Chapter 113

If Danny had plans for the rest of the afternoon, he didn’t give Ana any clue what they might be.

Ana knew she had to go and relieve her sister of the onerous duty of entertaining Pablo, but she had enough time not to have to rush the trip back to the flat. She decided they could walk, taking a zig-zag route that took them through a mix of shopping and residential districts, cutting here and there across tiny plazas that were mostly well off the beaten path of the tourists. She kept her conversation with Danny light, at first.

“Are you enjoying your stay in Madrid?” she asked him, at one point.
“It’s a great city,” he replied. “I’d like to come back. Maybe without Harry, though!” His wry smile gave the game away: Ana guessed what he meant.
“Yes. It has a lot to offer someone like you. But you have to forgive Harry. He’s not such a bad person really. And, you’ve only known him a short while. I’ve known Harry for years!”

Danny still hadn’t worked out exactly what was going on between Harry and Ana, although Alan had told him enough for him to understand some of the current tensions between the two of them.
“You know, he never said anything about you, before we planned the trip,” Danny said – uncertain whether it was his place to impart this information, but thinking she should know it, anyway. “I got quite a surprise when he disappeared last night.”
“Yes,” was all Ana said.
“As far as I knew, we were here on business, that’s all.” Danny said, by way of explanation.

They were just passing a small pavement café as he spoke, and Ana tapped his arm.
“Let’s have a coffee, Danny,” she said. “I think you need to know a few things about Harry, if you don’t mind.” And she pulled a chair away from the table, gesturing to Danny to sit opposite her. As he took his seat, he couldn’t help wondering if he really wanted to know these ‘few things’, or whether, all in all, it might be better if he didn’t.

*

The idea that there might be an obituary for Jonathan Harcourt had caught Harry’s attention. If there was, it might shed some light on what had happened to the journalist after his time in Spain and before his supposed death in the early 1980’s.

Harry was beginning to wish he’d rung Bill Blunt after Danny had told him about the call to Laurel McFry. He was reluctant to borrow his brother's phone (why?) and, anyway, he didn’t have Bill’s number with him.

“So,” Alan said to Harry (the two of them still sat near the window of the bar, overlooking the Retiro) “am I right in guessing you think there’s a link between Harcourt and Laurel McFry? You think he might be her grandfather?”
Harry only half-managed to pull himself back to ‘now’ as he heard Alan quizzing him. Did he think that, he wondered?

“Harcourt’s certainly the best candidate we have to be Colleen Blythe’s father, and hence Laurel’s grandfather – yes,” he replied. But he was still worrying about what Bill Blunt might be up to. He must have been doing some serious digging of his own to have made the link through to Laurel McFry, he thought. Harry tried to think what he might have said that could have given Bill a clue. Why had he rung her, he wondered – what did he know?
He’d better ring Laurel, just to re-assure her that he hadn’t mentioned her to the journalist – and it would be best if he did this before Danny and he left Madrid. At least Harry was writing the mental post it notes again…

Alan noticed how his brother seemed distracted.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“Well…” Harry replied, almost casually, “- oh, I don’t know! There’s a lot to untangle, isn’t there?” He paused a moment, as if considering some new angle. “Anyway, I’ve asked Ana to organise a DNA test for me. I’m hoping that will sort things out a bit.”

Alan’s brow creased, instantly.
“A DNA test? Isn’t that taking things a bit too far, if you don’t mind me saying so?” Alan seemed concerned about this news. But before Harry could ask him to elaborate, Alan’s mobile rang.

It was Yolanda. Pablo had, apparently, ‘gone walkabout’, and she was worried, Alan told Harry, after he’d finished the call. Alan had told her not to worry, that Ana was on her way back to the flat, and that she’d sort it out, he was sure. He also told her that Harry was still here with him. She’d wanted to know when to expect the two of them back – were they all going out for a meal, or should she cook something?
“That,” Alan had told her, “rather depends on Harry,” – and he’d promised to let her know, one way or the other.

Harry sensed that the brief period of easy familiarity he’d just enjoyed with his younger brother had been terminated, somehow, like a window had been pulled shut. The gloves, it seemed, were off again.

*

“You know, Harry and I were very much in love – once,” Ana had said to Danny, even before their coffees had arrived.
“I guessed so,” Danny said, feeling like a pig stuck firmly in the middle of something he didn’t quite enjoy, once more.
“I’m a little surprised he didn’t mention about me to you, Danny. I know you’ve just started working with him, but he rang me earlier in the week to arrange our meeting. Still, if there’s one thing we know about Harry – he keeps himself to himself, don’t you think?”

Danny considered how best to reply. If Ana and Harry were intimate again, this might be some kind of test, to see how loyal he was to Harry.
“He doesn’t give much away, you’re right. I only know that, when we saw Lillian McFry a few days ago, she asked him if he’d ever really loved anyone, and he said yes.”

Ana was wondering whether Harry might have meant her, or whether there’d been anyone else in the time they’d been apart. She knew he never really loved his ex-wife (nor she him, from what he’d told her). Of course, she’d sensed something about Carrie (Alan’s ex-wife), from the little fragments she’d overheard here and there when Alan and Yolanda were having one of their ritual spats. But she didn’t imagine she was Harry’s type. Some of her frustrations with Harry seemed to boil up for just a second, and she said: “He’s such a fool, sometimes, Danny. He doesn’t know what he’s lost. He hasn’t the confidence to follow a relationship through – that’s his real problem.”
She watched for any reaction as Danny processed her view, but there was nothing obvious.
“Whatever you do, don’t end up like Harry,” she said. “Make sure you take your responsibilities seriously.”

It would have been an easy pledge for Danny to make: he had no responsibilities to worry about, just now. But he wanted to know exactly what Harry had avoided.
“He walked away, Danny. He didn’t have the courage to stay here in Spain, and he forgot about the consequences and the effect his decision might have – on everyone. Don’t you ever do that to a woman, Danny Longhurst – ever!”
So the anger, and the bitterness – everything that, more properly, should have been served up to Harry - was shouldered instead by his young colleague, who couldn’t help but wonder whether he might have been better never having met Harry McFry, never having suggested that they should work on the McFry case together, in the first place.

Chapter 112

Ana had to go. “I don’t want Yolanda getting bored by Pablo’s company”, she said, rising from her seat by the window. Outside the bar, the city was going about its usual Sunday afternoon routine. Coaches carrying out-of-towners were pulling up at the entrance to the Retiro.

“Not much chance of that, Ana!” Alan said. “You know she adores him! Well, I guess that just leaves the boys, then. What could be better than a free Sunday afternoon and the company of gentlemen?” Alan wasn’t being facetious.

Harry, for once, wasn’t keen on squandering a couple of hours on drink when he’d just got his teeth back into the McFry case, but was taken aback when Danny stood up and, addressing Alan and him, said: “You two go ahead. Seems like you’ve got a lot to talk about. If you don’t mind, I’ll head back with Ana to the flat. There’s one or two things I wouldn’t mind doing.” Ana said she didn’t mind, and Harry was too surprised to comment. “What time should we meet up again, Harry?” Danny said (better pin this man down to a time, Danny was thinking).

Harry was alarmed. Insofar as he’d planned his trip to Madrid, nothing on the agenda had included time alone with his brother. But he could spot an out-manoeuvre when he saw one, even though he wondered what Danny was planning to do over the next few hours. “I don’t know … how about 4pm, back at the flat?” he suggested, even if a little lamely.

“Sounds good to me,” Danny said, turning to leave with Ana.

Alan smiled. “Look after him, Ana!” he exclaimed, “He’s a dark one, that one – he was out on the town until late last night…”

Ana saw Danny blush, and smiled at him as she dragged him away from the McFry’s: “Don’t worry about us,” she said, after turning back to Alan as she reached the door, “It’s you two we’ve got to be worried about!” And, with a wink, they were gone.

*

Left to their own devices, the McFry brothers struggled a little, at first. Alan made a stab at talking about what a great kid Danny seemed to be. Harry complimented Alan on winning the fight against drink – “I haven’t won yet, Harry. But I’ve got it cornered,” Alan had replied – and they somehow slowly edged towards the kind of normality you’d expect from a couple of siblings who hadn’t seen each other (alone) for a while.

“You’re really wrapped up with this Lillian McFry case, aren’t you Harry?” Alan asked, as fresh beers arrived at the table. “Are you like this with all your work?”

Harry hadn’t seen it that way. It had been less than a week, after all, since he’d even heard of Laurel McFry. But he knew Alan was right.

“That was a pretty astute point you made about Stuart McFry, by the way,” Harry said.

Alan raised his beer, in a mock toast to Harry: “Thanks. But, like I say, maybe I’m not as close to this as you are. Sometimes you need to step back and look at the big picture.”

Harry realised he hadn’t done that – or not enough, anyway. His younger brother was right (again). He’d got bogged down in the twists and turns of the case, not fully sure how to link Laurel McFry’s ‘missing’ family with Lillian’s medals. Synchronicity, co-incidence: the great unravelling of the universe and its pre-arranged plan. He could take some of that. He remembered when he’d pulled up outside his flat in Rock Ferry for the first time (in the days when he still had his licence), and how Tom Waits was playing out on his car stereo: There’s a Place For Us, from West Side Story. A real, shiver-down the spine moment which had led him to take the flat and, in truth, it had been a good place for him to re-build his life.

When it came to this case, however, he didn’t want to believe the medals and the doctored census was a co-incidence. He said as much to Alan.

“Hmmm…,” Alan replied, clearly thinking through what the link might be, “…sounds to me like Jonathan Harcourt is at the bottom of this. Shouldn’t you be focusing on him? What do you actually know about the guy?”

Harry told him everything he knew – which wasn’t much, after Madrid, other than what Colin McAllistair had told him.

“Let’s go back to basics here,” Alan said, wanting to unpick the story some more. “Lillian McFry’s still alive at the age of 102. That means she was, what … in her early thirties when she came to Spain?” Harry could, immediately, see what Alan might be getting at.

“So, maybe Jonathan Harcourt was a lot younger! Why, yes, he could have been a good 10 years – or more – younger than her.”

“Which means,” Alan said, “there’s at least a possibility that he’s still alive.”

Harry was still trying to process the idea. McAllistair had told him Harcourt was dead – or at least he thought he’d told him that: he’d have to check his notes again. But, then again, he’d tried to give McAllistair the impression Lillian had died, too! For a moment, Harry allowed himself to believe that the elusive Jonathan Harcourt might still be alive.

“Well,” Harry acknowledged, “there’s no death certificate for Harcourt, that’s for sure. But, if he died in Spain, would there have been?”

Alan considered for a moment. “You’re missing a trick here, Harry, if you don’t mind me saying. Harcourt was a journalist, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. So?”

“Obituary. Did you ever know a newspaper that didn’t celebrate the life of one of its acolytes, when they died?”

Harry kicked himself: mentally, physically, figuratively and actually. Sometimes, he knew, he wasn’t the genealogical researcher he thought he was...

Chapter 111

By the time they reached the bar, Harry, Ana, Alan and Danny had all relaxed a little. Alan felt he had said enough to satisfy his honour, and didn’t feel the need to embarrass his brother in front of Danny any further. So, if Harry could just have the good sense to steer clear of any tricky areas in their discussion, all might yet be well.

Danny, meanwhile, had been stitching together in his mind the snippets Harry was feeding him as they walked along. If Stuart McFry had purchased a bond in (he guessed) 1938 for £50,000, it must have represented a considerable amount of money to the McFry family. He knew that Stuart would have been first in line – possibly already had – the McFry inheritance. But the situation must have been complicated with the two older brothers out there in Spain, fighting for the Republican cause.

As the four of them chatted over a drink in the bar, it was Ana who raised the first doubts. “I don’t really understand, Harry,” she said. “Why would Stuart McFry specify that any income from the bond should go to Lillian Blyth? What was their relationship?”

“We don’t know that there was one. Lillian wasn’t giving anything away when we met her, was she Danny?” Harry asked, turning to his colleague.

Danny took a sip from his beer, noting (again) that Alan’s attention seemed to be easily distracted by the other people in the bar.

“She told us Stuart McFry was in love with her – that’s all. But it wasn’t reciprocated, from what she said. And we know she hated Thomas, so Harry and I have all but ruled him out of the equation,” he said. Harry noticed that Danny’s thinking had moved on, since their journey back from Telford on Friday, and was pleased to see that he might be edging towards the same conclusion he himself had all but reached.

Alan seemed to re-tune himself into the conversation: “Maybe she hated him because he got her pregnant?”

Harry responded, perhaps just a little too sharply: “No. I don’t think so. If Colleen Blyth was really his daughter, he would have made at least some effort to find her in France, after the war. But from what we know that didn’t happen. I think everything we’ve got so far points towards Jonathan Harcourt…”

“The journalist?” Alan asked, interested, now, in the discussion. Danny, who had got as far as dismissing Stuart McFry as the potential father, saw that Harry might well be right.

“Yes,” Harry replied to his brother, then turned to Danny. “Try this one out. Jonathan Harcourt and Lillian McFry meet in Madrid. They’re both posted to the south of the city – to Jamara. Both of them, fighting together, in the trenches. Lillian gets pregnant, but doesn’t know it until after they’re split up. The baby’s born when she’s in Guernica. Somehow, she meets up with Stuart McFry, and between them the three of them escape out of Bilbao.”

It sounded fantastic, to Ana, who had only heard pieces of Lillian’s story up to now. She was hanging on Harry’s every word.

“So, this Jonathan Harcourt … he might never have known that Lillian was carrying his child?”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s tragic, isn’t it? She was madly in love with the guy, as well,” Harry said, directly to Ana.

“Hmmm …” Alan interjected. “Tragic, yes. But at least no one could accuse him of deserting her, if he didn’t know.”

“Lillian looked for him after the war – after both wars, in fact. But she never found him. That’s the tragedy in all of this,” Harry said.

“Maybe it was for the best, all things considered,” Ana replied, sadness wreathing her features. “After all, who's to say that Harcourt loved her as much as she obviously loved him? What if she’d found him, and he wanted nothing more to do with her? That would be worse for her, surely?”

“Perhaps,” Harry replied. “You could be right. But not according to what someone called Colin McAllistair, who interviewed Harcourt 25 years ago, has to say. He's certain Harcourt loved her.”

“And Lillian doesn’t know this, remember,” Danny said, by way of clarification for Alan and Ana.

If Harry McFry was an irony miner, he might have thought he’d uncovered a rich lode with the story of Jonathan Harcourt and Lillian Blyth. If only he’d had the sense to keep digging, he might have found a richer seam still… vast, untapped reserves of the stuff, in fact.

As it was, Alan chipped in. “I still don’t fully understand why Stuart McFry would frame the bond in such a way as to benefit Lillian’s daughter, if indeed Colleen wasn’t his. What’s the deal? Did he never have family of his own?”

Danny replied for Harry. "No. Not that we know of, anyway. He did get married, but she was left a widow after Stuart dies in the Second World War."

Alan didn't seem convinced. "Fair enough. But that's looking ahead. When he purchased the bond, surely he had no way of foreseeing that he'd die, childless?"

Harry felt that Alan had a point, and he filed away the query for his own later use, even if his response seemed to brush it aside.

“I suspect,” he said, slowly, “that he wanted to stop the money going to Thomas.”

“Why would he want to do that?” Alan asked.

“Perhaps we should consider the simple possibility that he just hated his brother?” Harry replied, rhetorically. Maybe it would have been better, in the circumstances, if he hadn’t been looking directly at Alan as he spoke those words.

Chapter 110

Bill Blunt wasn’t a man to hang around. After he’d rung Laurel McFry, he moved swiftly on to the next name on his list: Cyril Galloway. Thanks to Laurel, of course, he now had a piece of information which he rather thought Galloway might be interested in. He didn’t think he should give away Harry’s whereabouts lightly, though.

He’d rung the number listed for Danny Longhurst, had heard the answerphone message inviting callers to leave their query or else to catch him on a mobile number which was quoted, and had made a note of it. He thought he could perhaps give this Danny a call later – it might be premature to ring him just now. In any case, Harry hadn’t exactly rushed to return his call about Jonathan Harcourt.

He still couldn’t work out exactly what might have taken Harry and his colleague off to Madrid – unless he was researching about the Civil War. Bill began to feel that Spain might be the key to this story – but he wasn’t entirely sure what the story even was. The Bank of Bilbao and their holding in McFry and sons needed a little more digging, he was sure.

Forgetting Galloway for a moment, he turned to his battered contact book, where he found the number for Charlie Attwood. Bill had known Attwood almost as long as he’d lived in Birkenhead. They’d met when Bill had been asked to cover a golf club dinner in his early days at the Beagle. Since then, the bank manager had sometimes advised Bill on potential investments.
He checked his watch – it was a little after 1pm. If he was right, Charlie would have finished his lunch but wouldn’t yet have disappeared for his ritual round of Sunday afternoon golf.

He dialled the number, formulating the pleasantries he’d exchange even as he did so. A few minutes later, when he’d had his fill of Attwood’s family news, he cut to the chase:
“Charlie – I need some information, if you don’t mind. No names, no packdrill, you understand, but it’s about McFry & Sons…”
It was only a few days earlier that Charles Attwood had met with Laurel McFry – a meeting he would hardly forget in a hurry.
“I’d steer well clear of those stock if I were you, Bill – at least for a little while. They’re on the way down just now, and it’s my guess they can go a whole lot lower before they bottom out. Mind you – the company’s solid enough, from what I can see. Someone could make quite a killing if they buy them at the right time and they rebound.” Attwood’s tone was the dry, matter-of-fact one of someone who counted himself a minor expert on the stock market.

Bill wondered how far he could push it with Charlie. “Suppose I were to say I was working on a story involving the Spanish Civil War, a set of medals, the Bank of Bilbao, McFry & Sons and …err… the daughter of the late Philip McFry. What would you say?”

Attwood replied in the same measured tone: “I would say I don’t know much about the Spanish Civil War, and even less about medals. I’d say that the Bank of Bilbao is the main shareholder in McFry & Sons and …” (here, Atwood paused, as if choosing his words with even more than his usual care) “,,,I would say that the daughter of the late Philip McFry is a very beautiful young woman indeed.” Attwood left a second to allow Bill to conjure up the image. “You’ll appreciate, Bill, that client confidentiality dictates that I couldn’t possibly tell you whether I met her on Tuesday of this week, and you’ll understand that any advice I may have given about selling shares she might, or might not, have had in McFry & Sons is information that is similarly confidential.”

Bill suppressed a smile. “Of course, Charles. I understand perfectly. Enjoy your game of golf, won’t you? And do give my love to Evelyn.” He replaced the receiver with a quiet chuckle. Not much skin left on this particular cat now, he was thinking.

*

Whatever skin the cat still had, it was stubbornly holding onto it. Another half hour of contemplation and mulling over the facts he thought he had, and Bill was starting to realize just how tough this story was proving. It was one thing to know that Laurel McFry had (probably) had to dispose of her shares in McFry & Sons (however many that may have been), but quite another to say he had his story, just yet.

Time, he thought, to ring Galloway. He’d have to be careful with this particular call, he knew. Galloway’s interest in Harry McFry, coupled with the warning that Laurel had told him about, meant he’d need to be on his guard. He reminded himself that he was, when all was said and done, just a passing acquaintance of the Telford auctioneer, someone who had spent an hour or so in a pub with him while the rain beat down outside. He fingered Galloway’s business card again, getting into role as the helpful, but ultimately disinterested, stranger who Cyril had accidentally sat beside on Friday.
He dialled the number, and in a short while was listening to Galloway’s unctuous voice as he picked up the call. “Yes?” was all he said.

“Good afternoon,” Bill said, brightly. “That would be Mr Galloway, I presume?” His question left Cyril Galloway struggling to immediately place the voice, and it took Bill to remind him of their brief, Birkenhead encounter before it clicked.
“Ah yes – Mr Blunt. How are you, and what can I do for you?” he asked, almost distractedly.
“Well, you will remember you were interested in finding this Harry McFry chap? I have some news for you.”
“Oh yes? Pray tell!” Galloway sounded as though someone had nudged him awake.
“I asked around, and found a couple of people who know him,” Bill replied. “Seems he’s out of town right now, taking a holiday, apparently – which might explain why you couldn’t find him on Friday.” (Not true, Bill knew: Harry had been in Telford on Friday, of course, but he’d had the sense not to reveal this to Galloway).
“I see,” Galloway said – his mind racing, now, as he recalled what Colin McAllistair had told him about McFry having already sold the medals. Perhaps this ‘holiday’ was being enjoyed from part of the proceeds of the sale?

Bill, meanwhile, was scanning his notes again. He wanted to get on to the subject of the medals – not the ones that Harry had, but the others that Galloway had let slip he had sold all those years ago. “I was thinking of what you said when we met last Friday. You mentioned another set of medals which you were involved in selling. Did this McFry chap have anything to do with those, as well?”

The auctioneer was caught off balance by the question, and his response was automatic, unthinking: “Oh, no, no, no. Those were for someone called Jonathan Harcourt, over in Yorkshire. He’s long dead, and had nothing to do with Birkenhead or even Lillian McFry. But tell me, Mr Blunt,” (Galloway back on track, now) “where exactly did you say McFry is holidaying?”
“I didn’t. But it seems he’s in Madrid.”

Bill Blunt couldn’t hear Galloway’s sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line – but he sensed it, nonetheless, even as he congratulated himself on the two new pieces of the jigsaw handed to him by Galloway, almost on a plate. The ones with Jonathan Harcourt and Lillian McFry’s name on them.

*

Bill Blunt had finished his call with Cyril Galloway with a promise to contact him again if he discovered anything more which he thought might be helpful for his new ‘friend’. For his part, Galloway was both counting his blessings that fate had led Mr Blunt to sit beside him in the pub on that wet and dismal Friday afternoon, and at the same time germinating a slight worry that Harry McFry had maybe gone to Madrid to sell the medals. If he did, and he had the box, and its paperwork, with him, then it could well be that McFry already knew its value.

Galloway strained to listen against the quiet outside his window. Was that possibly just the faintest sound of the flapping of wings he could hear? Might they be geese – wild ones, at that – heading in the direction of Lillian McFry’s little bungalow, waiting for him to chase them on Tuesday? He hoped not, even as he realized he had come to hate that woman.