The Path of the Bullet

by M C Jacques

  With a slight purse of the lips, framed by a cheeky grin, Sutton span smoothly around and was actually facing away from McKay when she uttered her reply, none too audibly. Prefixed by a phase resembling, ‘Well, actually’, McKay understood her to have uttered something along the lines of ‘it all depends upon how well I know the person. And where we are at the time!’ McKay later regretted having bothered to observe whether or not the shapely WPC had looked back at him, as her lissom torso swayed its way back towards the caucus of Mondeos, Discoveries and Rover 75s. She hadn’t even glanced.

  By this time, Burrows had caught him up. “She’s quite a girl, Amy Sutton, isn’t she, Mark? Well, I say girl, she’s on some sort of fast-track programme, being a graduate and a qualified teacher, into the deal. Divorced, too. I thought that you two might well hit it off; so did Pat. In fact, we had her round for supper a few weeks ago, not that long after she joined us, and we would’ve asked you along, but we really didn’t know you very well then – thought that you may have been a bit stuck up for us! Anyway, I must press on. Good luck with the transcript and the CD copy. I’ll be interested to hear your second thoughts on it all later.”

  The Inspector’s attention had now become focused on a cadre of bobbies and bobbettes which appeared to be on the verge of embarkation and then departure from the meadow. “Watch that gateway! Easy does it! I don’t want to see any wheels spinning. All-wheel-drives last! Last, Fisher!”

  McKay, who had parked on the verge, continued his stroll back to the car, wondering why the woman, something of a fan of his he’d imagined, had not even glanced back in his direction following her pre-emptive departure which had, he concluded on reflection, been pretty close to being rude, plain rude.

  36

  Tuesday evening in the White Hart, Tuxford

  “Could you do me a real favour, Agnieszka? When you have a minute, of course. I can see that you’re busy.”

  The girl smiled back willingly, whilst hastily assembling a crammed tray of drinks for the restaurant which was humming with chattering guests. A couple of glasses of beautifully headed pale ales sat invitingly aside a large deep burgundy and a smaller, straw-tinted glass of white wine, possibly a Frascati, guessed McKay. Whoever the driver was, he or she had opted for a pineapple juice – yes, a shade too amber for grapefruit – accompanied by a squat bottle of hissing Indian tonic. “They have taken Gavin away into the restaurant because Anna is away with the summer flu! But it’s not too bad because he is so much a help, Gavin; you know him, I think! And, anyway, it makes the time pass so quickly when you are so busy!”

  “Quite. Look, when you get a moment, run a bottle of Orvieto secco and a jug of still mineral water, Scottish not French, up to my room, would you? But there’s absolutely no hurry, okay? Oh yes, and do make sure you put down two nice large drinks of whatever you and Gavin would like onto my tab.”

  “Thank you, Mark.” McKay had already insisted to the girl, a number of times if the truth be known, that she use his first name. “With small glass for wine, large glass with ice for water, yes?”

  “Bingo! You’re a star, Agnieszka!”

  With that, McKay commenced a somewhat lumbering and solemn ascent of the stairs. He was not looking forward to hearing Andy Fordham’s glum, monotone voice again. But it wasn’t only that.

  Were he to have been frank about such matters, McKay would have confessed that he actually found such things to be a little spooky. During his ‘A’ level study of the Danish play, in order to memorise the sizeable chunks of the text which were requisite in the late 1970s, he had taken to listening to a recording of the play as he lay in his bed, drifting off to sleep. And drifting off to sleep he had been, until Derek Jacobi’s Hamlet commenced the soliloquy at the end of Act 3 Scene 2: ‘‘Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and Hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood and do such bitter deeds that the day would quake to look upon…’

  At this point, the teenage McKay’s imagination had significantly outperformed his courage and he had sat up and hit the switch on his bedside lamp in remarkably rapid succession. He had then resumed his previous pursuit from earlier on that same evening, viz. a study of R K Harrison’s Teach Yourself Classical Hebrew until, in the early hours, he had, eventually, nodded off – the mellow forty-watt bedside lamp being still on when he awoke the next day to recommence his diurnal studies.

  He pushed the digital disc into his laptop and slotted on his favourite Grado headphones to hear, once more and in far more detail, what must have been among the last, if not the very final, words of ‘Handy’ Andy Fordham. This time a Mackintosh-decorated Parker Rollerball pen was poised, resting on his ever so slightly disfigured index finger on his right hand; when stretched out, it was apparent that the linearity between the finger’s first knuckle and the nail had been violated through the many thousands of hours McKay had spent manually writing essays, assignments, project reports and, finally, full manuscripts of doctoral length. The finger had, quite literally, been wrought out of shape. But only a little.

  Whilst listening to the low-grade recording – with a level of hiss and other background noise sufficient to render some of the words unintelligible to the naked ear – McKay’s eyes did not stray from the copy of the plainly printed text which the now mildly inscrutable Amy Sutton had passed to him in the meadow. It included the transcriber’s annotations. DI Burrows had also consulted a lab with connections to the university, just outside Cambridge city centre, near Milton, to undertake a CEAA (a Computer-enhanced, Electronic Audio Analysis, somewhat akin to the spectrographic analytical systems now being used to detect and to delineate the precise, scientific composition and contents on ancient manuscripts) of the recording. This is what McKay had before him:

  Hello Mr Burrows (cough, grunt). This is Andrew Jason Fordham speaking. Mum put Jason in after that singer guy from Neighbours who had a thing with Kylie. (Pause for 7 seconds).

  (Coughing, scraping and other various background sounds and intrusions, possibly caused by direct contact with or adjustments being made to the microphone or recording apparatus). I think I have some serious things to tell you and it’s important that I stop myself from ever doing anything like it again, or causing anyone else to do something as bad as that. Can’t go on like that, I can’t, not for no longer (coughing). Not now. Not after Jill Prestons. Can’t believe that she’s killed her, I can’t. Because, you see, I saw that Sarah, Sarah Millar, down there, I did, often I did. Scraping away at all the British tanks, she did that turret on the Conqueror, that huge British thing in the Warfare on Land Hall, she puts brake fluid on the paintwork of British and American things, she does, and then goes polishing all the German stuff – like that eighty-eight gun; hasn’t never looked so good as it is now, that hasn’t! (Bout of sneezing followed by sniffing and nose blowing. Other extraneous sounds – possibly the rustling of paper tissues. )

  She’s filed down that big high gantry on Concorde, that’s serious, that is, seeing how many people come here just to see Concorde – and it’s a fair old drop from the top of those steps, it is, and then she started on the main chains holding up that World War Two Douglas C47 Skytrain – could’ve killed anyone, that could’ve! Not only that, but that Skytrain would have smashed down on the wing of the Boeing-17G Flying Fortress; you know, ‘Mary Alice’ with the pretty blonde bombshell painted on it! Could’ve killed tens of people, that could! I wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Nothin’ so random as that! Could’ve crushed any poor devil. Just like that great big hefty turret of the Conqueror could’ve. (Snuffling. Suppressed sneeze.)

  I’ve pointed out many such things she’s done, that Sarah Millar, that is, to Graham Locke and he knows what’s going on. I’ve ‘eard that he’s found some such things out for himself recently, too. That pleased me to hear that, it did, because I was beginning to think that he thought I was going a bit mad, or even that I wa
s doing such things myself. It’s good Graham’s seen it for himself, it is. It’s good. (Prolonged period of sniffing (23 seconds). Background noises. Paper rustling. Possibly being unfolded in order to read the following.)

  Matt Fothergill got onto me about it all, he did. I didn’t know nothin’ about it, I told him. And he knows now that it wasn’t me, because I’ve been spending most of me days over at his place, The Old Forge, working on his old Second World War Willys Jeep – lovely thing to work on, that is. (Brief spell of sniffing and throat clearing). He knows that I can’t have done nothin’ at the museum for the past four or five weeks! He knows it now, he does! He knows it. (Sniffing, possible mild sobbing. 28 second pause with distant background noise including tap running.)

  Graham Locke’s been on to me of late to let him know if I’m comin’ back to work at the museum or no. Well, I suppose he’ll know by now that I’m not. Sad, that is, ‘cause we got on well together at work, we did. But he didn’t like… (Muffled, suppressed sound. Dull or dampening of microphone. CEAA indicates that the original recording was terminated at this point (98% probability) and then recommenced.) … He didn’t like it when I couldn’t come into work. Matt Fothergill asked me not to tell him that I was working for him at The Old Forge on his Willys Jeep, so I didn’t. I didn’t! But somebody told him ‘cause when I saw him at Waitrose’s in Newmarket a couple of weeks back he near flew at me, he did. (Various snuffling sounds. Movement of fabrics.)

  I suppose I’d better say something about that soldier man, Smith, hadn’t I. Well, my dad was a soldier man you see, Mr Burrows. But he left my mum for a tart. A real tart; looked a bit like Jill Preston, that bitch did! I saw a picture of her once when me dad tried to contact me. But, you see, me and Mum ‘ad it difficult for years, skimping and saving, no car, not even any biscuits. Me being mocked and joked at ‘cause of me old shoes and ‘oles in me trousers. So that I ended up hating that man, ‘cause he wasn’t a real dad, he wasn’t. Never a real dad, he wasn’t. And I hated it when ‘e came on to Cathy, I did!

  But you see, after I found out that that Smith guy was me dad, well, ‘e had to go. After all the damage ‘e did to Mum. You should have seen ‘er, Mr Burrows, weeping night after night, she was, not knowing what t’do with ‘erself, week after week, month after month… And all this while he was carrying on with that tart! (Pause for mild sobbing. Indistinct mutterings, further analysis required. Rustling, probably that of tissue paper.)

  When e’d got a regimental do on in the evening time, me dad, Smith, used to roll up at the museum in the full clobber, uniform and all, he did. I’d watch him! He’d parade himself about a bit, reckonin’ he was God’s gift, I’ve seen ‘im, and then e’d try and chat up the women in the cafés – ‘e even made a go for Lisa... Lisa Fothergill until she slapped him and told ‘im who she was, and that she’d have ‘im chucked off the site if he ever tried it on with ‘er again! Good, that was!

  Anyhow, I knew how I could catch ‘im out then, I did. You see, I knew that that Sarah Millar was up to no good anyway – lurking, skulking around till all hours, damaging the US and UK machinery and making all the German stuff shine like new! – I’d seen ‘er, but she didn’t know it. Seen ‘er dress up, too, I have. I made sure that Graham Locke knew all ‘bout ‘er goings-on. So that the finger would point at ’er. (Scuffling in foreground and also background noises, possibly heavy goods vehicle or farm machinery.)

  I know about rifles and I’m good with the fiddly stuff. Good with me ‘ands. I worked on that rifle – nice bit of kit that was, right out of the top drawer. Took a bit of getting right, that did. But I did it and tried it out a few times just to make sure, ‘cause I wanted ‘im dead, good and proper. Didn’t want any mistakes. Not with ‘im. Wanted ‘im cold. Stone cold’s ‘ow I wanted ‘im, it is, no mistake. And now he is. He is!

  But what I really want to say ‘ere is that I didn’t do in Jilly Prestons. No way would I do that. She wasn’t everybody’s cup o’ tea, but she was always all right with me. She worked ‘ard for the museum, she did. Sarah Millar was dead jealous of ‘er, of Jilly, ‘cause she’d got herself well in with Matt Fothergill, the boss man. They got on well, they did. Millar was always stickin’ her nose in where it wasn’t wanted and she kept bringin’ those Arab chaps round. She was up to no good. Always makin’ phone calls in foreign languages about the place when she thought no one’s around! I know what she’s up to all right. She’s the one who did in Jilly Prestons, Mr Burrows. And you can pass that on to that Mark McKay, too. I expect you’ll let him hear this anyway. (Sniffing followed by nose blowing.)

  I knew I’d be caught one day for killing me dad, but I don’t mind that. Proud of it. I did it for me and m’ half-sister, Cathy, lovely she were. And I mean really lovely... in every way. She hated ‘im comin’ on to her! And all the suffering and shame that he’d put me and Mum through. He deserved worse than what happened to him, he did, with all those floozies he’s had over the years and still trying it on with some of the museum girls, but I’ve mentioned about that before, I have. And that Mark McKay tricked me into letting slip that I sometimes called in late at the museum. I didn’t like that. Don’t like tricks. Mum said good people never rely on tricking people and things like that. But I didn’t kill Jilly Prestons, like I say, that was that Sarah Millar, that was. (Extraneous noises including movement of microphone. Recording appliance is switched off.)

  McKay clicked the mouse, carefully removed his headphones, sat back, thought and then thought a little more. Andy Fordham’s message resounded with frankness and, indeed, with honesty, yet there was, to his mind, something imperfect – in the grammatical sense of being unfinished – about it which concerned him and which left him feeling ill at ease.

  It wasn’t simply that the message contained the final utterances of a living being – now a dead man talking – nothing like that. In actual fact, it was not anything that Andy Fordham had said but, rather, what had been left unsaid. There were still many more holes than solids in his ramblings and the sad truth was that this recording would only plug so many of them. And what about Cathy, Fordham’s half-sister?

  Now being late in the afternoon, the dimmed skies framing the first broad yawn of autumn, McKay shuddered as the usually chirpy notes of the Steptoe & Son theme alerted him to a call. It was John Foote.

  37

  Introducing Captain Hank G Rutherford

  Mark McKay could hardly believe, in a literal sense, the information John Foote had uncovered about ‘handy’ Andy Fordham and, indeed, about his likely parentage, with special regard to that of his progenitor.

  “Crumbs! You must have had the old journalistic juices flowing! Just how sure are you about this, old boy?”

  “Ninety per cent and rising, and rising, Mark! Sure, Fordham saw some guy in military uniform kiss his mom goodbye on a few occasions when he was a nipper, but that guy wasn’t wearing an Anglian Regiment outfit! It was the uniform of the 96th Bombardment Group, US Air Force, based at Snetterton Airfield, south of Norwich.”

  “How can you be so certain, John? Sorry but…”

  “Sure. I understand. That’s what I said to Alisha, ‘Mark’s heard it from the horse’s mouth, Fordham himself, that his dad was a limey, right!’ So I checked and treble checked; first with the guys at the US Air Force records office; they helped, eventually! Then I got on to my buddy, Joel Wursteiner, who’s been seconded to work with your chaps at Somerset House near London on some immigration record investigation (that’s going to take forever, apparently!). Anyway, he confirmed it. The man who is recorded as Fordham’s father was based at Snetterton Air Field and Fordham’s birth is recorded at… let me just check this… Eccles Parish Church, now in the grounds of Eccles Hall School, apparently, near the village of Quidenham – that’s where one of your famous old Queens is buried, isn’t it? And that man, a certain Hank G Rutherford, Fordham’s father, was a US airman based at Snetterton – he was in dispatch,
that is to say, he delivered aircraft that were bound for operational duties. He wasn’t combat trained, it seems. Just going back to that school, New Eccles Hall; they actually have a museum dedicated to the 96th Bombardment Group, situated within the school’s grounds. What is now the school served as a hospital to Snetterton during the Second World War. It’d probably be worth a trek up there. Anyway, there’s no trace of any of Rutherford’s ancestors being called Smith, or being hitched to a Smith, even. Your guy Fordham got it wrong, Mark, big time, I’m afraid! Wrong uniform, wrong man!”

  “And I’m afraid that you’re right, John. Not for the first time. I owe you! Cheers, old boy. Take care!” With John’s phone bill being on his mind, McKay was about to end the call.

  “Oh, Mark! One more thing; well, a couple, actually. It’s to do with that ballistics matter you mentioned last week. That guy your mate Mountfitchet tabled, Jay Gould, he’s sterling – as clean as a whistle and based at Lakenheath US Air Base just a few miles south down the A11 from Eccles, if I read the map correctly. If you’re going up to Eccles anyway, look Jay up! By the way, I’ll be back on later – stuff to confirm here!”

  “It’s an idea, John. Thanks again.” The call was ended.

  38

  Morning coffee at The Old Forge

  “No,” stated the Director absolutely. Shaking his head vigorously, he went on. “Nobody in the museum has heard a thing from Sarah for the past eleven days. Her mail is now taking up three makeshift shelves in her office, as well as swamping her in-tray, of course! Young Lily, Liliana Stevens, she’s temping for us, got them, the shelves that is, brought in by Maintenance as an emergency measure – they’re a bit scruffy, you know, tinny, but they do the job! Haven’t you got any idea where she might have cleared off to? What about Burrows? Is he as clueless?” His tone was every bit as disdainful as his vocabulary.