28
THE RECENT PAST
‘I was there! I was there, Glen. I saw it with my own eyes. They were walking back up the drive. I was there, I was hiding from view, well screened by trees on the edge of the golf course. I saw Mum with Richard Hughes-Webb, arm in arm like young lovers. I saw the altercation with Hector Wallace, and if Tom hadn’t arrived to break it up I do believe Hughes-Webb could have … killed someone. His eyes were bulging like saucers. It wasn’t just that he was angry. He was demonic!’ Grant’s voice trailed off.
This was the conversation he was going to have with his younger brother, Glen. This was the conversation he had never had. For a long time Grant had been haunted by these terrible thoughts. He had never got out of his head the memory of his mother walking arm in arm with Richard Hughes-Webb at the end of the long drive, as they went back to the hotel that night. He had never admitted to anyone he was actually there. It was like a jittery speckled old film clip ingrained in his mind. But as if that wasn’t traumatic enough, what had really burnt into his memory cells was the fact that the aggravated altercation between Hughes-Webb and Hector Wallace that ensued had involved Tom the night porter. Both Tom and Hector were to suffer serious and ultimately fatal mishaps shortly afterwards.
His mother’s involvement in that scene and the witness statement – her alibi – to the police had protected Hughes-Webb from further investigation at the time of the poisoning; she confirmed that they had gone for a drive after getting the Sunday papers from Zennor. The veracity or otherwise of his mother’s statement was what he knew really drove him to try to establish what really took place. Was she an innocent bystander, or was she implicated in some way? Was she involved in attempted murder? He had never come close to admitting this awful fear to anyone; it was the ghost that had driven him so hard, compelling him to establish the truth. He had never even hinted to Brigit or his brother, Glen, that this had become his real raison de faire.
Perhaps now he should – perhaps it might save his marriage – but his feelings for Brigit were caught up in a fair ground of thoughts, of emotions from the highs and lows of the big dipper to crashing in bumper cars. He didn’t think he could tell her while he was on such an emotional roller-coaster, particularly with the content of the amateur film footage still unknown. He knew deep down that she was still on his side, but he also knew he needed time away to attempt ‘closure’, as she had put it. He also now understood why she needed some space as well, and for the first time he felt some guilt at the singlemindedness of his pursuit. He also knew she was genuinely worried about his physical safety, and he had ignored her concerns.
The discovery of the existence of the film footage gave his investigation its next dramatic focus, but viewing it was an uncertain journey he had yet to make. What would it show? Would his mother be absolved from blame? Grant felt it was all ‘on the nail’, impossible to predict, like a sports fixture no forecaster could call. One thing for sure was that it would include incriminating activities of one sort or another.
In truth, he was desperate to view the cine film and terrified as to what it might reveal. What further dark secrets might emerge concerning Paul Galvin, and why was Suzie so protective of her father? Grant knew he should meet the cinematographer, Henry Wilson, after he had viewed the footage. He was aching to know whether Henry had shot any scenes in the Office, and, if so, was he there that fateful last night of Hector Wallace’s life? Would such footage – if it existed at all – show Trevor Mullings truly hammered and collapsed under the table, or would it show him staggering out towards the beach with Hector? Was Trevor’s role far more sinister than had been previously assumed? There were many questions to which the film footage had to provide answers.
Grant kept thinking about his mother walking back up the drive with Richard Hughes-Webb. All he could picture was his mother’s smiling face, her dimples embedded firmly in her cheeks; that face his father used to know and love but which had been withdrawn from view as their marriage deteriorated and Hughes-Webb replaced him in her affections.
His mother had died in 1995. He always thought she had never been quite the same after that last Cornish holiday, which had also proved to be the last holiday Grant and Glen ever had with their parents. He regretted this deeply, particularly in relation to Glen, who had been just fifteen at the time.
In her youth his mother had been a vivacious air-hostess with BOAC; she had met Grant’s father, Dennis, on one of her flights. Subsequently she had devoted her life to her husband’s career as he ascended the ranks to become chief executive of a FTSE 250 engineering company. Rose became an accomplished hostess at their home in Highgate. Grant would get home from school in the late afternoon to be greeted with a ‘Hi, darling. Hope you’ve had a good day. Can you and Glen fend for yourselves this evening? Daddy’s got clients in town and we need to entertain. You know, put on a show.’
The year 1971 had brought the devastating news that Grant’s father had been diagnosed with cancer. It had started in his gall bladder and within a few years spread to his liver. That last holiday in 1972 had seen him in remission, but that winter another tumour was discovered. It was around a group of major blood vessels, which effectively ruled out any chance of surgical removal.
The brothers were totally distraught when he died early in 1974. By that time Grant was pretty sure his mother’s affair with Richard Hughes-Webb had ended, but he remained bitter that it had been going on after his father had first been diagnosed. He shuddered as he remembered that he had challenged his mother about it shortly after his father died. He had been very accusatory and hadn’t given his mother a chance to defend herself. Angry as he was at that time, he regretted his approach. Their relationship was never the same again.
Grant was snapped out of his reverie by a letter he was reading. ‘She’s dead.’
‘What? Who?’
‘Aunt Gina. Gone from this world,’ Grant announced with some satisfaction as he read his mail one Saturday morning.
Brigit looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Bit callous. Not very nice referring to the passing of your aunt like that.’
The fact was that after his mother’s death in 1995 Grant had started thinking more and more about the incident involving Tom Youlen back in 1972. He had been reluctant to do anything about it while his mother’s twin sister Gina was still alive for fear of upsetting her, but after she died in 2012 he started to become fixated with the mystery, as he finally felt free to investigate properly. His legal training had taught him to assimilate all the facts before drawing any conclusions, and this was what he now intended to do.
‘Can I persuade you to take a short break with me to Cornwall, B?’
It wasn’t long before he finally revealed all to Brigit, when they revisited the scene of his distress – the white hotel on the hill that resembled an imposing castle.
Grant now knew he had developed an obsession, as the events in 1972 were constantly permeating his thoughts in many of his waking hours and, as he would discover in Zennor, some of his sleeping ones as well. His hope was that Brigit would not become fed up with his preoccupation with the past. He became fretful. He started to worry that a number of their close friends had split up, often when their children had left home to go to university or start careers. They were now at this watershed stage themselves, and there was no doubt it was very different from having a vibrant, noisy household at home. He knew he had to tread carefully, but events were taking over.
29
PRESENT DAY
It was the morning after Grant’s night on the town with Justyn that he viewed the film footage. He had returned to his home in Mill Hill with a hangover and in a state of some anxiety. Brigit, who had left for work some hours earlier, had left the parcel in the hallway. With it she had placed a small note. ‘So sorry. Let’s talk. Love B.’
Such was his preoccupation that Grant hardly registered the note but ripped open the parcel with all the excitement of a starving man opening a pack of f
ood. Inside he was some-what startled to discover three DVDs apparently spanning six years of the holidays in Cornwall. Having anticipated viewing a single film, he had forgotten that Suzie had referred to DVDs in the plural. He made himself a large espresso and sat down to watch. He loaded the disk dated August 1972 and was disappointed to find that there was no soundtrack and that the picture quality was frequently poor. Still, at least it was in colour. The film showed a hotchpotch of holiday antics, and it took him some time before he found anything of real interest. Eureka! He could make out who all the people were, happy smiles from the hotel’s tennis courts, the nine-hole golf course and swimming-pool. Tom was featured greeting all the arrivals, and the date was recorded as 10 August 1972.
The first car to arrive contained a family Grant hadn’t thought about until now: the group included identical twin brothers in matching sports jackets and grey flannels who appeared from the back seat. He burst out laughing. He recalled Justyn had nicknamed them the ‘Speaking Clocks’. Burgess was their family name; they had driven down from Yorkshire, and the twins, Frederick and Edward, were then aged around fifteen. They did everything together. Grant remembered them being very serious and constantly being mistaken for one another. He recalled their excitement on watching the Test Match on the hotel lounge television when their favourite player walked to the crease, ‘Boycott’s batting!’ repeated almost immediately by the twin, ‘Boycott’s batting!’ For the others it became their catchphrase, adopted rather cruelly behind their backs. Justyn used to inquire, ‘Is there an echo in here?’ Grant also remembered them asking if they could watch a game of pontoon he and some of the usual crowd were playing one evening. As it approached nine one twin remarked, ‘It will soon be nine o’clock.’ The grandfather clock in the hallway promptly chimed, and the other remarked in a deadpan voice, ‘It is nine o’clock.’ Suppressed laughter had ensued. Grant now found himself wondering what might have happened to the Speaking Clocks. He couldn’t recall giving them a second’s thought since that time, as they had seemed an entirely inconsequential part of his early life. Or were they?
The weather in the film was bright and sunny as Justyn pulled up in his white Peugeot 204 with his sister, Fiona. Grant was struck by his now ridiculous-looking white flared hipster trousers, held up with a belt with an oversized silver buckle and worn below his once familiar blue, pink and purple tie-dyed T-shirt. There were people hovering around the Silver family, but there was no sign of the father, Bob. Justyn greeted someone who looked like Jenny Charnley, and before long there was quite a gathering.
Grant could make out Richard Hughes-Webb with his two children, Tony and Suzie, hauling luggage from the car. Then with a powerful sensation of sadness he saw his own family arrive, his father looking drained, as they had come off the night train from Penzance and Dennis had driven the twenty miles or so to the hotel, quite an ordeal for him in his state of health. He saw his younger brother, Glen, aged fifteen, helping Tom with the baggage and carrying golf clubs.
At this moment the land line rang, and after a moment’s hesitation Grant decided to answer it. Brigit’s voice sounded strained and distant. ‘Hi, how are you?’ she asked wearily.
‘Oh, hi. Thanks for calling. Look, I guess I overreacted a bit yesterday. I was knackered after the long flight …’
‘It’s OK,’ Brigit said quickly. ‘Look, could we meet in an hour’s time at the office? We can go for a coffee round the corner.’
Grant was torn. He had turned off the DVD, but he couldn’t wait to see the whole thing. He didn’t think he could watch it in twenty minutes, and it would take him about forty minutes to get to Brigit’s office in Cromwell Road. After some muttered prevarication he became more forthright. ‘Look, Brigit. I really want to see you, but I need a bit of time. Can we meet this afternoon? I hardly slept last night.’ Guiltily he refrained from revealing to her the reason why.
‘You’re watching those DVDs that arrived yesterday, aren’t you? You just can’t let up, can you? I can’t meet you this afternoon. I’ve got back-to-back interviews and a client meeting in Watford at five.’ Brigit found herself biting her upper lip, her characteristic way of revealing disappointment.
‘So be it,’ said Grant, and he heard the line go dead. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he nevertheless had to see the rest of the film. He returned to the living-room and pressed ‘Play’ again, and it didn’t take long for his silent movie to provide some drama and intrigue.
He saw Tom surreptitiously hand over what looked like a key to his mother. He felt an uneasy twinge in his lower back, cursing aloud that Richard Hughes-Webb could stoop so low as to include the porter in his subterfuge; it added further humiliation to the betrayal of his father by his mother. By this stage most of the teenagers were arriving in family cars and none of them took much notice of the adults, greeting one another enthusiastically as if it was the greatest of reunions or a close friend’s wedding day.
Tom was next seen heading away down the drive; he had, after all, worked all night. Hector Wallace then came into view with his frail Aunt Agatha, emerging out of a chauffeur-driven car. At that point Grant imagined it was approaching midday, as Sidney, the barman who had tried to take control when the police swarmed in at Sunday lunchtime after Tom’s collapse in the lane, was filmed loading up a mobile bar by the kidney-shaped swimming-pool.
Henry’s footage next featured a shot focused on a bedroom window at the hotel. Paul Galvin was visible, appearing to shout at someone from within; it was a jarring image, made worse when he slammed the sash window shut. Grant replayed this scene a few times but couldn’t make out at whom he was shouting. Henry’s attention had then switched to Hector walking briskly out of the hotel and down the drive to his first midday session at the Office, wearing a three-piece checked suit with the tie pinned in place and a monocle protruding from a breast pocket attached to a small chain. Grant scrutinized his awkward but hurried walk, focusing on his pock-marked face – evidence of a life of too many sherbets, he reflected. He was now so immersed in the film he jumped half out of his seat when his mobile rang. He was surprised to see that it was Danny calling. Grant answered, and Danny got straight to the point. ‘We need to talk.’
30
PRESENT DAY
Danny insisted that the two meet that morning, preferably at Grant’s home. The latter was surprised when Danny said he could be there in twenty minutes; clearly he wasn’t phoning from Brentwood. Reluctantly Grant agreed. When he got off the phone he ejected the DVD from the television and placed it carefully in a briefcase that he locked before pocketing the key. With the key safely wrapped in a handkerchief, he felt he had control of things, but he needed to turn his concentration to his unexpected visitor, as he had decided to resume viewing the film after Danny left.
The doorbell rang on cue, and Grant wondered if his friend had been waiting round the corner. They greeted each other formally, with none of the affection and informality of their youth.
Danny got straight to the point. ‘Why are you pursuing this, Grant?’
‘What?’
‘Why are you investigating Tom’s poisoning after all these years? Who are you trying to nail?’
‘Justice was never done. Besides, Hector’s drowning was no accident, and I can’t rest until I know my mother wasn’t involved in some way.’ Grant decided to go for broke and went on to reveal the affair between his mother and Suzie’s father.
His explanation had the required effect. Danny fell silent and finally said slowly, ‘Your mother?’ He put the stress on the first word.
The two stared at each other. Perhaps, hoped Grant, his revelation that his mother was his main concern might change things for the better with Danny.
Danny repeated, mechanically and without emotion, ‘Your mother?’
‘Yes. Is there something you need to tell me about your mother?’
Danny stared blankly at Grant. He couldn’t decide whether to open up. He felt like a child standing at the ed
ge of a swimming-pool, knowing he should jump in but afraid to do so. ‘Where’s Brigit?’ he asked.
‘At work,’ replied Grant, who had no intention of discussing his private life.
Danny went quiet again but continued to stare at Grant, who was tempted to explode at his old friend. ‘Read the tea leaves, Grant.’
A cold sensation washed over Grant. He felt his blood pressure dropping but decided not to respond in the hope that the other might feel the need to fill the silence and reveal his hand.
An acute tension descended over them as Danny took some chewing-gum out of his pocket, put a piece in his mouth and started chewing in a slow rhythmic motion, staring at his host all the while.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ asked Grant, finding the atmosphere hard to bear.
Danny continued staring as if he hadn’t heard. Finally he spoke. ‘Henry Wilson filmed that last holiday on Super 8. Nobody took much notice, of course. He had filmed pretty well all our holidays down there on his cine camera.’
Grant shifted uneasily in his seat, avoiding Danny’s gaze. He unconsciously felt in his pocket for the key to the case that contained the DVDs and grasped it tightly. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘They got stolen. All my DVDs got stolen the day after Suzie left.’
‘That’s strange. So nothing else was taken? But I thought you just said the footage was on Super 8 film rather than disk,’ said Grant, trying to box clever and pleased they were talking once more; the silence had created even greater tension.
Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice Page 15
