Chapter 109

As Harry and Ana approached them from the other side of the fountain, Alan and Danny turned away from the guitarist, who had anyway paused to empty his collecting tin. The crowd started to thin a little, moving along slowly to the next attraction.

“Good afternoon, Ana!” Alan exclaimed loudly, as they came nearer. He turned to Harry: “But, excuse me – haven’t we met before?” His expression was dead-pan.
Harry smiled, just a little too forcedly. “Nice day for a stroll in the park,” Alan continued, still to Harry. “Shall you introduce Ana to Danny, or shall I?”
Harry picked up the less than subtle cue.

“Danny – this is my err … friend, Ana,” he said, but his eyes were drilling into the ground as he did so. How come that brother of his always seemed to put him on the spot?
Danny smiled and held his hand out to Ana, who stepped closer and tilted her head slightly, smiling back.

“Pleased to meet you, Danny Longhurst,” she said. “Harry’s told me all about you!” She was just being polite, Danny realized. What Harry McFry knew about Danny Longhurst you could write on the back of a throw-away matchbook. “I’m sorry you missed our meeting this morning – I think you might have enjoyed it,” Ana said. “But I’m sure Alan has kept you entertained.”

Before Danny could form his reply, Alan chipped in:
“Of course I have. You know how good Yolanda and I are at entertaining, after all…” His tone was still acerbic, but delivered with a smile, even if it was lost, this time, on Danny. It hit the target it was aimed at, however, and Alan saw his brother squirming just a little. Alan thought he had every right to be angry. Who the hell did Harry think he was, turning up in Madrid and manipulating people like they were pieces on a chessboard? It wasn’t that Danny hadn’t been good company – he was easy to be around: easier, in many respects, than his own kids sometimes were. And he knew Yolanda enjoyed spending time with Pablo, and that taking him out of the game for a few hours was hardly a chore to her.

But the principle still hung there, like an unwelcome guest at a party: Harry shouldn’t be allowed to think he’d got away with it.

Harry hadn't enjoyed any of this, even if he realised Alan had a point. He decided he’d better assert himself. Forcing his brother to look him in the eye, he said: “OK. Apology issued. Thank you, Alan, for looking after Danny last night and this morning. And I’m sure Ana appreciates what Yolanda’s doing for her, don’t you, Ana?” He didn’t wait for her response. “Now…” he said, trying to draw a line under the subject, “can we maybe go find somewhere to get a drink? I need to bring Danny up to speed about this morning.”

Alan was happy to let the subject move on, once he’d said his piece. But he had one last grenade up his sleeve, which he delivered with a wry grin.
“Sure, Harry. Let’s get a drink. How about a horchata?” Danny didn’t get it, but he saw the beginnings of a smile emerge on Ana’s lips, before she caught herself, and before he knew it the four of them were walking away from the fountain, heading back past the boating lake and out to one of the bars on the main street opposite the park’s main entrance.

Along the way, Danny got a chance to brief Harry about Laurel’s phone call. “Bloody Bill Blunt!” Harry said, once he’d heard what his friend had done. “Why did he have to go and do that?”

Danny had his own theory, which he shared with Harry. Perhaps Bill was hoping to solve the case before the two of them could, and get the kudos that only a front-page by-line could bring? Harry had to admit, reluctantly, that his colleague may be right.

“I don’t think Laurel believed me about the medals, Harry,” he said, finally.
“Hmm. Then we better get cracking sorting this one out quickly, Danny, my boy,” Harry said. Alan, walking a few steps ahead with Ana, couldn’t help but overhear, and thought what a blessing that would be. The sooner Harry ‘sorted this one out’, the sooner he’d be out of Madrid and back in Birkenhead, and everyone’s life could get back to some semblance of normality.

*

North London. Colin McAllistair spent the early afternoon drafting up questions ready for his meeting with Lillian McFry on Tuesday. He’d re-read the notes from his interview with Jonathan Harcourt, and was starting to fully appreciate, for the first time, the contribution Lillian might have made to the Republican cause. It was blindingly obvious that Harcourt had been madly in love with Lillian Blyth – or Lillian McFry, as she now was. His description of their meeting, and a night together in the Retiro Park that had led them to enlist in the International Brigade, seemed all the more powerful to Colin as he re-read it. As a young student, he’d never fully appreciated what Harcourt had been saying – never really understood how love could be so powerful as to draw two souls together until they are locked as one. Many years later he had his own experience of unrequited love, a failed relationship with a woman he had been convinced was ‘the one for him’. It had soured him for other women, so that he’d diverted his energies into his academic career and, latterly, his media appearances, convinced he would never find again what he had lost. Now, Harcourt’s words rang down through the quarter century since he first noted them, and he felt he owed it to Lillian McFry to share them with her.

He scribbled a couple more questions on his pad, and made a silent wish that Lillian’s allotted time on this earth would be at least a month or two more – time to arrange for her to be filmed and recorded for posterity. If Colin believed in karma, then he might have also been hoping it would expunge the awful stain of his treatment of Jonathan Harcourt (and his medals) from the celestial book of life. I’ll leave you to be the judge of that…

Chapter 108

Lillian Blyth was thinking about the call she’d had from Cyril Galloway. She’d been quite prepared to dismiss him out of hand, until he’d mentioned the two words that still seemed to have an affect on her: Jonatahn Harcourt.

Of course, she did wonder how Galloway knew about Harry McFry, and it was certainly news to her that McFry had the medals she’d entrusted to young Danny Longhurst to pass to Laurel. It had been a mistake ever to get the medals valued, she knew now. And maybe even giving them to Danny: if she’d only asked him to locate Laurel – find her address – she could just as well have posted them (anonymously) herself.

But what was done was done. She’d just have to trust that Harry had them safe somewhere. Too many people seemed to know about them for her liking, though. Danny, Harry, someone called Stan in a shop in Birkenhead, Colin McAllistair, Galloway and Dacre Lawrence. She wondered who else might be in on her secret…

Now, this call from Galloway. The thought that he was so close to her, just a few miles down the road, unsettled her. What if he didn’t believe Harry really had the medals? Worse: she’d seen his reaction when he opened out the bond that had been in the medal box. She was beginning to wonder that he might know, or have guessed, that the paper was worth more than the medals.
She herself hadn’t any clue as to its real value, of course. She only knew that Stuart McFry had swapped his entire inheritance for the bond – a huge sum of money, before the war, which he’d pledged to the Republican cause. She knew that stocks and share prices could go up and down, and she guessed the same was true of the value of bonds. If it had just maintained its pre-war value, it would still be worth a tidy sum. If Thomas were still alive, she was sure he would know: he’d maintained a minor interest in the stock market (fuelled by chagrin, she sometimes thought).

She realized that no good was likely to come from her having agreed that Galloway could call to see her again. And yet … she needed to know – longed to know – what little he might know of Jonathan Harcourt.

Her life could have been so different, so full, if only she’d found him after the war. No one before or since had ever come close to touching her the way he did. The decades that had passed had not diminished the strange feeling she had that a part of him was still inside of her. She’d heard people talk about the notion of ‘magnetic attraction’ between people, had read about it, and she knew she’d experienced that with Jonathan. Even across their miles of separation in Spain, she’d felt locked to him and had felt sure they’d be together again, someday. As the years had passed, as Stuart, then Thomas, then Colleen, then Philip had all died, she’d begin to realize that Jonathan, too, must have pre-deceased her. That Colin McAllistair – and now, it seemed, Cyril Galloway – had known of him in the 1970’s hurt her to the quick.

It seemed to Lillian that she’d condemned herself to a life of awful loneliness, except for those few brief weeks in Spain. And that had been a long, long time ago.

Chapter 107

For the avoidance of doubt, Yolanda and Pablo were nowhere near the Retiro Park on Sunday lunchtime. Which was probably a good thing, all things considered. As it was, Danny Longhurst and Alan McFry made their way towards the boating lake, pausing only to listen to a classical guitarist who had drawn quite a crowd near one of the large fountains that are dotted here and there about the park.

“So, you don’t mind that Harry’s just left you to your own devices then, Danny?” Alan asked, as they leaned against a railing and watched the performance.

“He’s got other things on his mind just now, I know that,” Danny replied, choosing his words carefully.

“Y-e-s,” Alan said, drawing the word out. “I am sure he has. I expect you think it odd that the two of us don’t seem to get on?”

Danny did, but then, as an only child, the notion of sibling rivalry was only a theoretical one to him.

“We weren’t always like this. Not as kids, anyway. He was a good older brother to have around. But then he went off to university, and he was never the same after that.” Alan paused, looking off into the distance, conjuring up images from almost thirty years ago.

“Why was that?” Danny was intrigued to know.

“Well, he was always a bit of a dreamer, was Harry. I was the more practical of the two of us. I suppose college just put some kind of distance between us, that’s all. He met his wife while he was there. Did he ever mention her to you?”

Harry had never spoken about his ex-wife to Danny. For a second or two, he wondered whether there was any link between her and Alan – nothing would surprise him less, if there was.

“He never talked about her – but then, I’ve only known Harry a week, you know.”

Alan looked stunned by Danny’s revelation.

“Really? I thought you two must go back a way further, given he brought you over here on this trip. Well, you’ve got a lot to learn about Harry McFry, Danny. An awful lot indeed!”

The lesson might have continued, except that the subject of their conversation appeared on a path that wound its way over a slight hill and down to the opposite side of the fountain where they were standing, and he was arm in arm with a woman. Still some way away, they both saw the couple at the same time, but Alan commented first:

“Well, talk of the devil – and it looks like you’re going to get a chance to meet Ana, too!”

Danny tried to make out what she was like as they drew closer. He saw how she held onto Harry, how they were talking with the intimacy of old friends, almost oblivious to where they were – and certainly unaware, just yet, that they were walking towards Harry’s brother and himself.

Just then, Danny felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He fished it out and pressed the ‘answer’ button.

“Hello – is that Danny?” He recognized the voice as Laurel’s, immediately. Alan turned away, leaving him to take the call, but fixing his gaze firmly back on Harry and Ana as they continued their amble up the path towards the fountain.

“Yes. What’s up, Laurel?” he asked. He thought he’d caught a hint of anxiety in her voice. He had to shield himself from the sound of the guitarist.

“I just had a call from someone called Bill Blunt. He was asking for Harry. He said he was working on a case with him, and mentioned Cyril Galloway. I just thought it might be important, and wondered if you could let Harry know. Is he there?”

Danny saw that Harry and Ana had paused at the opposite side of the fountain. They were watching the guitar player, and seemed not to have noticed Alan and him.

“Yes – he’s here. Look, I’ll tell him what you’ve said. If he needs to ring you back, I’m sure he will. But we’ll be back home soon enough, so don’t worry.” Danny wondered if he’d reassured her strongly enough.

“OK. But I am worried. Mr Blunt is a journalist. He mentioned something about medals. Any idea what that’s about, Danny?”

Danny was surprised by the question, and had to work quickly to form a response he hoped she might believe.

“I don’t know anything about any medals, Laurel. Maybe it’s just a co-incidence?”

“Hmmm. Maybe it is. But that letter I had warned me about Galloway. I can’t help thinking you and Harry might be holding something back from me…”

Danny was mortified. He wasn’t a very practiced liar, he knew – but practice makes perfect, so he tried again.

“It sounds to me as if this Bill Blunt chap is looking for a story that isn’t there, Laurel. But if he rings again, let me know.”

That seemed to pacify her, and before she rang off Danny promised they’d call and see her as soon as they were back in Birkenhead.

As he finished the call, he glanced up and noticed that Harry and Ana had seen them, and were making their way around the fountain towards them. Curiously, they weren’t arm in arm, now.

Chapter 106

Midday in Birkenhead, and Bill Blunt found Laurel McFry easily enough in the telephone directory. There were only a handful of McFry’s listed, and as soon as he saw her name he recognized it as that of the daughter of the late Philip McFry.

He wondered, for a moment, how best to approach the call. Cradling the receiver, he finally thought of a way in. He dialed the number, and was only slightly surprised that the call was picked up after just a couple of rings. He didn’t know how someone like Laurel would spend her Sundays, but hadn’t expected she’d be sat next to the phone. In fact, Laurel was relaxing in her lounge after returning from a run through the park.

“Hello. Is that Miss McFry?” he asked, tentatively.
“Yes. Who’s this, please?” Her voice was soft and warm, Bill thought.
“My name’s Bill Blunt. I work for the Beagle. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday lunchtime, but I wondered if you had recently had any contact with a Harry McFry.” Bill stressed the word ‘Harry’, to let her know he didn’t think he lived with Laurel.

The question was unexpected for Laurel. She hadn’t told anyone Harry (and Danny) were working for her, and the call had taken her off guard.
“Can I ask who told you about Harry?” she asked (a little pointedly, Bill thought, but he was prepared for it).
“I work with Harry occasionally, Miss McFry. We help each other out with bits and pieces. The thing is, I seem to have lost his mobile number, and I need to contact him urgently about a case he’s working on.”
Laurel relaxed a little: “I’m afraid I only have his home and office number – and I presume you have those, Mr Blunt? What is this regarding, anyway?”
Bill wasn’t sure which tack to take here – Jonathan Harcourt, the Bank of Bilbao or Galloway’s medals. His instinct, though, led him towards the medals…
“Harry’s got something that someone’s looking for. They need to contact him quickly,” he said, finally.

Laurel wasn’t exactly sure about this. If this Bill Blunt – and the name, she realized, was one she remembered from somewhere, even though she didn’t read the Beagle religiously – if he was working with Harry, then it was just possible he was working on her case.
“Harry’s in Madrid just now, Mr Blunt. If you wait a moment, I can get you a contact number for his colleague.”
Bill smiled to himself. “That’s very kind of you, Miss McFry. Thank you.” Courtesy cost nothing, Bill knew. Laurel was being more than helpful. As she disappeared to look for the number, Bill wondered how much she knew. And Harry – in Madrid! That was a turn-up for the books. What was the old rogue up to there, he wondered?

A few moments later, and Laurel was back, although she’d had a further thought while she was away.
“I have the number here, Mr Blunt,” she said. “But, tell me… you mentioned someone who was looking for something that Harry had. Who is that, and what exactly are they looking for?”
Bill was a little taken aback. She was a smart cookie alright, this Laurel McFry. She was proposing a trade for the number. Well, he didn’t owe this Cyril Galloway so much as a bean – it couldn’t harm things if he told her his name, and what he was about.

But, when he did, he wasn’t prepared for the sharpness of her reaction, and sensed he’d touched a nerve somewhere – one that hadn’t been near a grill, either.
“Mr Blunt. I don’t know what your connection to Harry really is. But I have already been warned against this Galloway fellow. I’m not sure I want to trust you with Danny’s number at all. I hope you understand.” With that, Laurel had rung off, leaving Bill Blunt to scratch a few more notes on his foolscap paper: ‘Harry in Madrid – with ?Danny?’ – he underlined ‘Danny’ - and ‘Laurel McFry fears Galloway’.

This was going to be a tougher nut to crack than he’d imagined. But Bill Blunt didn’t win North West Journalist of the Year (1998) for nothing. He wasn’t about to give in without a fight on this one.

*

Laurel McFry had finished the call from Bill Blunt with more than a degree of alarm. The words in Dacre Lawrence’s letter were still ringing in her ears: ‘There is a man named Cyril Galloway who I fear is after what is rightfully yours’. She’d thought about that letter a lot since yesterday morning, when Harry had visited her. Harry hadn’t seemed particularly interested in it. It was as if nothing in its contents was a surprise to him. Maybe she would need to make some enquiries of her own – find out who this Cyril Galloway was and, more importantly, who the ‘D Lawrence’ was who claimed to be a relative of hers? That would have to wait until Monday, though.

Instinctively, she felt she should ring and let Harry know about Bill Blunt’s call. Before she did, however, there was something she needed to look for. She didn’t read the Birkenhead Beagle, but she knew she had a copy dating from when her father died. It was filed away in her bureau and, if she could just find it, she’d be able to establish whether this Bill Blunt character was exactly who he said he was.

*

Bill Blunt wasn’t a man to hang about until Monday, when things needed to be found out. He didn’t want to ring Galloway – at least, not just yet. He’d picked up something a little chilling in the way Laurel’s mood had changed when he had mentioned Galloway’s name, and this had made him think again about the auctioneer and his quest for those medals. He wanted to do a little more digging before he made that particular call.

Although he had two more days before the Beagle deadline, he was beginning to think he might struggle to piece a story together by then. He felt like he was playing a game of Battleships with a complete stranger. He knew he’d picked off a couple of their subs and sunk a few of their smaller vessels along the way. But their destroyers and their aircraft carrier … well, they were stubbornly still in hiding somewhere.

Onwards and upwards, Bill! He turned his attention to this ‘Danny’ Laurel had mentioned. He wondered if she’d even realized she’d given him that lead? Harry had never mentioned anything about a colleague before. He was strictly a one-man band so, if he was working with someone else, the case must be a serious one. He knew he had to speak to Harry, and the only link he had was this Danny fellow. Think, Bill, think! Anyone who was working with Harry could only be a fellow genealogist. He grabbed the telephone directory again, and found the business section. Turning quickly to ‘Genealogical Researchers’, he rapidly scanned the few entries that were there. Sure enough – there was a listing for a Daniel K Longhurst, in Birkenhead. “Bingo, Billy Boy!” he exclaimed to himself, smiling again: “There’s more than one way to skin this cat!”