‘Yeh, stupid sod,’ Leo echoed as he cracked his massive knuckles, causing a shiver of fear to trickle down the spine of the bookie’s clerk whose job it was to assist the visitors.
Bill noticed that Zak had given his Edinburgh address as the Travel Lodge in Morrison Street, located near the Haymarket Station but the assistant knew no more than that the fugitive had turned left towards the centre of the city on leaving the shop. Without a further word and certainly none of thanks, Bill turned on his heel and, closely followed by Leo, headed for the Travel Lodge.
‘Poor sod,’ the clerk said to his friend as he watched the backs of the departing pair. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when those two catch up with him.’
But the receptionist at the Motel had bad news for Bill and Leo. Not only had no one with the name Z. Storie stayed the previous night, he could recall seeing no one answering to the description Bill gave. This was no real surprise either to Bill or to Leo. These things took time but at least they were now in the same city as their quarry. The moment they heard about Zak’s good fortune they were completely sincere when they wished him continuing good luck. That way, the next time he placed a bet they would be there waiting when he returned to collect his winnings. It was all very simple.
It was not quite so simple for Chief Inspector Connolly and his sidekick, Roy Fitzpatrick. They had to cancel their trip up to Scotland’s capital when the local police discovered they had arrested the wrong man.
‘At least we know he’s in Edinburgh and with his description presently being circulated, it won’t be long before we get him,’ Fitzpatrick tried to reassure his boss.
Chapter 6
Zachary
Two hundred and fifty pounds better off, but completely unaware that both the police and Connor Sinclair’s men are now hard on his heels, Zachary went up to George IV Bridge where he hoped the Reference Section of Edinburgh’s Central Library was still located. In a dimension where so many things were different, this proved to be one place that seemed unchanged, at least on the outside. Andrew Carnegie’s gift to Edinburgh was exactly where Zachary remembered it being. He needed telephone numbers and with the need to conserve all the cash he could, the library seemed the cheapest way to get them. He knew his brother, Peter, had been an important man in the University of Newcastle upon Tyne, so his first task was to find out if he was still there. Digging out the relevant directory, he opened it to the letter “S” and began scanning. His heart gave a leap when he saw the name, P. L. Storie followed by an address. Leonard was their father’s name and he figured the chance of there being two P. L. Stories in Newcastle was remote. It could only be his brother. While so much had changed for him, it seemed his brother’s life had continued unchanged in this dimension. After writing down his brother’s home number and address, he turned the pages to find the number for the Physics Department at the University. That done, his next task was to find the telephone number for the public library in Croydon. It occurred to him that if he could persuade someone down there to look up the local electoral role, he might discover his wife’s name. He added the number to his list.
He found a telephone in the vestibule and began by telephoning the Reference Department of Croydon’s Central Library. He was in luck. The assistant was not busy and, what is more, she swallowed Zachary’s tale about wanting to send flowers to the lady who lived in number 17 Disraeli Street. According to the story he told, the lady had helped his wife when she had fallen down outside her house and injured her knees. He wanted to send her a bunch of flowers as a ‘thank you’. Because it would take a few minutes to locate the information, the assistant suggested he should hang up and ring back in ten minutes time. Thanking her, he replaced the handset.
While he waited, he rang the Physics Department at Newcastle University.
‘Would you put me in touch with Professor Storie, please?’
‘Do you mean Peter Storie?’ the operator enquired.
‘That’s right, Professor Peter Storie.’
‘The only Peter Storie we have here is a Senior Lecturer, not a Professor. Is it P. L. Storie you want?’
‘Yes, my mistake,’ Zachary said. ‘I just assumed he was a professor. Is he in?’
‘One moment, sir, and I’ll connect you. Who shall I say is calling?’
He should have been ready for the question but he wasn’t. The truth was, he’d been completely thrown by the implication that, like himself, his brother was not, apparently, as successful in this dimension as he was in the other. Confused for a moment he hesitated while he tried to think of a suitable pseudonym. He was sure the receptionist was intrigued by his delay. ‘It’s John Jacobson,’ he finally said.’
‘And which company are you with, sir?’ she said stiffly, disbelief evident in her tone.
‘I’m not with any company. This is a private call.
‘Hello, this is Peter Storie. How may I help you?’ The familiar sound of his brother’s voice was like music to his ears.
‘Hello Pete, it’s me.’ Zachary decided not to give his name in case the operator was still listening. In any case, it was probable his brother was already under surveillance by the police. Better to be cautious at this stage. ‘I’m sorry to ring you at work but I’m in a bit of a fix and I need some help. Could we meet?’
‘Bloody hell, you’ve got a cheek ringing me like this. Where are you?’
‘I’m in Edinburgh, Pete and you’ve got to believe me; I didn’t do what they say I did, cross my heart and hope to die.’ That last expression was what they used to say to each other when they were kids and they needed the other to believe them. ‘Ring my wife, She’ll tell you. I was in Manchester when it happened, honest. I owe some money, sure, but I didn’t do anything else.’
‘Are you all right? You sound different.’
‘I am different, Pete.’ Zachary snorted in exasperation. ‘In fact, you wouldn’t believe just how different I am. This sort of thing changes a man,’ he added not wanting to confuse his brother any more than he was already.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Peter did not sound at all friendly. It was as if he was making the effort simply because blood was supposedly thicker than water.
‘I need time while this thing sorts itself out, which means I need money to keep in hiding. I promise I’ll pay you back when everything blows over, though.’
‘What the hell are you talking about? You must be living in cloud cuckoo land if you think this matter will simply blow over. You haven’t just jumped a red light. My god, man, you’ve absconded with 10,000 quid and two people have been murdered. Give me strength.’
‘I didn't say anything about this thing blowing over. I realize it's far too serious for that. I said "until it sorts itself out". I admit I borrowed the money, Pete. But that’s all it was, a loan. As for that other matter, I had nothing to do with it. You’ve got to believe me, I repeat, I really was in Manchester when it happened. I reckon someone’s trying to fit me up.’
‘If you admit you took the money, why do you need more from me?’
‘I haven’t got it anymore, that’s why.’
‘Where is it, then?’
Zachary decided this was the moment to be economical with the truth. ‘I don’t rightly know, Pete. All I know is I don’t have it any more. Either someone stole it from me or I lost it. Things have been a bit hectic for me these last couple of days.’
‘Lost it on the horses I wouldn’t wonder.’
What a cynic his brother was. In the other dimension, he and his professor brother were the best of pals and there was no way Pete would go on at him like this if he had called wanting some help.
‘I told you, I don’t have it and I don’t know what happened to it. The thing is, will you help me or won’t you? I’m calling from a public phone booth and I’m beginning to run out of change.’
‘How much do you need?’
It was abundantly clear from his tone that Pete was only staying on the line because he felt oblig
ed to help. It was also clear that he was not at all pleased Zak had placed him in such a predicament. Zachary stifled a hot response because he realized he was not being entirely fair to his brother. What right did he have to place Peter in such a compromising position? But beggars can’t be choosers. Through no fault of his, he was in a real fix. He had to take whatever help was available, however unwillingly it was offered.
‘As much as you can afford, Pete. I promise I won’t do anything silly with it and I will pay you back. You can count on it.’
‘The only thing I’m counting on, in fact I’m insisting on this time, is that once I’ve given you what money I can scrape together at such short notice, you won’t try contacting me ever again. I’ve no intention of getting caught up in your messy little life and nor do I want to be charged with assisting a felon. Now, how can I get it to you?’
Zachary hated what he was doing but in his present predicament, he could no longer afford to be choosey. ‘Thanks, Pete; you don’t know how grateful I am. And don’t worry; I’ve changed my appearance so I don’t think anyone will recognize me.’
Peter gave another snort, whether of disbelief or contempt, Zachary could not tell. Resolutely, he soldiered on.
‘As for getting the money to me, I’ve decided that the only way I’m going to clear my name is by going down to Croydon and doing a bit of private digging. I want this matter settled quickly so I thought I’d take a train down to London tomorrow. I could easily break my journey at Newcastle if that’s all right.’
‘I’ve got a full timetable of lectures in the morning and I have to see my Head of Department in the afternoon but I suppose I could meet you sometime at midday,’ He didn’t sound keen.
‘That would suit me fine, Pete. Tell me where to meet you and when.’
‘There’s a little pub just around the corner from the station. It’s called the Morpeth Arms. Anyone can direct you to it. I’ll see you there at midday.’
‘Thanks, Pete. I’ll be there at twelve o’clock sharp without fail.’
At that moment, the pips started and Zachary just had time to call out, ‘Give my love to Kay and the kids.’
It was probably the line disconnecting but just before the phone finally went dead, he thought he heard Pete say, ‘Who?’ Shaking his head, he waited a few minutes more before he once more rang the library down in Croydon.
‘There are just two people registered to vote at number 17 Disraeli Street,’ the assistant informed him. There’s a Zachary Alan Storie and a Jean Alice Storie. I hope that’s what you needed, sir. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?’
It was only when he heard his own name mentioned that it occurred to him to wonder if the assistant had already connected him with the Zachary Storie wanted by the police. There was a good chance she had and, if so, the police might already be monitoring the call. He had to get off the line as quickly as possible.
‘No, nothing else, thank you. You’ve been most helpful. Goodbye.’
So, his wife was called Jean Alice. That was a big step forwards but he wasn’t all the way there, yet. He still had much more to ask his brother when he saw him the following day. Unfortunately, the knowledge that his brother appeared to dislike him intensely, blunted the pleasure of seeing a familiar face that also knew him. It hardly seemed possible, but his situation was definitely deteriorating.
Much to the annoyance of Sinclair’s men, Zachary never placed another bet while he was in Edinburgh. Instead, he found another, cheaper, room for the night, bought a fish-supper, which he ate on a park bench, and then went straight back to his room to catch up on his lost sleep.
During his conversation with Pete, he had suggested that someone was trying to frame him for the murder of the Prentices. He had spoken without thinking but as he munched through his supper, it made him wonder. He could not bring himself to believe he was a murderer, which begged the question, if not he, who was and why?
There was no suggestion in the newspapers that anyone had ransacked the house of the murdered couple, so it seemed unlikely that a burglar had killed them. In fact, Zachary was the prime suspect for the very reason that the police discounted burglary as a motive. The prevailing theory was that, after absconding with the money, only he had a motive for wanting the Prentices out of the way. Now, as he lay in bed thinking, he remembered reading somewhere that murders in the home are usually the result of domestic violence, money or sex, in that order. Domestic violence between the pair seemed highly improbable, as both old people had died in apparently identical circumstances. Also, according to one of the newspapers, the Prentices were both in their seventies, so the likelihood that they were involved in some sexual horse play that had gone wrong was again remote. Which only left money; by far the most likely reason in this case.
The killer had stolen nothing according to friends and relatives. So, if neither he nor a burglar had killed the couple, who then? What about inheritance? Zachary wondered who might benefit from the couple’s death. Perhaps a beneficiary had started to panic when the Prentices bought that insurance policy. What if the old couple were planning to go on an expensive cruise and to start living it up. Perhaps they had decided to spend, spend, spend, while they still could. By running off with their insurance money, Zak had given someone a heaven sent opportunity to get rid of their profligate relatives while, at the same time, throwing the blame onto him. There was a certain logic to the idea and Zachary decided to do what he could to investigate the theory when he got to Croydon.
At Edinburgh’s Waverley Station the following morning, plain-clothes police men were on the lookout for a clean-shaven, fair haired, light complexioned man. Zachary walked right passed them without even realizing they were there. He paid for his ticket out of his recent winnings and caught the ten o’clock train to London. Newcastle would be the first stop.
The train reached Newcastle on time and he found the Morpeth Arms without difficulty. At eleven forty-five he sat in a corner with a newspaper and a pint of best for company while he waited for his brother to show up. The more he discovered about his present dimension, the more he longed to be back where he’d come from. There, Britain was one of the most successful countries in the developed world, envied by other nations. Instead, according to the newspaper he read, the Britain he now lived in had one of the worst health services, transportation systems, education systems and crime rates in the western world. It seemed hard to believe that a country, as highly taxed as was the United Kingdom, could have achieved so little compared with its neighbours. Why were British people willing to accept such low standards from their fellow country men and women, and such incompetence from their politicians? It was a mystery. Even France and Italy, which had changed Governments and Prime Ministers almost every other month for years on end after the end of the Second World War, were steaming ahead of the Britain he now inhabited. Germany was already out of sight. Britain’s form of democracy clearly was not working.
As he looked up from an article about some footballer and his wife who, even when they had nothing to say or do, inexplicably, could still grab the headlines, he saw his brother. As he himself now looked different, so too did Peter. His brother looked shabbier and older than he remembered him being but he was still recognizably Pete. Zachary lifted his arm when Pete, who was scanning the room, swung his eyes in his direction. He saw his brother’s face stiffen as he looked through his brother’s disguise finally to recognize him. Then, without any sort of smile of recognition, he began walking towards Zak who got up with a smile and extended his hand in greeting, which Pete ignored. Shrugging, Zachary slumped back into his seat and asked, ‘Can I get you anything, Pete?’
‘No, I want to get this little transaction over and done with as quickly as possible and then I want you out of my life.’
‘At least sit down, for a minute, won’t you,’ Zachary pleaded.
Reluctance clearly etched onto his face, Pete sank into one of the other seats.
It was clear that
Pete had a very low opinion of his older brother and was quite happy to show it. While he waited, Zachary had wondered if he should take his brother into his confidence but faced with such truculence he decided against it. Pete would only assume he was making up a wild cock-and-bull story to try to absolve himself from all responsibility for the difficulties in which he was currently embroiled. All Zachary could do was try to persuade his brother that he was nowhere near as black as the police and press were painting him. Making sure he was not overheard, he began.
‘I’m sure you’ve read what they’re saying about me, Pete, but please believe me, I’m not a killer.’
‘Why should it matter what I believe?’
‘It matters to me,’ Zachary said vehemently.
Pete sat with his head down, not looking at his brother. Zachary waited a moment but when Pete refused either to look up or to say anything, he sighed.
‘I can’t go into details but I’m in a serious fix. The fact is, I’ve no memory of what’s been happening to me recently, so if you could spare me a few minutes, I’d be most grateful.’
Pete looked up. ‘Have you been taking drugs as well as gambling and thieving?’ came his surprise question.
‘What drugs? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Zachary was genuinely confused. He knew little to nothing about drugs and the effects some of them could have on one’s memory.
‘Why can’t you remember anything, then?’
‘I may tell you one of these days, Pete, but now is not the time. You’ll just have to take my word for it when I tell you that it isn’t because I’ve done anything seriously wrong that I’m in this present fix. It’s just a combination of unbelievable circumstances.’
‘Are you telling me you didn’t take that money?’ Pete did not attempt to keep the sneer of disbelief from his voice.
‘Technically and according to the police, I did steal the money. According to Jean, I only ever intended borrowing it for a short time before I used it for its proper purpose. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost it before I could repay it. Anyway, I think that’s what happened because I honestly can’t remember anything about it. As for the murders, I was a couple of hundred miles away and in hiding when they took place. I can’t prove that either because I kept myself to myself; not that I remember that, either.’
SWITCHED: The man who lost his body but kept his mind. Page 11
