upload them back to the server,” Stephen replied. “Not difficult, and I didn’t make a bad job of them.”

“How long did all this take?”

“Like I said – not difficult. Maybe half a day. The hardest was that Mormon site. They don’t use images, so I had to hack the mainframe and input into the database.” Stephen sensed his visitors weren’t family historians: neither was he, but his recent work for Lawrence had taught him a lot about the way the genealogical sites kept their records.

It was Jane’s turn. “Did Dr Lawrence say why he wanted you to do this?”

Stephen shook his head. “No. But I figured it was worth a lot to him, because he paid me £2000.”

Jane imagined that bought an awful lot of computer magazines, and she wondered at the wasted talent that must be hiding in similar flats, in similar towns all over the country.

*

In the taxi back to Northallerton station, Dave and Jane compared notes. The hard drive of Dacre Lawrence’s PC had revealed that he not only accessed medical records he shouldn’t have, but had also spent quite a few hours, whilst supposedly at work, looking at a whole range of family history sites. The information from Stephen Garbutt explained exactly why that was. Now all they needed to know was why he’d go to all that trouble to have records (as Dave put it) ‘doctored’. Jane only smiled lamely at that one, he noticed.

Chapter 74

As Bill Blunt made his way back across to Cyril Galloway with the drinks, his seasoned, journalist’s brain was working overtime. A stranger from Telford sat in a bar looking out across at Meldew Buildings, coupled with the knowledge that Harry McFry himself was down in Telford just now, would spell ‘s-t-o-r-y’ to anyone. He wondered what those medals were that Galloway had mentioned, and if they were connected in any way to Harry. More small-talk was called for, though, before he could cut to the chase.

“Telford, you say? Now there’s an interesting town!” Bill said, as he took his seat.

Galloway looked at him as though he were some kind of alien.

“Interesting’s not the word for it. Try ‘dreary’,” he replied, picking up the gin and tonic Bill had just placed on the table.

Bill looked mock-offended. “You mean to tell me you don’t like roundabouts?” and then he smiled. “I take it that Telford is not your home town, Mr Galloway? Perhaps you have Scottish roots?”

Galloway shook his head. “Yorkshire, born and bread. I’m from a little town called Thirsk – although I can’t say that my grandparents might not have been from north of the border. It’s quite probable.”

Bill noticed that Galloway was speaking easily now, volunteering information with the air of someone who hasn’t spoken to anyone for a while, and enjoyed the novelty.

“Very nice part of the country, from what I hear. How long since you moved away?” Bill asked. No one listening would have imagined Bill was interrogating Cyril. It was just a simple chat, the kind two strangers might have when meeting for the first time – and Bill was good at that kind of thing.

“I moved away about ten years ago. The chance to open my own shop came up. It’s doing very well,” Galloway said. He seemed to think for a moment, then went on: “I take it you are a local here, Mr Blunt?”

Bill thought carefully how to frame his reply. There’d been no sign that Galloway had recognized his name when he introduced himself, so the chances were he had never read the Birkenhead Beagle. Time for some cover, he thought to himself.

“Oh yes – at least for the last 20 years, anyway. Before that I was in Lancashire. Oldham, to be precise. I’m an engineer by trade. Or at least I was.”

Galloway seemed to buy it – why wouldn’t he: he had no reason to suspect Bill. “Then tell me, Mr Blunt, have you ever come across a Harry McFry in your travels?”

Even as Bill was inwardly congratulating himself, he was shaking his head. “No … I think I’d recall a name like that – it’s pretty unusual, after all. Can’t say I have. Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that I need to talk to him before I return to Telford, and no-one seems to know where he is,” Galloway replied.

Bill was more certain than ever that he had a story in his grasp. And he was sure the medals Galloway had mentioned earlier were something to do with it. Harry hadn’t mentioned anything about any medals when he’d rung him the previous day.

“These medals you mentioned, Mr Galloway… I take it they have some value, to bring you all the way from Telford to see them?”

As he asked the question, Blunt’s tone was still convivial.

“Yes, very valuable indeed,” Galloway replied. “They’re actually from the Spanish Civil War – one of only two sets issued just after the war. I had the privilege of representing the owner of one of sets when he sold them 25 years ago.” There was a quiet boastfulness about Galloway when he said this.

The way Bill Blunt figured it later, lady luck hadn’t just come in a taxi that lunchtime, she was paying for her own meal, as well. In his mind, he was piecing together what he knew about Jonathan Harcourt, what Harry had asked about the Banco Bilbao, and Galloway’s information about the medals. There were still a few pieces missing, but if Bill Blunt was the respected newshound he thought he was, he’d have that jigsaw finished ready for the Tuesday deadline of the Birkenhead Beagle, or he’d eat his hat.

Chapter 73

By the time Harry McFry left the bar, it was already dark outside. He’d spent most of the rest of his time there thinking about Dr Dacre Lawrence. What was it that Lillian had recalled him saying? His father was a cousin to Thomas McFry. She didn’t seem to know much about the supposed family link, whatever it was. Harry had formed the distinct impression that Lillian, in some way, resented Thomas McFry. Yet she’d gone off to live with him after the war. It didn’t make sense. But the link to the Lawrences did - almost. Especially with that reference to the Margaret Lawrence who was the witness at Philip McFry and Colleen Blyth’s wedding, according to the certificate. Maybe Margaret was a sister to Dacre’s father? He’d have to check it out – or maybe ask Danny to follow it up. What was the use in having an assistant if he couldn’t ask him to tie up the loose ends, after all?

As he walked the damp streets back to his flat, he tried to keep in mind that, the next day, he’d be in Madrid. Late January in Madrid – it could equally well be raining over there, too, he thought. But at least Ana was there…

*

Harry didn’t need to ask Danny to check up on Margaret Lawrence. He was already doing it. Back home, which was a room in his parents’ house, Danny was busily interrogating whatever online records he could find – starting with the Birth, Marriage and Deaths records at Ancestry.com. Sometimes, you didn’t need to get a certificate. Sometimes, a name was so ‘different’ that it just jumped out of the records at you. And a name like ‘Dacre’ was one of those names. There were hundreds of Lawrence births every year – but there couldn’t be many Dacres, surely? Within half an hour of trawling the index, he’d found it. Dacre Lawrence was born in the December Quarter of 1946, and the record showed that his mother’s maiden name was Speilmann. The birth was registered in Thirsk, North Yorkshire. Expertly, Danny switched to another online service, where he looked for a marriage between a Lawrence and a Speilmann between 1945 and 1947. He found a marriage of a John Lawrence to a Margaret Speilmann in the March Quarter of 1946. Again, registered in Thirsk. That could only be her – no other Margaret Speilmanns were showing up in the right period. Wait until he told Harry this! He wondered whether Harry’s source at Southport worked weekends. It would be nice to see the certificate – to see if John’s father might even be any relation to the Anne Lawrence who had married James McFry? He picked up the number and dialled Harry’s flat, but there was no answer – just the eventual click of the answer phone. He left a message, outlining his findings. ‘Now,’ he thought, ‘better get that bag packed ready for tomorrow,’ and he spent the next hour looking for his passport, and sorting out what he’d need for a weekend in Madrid.

Chapter 72

After a pint or two in The Letters, Bill Blunt was – almost - ready to return to the fray. As he left the pub, his path took him past Meldew Buildings, so he thought he’d call in to see if Harry McFry had got his message about Jonathan Harcourt. He found Henry cleaning out a drain outside the building.

“Mr Marchant!” Bill boomed. Everyone called Henry Marchant ‘Henry’, so the janitor was momentarily surprised at the name. As he stood up, Bill slapped him on the back: “How’s old Ma Shipman doing, Henry?” he asked. “Still collecting the rents?”

Henry smiled. He liked Bill Blunt – it was hard not to. He was part of the furniture of Birkenhead, his articles in the Birkenhead Beagle always something the locals turned to first when they picked up the paper.

“Oh, you know how she is, Mr Blunt,” he said, still smiling.

“And what about Harry? Have you seen him today?” Bill asked.

Henry knew Harry trusted Bill. He’d seen the two of them disappearing together into The Letters enough times to know they were friends.

“Not since early this morning, Mr Blunt. He’s down in Telford just now. You want to leave him a message?”

Bill Blunt seemed to consider the offer for a moment, even as he wondered what business had taken Harry off to Telford.

“No, it’s OK, Henry. I left a message for him earlier, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll get it when he gets back,” he said, turning away.

“I’ll make sure and tell him to check his messages!” Henry shouted, as Bill made his way across the road. He saw Bill look at his watch when he got to the other side, before he disappeared into The Brass Balance. ‘Some life those journalists have got!’ Henry thought, as he returned to his task of clearing the drain. ‘Some life, indeed!’

*

‘No sense rushing back just now, old son,’ Bill had thought, as he found himself outside The Brass Balance. The Beagle only published weekly, and then on a Wednesday. Half an hour here or there didn’t matter, on a Friday. As he entered the bar, he acknowledged half a dozen people he knew well. It was busy: Friday lunchtime had become the new Friday evening, he reflected, a lot of people starting their weekend early. As he ordered his drink, he scanned the room for someone – anyone – who might just be a story for him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found a scoop on his doorstep. But he recognized almost everyone there – a lot of them solicitors from nearby Hamilton Square… not much news fodder there, he thought. Then, he caught sight of a stranger – sat by the window, glancing out occasionally at Meldew Buildings. He looked – Bill thought – somehow ‘out of place’, even tense. There was a seat vacant on the table next to him, and Bill made his way across.

“Still raining out there!” Bill exclaimed, as he sat himself next to the stranger. Cyril Galloway contemplated the steady drizzle outside, and wondered why he’d bothered hanging around this god-forsaken town waiting for the arrival of Harry McFry. He seemed surprised at the intrusion, but mustered a polite “Quite,” in response.

Bill Blunt sensed the stranger’s hostility, and thrust out his hand:

“I’m Bill,” he said, adding “Welcome to Birkenhead – you’ll get used to it!”

Galloway shook his hand, a little uncomfortably.

“So what business or pleasure brings you to our fair town?” Bill asked. He was in his ‘hail fellow well met’ persona that had stood him in good stead for many a story before now.

“Strictly business, Mr …? “ Galloway replied, He wasn’t about to give anything away to a total stranger, after all.

“Blunt. Bill Blunt,” was the response. “And you are?”

“Galloway. Cyril Galloway.”

Bill couldn’t place the name. “Well, now, Cyril. I think I know our town well enough to realize that you are here on business. We don’t get many pleasure seekers hereabouts. What’s your line?”

Bill Blunt could disarm a regiment with his avuncular tone, and Galloway found himself relaxing. He took a sip of his gin and tonic. Maybe it wouldn’t harm to pass the time by chatting with a local?

“Antiques,” he said.

“Got your eye on any local treasures?” Bill asked, It still sounded like small talk, which had been Bill’s plan.

“Oh no – it’s not like that. Actually,” Galloway said, glancing briefly across at Meldew Buildings. “I was here to see some war medals.”

Bill’s ears pricked up. He’d seen Galloway’s glance. ‘Keep it sociable, Bill’ he thought. “Really? That must be interesting. And have you traveled far today?”

It was an innocuous question. “Only from Telford,” Galloway replied, almost absently. Bill shifted closer to his quarry, positioning his pint on the table next to Galloway’s nearly empty glass,

“Let me get you another drink, Mr Galloway,” he said, rising from his seat. He was pretty confident, as he did so, that he’d get this one past Accounts, as ‘expenses’.

Chapter 71

Danny dropped Harry off by his flat in Rock Ferry. It was maybe 3.30pm. They’d arranged that Danny would collect him the next morning for their trip to the airport. The grey clouds over the Wirral spat a thin, persistent drizzle of rain, and Harry didn’t much feel like going home just now. Despite the debrief with Danny on their journey back, he still had a few things he wanted to figure out.

He walked a few blocks to a local bar, a run-down remnant of a place that he didn’t often frequent: mid-afternoon on a Friday – no one could begrudge him his first drink of the day. He shot the whisky back quickly, glancing round but recognizing no one in the thinly populated room. He ordered another, and took it across to a seat in the corner, where he wouldn’t be disturbed in his thoughts.

And what were they, those ‘thoughts’ that were spinning around Harry’s head? He was thinking about Colin McAllistair. Maybe it had been a bad move to pretend that Lillian McFry was dead? He should have known that a researcher of the calibre of McAllistair wouldn’t easily let go of a potential source of Lillian’s quality. He wondered what McAllistair was thinking about him, now he’d exposed him as a liar. Maybe he realized he’d been protecting Lillian? Nothing Lillian had said about her call from the academic had hinted that he was particularly concerned about the medals. If McAllistair was being honest when he’d rung Harry the day before, then Harry had to accept he may now be an ally. Whatever the position, he could do worse than ring him – perhaps when he got back to his flat?

Thomas McFry was another matter. He was dead, of course, although the knowledge that he’d seen a copy of his death certificate was strangely reassuring to Harry. Danny had been right – Lillian hated Thomas McFry. She’d told them how, on her return to England, she had come to settle in Telford with Thomas. She never explicitly mentioned a marriage, however, and this might explain why they’d never found a certificate. Lillian Blyth might have merely taken McFry’s name.

And Colleen Blyth – Laurel’s mother … the knowledge that she’d been raised in France … well, that might explain Laurel’s idea that she had been a French teacher. Somehow, he didn’t think Stuart McFry was her father. Why would Lillian abandon her young baby to be brought up by a stranger, if she was with the child’s father? It didn’t make sense.

You had to feel more than a little sympathetic to Lillian, he thought. She’d thought she was doing the best for her daughter, in leaving her to be brought up by Philippe Bergerac and his mother. How could she know, even imagine, that France would be occupied so shortly afterwards by the Germans? And yet … Colleen had survived it all, had gone on to marry Philip McFry, Laurel’s father. Surely Lillian knew this – reason shouted out that she must have! Nothing Lillian had said had explained this. Philip was the younger of the McFry brothers – quite a bit younger than Stuart and Thomas. What kind of family was this, Harry wondered, that they could stand by and watch while a niece married her own uncle?

Harry ordered another drink. He took his seat again, lit a cigarette and thought through the conundrum. Stuart McFry, Thomas McFry and Philip McFry. Three brothers, of whom either of the eldest could possibly be Laurel’s grandfather. Unless … and here Harry realized (for the first time), how simple it all really might be ... neither of them were?