Chapter 128

Harry was already at his office in Melrose Buildings when Danny arrived. He’d got there just before 7pm, and had caught Henry, the janitor, locking the main doors to the building.

“You can leave those open!” he’d said, as he approached him from behind. Henry had swung around, a broad grin on his face.

“Well, if it ain’t Mr McFry! How was your trip?” Harry hadn’t told him much about why he’d been going to Madrid, but Henry had imagined his weekend adventure was probably more ‘pleasure’ rather than ‘business’. He’d heard a thing or two on the grapevine about Harry McFry’s love affair with the city – or at least with someone who lived there.

“Oh, not too bad - you know. It’s hard to go to a place like that and not enjoy yourself.” If only it were true, Harry had thought, even as he said the words. “What about you, Henry? Much been happening around here?”

“Just the usual. A bit quieter than last week, anyway! Ma Shipman’s certainly been in a better mood. She’s gone to visit her sister for a couple of days. So, old Henry’s in charge of the fort.”

Harry had seemed a little un-nerved by the news of his landlady’s departure – much to Henry’s surprise. “When’s she back?” he’d asked, trying to seem casual about it.

“Sometime tomorrow is all I know. You going to be long here tonight, Mr McFry?”

Henry had seen an unexpected relief in Harry’s face when he told him about Ma Shipman’s anticipated return, and as he pushed open the door and moved into the foyer, Harry had turned to him and said: “Just a couple of hours, I should think. Don’t worry – I’ll lock up.”

“Well, don’t you forget to set the alarm when you leave, will you?” he’d asked. He needn’t have worried. If it was the last thing Harry did, he’d make sure he set that alarm.

*

When Danny rolled up around a half hour later, Harry’s office was already a fug of smoke, and he saw that the coffee jug was almost empty. Harry was sitting behind his desk, leafing through a pile of papers. The hard disk of the battered, old PC was whirring away, and a mug of coffee rested perilously close to the edge of the desk. Near the window, a flip chart had been erected on an easel, but its pages were still virgin white. Harry didn’t even look up as Danny entered, didn’t acknowledge him as he dumped his bag on the floor, loosened his coat and sat on the seat in front of the desk.

“Am I late? I thought you said 7.30pm?”

Harry looked up, startled to see Danny there. His eyes seemed to be on fire, and Danny could recognize someone who was in the same kind of ‘zone’ he himself had been in just a day or so before in the internet café in Madrid.

“No, no – you’re OK. I was early, that’s all. Here,” he said, smiling as he pushed a small sheaf of paper across to Danny, “you’re going to love this!”

His colleague reached to pick the papers up, trying to hide a grimace as he simultaneously stood up and moved across to open the window.

“What?” Harry asked, his annoyance difficult to mask..

“I can’t work in these conditions, Harry. I’m sorry. If I’ve got to be here for a few hours, I need some fresh air!”

“Whatever you say, kid,” Harry said, with a resigned look on his face, noticing for the first time just how polluted he’d managed to make his office in little more than half an hour. The ashtray on the other side of his desk was almost half full.

Sitting back down, Danny scanned the first sheet, before passing it back to Harry.

“Err … I guess I wasn’t supposed to read this one,” he said, trying to prevent his face going redder than he knew it already must be.

Harry looked quizzical: “What do you mean?” But when he saw it was the cover note that Ana had attached to the report she’d faxed through, he understood Danny’s discomfort. Only two words and an exclamation mark, but they hinted that Harry’s parentage might well be called into question.

“Oh … yes. You’re right. Forget about it. Just read the report.” When Harry had first read Ana’s words, he’d laughed. If she’d only known how stupid he’d been, maybe she’d have a different opinion of him? He’d managed, though, to dismiss her comments in an instant, as he’d wanted more than anything to read the DNA findings so that, when he’d passed the pages to Danny, he’d quite forgotten what she’d written.

Danny was soon engrossed in the technical detail of the report that had been prepared by Ana’s friend at the university in Madrid. Danny hadn’t had much experience of DNA testing, and he found it hard going.

“It doesn’t mean much to me, Harry,” he said, finally. “What’s this about a ‘half-sibilingship test’?

Harry had been watching as Danny scanned the report’s pages.

“Well,” he said, slowly rocking back in his chair and locking his hands behind his head, “I wouldn’t want you to think I was anything of an expert on these matters myself. But I ‘phoned a man who is: Blaine Bettinger – someone I know in the States. He talked me through it.” Harry waited from a response from Danny.

“And?” Danny was all ears. He knew Harry had wanted Laurel and Dacre’s DNA testing for a reason - that they needed to work out how they were related. But he already knew they weren’t half siblings. Not for the first time, though, he was quietly impressed with Harry’s contacts.

“It seems that there’s enough in the genetic coding to show that Dacre Lawrence and Colleen Blyth’s father were the same person. The two of them are – were – half brother and sister. Different mothers, same father, Danny.”

The penny was dropping, even as Danny’s eyes were widening.

“But … but … “ Danny said, trying to work out the connection, “that means it must be John Lawrence!”

Harry rocked forward in his chair, reaching into his shirt pocket for another cigarette. “It’s tempting to think so…” he said, as he lit up, “…isn’t it?”

“I’d say it was pretty clear cut, Harry!” Danny exclaimed.

“Maybe,” was all Harry said. But then he added, by way of explanation, “I’d rather wait until some of these certificates we need come through. Wouldn’t you?”

Danny saw what Harry was getting at. “Triangulation. You’re right. But at least it gives us something more to go on. So – what do we do next?” He placed the report on the desk, in front of Harry.

Harry paused a moment, taking another drag on his cigarette. “We shake the tree, and see what comes out, Danny. And you sort us out some more coffee. That’s what we do next.”

Chapter 127

Harry had gathered all the papers he wanted while he was waiting for a cab he’d booked into Birkenhead. After ringing Laurel, he’d made a call to his contact at the General Records Office, but this time to her home number. Could she organize some more certificates for him, early the next day, as a matter of urgency? Linda hadn’t sounded very confident.

“I’ll do my best, Harry. But there’s been some kind of audit last week and they’ve found a discrepancy between the number of certificates printed out and the revenue that’s come in. There was a meeting about it yesterday.”

“Do they know it’s you?” Harry was worried he might have put her job at risk.

“Hell, Harry – I’m not the only one at it! There must be half a dozen of us taking kick-backs. You genealogists all seem to want stuff by ‘yesterday’…”

“You know I appreciate what you’re doing, Linda?” Harry had told her, turning on his charm tap. “I was going to invite you out to dinner sometime…”

“Leave it out, Harry,” she’d replied, laconically. “Just make sure you get the money in the bank, and I’ll do what I can,” and he’d reeled off the references she’d need to sort the certificates for him.

And then, there’d been the call from Ana. In his attempt to erase the events in Madrid from his mind, he’d almost forgotten about the DNA tests. It had, inevitably, been a stilted call.

“Did you get back OK, Harry?” she’d asked.

“Seems that way. No physical damage, anyway.” His tone was cold, his emphasis precise.

Ana had paused, as if she was trying to work out what he meant. “I’ve got the DNA results here. What do you want me to do with them? Should I fax them to you?” That’s right, Harry had thought: keep it purely to business – it’s the best way.

“Yes. At my office, if you don’t mind.” He’d given her the number.

“Harry … are you… alright?” There had been a genuine concern in her voice.

“I’m fine. As I suppose Alan, Yolanda, Pablo and you are. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some work to do.”

And he’d hung up on her. For the first time in his life.

*

Colin McAllistair spent early Monday evening on a train heading north, his second trip that way in a week. He was leafing through a magazine, but not really concentrating fully. In the seat opposite him, a young couple spent most of the journey deep in conversation, recalling how they’d met and fallen for each other, as if theirs was the first love story every told. He tried to filter it out: he was thinking about Lillian McFry and Jonathan Harcourt. He’d packed his digital video camera, hoping Lillian would agree to him recording their conversation. If he was to persuade any of the producers he knew that there was a programme in Lillian’s story, it would help if he had a few rough pieces to show them.

McAllistair had that rare knack of being able to visualize things in the future. Some might call it day-dreaming, but others would see it as the skill and ability to conceive something, and to take it through to fruition. He’d found, often enough, that if he thought about how something might look, how events might pan out, even down to the tiniest detail, he could make them turn out that way. As he’d written his thesis as a student, he’d been driven by the image of himself walking up on stage to collect his degree, and could even have told you the colour of the Dean’s eyes. Now, he saw grainy, black-and-white images of Spain, dissolving into old photographs of Lillian and Jonathan when they were young, cutting to a distinguished academic (himself, of course) succinctly summarizing the tortuous politics of the Spanish Civil War. It wasn’t too long before he was sitting in a huge hall, dressed in a dinner jacket, gripping a card he’d jotted a few notes on. His ‘Thank You’ speech would go down well, and he’d probably be wishing his mother had been alive to see him as he collected his award for Best Historical Documentary. Maybe Lillian McFry would be at the table, when he got back there, so that the spotlight would pick her out as he reached across to hand her the gold statuette, and embraced her?

“Next stop, Telford!” the conductor said, rousing McAllistair from his reverie. He dropped the magazine and checked a map in his folder on the table in front of him, before stuffing it into his bag on the seat next to him. Not worth getting a taxi to the Travelodge, he thought – he could walk it in five minutes.

Chapter 126

The messages on Harry’s answer phone were all very predictable: Bill, Laurel, Danny. He cursed himself for not clearing it before he’d left for Madrid – he might have saved himself a problem or two.

Only the message from Carrie herself was unexpected, left earlier that day. Her languorous drawl hid implications Harry felt it better not to unpick just now:

“You back yet, Harry? I hear you enjoyed your time in Madrid. I think we’ve got some unfinished business, don’t you? Why don’t you give me a call?”

He shook his head, silently wondering at the stupidity of the night he’d spent at Carrie’s. It had tilted him off balance, and he guessed now that Carrie knew a thing or two about Ana that she hadn’t seen fit to tell him. The whole thing had been a big mistake, that much was for sure: even to spend the night at her place, regardless of what might have happened, had been his folly.

As he made himself a coffee, Harry knew at last what he had to do – and ringing his brother’s ex-wife had to be last on his list. It took a certain courage, which we shouldn’t underestimate, for him to resolve, there and then, to turn his back on his own family – forget about the sorry mess of them – and to turn his attentions, instead, to Laurel McFry. He wanted to know how she was faring.

He’d had the presence, while in Madrid, to jot down Laurel’s number, and he fished his small notebook from the pocket of the jacket he’d thrown over the back of a chair when he’d returned to his flat. Dialing her number, he wondered how she might be f feeling. He knew the news of the bond must have un-nerved her.

“Hello?” she answered. She sounded a little tentative (wary, even) and certainly not relaxed in the way you might expect someone who was about to come into possession of around £20 million. There was a tiredness, what might be construed as a tension in her voice.

“It’s Harry, Laurel. How are you?”

“Oh – thank goodness you’ve rung!” It was like she’d been roused from a sleep. “I … what I mean to say is … all this about the bond. Is it true?”

Harry wondered why she might have doubted him, but tried to put himself in her shoes. Maybe it was just a little incredible, to get a call out of the blue, as she had done last night, telling her the news about the Spanish bond.

“Yes, it’s true alright. It’s sitting in a vault in Madrid. But I can assure you it’s yours.”

“But you still can’t tell me how this has come my way? I hope you appreciate that I haven’t slept a wink, Harry. Is it something to do with my father?”

Harry wondered if he dare tell her his thoughts. He knew it would put her mind at ease. But his thoughts, for the moment, were only a theory, What was more, he knew he had a duty to Lillian McFry not to reveal her existence until such time as she wanted to. If, that was, she ever did.

“No. Nothing to do with your father – at least not directly. All I can say is, I may be in a position to tell you more tomorrow. Danny and I are back in Birkenhead now. Maybe we could see you in the morning?”

“So you’re condemning me to another sleepless night, Mr McFry?” Laurel replied, but she sounded lighter now, as if hearing Harry’s assurances about the bond had somehow made it sound more real.

“Seems this case is causing quite a few people sleepless nights, Laurel!” Harry said, smiling. He hadn’t had more than a dozen hours sleep himself over the last four days, he thought, ruefully – but then, that had been pretty much of his own making. There was a pause, during which Harry imagined (correctly) that Laurel was flicking through her diary.

“That’s fine. Do you want to call around about 10am, or how about I come to the office?”

The office would be better, Harry thought, and arranged that Laurel should call to see him there.

“And Mr Galloway? You told me to watch out for him. Do I still have to be worried?”

Harry hadn’t expected the question, but knew he’d have to be circumspect.

“Let me be candid, Laurel. I don’t know what Galloway is up to, but from what I do know about him, you just need to be careful. Now,” he said, “I need to ask you a question, if you don’t mind…” He didn’t wait for her to reply.

“Danny’s been doing some digging on the Lawrences – with a view to seeing how Dacre Lawrence fits into the picture.” He consulted his own notes, drafted quickly after he’d got back to Alan’s flat the previous evening.

“He says you told him that Anne Lawrence – who married James McFry – had a brother, John James Lawrence, and that he married an Amy Peterson. You could save us a bit of work if you’ve got the certificate for the Lawrence – Peterson marriage…”

“Don’t make me feel more of an amateur than I already am, Harry – please!” Laurel sounded short, almost angry. He hadn’t appreciated how his ‘interrogation’ of her the previous week had made her squirm, particularly when he’d revealed her willingness to jump to conclusions without proper evidence. “Of course I don’t have it.”

Harry hadn’t meant to come across that way, and pulled himself back.

“OK – no offence meant, Laurel. The thing is, though, Danny’s found a couple of other references. He was looking into Dacre Lawrence. It’s possible – and we’re still waiting for the certificates to back this up – that his mother was a Margaret Speilmann and his father was John Lawrence. Ring any bells?”

Laurel was thinking. There were no bells ringing. But…

“Speilmann. That sounds like it might be a German name, Harry.”

If she’d been in his flat, Laurel might have seen how Harry’s eyebrows raised, just a fraction, when she inadvertently placed another piece in the jigsaw that was her missing family.

Chapter 125

Harry needed a drink. Although it was comforting in some way to be back in the familiar surroundings of Birkenhead, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d left a whole lot of business unresolved in Madrid. Like an actor auditioning for a play who’d learned the lines for the wrong production, he felt the director had humoured him by listening to his performance, but the job would never be his.

Danny had dropped him at his flat, and they’d agreed to meet up back at the office in a couple of hours. He’d filled the kettle for a coffee, and then pulled a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, pouring himself a long shot. Collapsing in the chair, more tired than he’d imagined, he saw that darkness was beginning to fall outside. Streetlamps started to spray their light, illuminating the steady and remorseless drizzle that had welcomed the travelers back to their home town. He opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, drawing one out and pausing just a second before lighting it. His mind was addled with trying to play over the discussions he’d had with Ana, Yolanda and Alan. He wondered, for a moment, whether they might have conspired together to confuse him, to twist his reality a little. But he realized, finally, that they’d need a motive for that, and it was just too hard to imagine what that might be…

He thought about flicking on a table lamp, and putting some music on, even rifled through a few CDs. But there was something about the gathering darkness and the silence, broken only by the few cars that spun past outside in the rain, that Harry found appealing, and he decided to savour it.

He knew he needed to get a grip. This whole business about his ex-girlfriend, her sister, and his brother had perplexed him, and threatened to throw him off course. Now, sitting in the gloom of an early February Monday evening, he knew what he had to do.
He had a case to solve. He might think he knew what Laurel McFry’s missing family was all about, but there were too many loose ends – too many things which just didn’t add up. He took another slug of the whisky, just as the shrill whistle of the kettle sounded its alarm. He lifted himself from the chair, and as he did so, caught sight of the blinking red light on his answer phone. ‘Better get that coffee, Harry – this might be a long night!’, he thought.

*

For his part, Danny Longhurst was starting to have second thoughts about his own research. After dropping Harry off, he’d headed back home to his parents’ house. They were relieved to see him: he might be nineteen, but he was their only child, and they chided him for not contacting them while he was away. “Anything could have happened to you,” his mother had said, fussing over him. He’d been embarrassed and ashamed in equal measure.

In the refuge of his bedroom, he pulled his notepad out and started flicking through it. Something wasn’t right, he could see, about Dacre Lawrence’s parents. He’d spent hours in the internet café in Madrid trying to untangle it, but he’d forgotten that he’d already done some research into them, even before then. How had he managed to do the same research and yet come up with two different answers? He hoped Harry would be open able to unravel it all when they met at the office – if he’d stopped worrying about Ana, that was. He wondered quite how a woman could throw someone off kilter quite so much, make them blind to the obvious. He couldn’t believe Harry had thought that Ana had been married and, even then, found it quite amazing that he’d apparently never even discussed it with her. Wasn’t she supposed to have been the ‘love of his life’?

*

Whatever you would want to say about Bill Blunt, you couldn’t say he wasn’t dogged. He hadn’t given up hope of a story by Tuesday, even if he knew he’d have to dig a little more to get it. That’s why he found himself in the unfamiliar surroundings of a Travelodge, not far from Telford, just as darkness descended. He hated those places, with their utilitarian ‘sameness’ that meant he could as easily be in Thurrock as Telford, but he hadn’t been able to clear the trip with his editor, so thought he’d better err on the side of caution where expenses were concerned.

After mulling over the unexpectedly-terminated call with Harry on Sunday night, he’d returned to the fray with a renewed vigour the next day. He was at his desk by 8am, making notes from his notes, distilling what he had into something tighter, in the hope that something would jump out at him. When other staff had started to appear, he’d enlisted the help of the young girl from advertising who had helped him last week with his query about the Spanish bank. She was bright, he knew, and maybe one day she’d switch across into the editorial side.

“I need to find out about someone called Lillian McFry. She was awarded some medals – I suspect in the Spanish Civil War. Do you know what that was?” he’d asked her, after summoning the girl to his desk.
“Err… no, not really… I mean, I’ve heard of it, but I don’t really know much about it,” she’d said. Alison Gibson had worked at the Beagle for the two years since leaving school. She enjoyed her job, and liked it when the journalists asked her to help out on their stories. But she wasn’t afraid to admit gaps in her knowledge. Bill had invited her to sit down, and told her what little he himself knew about the civil war.

“So,” Alison said, when he’d finished, “these medals were awarded to two English people who were fighting in Spain – for the Republic?” She was trying to get it clear in her mind, he’d noticed. He’d liked that.
“Exactly. Harcourt’s dead, of course. And I’m pretty sure Lillian McFry must be, by now – we’re talking about someone who would be in their nineties, at least, if she was alive,” Bill had said. “Just see what you can find, Alison – but quickly, if you don’t mind. This is for tomorrow’s deadline.”

For Bill, the struggle was unpicking who all these McFry’s were. Well, he knew all about Harry (or he thought he did), and he was starting to get a better picture of young Laurel, following his research over the weekend – but this Lillian McFry: she was a different matter altogether. Bill Blunt had never taken much of an interest in family history, whether his own or anybody else’s. He knew this was where Harry would have the edge, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t beat him. It just meant he’d have to be smarter – and quicker – if he was to do so.

All his instincts told him he should find Galloway. And, if finding him meant he had to stay the night in a tiny, dismal, soulless, roadside hostel, then so be it. There was at least enough room to swing an as yet un-skinned cat, he thought, ruefully, as he unpacked his overnight bag.