by John R McKay
‘None whatsoever.’
‘What exactly did he shout?’
‘He just went ‘Oi, Danny Cooke’ or something like that. He had a southern accent. Sounded like a cockney, but then most southerners do to me,’ Danny replied. ‘At first I thought it must have been someone I knew. A mate messing about or something. But when he drove off in the direction we were going without offering a lift, I realised it mustn’t have been. We spoke about it on the way home for a minute or so, wondering who it could’ve been, like. But then the accident, if you can call it that, happened, and I totally forgot about it.’
‘Right,’ said Julie. ‘Probably nothing to worry about, but we have to make sure.’
‘Are you any closer to catching who did this?’ Danny asked.
‘We have forensics still looking at the car. But to be honest, we probably won’t find anything. The fire did its job and the fire brigade drenched it. Any evidence would more than likely have been destroyed.’
‘I don’t think you’ll have much joy catching him,’ Danny conceded.
‘We’ll do our best Danny.’
Julie passed the pen to Danny and he signed the document and handed it back to her.
‘Thanks for this,’ said Danny. ‘I kicked off a bit with your colleague on Saturday. Can you pass on my apologies to him?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Julie. ‘Jim’s a big boy. He knows you’re going through a hard time. There’s really nothing to apologise for.’
Julie took out a small business card from her purse and offered it to him.
‘Danny, if you can think of anything else, or need us for anything, then please give us a ring. Day or night.’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Danny taking the card. ‘I’ll do that.’
Julie stood up to leave and Danny followed. She looked over at one of the photographs on the wall. It was of Danny and Lucy on the Pont Neuf in Paris, the Eiffel Tower in the background. ‘She was very pretty,’ said Julie.
‘She was,’ agreed Danny. ‘She was beautiful, inside and out. I was very lucky to have known her.’
‘Did you enjoy Paris?’ Julie asked. ‘I love the place. Been there three times.’
‘Me too,’ said Danny. ‘I love France in general, but there is something special about Paris.’
‘There is,’ Julie agreed. ‘Anyway, better go. And like I say, if you need to contact us for anything then please do.’
Danny opened the front door for her. ‘I will,’ he said.
She said goodbye and then walked down the path to the gate. Danny watched her get into her car and then realised he was looking at her for too long and turned back into the house, closing the door behind him. Stop it, he thought. But then she really was very attractive.
Julie sat in the car and placed the folder on the passenger seat. He was nice, she thought.
The BMW still irritated her. Something wasn’t right and this was one irritation that just would not go away. She decided that she would do more digging, until she was happy that there really was nothing to it. She had seen the photographs of Lucy on the wall. A young woman, around the same age as herself. She owed it to her to find out more.
She turned the ignition and put the car into gear. First thing tomorrow, she thought, she would go on another CCTV hunt and find out exactly who this ‘cockney’ was.
I needed to kill someone.
The feeling of hatred consumed my bones until it became a physical pain.
Not just anyone mind you.
I did not know yet who it was to be, but when I met that person I knew that it would be them. And they had better watch out.
I found myself in a small village. Or what was left of it.
Around me stood the remains of houses and cottages, laid waste by the hand of some demon whose name I knew but could not remember.
Fires burned in some of the buildings and animals lay dead in the street, their carcasses rotting in the bright sunlight. I could smell the decay and it filled my nostrils and entered my lungs, fuelling this feeling of hatred.
I walked through the village and then along a country road, lined with bright white headstones on both sides. I looked at some as I walked. The names, the ages. All men. All young men. None older than twenty six.
I walked on.
Facing me was a small copse in the near distance. For some reason I felt that once I got to the trees I would find the person that was causing the hatred I felt and I could then be rid of it.
As I walked the sun was blocked by black clouds and it began to snow. Soon the snow turned to sleet and I felt an immense cold take over my body. As I walked, the cobbled road turned to mud beneath my feet, the stones dissolving away and becoming wet clay causing my progress to slow and my steps to become a battle with the earth.
I forced my legs to move through this quagmire, battling against the efforts of the earth to pull me down, to swallow me, to drown me into itself. I fought it and pushed on, every step a strain, every step a war.
Eventually I reached the safety of the trees, exhausted.
Before me stood a man. He had his back to me.
I tried to shout, to call out his name. For I knew it. But I could not remember it.
Then the trees parted, collapsing away, falling to the ground to be consumed by the earth, leaving me standing alone with this familiar stranger.
He started to turn, sensing my presence.
Before he could reveal himself I heard a noise behind me. I turned. It had not been my presence he sensed.
The train was only feet away, coming at me at such a speed that I had no time to avoid it.
I closed my eyes and waited for Death to arrive with it, the demon whose name I could not remember standing at his side.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Danny’s first day back at work had been uneventful. Dave Johnson had insisted that he take things easy and had more than once asked if he was OK and if he really should be at home. The others in the news room had all offered their sympathies and had asked after his welfare. All of them obviously feeling slightly uncomfortable in his presence no matter how hard they tried to hide it. He could understand that. What could they say to make it better? Absolutely nothing. He had gone through the motions of work, trying to look busy, answering emails and making a few calls. It did not feel right but the normality of it was what he wanted right now. It was what he needed.
He had left work early and done some food shopping to refill the fridge with fresh milk and basic groceries and he now sat on the sofa in front of the television, the remote control in his hand, flicking through channels, but he could find nothing to hold his interest.
He realised he felt extremely lonely but at the same time did not want any company. He wanted to feel lonely and depressed. He needed to feel these emotions. He was convinced he would feel guilty if he ever laughed again, as though it was an abandonment of Lucy. He still felt guilty about the policewoman from the previous night and how he had found her attractive. He was not supposed to find anyone else attractive anymore. He could not allow himself to ever forget her or to allow himself to get on with his life. But then again, he argued with himself, he could not help the way he felt and she had been very pretty, he could appreciate that. He was mindful that his thoughts were currently contradictory and this only added to the frustration he was feeling.
It was just after seven o’clock in the evening and the doorbell rang. He did not get up to answer it, his swapping of channels had finally landed on something that could possibly hold his interest for a while and take him somewhere else, take his mind away from everything. He had found a nature programme and he liked nature programmes. Maybe watching lions on the Masai Mara was the kind of escapism he needed.
The doorbell rang again, for longer this time. Danny sighed and stood up. He would have to answer it. He could not pretend he was out because his lights were on and his car was parked on the driveway. It would be obvious that he was in the house and even though he did not feel
like company he realised it would be rude not to speak to whoever was calling.
Danny walked through the hall and opened the front door. Standing before him was a man of around sixty years old in an expensive looking blue pin-striped suit carrying a black leather briefcase. He was short, around five feet five inches tall and had a completely shaved head. He wore glasses and these too looked of superior quality.
‘Yes?’ said Danny.
‘Sorry to trouble you sir,’ said the man. He had a refined southern accent. ‘Are you Mister Daniel Alan Cooke?’
‘I am,’ said Danny instantly recognising the man’s voice. This was the man who had tried to contact him regarding a will.
‘Good. You’re a hard man to get hold of Mister Cooke. I decided to come up in person.’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ Danny said, interrupting him and raising his hand. ‘Listen mate. I don’t know who you are or what your game is but I’m not interested. She’s only been dead a week and how you have the gall to try and make money out of me is completely out of order. You really need to leave.’ Danny started to close the door.
‘Mister Cooke, if I could just explain,’ said the man. ‘I really don’t know what you are talking about. If this is a bad time then I could come back tomorrow but I’ve driven up from London and really could do with driving back tonight.’
Danny paused. ‘Why would you drive up from London?’
‘You are mentioned in the will of a very important person and I need to explain what it’s all about.’
Danny looked at him blankly. The man took out a business card from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to him. He continued. ‘My name is Clive Brown. I was the private solicitor of Sir Peter Holbrook until he passed away a fortnight ago.’
‘Sir Peter Holbrook?’ asked Danny taking the card.
‘The Baronet of Ardleigh?’ Brown prompted.
Danny looked up from the card he was examining, bewildered. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who you mean. And why on earth would I be mentioned in his will?’
‘If you let me in then I can explain,’ said Brown.
‘Yes of course,’ said Danny, moving aside and opening the door. ‘Of course.’ Brown entered the house and waited for Danny to close the front door behind him before following him into the lounge.
‘Please,’ said Danny, ‘sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?’
‘A black coffee would be nice,’ said Brown sitting down on the sofa.
Danny walked through to the kitchen to put the kettle on and then returned to find Brown searching through his briefcase, eventually pulling out some sheets of paper. Brown adjusted his glasses and looked up at him.
‘You mentioned something at the door just now,’ he said. ‘Something about someone being dead for only a week. What did you mean?’
‘My partner Lucy was killed in a hit and run last week.’
‘Dear God,’ said Brown, taking his glasses off. ‘I had no idea. Honestly. If this is a bad time then I could come back. I’m so sorry. Have they caught who did it?’
‘No,’ replied Danny. ‘The police assure me they’re doing everything they can but I don’t know if they are.’
‘It’s no wonder you didn’t return any of my calls. I’m so sorry.’ Brown looked over to a photograph of Danny and Lucy on the wall opposite.
‘Yes that’s her,’ said Danny, noticing the direction of Brown’s gaze.
‘Very pretty. And so young,’ said Brown. ‘What an almighty waste. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
Danny went back to the kitchen and returned a minute later with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Brown. ‘Thank you, Mr Cooke.’
‘So what’s all this about?’ asked Danny.
‘It seems that Sir Peter had an interest in you and your family, Mr Cooke. I will tell you what I know, which at the moment isn’t very much. You see he left a letter for me that I was under clear instructions to only open when he died. Prior to that he had me do a little bit of detective work for him. Which is what has led me here to you.’
‘OK,’ said Danny sitting down in the chair opposite.
‘You see, Sir Peter knew that he was dying. He’d had cancer for some time and knew it was terminal. There were things he said he had to ‘tidy up’ before he went,’ explained Brown.
‘Like what?’ asked Danny.
‘To be honest, Mr Cooke,’ continued Brown, ‘I am quite at a loss to tell the truth, his interest in you and your family is a total mystery to me. I was asked by him, around six months ago to find any descendants of a soldier who was taken captive by the Germans at Dunkirk in nineteen forty. A Corporal Gregory Cooke of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘My granddad was called Greg,’ replied Danny. ‘I had no idea that he was captured at Dunkirk. He died when I was little and I didn’t really know him too well. He was a very private man to be honest. I thought he was a railwayman before he retired.’
‘That’s correct, he was,’ said Brown. ‘After he was liberated from the prisoner of war camp he was being held in in Germany he returned to England and settled in the North West. As you are probably aware he married and had a son. Alan, your father.’
‘That’s right. My father passed away a few years ago.’
‘Which means that you are the only living descendant of Gregory Cooke then. Is that right?’
‘Well I have no uncles or aunts on my father’s side, so I suppose I probably am, yes.’
Danny took a sip from his coffee and then shook his head. ‘I’m at a loss to what this is all about Mister Brown,’ he said. ‘This is so confusing. What has my grandfather got to do with this Baronet, of wherever you said, and why on earth would I be mentioned in his will? It doesn’t make any kind of sense to me. None whatsoever.’
‘Well, all I know Mister Cooke, is that I have clear instructions from the late Sir Peter, as the executor of his will, to ensure that you attend the reading of the will on Thursday morning at half past ten. It was in the letter he left for me.’
‘Thursday?’ responded Danny. ‘My God! That’s only a couple of days away. Where at?’
‘His London residence. Kensington,’ replied Brown. ‘He was most insistent. When I provided him with what I had found out about Gregory Cooke, he was very excited. I don’t think that he knew himself if your grandfather actually had survived the war or not and when I confirmed that he had and that I had found that he had a grandson alive and well, he was very pleased.’
‘This is all too much for me at the moment,’ said Danny. ‘It’s one thing after another.’
‘The will is yet to be opened. I have no idea what’s in it,’ carried on Brown.
‘So tell me something about him,’ said Danny. ‘All this is very confusing.’
‘I have to agree with you,’ said Brown, taking a sip from his cup then putting it on a small table at the side of the sofa. ‘Sir Peter Holbrook, was the eldest of two brothers. His younger brother, Simon Holbrook, is a senior civil servant. I don’t know too much about him as Sir Peter and he didn’t get on too well and my duties were only to Sir Peter. I have met him a few times and he has always been quite pleasant with me, to be honest. Sir Peter was involved in environmental projects and was on the board of numerous companies, some of them household names. He was also quite a philanthropist in his old age, giving a lot of his wealth away to various charities.
‘Sir Peter’s parents died in the sixties and when that happened he and his brother went to live with his aunt to whom he was very close. Sir Peter and his grandfather, the previous Baronet, who I am led to believe was a bit of a despot, became quite estranged until the old man’s death in 1970 when Sir Peter then took up the title.
‘He didn’t have any children. His wife couldn’t have them following an accident she had in her twenties, when she fell off a horse apparently. He was very much in love with her. She unfortunately died last year following a stroke and Sir Peter seemed to gi
ve up after that. It was soon after her death that he instructed me to search for any descendants of this Gregory Cooke. In his last few months he had me running round for him doing all kinds of little things,’ Brown reflected. ‘Hand delivering letters and cheques here and there, that type of thing. I told him that he could get anyone to do it but he insisted on it being me. Said I was the only one he could trust. I had been with him for over twenty five years and to be honest I didn’t mind because he was such a nice man. A true gentleman.’
‘OK,’ said Danny. ‘This is all very interesting Mister Brown and I’m sure he was a nice bloke, but I still don’t know what he’s got to do with my granddad. Or me for that matter.’
Brown looked into Danny’s eyes and paused for a moment. ‘I suppose all will be revealed when we open his will on Thursday.’ He stood up to leave and handed Danny a card. ‘This is my card, Mister Cooke. On the back is the address in Kensington. The reading is at half past ten. Please do your best to attend. I will book you a train ticket and hotel room for two nights in case you want to stay on. On the estate of course, it won’t cost you anything.’ Danny took the card. ‘And if you need anything in the meantime, if you have any questions at all, then please ring me.’
‘Thanks,’ said Danny standing up. He walked to the hallway with Brown and opened the front door to let him out.
As Brown stepped out, he turned to face Danny. ‘Once again, Mister Cooke, I am extremely sorry for your loss. And hopefully I will see you on Thursday morning.’
Danny shook his hand and then watched Brown as he walked down the driveway and got into his car. He closed the door and stood with his back to it for a few moments. What the hell, he thought, is going on?
#
‘Sean…Sean…..Bloody answer me will you!’
For Jesus’ sake, thought Lange. ‘What?’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘I’m not bloody deaf mother, you don’t have to shout so bloody loud.’
‘Watch your language, young man. And bring me up a cup of tea!’
‘Right away mother,’ he shouted back up the stairs. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’
