Chapter 149

It wouldn’t be easy getting Laurel on her own, and Harry wondered, even, if it was fair to pull her away from the proceedings when she had only just ‘met’ her grandmother. It was while he helped Bill prepare the tea that he realised he had no choice.

They worked quietly, both of them straining to catch up on where Lillian was up to in her tale, but Harry saw how quickly his friend seemed to be organising everything, as if he couldn’t wait to get back into the lounge and continue taking his notes. It was proof, if he needed it, that Bill still intended to write his story. He hoped Danny had been paying attention to Lillian’s account, just in case she’ added anything new.

Harry carried the plate, replenished with biscuits, into the room, Bill following along with the tray of drinks. Lillian had started telling her guests about Thomas McFry. Colin McAllistair looked up as they returned. He’d wondered for a moment what had taken Bill and Harry so long, but the historian in him had kept him focused on the drama of a story he’d been hearing of Lillian’s return to England – without her daughter – and how she’d settled into her ‘relationship’ with Thomas.

As the tea was handed round, Harry noticed that Dave Morris seemed bored – almost frustrated – and that Jane Tobias looked a little uncomfortable, too. He guessed they hadn’t been expecting Lillian’s life story, and were struggling to link it all to Dacre Lawrence. Well, that would have to wait, just for the moment. Danny, he was pleased to see, seemed more alert to the story Lillian was telling.

“Thank you, Harry,” Lillian said, as she took a biscuit from the plate. “All this talking is making me quite thirsty. And I’m sure our guests will appreciate a fresh cup of tea.” Harry picked up a flatness in her tone, as if the pain of revealing her secrets might be taking its toll.

As Bill Blunt took his seat and picked up his notepad with undisguised relish, Harry nodded and forced an encouraging smile purely for Lillian’s benefit - turning, as he did so, to Laurel. She looked almost mesmerised, staring at her grandmother with a wrapt expression that Harry worried might just give the game away.

“Well, if you’ll excuse us, Lillian, I think Ana and I would like to go outside for a cigarette,” Harry said, suddenly. Laurel shot a look of disgust at him, but he studiously ignored it. Danny looked at the two of them quizzically, but thought he saw Harry wink. He couldn’t be sure what Harry was up to, and wondered what he’d been discussing with Bill Blunt while they’d been such a time in the kitchen. Whatever it was, Harry clearly felt he needed to brief Laurel, and he guessed, now, that the cigarette break was just a cover to get her alone. He saw that Laurel was looking at him, and nodded quickly, so she might realise she had to follow Harry’s lead.

“You go ahead, Harry. If I was ten years younger, I would have been joining you!” Lillian replied. “Now … where was I?” she asked, rhetorically, slipping back into her story while Ana collected her handbag and followed Harry out of the room.

*

When they were outside in the back garden, the door firmly closed, Harry reached for his cigarettes.

“Are you alright?” he asked, as Laurel leant against the wall, her eyes moving to the cat, which had stretched out a front leg and was settling itself back into slumber.

“Better let me have one of those,” Laurel said. Her hand was shaking as Harry handed her the pack.

“I guess this has all been quite a revelation to you, Laurel…” he said, his voice trailing off as he lit their cigarettes.

“Oh, Harry! You’ve got no idea!” she exclaimed. “It’s like a whole life just opened up for me! I never thought it would be so difficult – it was all I could do to stop myself hugging her at one point.”

He let the silence linger a moment, until she felt ready to continue.

“This has all come as a bit of a shock to me. I can’t explain, but even just a little thing – like why my mother spoke such perfect French – it starts to make sense now. But why did she never tell me any of this?”

Harry had wondered about that himself.

“Maybe she never got the chance, Laurel,” he said. “You were just a young girl, remember? I’m not sure how you’d tell a seven year old that her mother had been abandoned by her own mother in a foreign country – and that’s even supposing she knew the full facts herself.”

“But she didn’t have to leave my mother there! She was with Stuart – and he wasn’t my uncle then. If they’d come back to England together…”

“Laurel – if they’d done that, have you considered that you wouldn’t be here now?” It was the kind of philosophical question that isn’t best fitted for discussion on a chilly Tuesday afternoon in February, in a small back garden in Telford, Harry realised, as he watched Laurel struggle to understand his meaning.

“I don’t understand…“ she said.

“It’s like this. Laurel McFry only exists because her mother somehow met up with her father, Philip McFry. Now, if Stuart had been with Lillian, had married her even, do you think it’s conceivable they’d have allowed their daughter to marry her uncle?” It was easier for Harry to put the question that way, somehow.

“I … I see what you mean.” Laurel had got Harry’s drift. “My uncle would have been my grandfather, then?”

Harry drew on his cigarette, and shook his head.

“Thankfully, it never happened that way, Laurel.”

Laurel realised, then, that in the course of their journey to Telford they hadn’t actually discussed the DNA results, and she wondered briefly whether Harry had engineered it that way.

“So tell me. What exactly did happen?” She was trying to hide an anger that was welling up inside her, the feeling that she was being, somehow, manipulated by Harry, had come to mind.

“OK, here goes,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. “Your grandfather was John Lawrence He came from Thirsk, in North Yorkshire – co-incidentally, not far from where Lillian was born. By the time he was working in Spain, he’d assumed the name of Jonathan Harcourt. You heard, just now, how he met Lillian.

“And you know this for a fact?” Laurel asked. “The DNA samples, I suppose…”

“Yes. Your DNA shows a match to Dacre Lawrence, who was John Lawrence’s – Jonathan Harcourt’s – son. Or at least enough of a match to show Dacre’s father was your grandfather.”

“So… Dr Lawrence was … what? My mother’s…”

“Half brother. But he never knew that – at least not when he met Lillian.”

Laurel considered this for a moment. “But, if he never knew, how come he wrote to me?”

“He’d worked out before he met Lillian that he was related to the McFry’s, because his father was a cousin of theirs. He actually said as much to Lillian when he visited her. But I suspect he didn’t find out about his more direct link to you until later – and only Cyril Galloway can confirm that for us.”

Laurel shook her head. “I just find it all so … bewildering. First, I’ve got a grandmother I never knew about, and then, all this.” She paused to stub out her cigarette against the wall. “But tell me, how much of this does Lillian actually know?”

“Not very much at all. In fact, I suspect she thinks Stuart McFry was your grandfather. And that’s why she’s wanted to keep quiet all these years.”

“But why didn’t they marry?”

“Ah … well, that’s the question I’d like her to answer. I have my own theory, but that’s all it is just now.”

She looked at him pointedly. “And you’re not one much for sharing your theories, are you?”

Harry ignored the comment. “If only I had those certificates, I’d be surer…” He realised she was still shaken by the news of the link to Lawrence. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Laurel nodded. “Yes, I’ll be fine. But you know, while I was listening to Lillian I realised I had seen her before. She was at my mother’s funeral. I was only seven, Harry – but I remember a woman standing at the back, away from everyone. I know it was her.”

“I’m sure Lillian had her reasons for not keeping in touch, Laurel. The main thing is, you’ve found her now.” He wanted to re-assure her. “Sometimes, families just sort of … lose their way.” He’d had enough evidence of that, recently.

“Yes. I suppose I have to look at it that way.” She didn’t sound fully convinced, but Harry had other business he wanted to discuss.

“Listen, Laurel – I need your help.”

“How so?” she asked, as Harry lit yet another cigarette.

“It’s like this. Bill Blunt’s got an extension on his deadline. I wondered why the old dog was so relaxed when we met him, earlier. It’s my guess they’re holding publication until later this afternoon, and that if he has his way they’ll run with your story on the front page.”

Laurel shook her head. “Oh no, Harry. This is Lillian’s story, not mine. And I, for one, don’t want it splashed all over Birkenhead. She’s my grandmother, after all.” It was still a novelty to be able to use that word, and know it related to a living, breathing person. “How do you think she’d feel if she found everything about Stuart, Jonathan – her lovers – available for all and sundry to read?”

“Precisely,” Harry said. “I’ve already had a go at persuading Bill to kill the story, but he won’t have any of it. That’s why I need your help.”

“I don’t understand. If he won’t listen to you, why is he going to listen to me?”

“Oh, he won’t. But I’ve got an idea there’s someone – or, rather, something – that his editor will listen to, if you’ll hear me out.”

By the time their conversation had finished and they were ready to return to the bungalow, Laurel had made a call through to the editor of the Birkenhead Beagle, and everything was fixed.

Chapter 148

Back in the kitchen, Harry found that Bill Blunt had begun the washing up. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and was cleaning the cups as quietly as he could, with half an ear to Lillian McFry as she continued her account in the lounge. He looked up as Harry entered the room, staring at the potted plant he was carrying.

“Galloway?” he asked, simply. His voice was a half whisper. Harry shook his head. He pointed to the back door, towards the end of the kitchen.
“I think we need to talk,” he replied, in equally hushed tones, as he placed the plant on the small table behind Bill.

Bill smiled, drying his hands on a tea towel. He figured Harry was - at last - prepared to trade information. Suddenly, the prospect was real that he might understand this confounded story. Harry knew he had met Cyril Galloway, and that he knew a thing or two about Jonathan Harcourt he thought Harry wouldn’t – and wasn’t it in both their interests to make a deal?
“Sure. The tea can wait a few minutes,” he replied, collecting his jacket from a hook on the back of the kitchen door as he followed Harry out to the tiny back garden at the rear of the bungalow. Once they were both outside, Harry closed the door. A black cat, curled beside the base of an ornamental birdbath set in the middle of small, square lawn, opened an eye, but didn’t budge. Harry pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. As he drew its contents deep into his lungs, he leant against the back wall of the bungalow.

“Gotta give those up, Harry!” Bill said, still smiling.
“Yeah,.well … maybe I will, when this case is sorted out,” he said. Someday, it would be possible for a detective to investigate a case without the need for nicotine but, as Harry saw it, the long hand of government legislation hadn’t reached that far just yet. He paused a moment, Bill waiting for him to continue. It seemed like he was just making conversation when he said “What time is it, Bill?”
Bill Blunt checked his watch. “It’s half past one,” he said. Harry tried to gauge just how tense his old friend was. How close was that new deadline, he wondered? It was hard to tell. Well, there was one way to find out, he supposed…

“I take it this week’s Beagle hasn’t gone to print yet?” he asked.
Bill winced – unwittingly, but just enough to let Harry see he was right about the extension he’d negotiated.
“It’s hard to move a deadline, Harry…” he replied, just a little lamely.
“Well, not by more than a few hours, I expect. Still – you’ve got the bones of your story, haven’t you?"

That – for Bill - was the problem: unless he worked out how those medals were linked to Laurel McFry, he’d have an irate editor to contend with when he limped back to Birkenhead later that day. He wasn’t smiling, now, and he wondered, briefly, whether Harry had conspired to get him out of the lounge so as to miss a vital part of Lillian’s testimony.

“Look, Harry,” he said. “We go back a long way. You’ve got your job to do, and I’ve got mine. We should be helping each other!”
Harry looked at him, and took another drag on his cigarette. It didn’t sound like much of a plea, and Harry wasn’t in the mood to swap facts. He decided to test the water.

“So … help me. Tell me about Galloway.”
“What’s to tell? He was in Birkenhead, sniffing around after you. I met him in a bar. He thought you had Lillian’s medals.”
“You told me that already,” Harry said, “when I rang you from Spain.”
“Ah, yes – Madrid!” Bill exclaimed. “You never did tell me why you went there. Did you sell the medals, Harry?”
“Of course I didn’t sell the medals!” Harry said. “I went there to follow up another part of the case.”
“Anything to do with Jonathan Harcourt? Or, should I say, John Lawrence?” Bill thought this was his trump card, and was cautious about playing it carelessly, but he knew, too, that there wasn’t much time left for his game.
“John Lawrence?” Harry feigned ignorance, even as he wondered whether whatever Bill had on Harcourt – obtained from the trade union – would add anything to the obituary his brother Alan had sent him.

Like a bolt being shot, Bill suddenly thought of Dacre Lawrence, who he’d first heard of just an hour or so ago. He looked at Harry.
“John Lawrence is Dacre’s father, isn’t he?” he said, straight out.
“Yes”. Harry’s response was deliberately terse.
“So, if Colleen was the child of Lillian and John, that would make them half brother and sister?” Bill was trying to work out the significance of this relationship even as he asked the question.

Harry pulled him back. “It’s still an ‘if’, Bill. That’s what we’re down here to determine.”
“OK.. so why exactly were you in Madrid?”
“I was following up the bond,” Harry replied, matter-of-factly.

Bill considered Harry’s response. He wasn’t stupid. “This bond…” he said, “…it’s linked to Laurel McFry’s shares, isn’t it?” He remembered their discussion over the phone just a few days earlier – “It’s a big story” Harry had said.
All Harry could think of was keeping his promise to Laurel. It was like she’d won the lottery and checked the ‘no publicity’ box – and he was in charge of public relations for the lottery company.

“You can’t print anything about Laurel McFry, Bill,” he replied. “She’s a very private woman. She doesn’t want her name splashed all over Birkenhead. At least not in the terms you’d do it…”
Bill looked shocked, even though he saw how serious his friend was. “You know how I work, Harry…”
“Yes – I think we got a demonstration of that earlier this afternoon, Bill. Or should that be Elliot?”

The question hung for a moment, like a side of well-cured ham in a tapas bar. Bill Blunt was looking at the paving stones that ran between the bungalow and lawn, almost as if he might be making an academic study of the weeds that grew between them.
“Yes … well … sometimes we have to pretend we’re someone we aren’t … it’s not exactly a criminal offence!” he protested. But he continued staring at the ground as he did so.

Harry was relishing Bill’s discomfort. Bill hadn’t broken any laws, but it wouldn’t hurt to make him squirm a little.
“It’s like this, Bill. I’m going to go back in there, and we’re going to explore some delicate issues with a woman who’s 102 years old. Someone who has done more than a few things in her life she isn’t very proud of. And she deserves some dignity through it all.”
“Dignity?”
Harry stubbed out his cigarette, kicking it into the kitchen drain.
“Yes. That means that neither she nor her granddaughter will expect to find their names in this week’s issue of the Birkenhead Beagle. Is that clear?”

Bill nodded. He understood exactly what Harry was saying, alright. The more Harry underlined it, the more he realised his front page scoop would be a powerful one. With little more than three hours to file his story, he was starting to feel anxious about missing key details of Lillian’s story while they were out in the garden.

“Hadn’t we better go back in?” he asked.
“Yes. But remember what I’ve said. No story this week.”

As he followed Bill back into the kitchen, he’d worked out that Bill was still planning to write his piece. It was time for plan ‘B’, he was thinking. And for that, he’d need Laurel’s help.

Chapter 147

Whatever else people said about Harry McFry, no-one ever called him malicious. As Lillian told the story of her time in the north of Spain, Harry had glanced around her assembled guests. He’d seen Colin McAllistair squirming whenever Jonathan Harcourt’s name was mentioned, and remembered the phone call he’d received from the academic. He hadn’t been totally sure, when McAllistair admitted his dealings with Galloway, whether he was on the level. But he could tell contrition when he saw it, and he silently resolved to draw a veil over those parts of the proceedings. It wasn’t essential that everyone knew how Jonathan’s medals had come to be sold, after all.

Maybe Harry had been a little flattered that Colin had recalled meeting him at the Paris conference? He didn’t hanker after a return to academia – he knew that for certain - but he’d felt a certain satisfaction to think that his name hadn’t been completely forgotten in those same circles.

Danny, he had noticed, was concentrating hard on Lillian’s account– he wouldn’t miss any extra fact Lillian revealed, Harry was sure. He saw how his young colleague seemed to blend into the background, sitting on the floor beside the huge aspidistra in the window.

The visitors from Cardiff, meanwhile – well, they were something of an unknown quantity. Harry hadn’t a clue about the NHS Counter Fraud Office, or their powers – he’d never heard of such a body until that afternoon – but Dave and Jane seemed like a competent double act, clearly used to working together. They wouldn’t have powers of arrest, he was sure: they’d probably be assembling evidence that might lead to a prosecution of Dacre Lawrence. They’d already been across to Thirsk, and here they were in Telford, so it was clear they were taking the case seriously. He still suspected Lawrence had been behind the erasure of the McFry census records, and hoped they might be able to confirm that for him, in due course.

Laurel, meanwhile, seemed to have regained her composure a little. As she sat beside him, it wasn’t easy to see her face without making it obvious, but he’d noticed her hands, on her lap, had relaxed. And Lillian had given no hint that she suspected ‘Ana’ was really Laurel.

Bill Blunt was another matter entirely. He’d seen him check his watch, and how he seemed on edge. How had he come to meet Colin McAllistair, he wondered? He seemed to have won the trust of Lillian McFry quite quickly, too – but then again, Harry knew how charming Bill could be, when required. He’d filled more than a few sheets of his notepad with shorthand, and Harry was starting to feel nervous that he might just have secured a rare extension to his paper’s deadline.
Then there was the little matter of the absent guest: Cyril Galloway. Lillian had been expecting him, she’d made that much clear, but still he hadn’t shown up. Harry half expected the doorbell to ring, and tried to imagine what the auctioneer would think when he walked into the room to find so many strange faces.

Harry made himself a mental checklist. They needed to know about Lillian’s escape to France, and how Stuart McFry figured in the story. Laurel, he was sure, would want to hear from Lillian how – and why – she’d abandoned her baby daughter in France. More pragmatically, Harry himself needed to know, for certain, whether Bill Blunt was still expecting to get his story into print in this week’s Beagle. And he wanted to know what else Dave Morris knew about Dacre Lawrence’s activities. He’d start with Bill, he determined. If he could get him alone, he could leave it to Danny to check Lillian’s account for any new details. The first step was to prompt Lillian a little.

“Tell us about your escape from Spain, if you would,” he said, turning to Lillian. “I am sure that’s the kind of drama they’ll love for the documentary.”
Lillian smiled, but Harry couldn’t be sure whether she’d realised how he was leading her where he wanted her, or whether she was warming to the idea of appearing on television. Before she could begin, though, he stood up.
“And while you’re doing that, perhaps we can arrange for some more tea. Elliot?” he asked, turning to a surprised Bill Blunt. “Give me a hand with clearing these cups, and I’ll sort us all out with a fresh pot.”

Bill dropped his notepad on the floor and dutifully began collecting together the empty teacups on the tray he’d left on its side by his chair. As he followed Harry out to the kitchen, Lillian resumed her tale, captivating her remaining audience with her description of how Stuart, Colleen and she had been rescued by the fishing boat off the south-west coast of France. So engrossed were Danny, Laurel and the others, that they hardly heard the gentle rap on the front door to which, thankfully, both Harry and Bill were more alert. Pausing from filling the washing-up bowl with cups and saucers, Harry exchanged the sort of glance with his friend that might say ‘Is this who we think it is?’

Harry was nearest the passageway, so made his way automatically towards the front door, feeling himself tense up as he did so. He had an image in his head of what Cyril Galloway would look like, and as he opened the door he expected to find someone in his sixties, perhaps balding, maybe wearing a suit that had seen better days. He wasn’t wrong.
“Hello,” the visitor said. “Is Lillian alright?” He was holding a small potted plant in front of him.
It was a strange sort of thing for Galloway to say, Harry thought.
“Yes, she’s fine,” he replied. “She’s expecting you.”
The man looked at him quizzically. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m a neighbour. My wife and I, well, we saw all the cars and were just hoping that Lillian was alright. I mean – you know, at her age and everything…”
Harry smiled, and reached out for the plant. “Thank you,” he said. “Everything’s fine. I’m sure Lillian will appreciate that. I’d ask you in, but I’m afraid it’s a little crowded in here just now.” And he asked the stranger his name, so he could tell Lillian. As he closed the door behind him, he couldn’t help wonder what was keeping Mr Galloway.