The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, it’s Peter Vaughan, right? He’s the one everyone thinks is Mr Reliable. It’s Peter Vaughan that girl behind the bar seems so keen on, judging by the number of times she’s looked this way. Nice-looking girl too – and why wouldn’t she be impressed by someone like Peter Vaughan? Of course . . . she might not feel the same way about Martin Adams.’

  ‘OK, you’ve found me,’ he says, tired of the constant baiting. ‘So what happens now? You think there’s that much mileage in a story about me? After all this time?’

  O’Halloran reaches out and puts a calming hand on his to alert him to the fact that he’s again in danger of attracting attention to himself.

  ‘Martin . . . Peter,’ he corrects himself. ‘I don’t want to write an article about you – not unless you leave me with no choice.’ He pauses and takes a look around the room before resuming. ‘I don’t see journalism as the way forward for me now. No one seems that anxious to snap me up full-time so I don’t see why I should hand over something like this when it’s me who’s done all the donkey work, know what I mean?’

  Peter frowns. He hardly dares to hope. Experience has taught him better than that.

  ‘I don’t understand. You say you’d rather not go to the press unless I leave you no choice, but what does that mean?’

  ‘Easy,’ says O’Halloran, looking around him and then leaning forward again, as if to make sure they can’t be overheard. ‘It means you’re going to take me with you to see John Michael.’

  February 2008: Ellen

  Eudora’s laptop proved to be something of an anti-climax. No sooner had they powered it up than they were denied access by a password request. Kate was resolutely optimistic at first. She fully expected the door to swing open for her after three or four guesses – this was after all what usually happened in films. Unfortunately any attempt to find words that might be personal or significant for Eudora was seriously hampered by the fact that they knew next to nothing about her – the reason they were trying to gain access in the first place. Eventually, after she’d tapped in a series of combinations involving Eudora’s name and initials, the system picked up on what was happening and timed them out anyway.

  Despite her initial frustration, Ellen was mildly encouraged by this turn of events. Would Eudora have gone to the trouble of finding out about password protection just for the sake of it? If nothing else, it at least suggested there might be something on the hard drive that she wanted to keep away from prying eyes.

  ‘Not a lot of use to us if we can’t get in though, is it?’ sighed Kate. ‘What about the lawyer you met? Maybe she’s left that sort of information with him?’

  ‘I’m not even meant to have the laptop yet. Besides, I can’t imagine she’d leave a password with her solicitor – why would anyone do that?’

  ‘Well, if we can’t get in through the front door, we need some sort of IT geek who can get us in through the back.’

  ‘I suppose I could ask Alan . . . who is fifty if he’s a day,’ she added, catching the glint of amusement in Kate’s eye.

  ‘Nothing wrong with fifty.’

  ‘. . . and wears a hoodie and baseball cap. Back to front.’

  ‘Nice. So this guy’s your techie?’

  ‘Groundsman, actually. Looks after the pitch-and-putt course. Long story. But if he can’t get into it, he’ll put us on to someone who can.’

  They agreed she would take the laptop into work with her the following day. If Alan thought he could do something with it, she’d free him up for the day to work on it.

  On her own computer, she tried Googling Eudora Nash and came up with 43,800 results, many of which seemed to relate in some way to an American author neither she nor Kate had heard of. They waded through them for a while, then tried to refine the search by adding Oakham to the search but met with no success at all.

  The private-investigation agency was a disappointment as well. They managed to track down a press announcement from a company called ‘The Beresford Management Group’, which had apparently taken over SJM just over two years ago. They checked their website for any reference to a Stuart Mahon but found none. They rang the listed phone number but, as expected at that time of evening, it went to voicemail, giving details of the normal office hours. Another task for tomorrow.

  Googling O’Halloran did at least bring some success. This time there were 140,000 results but once they’d skipped through the early pages, which were dominated by some insurance executive of the same name, they found a handful of newspaper articles from the Cotswold Daily Gazette, most from just the last few years and carrying the byline: Frank O’Halloran. Sharp had been right about that much, at any rate.

  The focus was all local interest – an interview with a parish councillor who was about to withdraw from local politics, a look behind the scenes at the annual Cheese Rolling at Coopers Hill. It was low-key, anodyne material which offered nothing that might explain his interest in Eudora. It did however open up the Cotswold Daily Gazette as another way forward.

  The newspaper’s website provided them with a phone number, which switched straight to an automated system with a number of options. They tried the newsroom, where a polite but weary voice explained that only a skeleton crew operated through the night. If Ellen wanted to speak with the editor, she’d need to ring again in the morning. On the off chance, she threw in O’Halloran’s name and asked if he still worked there but was told that if she wanted information about employees, she’d have to talk with the editor. The woman’s tone suggested she didn’t expect Ellen to meet with much success.

  At 10.30, they called a halt. Their efforts might not have shed any more light on Eudora but at least Ellen had a clearer idea of where to go from here. If all else failed, there was still her Friday-afternoon visit to Calder Vale.

  It wasn’t often she looked forward to seeing her mother.

  February 1974: O’Halloran

  O’Halloran hunches his shoulders and scuttles across the road, groping frantically inside his coat pocket for the car keys. He unlocks the door and wrestles it open despite the best efforts of the wind, which is sending the rain scudding along the promenade, singing in the wires and whipping the darkened sea into a frenzy. Safely sheltered from the elements, he slams the door behind him and deposits the sheets of newspaper containing his pasty and chips on the passenger seat while he does his best to wriggle out of his raincoat. The lack of room to manoeuvre almost defeats him but, after a brief struggle, he settles back and unwraps his meal, which he originally intended to eat on the sea front. The cold he could have coped with but not the downpour, which has appeared out of nowhere.

  Between mouthfuls he reaches into a compartment in the dashboard and removes a notebook and biro. He wants to make notes as soon as he can, while everything is still fresh in his mind – how Adams looked, what he was wearing, what was said. Exact quotes are going to be difficult to recall but that’s not a problem. The important thing is to get the gist of it down. He can always improvise later when typing it up. He rests the notebook on the dashboard, which picks up enough of the street light for him to work by, and starts to write.

  He’s surprised at how well things have gone. The cover story’s in place now. He thinks it will hold. The key to it all was patience. He could have confronted Adams some time ago, but he understands the importance of biding his time. Others leap in without taking a good look round first and that’s why he’s found Martin Adams and they haven’t. And it’s why he’ll get first crack at John Michael as well.

  He’s been here for a while now, sniffing around and asking questions as discreetly as possible so that word won’t get back to the wrong ears. He’s done his best to keep a close eye on Adams. It’s clear he’s still something of a home bird. Apart from his evening runs, he’s left the New Inn just twice in the past couple of days and the second of those trips has paid off. If the helpful and greedy lad behind the railway ticket office window is
to be believed, Adams has been asking about times for a weekend return to Inverness. No ticket bought, just general enquiries about the weekend after next. Quite specific about that – going up on the Friday, back on the Sunday.

  His instincts told him straightaway Inverness has to be significant. It’s too far for a weekend training camp and if he’s not training, who’s he planning to meet? Why travel all that way? And then there’s the timing of it all. It’s the world’s worst-kept secret that John Michael Adams is out already. It’s safe to assume they’ll be getting together first chance they get. And here he is, planning a trip to the north of Scotland. Could be nothing – could also be something.

  So it was worth at least a casual mention, just a quick suggestion that it wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interests for Inverness to become public knowledge. He simply picked his moment and lobbed it into the conversation to see what the reaction would be, then sat back and watched it explode all over the poor sod’s face. Couldn’t have had more of an effect if he’d walked in with John Michael on his arm.

  Now Adams is more convinced than ever that he has some sort of inside contact who’s keeping him one step ahead all the time, which is ironic, really. Truth is, he wouldn’t mind a bit of credit for all the hours he’s put in, because it’s been bloody hard work. When Adams first disappeared, he tried everything he could think of to track him down. Even with his contacts and resources at CDG, he came up against one brick wall after another. The block was well and truly on.

  Then there was that evening last July, when he was sitting in front of the TV, flicking idly through the channels in search of something worth watching, wondering as he often did what Adams would be doing with himself at that moment. He decided he’d probably be out running, ’cos apparently that was all the sad bastard ever did with his free time. If he mentioned it once on those bloody tapes, he said it a thousand times – how he doesn’t usually drink because of his training. Shouldn’t be up this late because he’s got to train tomorrow morning. Couldn’t possibly manage a takeaway – how would he run it off? Every other sentence was training, training, bloody training.

  And there was this one race he talked about like it was some sort of Mecca for fell runners where they all came together once a year. The Lake District Mountain Trial – a hundred and fifty silly sods running twenty miles up and down mountains. He made it sound like some sort of religious festival, which begged the question: did he still feel the same way? There was no way of knowing whether he was still competing but even if he’d given it up, might he still go there as a spectator? For the first time O’Halloran found himself considering what it must be like to uproot yourself from everything you’ve known and start again. Can you do that? Can you cut yourself off completely or do you always take a little something with you into your new life?

  So he did his research, and in September he was there at the Traveller’s Rest Inn, Grasmere, for the twenty-second running of the event. He was as near to the finishing line as he could get, watching as number 132 came staggering over the line towards the rear of the field, far too exhausted to pay any attention to anyone who might be taking an interest. He almost didn’t recognise him – the beard was gone and the hair was a lot longer and much darker. He had to look several times to make sure, but it was him alright. No question.

  So now it’s time to cash in, to reap the rewards for all that work. A small part of him is worried that Adams might make a run for it even now. He has previous, as they say. It would be just like him to panic and take off rather than stick it out. But there are plenty of reasons to suppose that this time will be different. For one thing, he sounds convincing when he says he’s got things pretty much together here – he won’t want to leave it all behind and start up again somewhere else unless he absolutely has to. And that’s where the cover story comes in.

  He knew going in that hope would be the key. There has to be just a smidgen, enough for Adams to cling on to. He can’t afford to box him into a corner where he’ll have nothing to lose. But paint the Doomsday scenario, then offer a way out, and you’ve always got a chance.

  That evening he’d sat there and watched Adams closely as he fed it to him line by line.

  He thinks he’s bought it.

  February 2008: Ellen

  It was a quarter to eleven by the time Kate left. Ellen tidied a few things away and prepared for the following morning – another school run. Only then, as she activated the alarm and headed upstairs, did she realise how tired she was. On reflection she might have been better served by an early night but, as she slipped beneath the duvet and reached up to turn out the overhead light, she was confident that at least she’d have no difficulty in going off to sleep.

  As she lay there in the dark, she gradually became aware of a purring sound. It was very quiet but there on the edge of her consciousness, demanding to be investigated. She switched the light on again and it took a few seconds for her to realise that what she could hear was the dialling tone from the phone, which she must have inadvertently dislodged from its base when she first got into bed. With a groan, she reached over to the bedside table and gave it a nudge, so that it shifted into place. Then, as an afterthought, she picked it up again to check for messages.

  There were three . . . and another five missed calls. One was from a call centre, suggesting she get in touch for an unbeatable quote on her household insurance. The others were all from Sam Balfour. She listened to them, then reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile, which had been switched off all evening. Similar story there – this time, two messages and another four missed calls.

  The messages themselves were all brief and to the point, variations on the same theme. No need to call back. Nothing important. Just ringing to make sure you and the kids are OK. Wondering how things went with the lawyer today. Will try again later. The final message on the extension phone was to tell her he and Mary were going out and that he wouldn’t ring again tonight in case he disturbed her. Don’t want to be a pain – just curious about how it went.

  Ellen put the phone back on its base and her mobile in her bag. Then she turned out the light again and flopped back onto the pillow. She didn’t want to think too much about it all now – better to wait until the morning. But, tired or not, she found she couldn’t let it go that easily.

  Sam Balfour was the one reliable male presence in her life, a father to her in everything but name. The very idea that she shouldn’t trust him seemed somehow to go against the natural order of things. But whichever way she looked at it, there was something about all those calls tonight that was unsettling. It seemed excessive. If he wanted to talk, they had a conference call booked for 1.30 the following afternoon. Why the almighty rush? What did he know that he wasn’t telling her?

  She knew him well enough to be sure there’d be no point in confronting him with her suspicions. Nothing was more likely to get his back up. Sam didn’t do arguments. Things were done his way or not at all. If she pushed him on this, he’d simply throw up a smoke screen, creating an uneasy atmosphere between the two of them. And besides, if he was keeping something from her, he’d have what he believed to be her best interests at heart. Wouldn’t he?

  Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she’d decide how much she wanted to tell him about the trip to Cheltenham and the business with Eudora and the cottage. Somehow she needed to come up with a version that would satisfy an old man and his curiosity.

  6

  March 1974: Josef

  I should be on my way, he thinks.

  He puts down his cup and removes his gloves from the radiator next to his table with some reluctance. He’s comfortable here and warm, which makes the prospect of pulling on his overcoat and heading outside less than appealing. There were vague flurries of snow in the air when he came in and the temperature was dropping at an alarming rate, so he knows what to expect out there. But the clock on the wall seems to be laughing at him as it skips nimbly from one minute to the next and he knows he ca
n’t afford to leave it much longer. He needs to find somewhere to stay the night. That shouldn’t present much of a problem, given the surprising number of B&B signs he passed on the road into Inverness, but it would be nice even so to know he has somewhere to return to later. Maybe he’ll feel better when he has some sort of base for himself.

  It will be dark soon. He hopes he won’t have any difficulty in finding the Prince’s Arms. Mr O’Halloran’s directions seem very clear on paper but it’s one thing tackling unfamiliar roads in daylight, quite another stumbling around in the dark and with the weather closing in. He’d feel happier if he’d done a dummy run earlier but by the time he’d finally made it to Inverness his legs had almost seized up completely. Getting out of the car seemed more important than anything else – that and getting a meal inside him. He hadn’t eaten since first thing. Dorrie insisted on making him a cooked breakfast and he didn’t want to raise suspicions by refusing it, even though he doubted he’d manage to keep anything down for long. Sure enough he was forced to pull over about an hour into the journey, suffering under the censorious gaze of a woman and her young family as he brought it all back up in a lay-by.

  That experience made him reluctant to stop for lunch a few hours later, so between then and late afternoon he’d had plenty of coffee from his Thermos but nothing solid at all. By the time he finally entered the outskirts of the town, the all too familiar nausea was accompanied by a slight dizziness, which made up his mind for him. He needed something to eat, preferably something hot.

  Now, an hour or so later, the Roadside Lodge has warmed and fed him, and he’s tempted to order another hot drink as an excuse to delay his departure just that bit longer. The strength of purpose which drove him from his bed before daybreak and brought him all this way is being strongly challenged by his body’s desire to soak up the warmth for as long as possible. He smiles grimly at the thought. He’s been increasingly aware in recent years of the change in his attitude towards cold weather. In Poland, in his youth, he embraced it. He remembered his father working out in the fields from before dawn until way beyond dusk, in temperatures that would make this seem like a mild spring day. You have to tackle it head on, he would say. If you admit to yourself that you’re cold, you will be. Never give in to it. He’d taken his father at his word and even as recently as a few years ago, he was happy to walk to the local shops without a coat on the coldest of mornings, drawing puzzled frowns of concern from passers-by. Now he seems to feel the chill as much as the next person, if not more so.