She swivelled her head to the right and looked down Homebrook Avenue, a crescent-shaped road with two junctions to Hitchin Road. She’d positioned the car here as it gave a clear view of number twenty-two, the house she was interested in.
As she kept watch on the house, her mind drifted back to last summer when that stupid girl had turned up demanding money and claiming her son was the father of her unborn child. Then she hadn’t believed it and quickly dealt with her, as she did with anyone who crossed her path. But now she knew the truth. Last week, that chance meeting as she came out of the changing rooms in BHS had convinced her Carol Hall had been telling the truth.
She’d been shopping in town, mostly in Marks and Sparks as their knickers were better than anyone else’s – not that she paid for them. After picking up some t-shirts for her youngest, Andy, in Mister Byrite – and not paying for those either – she popped into BHS. She’d selected six dresses then waited for the changing-room attendant to get distracted before she nipped into an empty cubical.
Shirley was skilled at this operation, and the dumb assistants were too stupid to notice. She’d undressed, slipped two dresses on, one over the top of the other, and then re-applied her baggy jumper on top. She took great care to fully tuck the hems of the dresses in her knickers, thus ensuring they didn’t drop below her skirt hemline. Popping her coat back on, she exited the cubical and smiled at the assistant as she handed her the remaining dresses, stating they didn’t fit.
It was then she saw that striking redhead, and presumably her mother as they could almost pass as twins. Shirley recognised the redhead as she was always up the estate, nosing into other people’s affairs. Yes, it was her, that interfering cow from the Council. Then Shirley had spotted the boy, the same boy Carol Hall had dragged along with her the day she claimed her son was the father of her baby.
Was it grandmother’s intuition? She didn’t know, but she was totally sure that when she spotted that cow’s mother cooing at the baby girl in her arms, she knew it was her granddaughter without any doubt. Every beautiful feature, the smile, the eyes, yes, that baby was without question her son’s daughter.
She hadn’t fully decided what she intended to do about it, but she was just gaining information for now. The more she knew, the better placed she’d be to act when the time came. What she did know, with unquestionable certainty, was her granddaughter belonged to her and not them – whatever any adoption court had ruled.
Deciding she’d seen enough for today, Shirley prepared to drive home as the car heater hadn’t been very effective in stopping her shivers. As she put the car in gear, she spotted an old red Cortina pull onto the drive of number twenty-two. A couple in their sixties walked up to the house and rang the bell. The redhead answered, holding her granddaughter wrapped in a blanket.
Shirley flipped the gear stick back into neutral as she watched them enter the house. Perhaps she’d hang on a bit longer and see who these people were, she thought. She didn’t have to wait long as ten minutes later they all came out. A little boy climbed into the back seat of the Cortina, and the redhead stood with whom Shirley presumed was her husband as they chatted to the older couple for a few minutes.
Now it was all slotting into place. There he was, that school teacher, with the redhead cow holding her granddaughter. Well, that was going to change.
24
24th January 1977
MI6
I picked Martin up at eight. Fortunately, he was ready and waiting, standing outside the house just as he was that day back in August, forty-two years in the future. This time I didn’t moan that he hadn’t walked to the end of the street, nor did he have his head in his phone, scrolling through Facebook as we made our journey to school.
Cuddled up on the sofa, Jenny and I had watched the Grand Prix highlights on Sunday evening. My race prediction was correct and, I knew as every tiny event happened which I could predict, it tugged Jenny closer to believing my story. George and Ivy collected Stephen late afternoon and, after the difficult conversation last Tuesday, Jenny took a moment to talk to George and smooth out their relationship. It was a conversation that I could just tell George was so pleased to have. He’d squeezed my arm and smiled as they left, clearly delighted that Jenny and I were moving in the right direction.
“Right, Martin, here we are. I would imagine the school is pretty much as you will remember it. The sixth form block is missing, but the main building is the same.”
Martin looked out of the windscreen, glancing left and right at his old school. The school he’d left fifteen years ago, twenty-six years in the future.
“You okay?” I asked, as he’d said nothing for almost half a minute.
“Yeah. There’s a lot of kids about.”
“Well, it’s a school, so no shock there,” I chuckled, as I exited the car.
Martin hopped out of the passenger seat and leant across the roof of the car. “Do I have to do this? I just don’t fancy it.”
“Yes, you do! Until we can work out whether we can get you back to 2019, you’re going to have to do something.”
Martin huffed and blew out his cheeks as he looked around to the central courtyard at the hundreds of pupils chatting before the school opened up. “Okay. But as we said on Thursday, I’m going to find out about Mum and make sure she doesn’t have to suffer, even if that means I can’t go back.”
I’d mulled over this dilemma many times since last week. I knew his mother’s attacker – his father – was one of three people. Do I tell Martin, so we can try and stop it from happening? Or do I keep schtum? Thus, avoiding the inevitable clash with my favourite family – the Colneys.
“I’m free until ten, so I can show you around and get you set up for the day,” I said, as we walked towards the stone steps that led up to the entrance.
I turned and noticed Martin had stopped a few feet back as he gawped at a group of senior girls chatting and laughing about thirty feet away. I swivelled and looked at the girls. Facing in our direction, laughing at what her friends had said whilst twiddling her long blonde ponytail around in her hand, was Sarah Moore. I turned back to look at Martin; he was staring straight at her. When I turned back to look at Sarah, she was staring straight at him and smiling.
Oh bollocks.
I bloody knew this was a stupid idea. But as George had said and, let's face it, everything George said was right – I had no bloody choice. I stepped back, grabbed his jacket sleeve and tugged hard, dragging him towards me. Martin continued staring at Sarah and stumbled, which caused Sarah to giggle and blush.
“Martin, come on.” I continued to drag him until we had vaulted up the steps and into the main entrance.
“That was my mum!”
“Yes, it was. Martin, remember what I said. You can’t draw attention to yourself, and you can’t talk to her.”
“She’s beautiful.”
I grabbed his arm again and pulled him to the side of the corridor. “Martin, for fuck sake! She’s your mum, and she’s sixteen!” I delivered firmly but in hushed tones as the pupils were filing in through the main entrance like a swarm of rabid locusts.
“You bollocking adults as well as us lot, Mr Apsley? Reckon this Acting Deputy Head stuff has gone to your head,” said Steve Warrington, a senior boy, tramping into school with a group of lads and closely followed by the girls Sarah was with. Of course, this caused a burst of laughter.
“No cheek from you, Warrington,” I boomed.
“Sorry, sir,” Steve threw back over his shoulder. The girls giggled, and Sarah had another good gawp at her thirty-one-year-old son.
I bundled Martin into the school office. The start to this school day was significantly worse than I feared. Surely it couldn’t get any worse.
“Morning, Miss Colman. Can I introduce you to Martin? He’s our stand-in caretaker.”
“Oh, good morning, Mr …. err … Mr—”
“Bretton,” said Martin, holding out his hand to Miss Colman.
“Mr Br
etton, that’s lovely. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“You too, Miss Colman. I hope I’ll be able to complete all my tasks satisfactorily whilst holding this position. I’m sure the school will miss the caretaker whilst he’s off, but I’ll work hard at living up to his standards,” Martin replied, still shaking Miss Colman’s hand, with a broad smile engulfing his face. Miss Colman seemed mesmerised by him.
Jesus, this bloke had every woman on the planet eating out of the palm of his hand.
“Miss Colman. Hello Miss Colman?” I interjected.
She held his gaze, then patted her hair bun, checking it was all in place. An involuntary action which I’d only previously witnessed when she was talking to Clive. Bloody hell, what’s the matter with everyone? Yes, Martin was, I presumed, handsome, but he seemed to have a magnetism that made females go all silly.
“Miss Colman, hello.”
She slowly turned her head as she appeared to try to continue to gaze at Martin. “Yes, Mr Apsley, how can I help?”
“I’m going to give Martin the grand tour, but firstly is Roy in?” I nodded to his office door.
“Mr Apsley, please address our headmaster as Mr Clark. I’m fed up with telling you we don’t use Christian names. Really, you must address the teaching staff correctly. And yes, he is.”
My bollocking over, she scowled at me, then turned and smiled at Martin, whilst I rolled my eyes.
“Martin, let’s introduce you to MR CLARK,” I boomed, at no one in particular.
“Mr Apsley, please don’t get silly now,” said Miss Colman. She settled down at her desk, peering over the top of her glasses whilst adjusting the paper in her typewriter.
After a whiz around the school, which Martin already knew well, I hunted down my work colleagues to complete the introductions. I deposited Martin in the boiler room, leaving him to get acquainted with his screwdrivers and the list of jobs Clive had prepared before going in for his operation.
Fortunately, Martin didn’t know any of the teachers as they’d all moved on or retired when he’d attended school at the time of the millennium. Based on his gawping performance this morning when he’d spotted his mother, I wasn’t sure he’d have coped with seeing his old teachers in a much younger form. I was secretly delighted that Jayne Hart didn’t swoon over him. She was polite but immune to his magnetic charms – I could have kissed her.
With time on my hands before my first lesson, I checked out the school library as I was on a mission to hunt down textbooks on police investigations and criminality. Although the school library was extensive, I wasn’t sure such a book would exist and feared I might need to visit the main library in town to get the answers I needed.
Luckily, I discovered two well-thumbed books, one written in the ’30s and a more recent publication from the ’50s. The first book yielded nothing, but the second confirmed my fears that fingerprints could be lifted from a porous object years after. My only hope was those envelopes had been thumbed through many times during the sorting and posting process, resulting in my fingerprints being smudged beyond all recognition.
The letters were a real problem, although I knew my fingerprints couldn't be on file as I wasn’t yet born. As long as I had different fingerprints from other Jason, they couldn’t pin it to me without organising an extensive fingerprinting operation of all pupils and teachers. I decided it was unlikely the police would take that course of action for some random anonymous letter. I returned the books and was about to nip off to the staff room when Miss Colman poked her head around the door.
“Mr Apsley … you’re a difficult man to find.”
“Yes, Miss Colman,” I replied a little stiffly after my bollocking she’d given me earlier.
“Mr Clark has asked if you could pop through to his office.”
I strode back through the marbled floored corridors with Miss Colman trotting by my side. I could tell she was itching with excitement and desperate to gossip, so I decided to help her along as we neared the school office.
“Do you know what Mr Clark wants?” I asked, knowing full well she would blurt everything out.”
She stopped, grabbed my arm, and beckoned me closer with a furtive nod of her head as she glanced around the empty school foyer. “Those two policemen who were here last week have come back to see Mr Clark. From what I overheard …” Miss Colman had another scan around the empty foyer and then continued. “They’re retaining the typewriter for evidence in their investigations into some serious offences. I must say that’s very irregular. How on earth could one of our school typewriters have anything to do with a crime committed in Yorkshire!”
Feeling myself sweating and becoming dizzy, I grabbed hold of the door frame to the school office. This was a disaster, and it seemed my fears had now been realised. The police had confirmed the typewriter was a match for the letter I’d sent; now they were closing in on me.
“Oh, Mr Apsley, are you quite alright? You look rather pale. I hope you're not coming down with this flu that’s going around. We have a lot of the children off at the moment, and I know Mr Waite has been quite unwell.”
I composed myself and dragged my hand across my face as I tried to prepare to meet the two police officers. I knew a confident performance was required. I was aware Jon Waite had been off last week with a flu virus and wasn’t surprised he’d caught it as the size of his nose could hoover up anything floating around in the air.
“No, Miss Colman, I’m fine, thank you,” I delivered in a slightly higher tone than usual.
“Very well, but you must look after yourself. Mr Clark relies heavily on you to keep the school running smoothly. Hot lemon and honey, with a dash of Navy Rum is what you need.”
I walked into Roy’s office, then turned and closed the door, leaving Miss Colman standing outside presumably with her face inches from the heavy oak door as it closed.
“Ah, Jason, good. Thank you for joining us. Gentlemen, you’ll remember my Deputy Head?” Roy offered. He seemed to be quite cheerful, which was surprising, based on the information Miss Colman had supplied. His introduction this time had promoted me from Acting to actual Deputy Head. Not sure I remember accepting the position.
“Yes, of course,” said DI Litchfield. Both officers were seated in front of Roy’s desk. They leant forward, and we exchanged handshakes. DI Roberts briefly inspected the palm of his hand after we shook, presumably wondering why I had a sweaty palm as it was still cold and both men hadn’t removed their overcoats. DI Litchfield turned and addressed me as I stood to their left with one hand on the wood panelling for support.
Mr Apsley, we were just informing Mr Clark that we need to retain the typewriter which we removed last week and secure it into evidence.”
“Oh.”
We don’t believe it has any bearing on the case at this stage, but the procedure is to hold it in case it’s required at a later time. I know that will be inconvenient, but I’m sure you’ll understand.”
I glanced at Roy, who seemed to be relaxed; I presumed because the officers indicated there would be no further investigation, thus not affecting the school’s reputation.
“Yes, I understand. I must say it’s somewhat intriguing. What’s the case regarding? It does seem very strange that one of our students has typed a letter about an investigation in … sorry where did you say it was?” I thought it would be good to give the impression I’d forgotten what force DI Litchfield had come from.
“West Yorkshire, sir. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, but we do at this stage believe the letter to be a hoax and not relevant.”
“Right. Have you investigated what the letter said then?”
DI Litchfield raised his right hand to scratch the end of his nose and gave me what I can only describe as a Paddington stare before replying. “I’m sorry, sir, as I said, we’re not at liberty to say.”
“No, of course.” I pursed my lips and nodded, now a bit flummoxed on what to say next.
Both officers stoo
d and offered their hand to Roy and me. Although DI Roberts sneered a little before shaking my hand, probably concerned he would again be left with deposits of my sweat.
“Thank you, gentleman,” said Roy.
“Yes, thank you very much,” I added, slightly louder than necessary. I wanted to give Miss Colman the heads-up the door was about to open, thus saving her from falling flat on the floor. I succeeded as she’d managed to move a few feet away, giving me a smile as a non-verbal thank you for my warning.
Although Miss Colman started most conversations with, “As you know, I’m not one to gossip”, we both knew she was. That gossiping I’d found invaluable on a number of occasions, so I was pleased to keep my line of intelligence gathering open and secure. I was sure that MI6 had missed a trick in not employing Miss Colman and Mr Nears over the years – if they had, the Cold War might have ended sooner.
I was obviously pleased the investigation into the letter I’d sent had stalled, or as DI Litchfield had said, was a hoax. However, that also meant any inquiry into Peter Sutcliffe wasn’t going to happen. As with the investigation in my old timeline, it seemed this investigation was going the same way – nowhere.
25
Annual Appraisal
Martin somehow miraculously made it through the day without causing any calamities following his gawping at his mother episode at the start of the day. He said he’d worked through Clive’s list but was amazed no power tools were available, and he had to fix up a coat hook in the staff room with a hand drill. He seemed relieved that I owned a power drill, albeit very archaic, although brand new.
I reminded him that Clive came from the era when those were not available. I advised him to ask Miss Colman for twenty quid from petty cash so he could nip into Great-Mills DIY store and purchase one. I then spent the rest of the journey explaining the concept of petty cash and that it wasn’t the content of wallets owned by small-minded people. Also, not to expect the choice of drills to be too extensive and not to ask for a cordless one. Once I had explained all that, he then asked what Great Mills was. He was exhausting.
Ahead of his Time Page 17
