by Alan Veale
Next morning, a decent few hours of slumber had put him in better shape, and he checked in for work at his normal time. Billie was armed with tissues and medication for treatment of a fictional man-flu he’d almost convinced himself was in the wrong category. His plan was to show up in a state of martyrdom, determined to fulfil his duties, and then be persuaded by his colleagues that he would be better off tucked up in bed for a couple of days with a hot water bottle and plenty of fluids. At his desk, Billie faced an unexpected snag.
Waiting for him was a note from his immediate boss, Senior Archivist Dr Paula O’Connor: Don’t Log In! It was written on the outside of a sealed envelope marked for his attention, and the contents inside simply requested Billie to go straight to her office without delay. Feeling slightly apprehensive at the implication of the instruction not to access his computer, he left his bag on his chair and headed downstairs. At least it would give him an opportunity to impress with his poor state of health.
Paula’s door was open as he reached her office on Level 2. He shuffled inside, noting that she was sitting behind her desk with her head in her hands, looking as rough as he was pretending to feel himself.
‘Trouble at Mill?’
‘You could say that. Shut the door please, Billie, and sit down.’
Something in her tone. He did as he was told and waited while she finished reading some notes. At length she sighed, pushed back her old leather chair and stared at him with a look of distaste.
‘Shit.’
‘Sorry?’ Billie was shocked to hear the word from Paula’s lips. He’d known her for many years and it was extremely unusual for her to swear in anyone’s company.
‘I repeat: shit. You are in deep shit. Think back to the twenty-third of July. You had a visitor, right?’
It took a moment to make the connection. ‘Oh! Yes, Emma. Emma Dearing, the author who gave the talk about The Tragic Sister. Yes, she came to see me about… some research for her next book. That was okay, wasn’t it?’
‘You took her to the Stirling Room. Without a chaperone.’
‘Er… yes. She wanted to talk privately.’ He was aware of the blood rushing to his ears, and hoped it didn’t show. ‘It was only a few minutes.’
‘Billie, it may only have been a few minutes, but it may have just cost you your job. Emma Dearing has made a complaint that you sexually assaulted her in that time. I’m very sorry, but I have no choice but to suspend you on full pay pending a thorough investigation.’
Eighteen
In another library a couple of hundred miles to the south, a young woman with bleached-blonde tips to her brown hair grasped a small blue suitcase on wheels. After speaking briefly to a smiling girl occupying a desk inside the entrance doors, she steered the case deeper into the building in the direction indicated. She took no interest in the displays around her, easing her way past browsing visitors with less urgent desires than her own. It was a huge room, circular in shape, that replicated the outside structure. Up two shallow steps and she reached another desk, but others were occupying the attention of the archivist on duty. She waited with some impatience. She didn’t need information. Not on this occasion. But she did need a special service. In preparation, she unzipped the front compartment of her case and withdrew a large padded envelope. Then she checked her watch and gratefully accepted an offer of assistance from another librarian.
*
Some moments of our lives are indelibly printed on our memories, and for Billie this was one of those occasions. For him, an accusation of sexual assault in the workplace came only slightly down the scale from murder, and the outrageous nature of the claim left him in a state of shock. It didn’t matter that he knew he wasn’t guilty. It didn’t even bother him that he could argue he was the one who suffered a sexual assault (if a surprise kiss fell into that category). What did matter was that his job was now on the line; as was his means of income and financial support for Tina. He also realised his chances of finding further work might be severely damaged. What the hell has she done?
So he sat there facing his boss, the colour washed out of his face. The announcement of his suspension had caused his jaw to drop, and while a rash of emotions mobbed his brain, his eyes followed Paula’s hand as she retrieved a piece of paper from the top of an open file.
‘I need to read you this. It’s an email from Miss Dearing’s representative I received late yesterday afternoon. My client wishes you to know that, on the 23rd of July this year, while visiting your establishment for the purpose of literary research, she was sexually assaulted by a member of your staff. Emma had previously made the acquaintance of Mr Billie Vane in May when she gave a talk on her book “The Tragic Sister”. At that time Mr Vane had expressed an interest in assisting her with research for a planned sequel, and invited her to return to The Mitchell to show her some material. Upon attending in July Emma was escorted by Mr Vane to The Stirling Room, where he suggested they could have some privacy. It then became clear to Emma there was no material to look at, and that Mr Vane had some sort of fixation on her personally. He made a clumsy effort to kiss her, and put his hand under her skirt. While he did not actually touch her genitals, it is clear that that was his intention, and she had to forcibly remove his hand. She then spent several minutes trying to calm him down before she felt able to leave. Please note that my client has no wish to see Mr Vane punished, but she does feel this matter should be brought to your attention. She also wishes it to be made clear she is not to be contacted in any way by Mr Vane in the future.’
The words prompted colour to make a gradual return to Billie’s cheeks, before making another assault on his ears. They burned from the outside in while his brain processed so much misinformation. A slow-motion shake of his head from side to side intimated conscious denial. Speech fought for priority over breathing.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It wasn’t like that, at all.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Billie, I’ve not the slightest doubt there’s something very wrong here. I’ve known you for many years, and I’ve been personally involved…’ She stopped as he looked up into her eyes. They had history. A deep breath and then she continued. ‘I know this is totally against character. But as your boss I do have to treat any allegations against staff members seriously. Now, I spent several hours last night checking this out, and Miss Dearing’s visit was logged as she described on the twenty-third. It’s also been confirmed that you took the keys to the Stirling Room, and that they were returned a short time later, but no one remembers seeing her leave. No, don’t say anything now. If you do say anything, I have to write it down, and I can see you’re in shock. Just go home, Billie. I will have to set up a proper investigation, and I will be in touch with Miss Dearing’s agent. For now, it’s enough for me to note that you deny the allegations. Correct?’
‘Correct.’ Billie nodded and stumbled to his feet. He knew he should say something more, and hesitated as he put his hand on the door handle. But Paula got in first.
‘I’ll send you an official letter of suspension, and I just want you to know you have my support. But Billie, whatever you do, do not try to contact Emma Dearing. Leave everything to me. Okay?’
He nodded, swallowed hard and left the room.
*
The first thing he tried to do was to contact Emma. At least, he got as far as bringing her contact details up on his phone. But something held him back; instead he called Ed. Half an hour later they were sat inside the Ben Nevis Pub, and Billie was receiving the benefit of his friend’s wisdom.
‘Well, you got what you needed in the end.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Time off. You’re free to go to Manchester now. Maybe study some job vacancies while you’re down there?’
‘That’s not funny, Ed. Do you see me laughing?’
‘No, sorry. For what it’s worth I was just trying to lighten the mood. Come on, Billie-boy. You’ve been in worse situations. What really happened at that meeting with Emma? And
don’t give me the edited version this time.’
He bowed his head before replying. ‘She kissed me.’
‘She kissed you? What the heck? And this from the guy who claims to be no good with women.’
‘I wasn’t expecting it! She had me in a clinch as soon as I shut the door. Said something about making rules… I don’t know. She wanted the upper hand in things. To take control. Boy, has she done that.’ He threw a gloomy look at his coffee, but it offered no consolation.
Ed took a sip of his own and gave his companion a sideways look. ‘So, this upper hand of yours. Did it find its way up her skirt?’
‘NO! Although it was very inviting. She was definitely dressed to attract male attention. Plenty of leg on show.’ He winced at a further memory. ‘I’d better tell you what happened the other night.’
As Billie recounted his nocturnal Skype experience, Ed found his eyebrows making a gradual ascent of his forehead. When Billie threw in his subsequent findings on the Faulkner connection, he was quiet for a long time.
‘This is serious stuff, Billie-boy. You’ve got us into one helluva pickle.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes. You think I’m going to sit back and let you take a fall on account of what these guys are doing? No way! Give me your phone. No. Just give me her details.’
Billie sighed, but knew from experience it was no use arguing with his friend. He looked away in resignation as Ed used his own phone to key in the number.
‘No reason why she can’t take a call from me.’ He listened a moment, then cancelled the call. ‘Shit!’
‘What?’
‘Number unobtainable. Bet she changed her number.’ He stared at his phone for a short while before his assertive nature took over. ‘Right. Let’s look at what we’ve got: This dame has written a book and wants to write another. Then she sets her sights on you as a good guy to help but, let’s face it, you are a little naïve. She gets you—and me—to do a spot of research into a sensitive subject. I suppose that also makes me a bit of a sucker too. Meantime she and her family have gotten into a whole heap of trouble with someone who fancies himself above the law.’
Ed paused, so Billie contributed. ‘Who’s now actually dead.’
‘How d’you know that? Did you check?’
‘Of course I checked! There’s an obituary in The Times and everything.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time The Times got it wrong. Okay, he might be dead but he’s still got friends in low places, right? So now she’s panicking and wanting more help, and there’s only one guy she feels she can trust. Only he doesn’t trust her.’
‘With good reason.’
‘Granted. So while he’s been making his ass sore sitting on the fence, maybe she’s come up with a great idea for shifting him off it? I’m just saying!’
Billie drained his coffee and pulled a face. ‘Ed, it’s not my ass that’s sore. It’s my whole sodding body! I’m suspended until further notice for something I haven’t done. And that’s after I’ve genuinely tried to help her. What the fuck did she think she was doing?’
Ed sat in silence and let his eyes rest on the woman behind the bar as she chatted to another customer. He saw whitened teeth and ample cleavage on display. He watched the reaction of the man she was serving. ‘Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. Maybe she’s doing what she’s good at. Sex industry? What’s that but a way of getting fools to part with their money. Strikes me Emma’s no fool, and she knows how to play you.’
Billie started to respond but his friend cut him off.
‘Hear me out. Think about it from her point of view for a moment: She hands you one half of an extremely valuable, and possibly historic, document which any academic would agree needs to be properly investigated. What have you done with it?’
Billie shrugged. ‘Well, I showed it to you.’
‘Exactly. You’ve done nothing—yet. Granted you’ve still no proof of anything unless you get to see the rest of the document. And where is that?’
‘Presumably still with Emma.’
‘In Manchester. You got her address? Yes? Come on, time to pack a bag. You and me are heading south. We need to play along with this femme fatale, because now we need some answers for ourselves.’
Nineteen
‘That’s two single rooms booked for tonight, right next to Emma’s apartment.’ Billie put his phone away and returned his focus to the motorway ahead. ‘Where are we?’
‘Approaching junction eight on the M74,’ said Ed. ‘We’ve another three hours or so on the road if all goes to plan, but my stomach says we might have to add another half hour onto that.’
‘Hmm. Traffic can also be bad on the ring road round Manchester. A friend of mine was telling me last week about it. Roadworks with narrow lanes and speed limits down to fifty.’
‘I know, it’s been going on for years. They call it smart technology. Government strategy for upgrading freeways. Ha! Not so smart when all it does is hold up traffic for hours on end. Another example of politics buggering up our lives.’
They remained silent for a few moments while the windscreen wipers made an occasional sweep, tyre noise filling the gap. Then Ed spoke again. ‘Is that it now? Made all your calls?’
‘Yeah. Tina’s mum and the hotel. I told her I’d check in with Tina tonight on WhatsApp if I can get a connection. She was fine about it. What did you tell Robin?’
Ed gave a sly grin. ‘That you owed him big time. You’d send him a big bunch of flowers and pay for dinner at the Finnie when we get back.’
Billie glanced at his friend and noted the grin. ‘Just remember whose idea this was, Ed. I’d have gone to Manchester on my own if necessary. But I will apologise to Robin when I get the chance.’
‘No worries. Anyhow, I have another proposition for you. How do you fancy a trip to Belfast? I’ve got a sea trial coming up soon and we could easily include Northern Ireland in the schedule. We could check out the dockside there, take in the original slipways and museum. Maybe even get to Portadown? What do you think?’
Billie gave it some thought before responding. ‘I think it’s a great idea. But let’s just take things one step at a time, shall we? I’m more concerned right now with sorting out this business of being suspended. Let’s find Emma and clear that up if we can. Then we can get back to Titanic and stuff.’
‘Fair enough. Although my radar is picking up signs that Emma’s initiatives are going to take us there anyway. It’s all connected.’
‘Go on.’
‘Politics. That’s what this is all about. The business with Titanic had political fallout, didn’t it? Inquiries in the States and over here. We had Senator Smith jumping up and down looking for someone to blame, then the Brits with the Board of Trade keeping a tight lid on everything. Sure, we all remember fifteen hundred people went down with the ship for whatever reason. But as transport disasters go it prompted a helluva lot of upset on both sides of the pond. Now we’re seeing a government minister on this side getting himself in a sweat soon as the news breaks they found the wreck, or is that just a coincidence?’
Billie nodded. ‘Good point. But don’t forget all we’ve got to go on is what Emma’s told us. If Peter Gris really did have something to do with her brother’s death, I’m still not convinced it was all about that document of hers. She says she’s scared, and I believe her. She says she tried to cut his balls off, but we’ve only her word for that.’
‘Anyone tried to do that to me, I’d be pretty mad about it!’
‘Me too. But what if it’s all in her imagination? Or simply a lie? She certainly made up that one about sexual assault. So, what else? Gris is dead. She admitted that, and yet Emma’s still panicking. If it was all just about politics, what makes her react that way?’
Ed flicked the right indicator, accelerating to pass a large truck. ‘Something bad. I sense a desperate act. You were stalling her and she knew she had to push you. Doing what she did was certainly effective. Would you really ha
ve made this trip if she hadn’t lied like she did?’
‘Straight answer? Yes, I would. I was working on pulling a sicky because I did believe her story. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Sceptic. You’re just sore because you got your ass kicked.’
They sat in silence for a few miles in weekday traffic free of congestion despite the occasional lane closure for maintenance purposes. Billie’s mind wandered to thoughts about Ed’s suggestion for visiting Belfast. The idea had a lot of appeal. How much had changed there since Emma’s brother died? The Troubles had dropped from the front pages of the press, with greater emphasis on promoting tourism and culture. Partisan politics was not entirely confined to the past, yet a workable solution appeared to have been found. But where did Peter Gris fit in?
Billie took out his phone and browsed Wikipedia for material on the former Conservative politician. He found he had first been promoted to Cabinet office in 1983, and appointed as Northern Ireland Secretary in August 1985, just before Robert Ballard had discovered the wreck of the Titanic. The Anglo-Irish Agreement had been signed soon after, on 15th November. Emma had told him her father was killed around that time, and his own research seemed to confirm that. She’d implied it was because he had threatened embarrassment to the government by releasing that document. Maybe it was more than that? Maybe the whole Agreement had been in danger. Who else would be keener to remove such a threat than the Cabinet Minister responsible for its safe delivery? Okay, so on that basis there was an element of truth in Emma’s story. But would that still account for Gris somehow being involved in the death of Brendan Faulkner a year later? Emma said she had felt strongly enough about Gris to attack him in person seventeen years ago. Gris would have been on the Opposition benches by then. Billie scrolled down the page and swallowed hard. He read that Peter Gris had survived two attempts on his life: the first was in 1984 as part of the IRA bombing of government ministers in Brighton, but the second had been at a private function in London in 1999. There were no further details. Shit. Emma’s story was appearing more and more credible.
