by Mark Daydy
“We’re just helping Libby, that’s all. It’s barely a mystery worthy of the word. She and Eddie were unlucky to get caught out and we’re unlikely to get to the bottom of it.”
“Cabbage and Parsnips would never say that.”
“We’ll do our best, but we can’t perform miracles.”
“It’s funny though – I can’t imagine Eddie and Libby hiding a twenty-grand antique in the loft.”
“They couldn’t afford the insurance.”
“Yes, but why not sell it and buy a copy you could display in the lounge?”
“It was an investment for a rainy day.”
“Maybe,” said Jane, musing. “We don’t know much about the real Eddie though, do we. We only have the ‘pillar of the community’ mantra to go by. What a cliché that is.”
“Your mum’s a pillar of the community.”
“Exactly. All the Howards are, and so are those who are allowed to marry into the family.”
Lucy bristled slightly. “There’s nothing wrong with being an upstanding person in an upstanding family,” she said.
“I don’t hate the family,” said Jane. “I just don’t like the way it’s made certain people lazy by giving them a sense of entitlement. For me, life’s about questioning, challenging, doing. We should be building our reputations on our efforts, not have one based on an ancestor’s standing.”
“Yes… you’re not wrong.”
A silence ensued. It lasted a little too long.
“Getting back to smart Eddie…” Jane eventually said, “…how come he got caught out?”
“It’s a good copy. He wasn’t to know.”
“I’m not saying he should have spotted it was a dud. I’m saying a smart person being given a twenty-grand cup in lieu of cash might have had it professionally valued.”
Lucy thought about that for a moment.
“There are two possibilities,” she said. “Either Eddie wasn’t so smart, or he knew it was a fake. The thing is… if he knew it was a copy worth a few hundred, why hide it in the loft?”
“We need some info on Eddie’s associates back then. Basically, who gave him the dud as payment?”
Lucy nodded and checked her phone. Still no contact from Nick.
“What do you think we should do?” she asked.
Jane puffed out her cheeks. “No idea. It’s a shame you never became a police officer.”
Lucy pretended she didn’t hear it.
“It’s not easy being a Howard,” said Jane.
“You’re a Ranscombe. I’m a Holt.”
“True. We’ve been watered down.”
They spent the rest of their lunch talking about neutral topics – TV, the weather, globalization. Only after Jane had paid the bill and they were nursing the last of their water, did they touch on their shared history.
“It wasn’t all rosy when we were young,” said Jane.
“We certainly had a lot to live up to,” said Lucy. “When it came to upholding family values, my mum was worse than yours.”
“You’re right there. Some days my mum would drive me absolutely nuts, but I could always console myself that at least I didn’t have to live with cranky Aunt Sylvia.”
Lucy found it strange when people referred to her parents as Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Eric. It made them sound like strangers. She supposed Jane felt the same way about her parents being called Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Jonathan.
“Uncle Jonathan’s a good man,” Lucy considered aloud.
“Don’t say it – a regular pillar, blah, blah, blah. For the record, he and Mum had a miserable marriage. Yes, he ran a successful catering business and was a deputy mayor, but he was as cold as frost. In fairness, he’s mellowed with age and a second wife.”
Lucy put her glass down. This was getting them nowhere.
“Perhaps we should focus on Eddie’s past,” she said. “I don’t want to spend weeks on this. We need to make a few enquiries and report back to Libby. I’m not hopeful but I’m keen to get started.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
Jane shrugged. “Not sure. I thought we’d try some antiques places in the area. Show them a photo of the chalice. See if it jogs any memories.”
Lucy wasn’t impressed. “Don’t you think we should go after one of Eddie’s old business associates?”
“Like who?”
Here we go.
Lucy stood up from her chair.
“How about we try Fast Frankie at a snooker hall in Brighton?”
“What?”
“I’ve got an address. Come on.”
Jane frowned as she got up.
“Lucy, nobody’s been called Fast Frankie since 1962.”
But Lucy was already heading for the door.
11. Brighton
Their journey to Brighton in Jane’s small Fiat began with a surprise.
“Did I mention I saw Greg?” said Jane.
Lucy’s stomach tightened. She hated it when someone boldly, invasively, suddenly pronounced things like ‘I saw Greg’ or ‘I’ve reached a decision about your job’ or ‘I have the results of your scan.’
“Oh?” Lucy managed.
“He works for one of the supermarkets. Delivering groceries.”
“They allow that?”
“How do you mean?”
“He has a criminal record.”
“You think he might steal the bananas?”
“No, I just wondered. I suppose it was thirty years ago.”
“He looked well.”
“Oh. Did he suggest anything?”
“What, like a meet-up? He did, actually.”
“What did you say?”
“I agreed to have a weekend away with him.”
“Really?”
“No, of course not. I told him my husband wouldn’t like it.”
“But you’re divorced.”
“Lucy, what is the matter with you? Why do you have to be so literal?”
But Lucy’s brain was always muddled when it came to memories of Greg. Of course, she’d simply responded to a call for help. It just so happened to have ended with her being sick each night with cold sweat dread of pregnancy and prosecution. The relief when she wasn’t charged by the police. The relief when she wasn’t pregnant. The plummet in self-esteem. The end of hope. Lucy saved Jane from trouble by covering up her involvement. And Jane flourished.
*
At the end of a sunny half-hour drive during which Lucy shared what little she knew about Uncle Eddie, Jason Hall and Francis Randolph, the two cousins were cruising out of Hove into Brighton. To their left, the grand Regency façade of Brunswick Terrace; to their right, the silver sea. They were soon passing the wreckage of the West Pier and Lucy was looking forward to seeing the Palace Pier. They turned off before they reached it though in order to find a parking spot. It was a further ten-minute walk before they were approaching their destination in the heart of the town.
“Lots of innuendo with snooker,” said Jane.
“None of which we need to go into,” said Lucy.
“I had a boyfriend who loved snooker smut in the bedroom. A firm grip on his cue. Endless references to balls. You get the idea.”
“I’m assuming you weren’t together long.”
“No.”
The snooker hall was above a pub, with a separate entrance at the top of a rusting iron staircase bolted to the side of the building. A sign on the door advised: Members Only.
Jane pushed it open.
Their eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark interior. Even then, it was still quite gloomy. The exception was the bright fluorescent strip-light over one of the six tables where a game was taking place. Beyond it, in the far corner, three men were seated at a table playing cards.
Lucy looked around. There didn’t seem to be a reception desk.
“Excuse me,” Jane called out, not particularly targeting anyone. “We’re looking for Francis Randolph.”
Her
enquiry was met with silence and blank stares.
“Frankie Randolph?” she added. “Or maybe Fast Frankie?”
More blank stares.
Lucy had an idea. Maybe Francis Randolph had more than one nickname.
Randolph… Randolph…
“He could be Randy,” she ventured.
“Lots of men are randy, love,” said a card player.
The others laughed.
“This is a respectable establishment,” said one of the snooker players with faux indignation.
“We were sent by Jason Hall,” said Lucy, pretending she couldn’t hear their mockery. “He’s friends with Francis.”
But it was hopeless.
A moment later, back at the bottom of the iron staircase, Jane huffed.
“That went well.”
Lucy was wondering what to do next when the door at the top of the stairs opened. A man in his fifties peered down at them.
“What kind of place does Jason run?”
“Pardon?” said Jane.
“I said what kind of place does Jason run?”
“A pawnbroker’s,” said Lucy.
“What’s the name of the building opposite?”
“St Luke’s Church.”
The man nodded slowly, as if considering it.
“You don’t look like police,” he said.
“We’re not,” said Lucy, wishing she could say they were.
“There’s an auction starting at four. It might be worth your while.”
*
Lucy and Jane were strolling along the promenade overlooking the beach just west of the Palace Pier. They had around forty minutes to kill before the off-grid auction was due to start at the address the snooker club member had given them.
Lucy had doubts though. She was beginning to sense that they weren’t moving forward with Libby’s chalice but becoming sucked into some kind of semi-criminal cesspit. Eleanor felt it might take a week or two to get results and, so far, nothing suggested she was wrong. Libby’s birthday – the real reason for coming to Sussex – seemed a long time ago.
“Do you remember coming to Brighton when we were kids?” said Jane.
“Yes, I do. Our parents usually drove, but I remember one time we came by train…”
Jane broke into a smile.
“Did we misbehave?”
“Not we, Jane. You. You were rude about a couple.”
“I remember! You said the man wanted to grope the woman.”
“No, that’s what you told our parents. You broadcast it to the entire carriage.”
“Oh… so I did. And you got the blame.”
“Yes, I got the blame.”
Jane stopped to face the sea, seemingly lost in thought. Lucy stopped beside her. There weren’t too many people on the beach. The busy summer season was over, and most families were back at work and school.
“You must miss them,” Jane eventually said.
“I can see them now… down on the sand in deckchairs… Dad smoking one of his fifty a day… Mum reading a magazine…”
“Yeah… I can see that too.”
A thought occurred to Lucy. “Do you keep in touch with your dad?”
“Yes, I go to see him once a month. It’s hard to believe he’s eighty.”
“Where does he live?”
“Near Southampton. He and Eve are pretty active. They’ll go out for a meal or take in a show. And they have two weeks in Spain every April and October.”
“That’s nice to hear. I’m glad.”
Jonathan’s second wife, Eve, sounded perfect for him. Eleanor had never liked restaurants or shows or travel.
“Do you remember buying fish and chips hereabouts?” said Jane. “It was that time our parents were trying to agree on a suitable restaurant for lunch.”
“Yes, while they were discussing it, we nipped off to that shack and came back giggling and stuffing our faces from paper wrappers.”
For Lucy, it was a warm, funny childhood memory. Although, now she thought of it, she did get into trouble for encouraging Jane. The perpetual price of being six months older.
“We were best buddies,” said Jane.
“Yes, we were.”
Lucy recalled their youth again. They were fourteen. But Jane had a boyfriend who she made sure she kissed in front of Lucy. Lucy recalled the dread. The sickness in the pit of her stomach. The destabilization. Their friendship seeming to be in danger with that kiss. While Jane was attempting to engage with adulthood, Lucy clung to the comfort of childhood. The boy wasn’t even worthy. She’d seen him guzzle cola and attempt to burp louder than a foghorn. You never got that in a Jane Austin novel.
“Lucy… I’m hoping we can be friends again.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted – for us to be friends. If I could turn back the clock…”
“I probably owe you money. You were always bailing me out.”
“You led a busy social life. Even though we were at school.”
“Ah school… do you remember that trip to the Natural History Museum?”
Lucy broke into a smile. The school trip to London was a fond memory. She and Jane practically laughed their way through the entire day, enjoying the many displays, but also cementing their friendship.
“I remember us straining not to giggle at Mr Trent creeping off every half hour for a cigarette,” she said.
Jane laughed. “Old Mr Trent… loose in the Natural History Museum.”
“He was probably only fifty.”
“He looked a hundred and fifty. I’m surprised he wasn’t put on display.”
“We got ticked off by Mrs Lille,” Lucy recalled.
“Ah, the joyful Mrs Lille,” said Jane, theatrically. “Did we ever see her smile?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No… mind you, we only knew her seven years – we probably didn’t allow enough time.”
Lucy immersed herself in the memories. Up until that time, she’d had numerous friends come into her sphere, but becoming best mates with her cousin had proved to be something else entirely. Never had she spent time with someone who made her laugh so much and who continually got her into minor scrapes with authority.
“I’m not a joker anymore,” said Jane, somewhat out of kilter with the mood.
“No, well, everyone moves on.”
“I’m a serious businesswoman.”
“I know. You’ve worked hard to get where you are.”
“I just sometimes wonder if I’ve left a bit of me behind somewhere on the journey. Do you know the last time I took a week off work? It must be six months.”
“I’m the same,” said Lucy. “I rarely take time off work.”
A silence fell. Lucy accepted that their reasons for an over-commitment to work would be different. She hoped Jane wouldn’t point that out.
*
Just before four o’clock, Lucy and Jane approached the loading bay at the rear of a 1950s warehouse on a small industrial estate. The roll-down metal shutters were raised and guarded by a man who resembled a sumo wrestler squeezed into a slimline suit. He nodded to a middle-aged man in smart business attire entering the premises.
Lucy felt out of place. She wasn’t at all sure how to behave.
“Going somewhere, ladies?” the wrestler asked.
“The auction,” said Jane.
“Invited guests only.”
He seemed confident that they weren’t on any list.
“We’re friends of Nick Taylor,” said Lucy. “Although we’ve actually come to meet up with Fast Frankie.”
“I said goodbye.”
“Jason Hall sent us,” Lucy added, feeling a complete twit.
“If you’re not on the list, you can’t come in. Now go away before I turn ugly.”
“You’re already there,” said Jane, turning on her heels.
“Sorry about that,” said Lucy before hurrying after her cousin.
A Mercedes pulled into a parking space to their right. A man w
earing far too much gold got out and smiled at them.
“We’re friends of Fast Frankie,” said Jane.
“Oh?” said the man, raising his sunglasses. “Remind him he owes me two hundred.”
“Is he here today?”
“I just told you – he owes me two hundred. So no, he won’t be here today.”
As they made it back to the street, a smart BMW pulled up opposite.
“He’ll know,” said Jane.
Lucy tried to look positive, but she was hating every second of this part of their enquiries. If Jane was hating it too, it didn’t show.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Francis Randolph.”
The man getting out of the car shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Come on, everyone knows Fast Frankie. He probably owes you money.”
The man eyed them slowly.
“Are you friends of Frankie’s?”
Jane nodded.
“Yes, good friends.”
“Then you’ll know he’s somewhere in the south of Ireland. Or was it the north of Switzerland?”
“Right. Thanks.” Jane turned to Lucy. “He’s somewhere in the south or north of Ireland or Switzerland.”
Lucy sighed. “They don’t trust outsiders.”
“No, they don’t. Do you think there’s a way to gain their confidence?”
“I doubt it.”
“If you ladies are done…?”
As the man strode off to the auction, the cousins headed back to Jane’s car.
“Maybe we’re the wrong people for the job,” said Lucy.
“You’re not giving up already?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like we’re two little girls playing a game. I mean, seriously, how are we helping Libby? Don’t we have lives to lead?”
Jane sighed. “I know what you mean. It does seem a complete waste of time. What would they do on TV about now?”
“Take an ad break?” Lucy mused.
12. What Am I Bid…?
Thirty minutes after leaving Brighton, Jane dropped Lucy at Taylor’s Antiques with a warning.
“If he offers to show you a bed knob, get out of there. Or maybe get in there. Your choice.”
“I’ll call you later,” said Lucy. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
