‘It doesn’t change anything,’ Morton said, not really sure what he meant by his own words. Of course, it changed things.
‘No, I know,’ she agreed. ‘I must admit, I was nervous as all hell when I saw him again, but, actually, the past is in the past. Speaking to him at the dinner table made me realise; we’ve all got our own lives, homes, jobs, kids, spouses. It’s okay. But—’ she set down her drink and picked up the three letters, ‘—then there are these. When you arrived, you caught me wondering.’
She looked at him with a smile and expression that dared him to ask, ‘Wondering what?’
‘Wondering what would have happened if my father hadn’t intercepted them.’
‘And?’
Margaret drew in a breath and seemed to hold it for an age. ‘And… I don’t know. I was quite a flighty little thing in my youth. I could well imagine me hopping on a plane and heading over to Boston just to see what happened.’
‘Do you think so?’
Another long breath and contemplation time. ‘Possibly. I’m almost certain that if things had been different with you, I would have gone. Or if I’d known how he felt at the time…’
Morton assumed that she meant that if she had kept him as a baby, then she would have gladly taken him off for a new life in America.
She sipped from her glass, then passed the three letters towards him. ‘I think—with everything taken into account—you should have these.’
Morton reached out uncertainly and took them. Even though, yes, it did make sense that he should have them, it still did not feel right.
He allowed the conversation to ebb into a thoughtful silence, certain that they were sharing in the same alternative fantasy realm, where their lives had been very different.
‘A whole world of what-ifs,’ she muttered after some time.
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Keep still, for God’s sake,’ Katie said, impatiently dropping her hands to her side.
‘I’m trying!’ Phil shouted through gritted teeth. He was lying face-down on the sofa of her small lounge, whilst she was attempting to sew up the holes in his ankle flesh.
‘I’m not going to say it again. I don’t have the right equipment: you need to go to hospital. This is the needle and thread I use to sew Kyle’s name tags into his school uniform.’
‘And I’m not going to say it again. You’re supposed to be a nurse and you’re supposed to be a friend. I can’t go to hospital, so bloody well get on with it.’
Katie huffed noisily, then returned to sewing up the bite marks on the back of Phil’s foot. ‘When did you last have a tetanus injection?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
Another sigh from Katie.
‘Ouch! Jesus, Katie!’
‘Almost done. Keep still. There, you’re done.’
Phil sat up on the sofa and carefully picked his left leg up, and balanced it on his right knee. ‘What a bloody mess.’
Katie shrugged. ‘How long are you planning on stopping here for, exactly?’
‘A few days…’ he answered, not actually having a clue.
‘I’m going to work,’ she said, strutting from the room.
‘Try not to butcher any other poor sod, like you have me,’ he called after her.
She slammed the front door, leaving him alone in her flat, wondering what to do next.
Morton was in the lounge holding a photo of Juliette in her police uniform in front of Grace’s face. ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he said, drawing out the word.
Grace, in her red and white striped Babygro, crawled away from him. ‘No!’
Morton followed her on all fours, keeping the photo in front of her face, despite her obvious protestations. ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he repeated.
‘No!’
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
‘Er…morning,’ came George’s voice from the doorway. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
Morton spun around, his embarrassment amplified by George’s making it apparent that he thought that what Morton had been doing was odd. Maybe it was. In fact, it certainly was. ‘I was just—’
George raised his hands as if surrendering, and left the room, muttering something which included the word “whatever”, which seemed to make the whole situation seem utterly worse.
Morton picked Grace up and followed him into the kitchen. ‘Sleep well?’ he said, trying to sound normal.
‘Pretty good, thanks. I was just going to grab a coffee?’ he said, turning his statement into a question which, because Morton had followed him into the kitchen, now seemed to require his permission.
‘Of course, go ahead,’ Morton urged, ready to say that he would have one, too, if he were asked. He didn’t get asked: George made himself a drink and slunk from the room, back upstairs, leaving Morton with the certitude that his half-brother had some kind of a problem with him. What that problem was, however, he had no clue.
Morton made himself a coffee, which he left on the worktop, and Juliette a tea, which he carried in one hand and Grace in the other, up to their bedroom. ‘Give Mummy a kiss,’ Morton encouraged, placing her down on the bed.
‘No kiss,’ Grace replied.
Juliette groaned and rolled over.
‘I’ve brought you a tea,’ Morton quickly said, pretending that Grace had not actually just said another new word which was not ‘Mummy’.
He sat on the bed, patiently playing with Grace, whilst he waited for Juliette to surface.
Eventually, she sat up and cuddled her cup of tea in both hands, as though she lived on the streets and this was her first warm drink in a week.
‘So, did any more happen with this Phillip Garrow guy? Did they find him?’
‘No, at least they hadn’t by the time my shift ended at two am.’
‘What are they doing about that? Are they trying to find him?’ Morton asked.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Juliette said. ‘We’ve pulled CCTV of the area, got analysts working on Automatic Number Plate Recognition from his home address through to where the offence took place.’ Morton now knew that she was mocking him. ‘And we’ve set up strategic road blocks around Kent.’
‘Very funny. Are you actually doing anything to find him?’
Juliette looked down at her tea. ‘I’m not doing anything, no. You’ve been watching too much television if you think we’ve got the manpower to go searching for someone whose crime amounts to trespassing.’
‘And reporting his car stolen when it wasn’t…’
‘And low-level fraud,’ Juliette conceded. She sighed in a conciliatory way then said, ‘We went to his house. His wife said she hasn’t seen him. We’d no reason to think she was lying. That’s pretty well it. We’ll try the house again and hope he’s shown up.’
‘Right,’ Morton said, disappointed, then an idea came into his mind. ‘What car was it?’
‘An old Volvo.’
‘Watch Grace for a minute, while I make a phone call.’ He headed from the bedroom and, on seeing that the door to Grace’s bedroom—where George was staying—was open and thinking him likely to be downstairs again, decided to make the phone call upstairs in his study.
He pushed the study door shut and dialled the number on his mobile. After a few rings, a breathy voice answered.
‘Hi, Arthur. It’s Morton Farrier, here.’
Morton could hear Arthur breathing as he processed the information about who was calling. ‘Oh, yes—hello.’
‘It was just a bit of a courtesy call, really, to let you know how the case is going,’ Morton lied. He always avoided giving clients an interim report of any kind.
‘Any progress?’ Arthur asked, a hint of interest in his voice.
‘Oh, yes, plenty,’ Morton began, before giving him some of the brief highlights of the case so far. He alluded to Ann Fothergill’s connection to smuggling, but did not go into detail. Then he asked after Arthur himself.
‘Not so bad. Mustn’t grumble,’ he answered.
‘Oh, Steve. Yes, he’s alright.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ Morton said. He asked his next question, rendered redundant by Arthur’s previous answer, just to be entirely certain: ‘What car does Steve drive?’
‘He can’t drive,’ Arthur revealed. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. Right, I’ll let you get on and I’ll be in touch in due course.’ He said goodbye and ended the call. There was something that he was just not getting, that he knew he should. The nephew whom he had met at Arthur’s house, Steve, could not have been the man, Phillip Garrow, who had trespassed onto the Bourne Tap. He sat at his desk and closed his eyes, teasing out the threads of memory of his meeting with Arthur and his nephew and niece. Snatches of conversation rolled through his mind until he thought about the gold guineas; the very thing which linked the stranger in his house to the events at the Bourne Tap. He worked to slow down the replay: Steve had been the main person to talk about the gold guinea; it had been he who had guarded it so preciously; he who had refused to allow Morton to take it away with him. But then Morton remembered something: the value of the coin had been found not by him, but by his sister’s husband.
Opening his laptop, Morton ran a search for the birth of all Stephen or Steven Fothergills. The resulting list he cross-referred—using the mother’s maiden name—to find further siblings. When he saw the name Clara Fothergill among the results, Morton recalled her name being used at the meeting and knew that he had found the correct siblings, born to Arthur’s brother. Next, he ran a search for the marriage of Clara Fothergill. Five results. Running his eyes down the spouses’ names, he settled upon the very one for which he was looking: Phillip Garrow.
Morton sat back to try to understand what he had just discovered. Recent events quickly linked together in his mind to form a satisfying picture. What he was not sure of, however, were the implications of what might yet happen. Phillip Garrow was out there somewhere with what appeared to be a keen desperation to get his hands on some phantom gold guineas.
Morton slunk out from behind his desk and left the room with a sense of mingled pleasure and anxiety at this new information.
‘Morning!’ Jack greeted, opening the spare room door. He was dressed in a navy-blue dressing gown with matching slippers.
‘Morning,’ Morton replied. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Yeah, like a baby. All set for the party?’
Morton’s thoughts lurched dramatically away from the Fothergill Case and onto the endless list of jobs which he needed to do today for the party. ‘God, no.’
Jack chuckled. ‘Well, obviously, we’re here to help.’
‘Thanks. Coffee?’ Morton offered.
‘I would love one. Big and strong, please.’
‘Me too,’ Morton grinned.
The next three hours passed for Morton in a haze of tidying, blowing up balloons, hanging banners and helping Juliette to fill the kitchen table with buffet food. The first guest to arrive, at one o’clock precisely, was Morton’s deceased adoptive father’s fiancée, Madge.
‘Hello!’ she said, hugging him tightly, as though they were best friends. In truth, he had not even been minded to invite her until Juliette had persuaded him that it would be a nice gesture. She was in her seventies and still took great care over her appearance. Her white hair had been freshly permed and she wore a cream blouse over a tartan skirt.
‘Lovely to see you again, Madge,’ Morton said. ‘How are you?’
‘Not so bad, thank you. How’s little Grace? I can’t wait to meet her!’
‘She’s in the lounge. Go on through,’ he said, feeling a wash of guilt at not having invited her over before now. He thought quickly about when he had last seen her: had it been at his father’s funeral three years ago? Surely not. No, he remembered. It had been a year after that, when she had been clearing out the last of his father’s things and had discovered the three letters from 1976. As per his insistent request, she had brought them to the house and stayed for a slightly awkward cup of tea.
His Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim were the next to arrive. They greeted him at the door, then made their way inside. Margaret overflowed with delight upon seeing Madge and the three of them immediately struck up a conversation, which surprised Morton; he had had no idea that they had even met.
Another guest arrived, Juliette’s best friend, Lucy. Morton showed her inside, then headed to the kitchen to pick up the tray of champagne glasses, which Laura had just finished filling. ‘Thanks,’ he said to her. ‘Take one for yourself.’
‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ she said with a laugh and took one of the fizzing flutes.
‘Champagne,’ Morton declared in the lounge, carefully holding the tray whilst various hands reached in for the thin glasses. He noticed that Juliette took a glass, then passed it to Lucy, but did not take one for herself. ‘Do you not want any?’
‘Just a water would be great,’ she replied, turning back to her conversation with Lucy.
Morton nodded, as his odd dream of Juliette declaring her pregnancy returned to him. The doorbell sounded and he returned the tray to the kitchen, then answered the door to Juliette’s mum. ‘Hi, Margot.’
‘Hello.’ She kissed him on both cheeks and stepped inside.
‘Champagne?’
‘Lovely—thank you.’
‘It’s just here in the kitchen,’ Morton said, quickly scurrying in to the tray. She waited in the hallway and he returned carrying two glasses. ‘One for Juliette. She’s in the lounge with Grace.’
‘Super,’ she said, taking the flutes and wandering into the lounge.
Morton followed as far as the door, then peered through the crack and watched as Juliette welcomed Margot, who handed her the glass, which, without even taking a sip, Juliette promptly set down with a frown. She clearly was not drinking.
The next guests to arrive were Jeremy and Guy.
‘Hey, brother,’ Jeremy greeted, pulling Morton into his usual bear-hug. Morton smiled, genuinely pleased to see his adoptive brother. He stepped back to take him in fully. Several years in the army had showed on his body; his muscular frame stretched at the tight jeans and check shirt which he was wearing.
‘Hi, Guy,’ Morton said, hugging his brother’s Australian husband. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘You, too.’
Morton closed the front door behind them. ‘So, how are things with you two?’
‘Good, thanks,’ Jeremy answered.
‘And life in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces?’ Morton asked.
Jeremy’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Guy. ‘Well, I’ve got just over a month left, then I’m out. I’ll have done my service.’
‘Really?’ Morton said. ‘It doesn’t seem long ago that you joined up.’
‘Four years, three months,’ Guy chipped in, as if he were counting the days.
‘Wow. So, then what?’
‘Well,’ Guy answered, looking conspiratorially at Jeremy, ‘we’re looking at starting our own business.’
‘Brilliant,’ Morton said without knowing whether or not it was brilliant. ‘What business?’
‘A scone shop,’ Guy answered with a touch of drama.
‘Oh, right,’ Morton said, thinking it quite possibly the last thing that he could have imagined them ever saying. ‘Just scones?’
‘Just scones and drinks,’ Jeremy confirmed. ‘You know there was that craze for cupcakes? We’re hoping to start our own craze for scones.’
‘Sounds great,’ Morton said, trying his best to sound enthusiastic.
‘And…’ Guy started, ‘we’re thinking that our first shop might be somewhere around here.’
‘Really?’ Morton said, now genuinely pleased. Living and working a few streets away from each other, rather than one of them in a God-forsaken warzone, might actually be the thing which could bring them closer together. His relationship with
his brother had developed, of that he was in no doubt, but with Jeremy having been posted to various war zones, which were blacklisted by the Foreign Office as potential holiday destinations, it still suffered from a certain stiltedness.
‘Is that okay with you?’ Jeremy asked.
‘Okay? I think it would be amazing,’ he replied. ‘Not that you need my permission.’
‘Morton,’ Juliette called, appearing at the lounge door, ‘can you do another round with the champagne…’ she spotted Jeremy and Guy and rushed over to them. ‘Hello, boys!’ She threw her arms around both of them. ‘I’m so pleased to see you!’
‘Wait until you hear their news, though,’ Morton said, doing his best attempt at solemnity.
Juliette’s face fell. ‘What?’
Morton left the three of them in an excited babble of conversation. He collected the tray of drinks once again and stood back, like some kind of butler, watching in awe at the peculiar conversation combinations occurring around the lounge: Margaret, Laura and Madge were huddled together in one corner; Jim and Margot were chatting and laughing in another; George was clearly flirting with Lucy; Grace and Jack were playing on the floor in the centre of the room.
Jeremy and Guy, taking a flute each, made a beeline for Margaret, Laura and Madge, where a raft of greetings and introductions took place.
Morton turned to see Juliette heading towards him.
‘Where’s my water?’ she asked.
‘Why are you not drinking?’
‘Why are you insisting I drink?’ she countered.
‘I’m not, but I’ve noticed you’ve not been drinking. You’re not…’
Juliette laughed. ‘Pregnant? No, I can assure you that I’m not pregnant—this month at least—unless it’s by some miracle conception.’ She smiled, rolling her eyes, and went to move past him.
‘Hang on. What’s the problem, then?’
She sighed and said nothing for a moment, as if weighing up whether to say what was on her mind. ‘There’s no problem. I just want to lose the baby weight, that’s all.’ She lifted up her t-shirt and gripped a sausage of fat from her stomach. ‘Look at this.’ He went to speak, to say the obvious, but she cut him short. ‘Don’t say it. Anyway, would it matter if I was pregnant? You look horrified at the idea.’
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 20
