When Beggars Dye

by Peter Hey

  ‘Please, my dear, I’d be very grateful. Look, I never married. I took over the family business. Rightfully at least a share of it should have been Woody’s. The business prospered. I wouldn’t say I was rich, Miss Madden, but I have no children, nor do I have other nieces or nephews. Assuming this Christopher is, well, a decent, normal young man, then what money I’ve got should probably go to him.’

  Jane thanked Herb for his time and promised to update him on any progress she made finding his great-nephew. In return, she asked that he let her know if anything should come to mind that might shed light on Mary’s relationship with her family.

  When Jane put down the phone she had a slightly uneasy feeling. There was a newly added financial carrot that might make her job easier, but she wasn’t sure what Herb Jensen had meant by ‘a decent, normal young man’. Either way, everything still hung on her tracing Mary’s surviving descendants.

  A favour

  Jane had made progress in her search for Mary’s grandchildren. She’d sent another message to Chris Aimson’s Facebook profile, this time stating that there was an elderly and childless American gentleman searching for his brother’s lost grandson. She didn’t explicitly mention any form of inheritance, but knew it was an obvious inference. The next morning there was a reply. Chris Aimson’s full name was indeed Christopher Robert Aimson. After a brief exchange, she established that he was single parent living in a flat in north London, and he agreed to her calling on him in two days’ time.

  Locating Dean Smith, however, was proving a more intractable problem. Jane realised the time had come to make the phone call she’d been dreading. She didn’t like asking for favours, particularly from someone she sometimes wished she would never see or talk to again.

  ‘Dave speaking’

  ‘Dave, it’s Jane. You got a minute or two?’

  A slight pause. ‘Yeah, yeah. What can I do for you, sweetheart?’

  Another pause whilst the historic endearment sank in at both ends of the line. ‘I need to ask you a favour. Sorry, how are you first? And how’s Bridget?’ Jane tried hard to pronounce the name of her replacement evenly and without bitterness.

  ‘We’re well, thanks. And you? You’re keeping on the straight and narrow?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry, I’m good. Look Dave, I’ve set up this business. You know I got into family history? Well, I’m doing it professionally now and my current case involves tracking down someone who’s still alive. Normally I’ll be looking for relatives who are long dead, but this is very much the exception. And I need some help.’

  ‘You’re not asking me to break the law, are you, Janey?’

  ‘Since when did you become a stickler for the rules? I’m just asking you to tap a name into a computer. No-one is ever going to find out and you know I’m an ex-policewoman who understands the rules of the game. I’m not some madwoman who’s going to leave you in the shit.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not a madwoman, Janey? No-one knows better than me that you’ve had your moments.’

  ‘So we’ll have something on each other and, besides, you owe me for… for Bridget.’ The bitterness was no longer suppressed.

  ‘We already have something on each other, my love. And I thought I gave you the car because I owed you.’

  ‘Dean Ernald James Smith.’ Jane spelt out Ernald. ‘Despite being a Smith, Ernald is pretty unique. There’s only going to be one. Have you written it down yet?’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. Where’s my pen? Okay, Dean Ernald James Smith. I’m not at work right now. I’ll see what I can find and call you back. When I get a chance. Could be tomorrow, I’ll see. Oh, and Jane? This is a one-off. For Bridget you get one car and one phone call. Kapeesh?’

  The following morning, Jane was gazing at clouds through the window of the small bedroom she considered her office, when her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her mobile phone. Dave’s face came up on her screen. He looked handsome, reliable and strong. It was her favourite photo of him. She made a mental note to delete it.

  ‘Dave, thanks for calling back.’

  ‘The things I do for you, Janey.’

  ‘So what have you got? Hang on, I’ll just switch on my tape recorder so I can blackmail you at some future date.’

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny. Do you want the lowdown on Dean Ernald James Smith or not?’

  ‘I would like the lowdown on Mister Smith, Dave. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Well, it was an easy one. Turns out Dean is well known to our colleagues in the Derbyshire Constabulary. He’s no stranger to their chums in Nottinghamshire either. I went through training with a DI who’s based in Chesterfield. I stuck my neck way out for you, gave him a call and pulled the old pals act. He knows Dean all right. Proper little tealeaf. Convictions for shoplifting, handling stolen goods, burglary, fiddling his electricity meter, drunk and disorderly, you name it. All pretty minor-league stuff.’

  Jane found herself slipping back into the mindset of a policewoman. ‘Still, he must have been sent down at least once with that sheet.’

  ‘He did a stint for doing over a car accessory shop just outside Derby. Listen to this – as well as a deficiency in honesty, he’s not the brightest of God’s creatures either. He was wandering around in full view of the CCTV. He had his hood up, but you see him looking straight at the camera in one shot apparently. Our Mastermind candidate then pulls a tin of spray paint off a nearby shelf and squirts the camera. What did he think that was going to do once he’s looked into the thing? Burk. Not only is he stupid, but he’s not popular either. Someone grassed him up almost immediately. The local uniform raided his council flat and all the stuff from the car shop was piled up inside the hallway. The hoodie he was wearing in the video was in a pile of dirty washing in the kitchen. I don’t think he bothered entering a not guilty plea. He may be an idiot, but he’s not totally brain-dead.’

  ‘So you’ve taken a liking to the guy, Dave?’

  ‘Yeah, right. My type of fellah. The sort of bloke that makes a policeman’s world go round. Scumbag.’

  ‘So, how can I get in touch with him? Do you have the address of that council flat?’

  ‘Jane, hold your horses. Two things – a) he got kicked out of the flat for, well, being a scumbag. And b) he can turn nasty. If you were still in the force, I wouldn’t let you go near him without backup. A bit of muscle to give him a slap if he got lively. He’s a bit of a runt, apparently, but a runt with a temper. The sort who knocks his girlfriends around. One used to call 999 on him, but always got cold feet when it came to pressing charges.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him with Tommy. He’s my partner in this family history business.’

  ‘Tommy? You mean that streak of piss who lives on the Internet and is frightened to leave his own front door? What fucking good would he be?’

  ‘He looks the part. Sort of. I’ll do the talking. Look, we’ll be fine. I’ll be careful. I’m not exactly a novice when it comes to handling lowlife. And top of the class in self-defence at police college, don’t forget.’

  ‘Amongst the women.’

  ‘Don’t be sexist, Dave. So, where do I find Dean Smith?’

  Dave answered with obvious reluctance in his voice. ‘No fixed abode. Living in or around a place called Dowley in Derbyshire. Sleeping on other people’s sofas, you know the drill. That’s all I’ve got.’

  Jane’s ears had pricked up at the name of the village. ‘Hopefully it’s enough. I’ve been to Dowley and it’s pretty small. I can ask around locally. Should be able to find someone who knows him.’

  ‘Jane love, be careful. Watch yourself. If you do find him and he does turn nasty, just tell him your husband’s a six-foot-four copper who’ll rip his arms out of their sockets if he dares lay a finger on you.’ Mid-sentence, Dave’s tone had flipped from pleading to menacing.

  ‘You’re not my husband anymore, but thanks, Dave. Thanks for caring.’

  ‘I always cared, Jane. I know I let you down. I know I hurt you,
but it wasn’t because I didn’t care. It was just because…’ Dave struggled for a cogent explanation. ‘Because these things happen. I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  The line went quiet as dormant feelings broke the surface, like desert flowers in the rain. They wilted back almost immediately. Both Jane and Dave knew their relationship was too far gone to ever blossom again.

  Jane decided it was time to end the call. ‘Dave, you’re a star. I probably owe you now. And don’t worry, I’m a big girl. And not a stupid one either. See you around.’

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ replied Dave. There was intended humour in the words, but no levity in his voice.

  Jane hung up. Another trip to Dowley beckoned. She had lied about taking Tommy. It would be unfair to ask him and Dave’s assessment of his utility was accurate. This was something she would handle on her own. She was, after all, a big girl.

  Chris Aimson

  Chris Aimson lived in a modest apartment in an unfashionable part of north west London. The three-storey 1980s block was a 15-minute walk from the nearest tube station, on one of the outer branches of the network. Driving had seemed a much easier option, and Jane had no difficulty parking in the street outside. She climbed the open stairs to the first floor and rang the bell of flat number six. She heard noises within but it was a good two minutes before the door cracked open on its chain. A good looking though pale man in his forties, jet-black hair peppered with grey, peered through the gap. He scanned Jane briefly before releasing the chain and opening the door properly.

  Jane spoke first. ‘Chris? I’m Jane Madden. Thanks for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Jane. Lovely to meet you. Thanks for coming all this way. Nottingham, you said. I haven’t been there for years. Nice city.’

  ‘Yes, it’s my home town, but I lived in London for a while. I’m not sure I miss the hustle and bustle of the Big Smoke, as my grandad used to call it.’

  Chris nodded slowly as if his capacity for small talk was becoming exhausted. ‘Please come on through,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m sorry we’re in a bit of a mess. I meant to tidy up but I’m having one of my days, I’m afraid.’

  He turned and started down the short hallway. He was leaning on a stick, and his movements were slow and deliberate like those of a much older man. He led the way into a bright sitting room and gestured that Jane sit opposite him on a trendy-looking sofa. He himself took a more upright wooden chair next to the window. It seemed to be an effort lowering himself down, but he immediately began to rise again.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I should have offered you a drink. What would you like?’

  Jane gestured him to stay seated. ‘I’m absolutely fine, thank you. I drink far too much coffee anyway. Makes me jumpy if I’m not careful. Please don’t worry.’

  Chris smiled in gratitude and then answered Jane’s unspoken question. ‘Multiple sclerosis. It was undiagnosed for years then it really kicked in. I go up and down. Today I’m a bit down. Jean Paul was being a bit of a bugger earlier. Wore me out. Fortunately, I got him off to sleep. He’s in the next room.’

  ‘Jean Paul is your son?’

  ‘That’s right. Happiest day of my life when the adoption came through. It’s been rather downhill since then. First the MS diagnosis and then Henri had his stupid motorbike accident.’

  ‘Henri?’

  ‘My partner. He had one those enormous Harley Davidsons and a bright chrome helmet. I told him bikes were death traps, but he thought he looked so cool. And then one day he was hit by a truck and it was goodbye and adieu, Henri.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That must have been awful.’

  ‘Jean Paul kept me going. Apart from the odd tantrum, he’s an adorable little boy. I worry what this damned illness is going to mean for us. I know they’re going to take him away from me at some stage.’ Chris hesitated and tried to sound more business-like. ‘Anyway, you didn’t come to listen to me moan. You wanted to ask me about my ancestry?’

  Chris stopped talking but quickly interrupted his own silence. ‘Oh look, I’m sorry I ignored your messages at first. It’s just that when I’m not feeling great, I don’t want to talk to anyone. And then you mentioned an elderly American relative. I’m really not a grasping gold-digger in search of an inheritance.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jane.

  ‘It’s just that…‘ Chris’s face suggested a man more tired than guilty. ‘I don’t have anyone, no family of my own, and Henri’s parents totally disowned him when he came out. I had this sudden fantasy that Jean Paul and I could be rescued by an unknown benefactor on the other side of the Atlantic. I’m sure that’s not how life works, but you grasp at straws sometimes.’

  Something told Jane that she should be wary of raising Chris’s hopes. ‘I don’t know my American contact’s full intentions, I’m afraid. But if we double-check that you and he are related, then who knows? He’s certainly said he wants to get in touch with you, assuming you’re happy with that.’

  Chris confirmed his full name and birthdate and those of both his parents. All the details checked out. Jane explained she was working on behalf of a different branch of his family which, like his American great-uncle, was estranged from Chris’s mother and grandmother. Jane didn’t elaborate on the reasons but asked Chris what he knew of his maternal line.

  ‘Mum was from Derbyshire. She left home when she was no more than 16, I think. Got a job at a factory in Birmingham. She didn’t like talking about her childhood, but I know she hated her father.’

  Jane’s eyes widened. ’Was he her father or stepfather?’

  ‘Her father, I’m sure. She never said anything about a stepfather.’

  Jane briefly pondered whether the truth about her parentage could have been kept from Lois herself. ‘Sorry for interrupting, Chris. Please tell me anything you remember.’

  ‘Mum’s dad was a drunken bully with really extreme right-wing views. She once told me he lost the sight in his right eye during a fracas with anti-fascists before the war. It wasn’t the Battle of Cable Street, but something like that.’

  Jane nodded her understanding and Chris carried on. ‘Needless to say, the bastard was on the wrong side, marching with Mosley's Blackshirts. Mum said the injury didn’t spoil my grandfather’s pretty face and he could be a real charmer when he wanted. Led my grandmother a right dance. Knocked her around more than once as well. My mum inherited his looks – she was a stunner when she was young – but fortunately not his personality or his politics.’

  Chris’s expression glazed as his mind reached back to a beautiful and caring young woman, the only one he might ever love. He breathed deeply and then pressed on with her story.

  ‘When she left home, she swore never to have anything to do with him ever again. She still saw her mum occasionally. I vaguely recall meeting an old lady when I was very small, but my grandfather found out and that was that. It’s easy to say my grandmother should have left him, but I guess it’s not always that easy. She’d always idolised him, apparently. There was definitely some kind of hold.’

  Chris shrugged his shoulders to indicate he had no more to tell, so Jane probed further. ‘Did your mother ever speak about your grandmother’s family?’

  ‘Yes and no. She never mentioned any names, but she did tell me that my grandfather had started some kind of fight and it led to a permanent falling-out.’

  ‘You don’t know what the fight was about?’

  ‘Sorry, no. As I said, my mum really didn’t like talking about it. It brought back the ghosts of an unhappy past. And I think she felt guilty about losing touch with my grandmother.’

  ‘Did your mum ever talk about having a brother?’

  ‘Oh sorry, yes. I forgot about him. Nasty piece of work, she said. Took after his father, without the looks and charm. She was happy to cut him out of her life, too.’

  ‘Did she ever mention a US airman who was killed during the war?’

  Chris shook his head and looked blank. Jane asked a few more questions but it became
clear he’d divulged all he knew. It was her turn to slot pieces into the mosaic of his family background.

  He sat and listened quietly as she drew out his genealogy, restricting herself to the last two or three generations. The fact that his grandmother had been disowned by her family fitted with his recollection of the quarrel caused by his grandfather. On the other hand, Chris struggled to believe that his mother had been fathered by another man. In response, Jane produced the paper trail that showed Woodrow Jensen was Chris’s real grandfather, not James Smith, the drunken fascist sympathiser. Chris’s doubts were based on physical appearance; he’d always understood a shared likeness between supposed father and daughter, but he began to recognise an alternative form of inheritance and an explanation for their difference in character. He also believed there was a genetic element to human sexuality and saw a source for his own orientation in the clumsy implications of the newspaper article describing Woodrow Jensen’s death.

  Before leaving Chris’s flat, Jane asked that he let her know if any buried memories of his mother’s past were to surface. In return, she said she would tell Herb Jensen she had found his lost great-nephew. She left it to Chris to establish contact between them. She felt obliged to warn that the old man might struggle with Chris’s homosexuality, as he’d struggled with his brother Woody’s for the last 70 years.

  In her heart, Jane hoped Herb Jensen’s Christian faith would guide him towards love and charity rather than preoccupying him with notions of sin or biblical prohibition. In her head, she wasn’t convinced his deep-seated beliefs could be abandoned so easily.

  Inspiration and adulation

  Jane knew her meeting with Chris Aimson had provided little more than character sketches for some of the cast in the Dye family drama. He had confirmed there had been a falling-out, a fight of some description, and that it led to an irreconcilable separation. But that had already been clear. She was no nearer understanding the nature of the disagreement. What had been so unacceptably bad that Mary Dye’s existence was forever denied by the rest of her family? There were clues in her husband’s political leanings, but would that have been enough?