No Tears for the Lost

by Magson, Adrian

  She located a branch of Boots and looked across the piazza to a line of shop windows with numbers on the fascias. 32 and 34 were easy to see, then came a gap filled by a short stretch of spear-topped, wrought iron railings enclosing a twin set of stairs. Above this stood the signs LADIES and GENTLEMEN.

  She walked past the railings and looked up at the next window, which was a charity shop. She frowned and checked the number above the door. 36.

  She circled the piazza twice, checking both sides in case she had missed something. But there was no 34A. She checked the printout of Tristram’s last email. It definitely said 34A.

  She’d been had.

  She walked back to the charity shop and pushed through the front door. A woman was writing out price tickets behind the counter.

  ‘Morning, love,’ the woman said, smiling cheerfully.

  Riley returned her greeting. ‘I’m looking for number 34A,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve a feeling I’ve got the wrong information. Was there ever a 34A?’

  The woman nodded. ‘Aye, love. Still is, too. You need next door.’

  Riley stared at the woman. ‘But there’s nothing there apart from-’

  ‘The toilets. That’s right.’ She gave a brief chuckle. ‘It’s our local folly, is that. The council got a grant to build some new public toilets. For some reason, they didn’t want to list it on the town plans as a convenience, so some wag called it 34A and the number stuck. Now, when anyone wants to go to the loo, everyone round here calls it doing a 34A.’ She pulled a face. ‘A right waste of money if you ask me. Still, you can’t argue with bureaucrats, can you, once they make their minds up?’ She looked at the paper in Riley’s hand. ‘Who are you looking for, anyway?’

  ‘Somebody called Tristram,’ Riley replied. ‘I don’t suppose it rings a bell, does it?’

  ‘No, love – sorry.’ The woman smiled wryly. ‘That’s not a name you’ll find much of round here, anyway. Tristram? Sounds a bit southern, does that.’ She nodded, her good deed done for the day, and went back to her price tickets.

  Riley thanked her and walked outside. She glanced sideways at the toilets, then strolled across the piazza to Boots, where she studied the window display. It gave her a reasonably clear reflection of the street behind her, from where she could scan the scene for signs of anyone behaving out of the ordinary. If this was some form of elaborate hoax, the perpetrator might be watching to see if he or she had reeled anyone else in.

  After a few minutes, she moved on and did a tour of the piazza. Still nothing.

  She thought with distaste about the long drive back and felt a growing sense of annoyance – not least at her own gullibility. All this way on the say-so of a computer prankster!

  She spotted a café further along the street and decided a coffee and something sugary might be a source of inspiration - or at least, salve her wounded pride at having been taken in so easily. She walked inside and ordered a latte and a large Danish, and sat down near a collection of elderly people in smart coats and hats, their feet surrounded by bags. Clearly, shopping here was a serious business, and included a stop off at the café afterwards.

  ‘Hello, love. Any luck?’ Riley turned. It was the woman from the charity shop, accompanied by another woman who might have been a clone. As if reading her mind, the woman said, ‘This is my sister, Janice. I’m Eileen, by the way. We’re on a coffee break; we need a sugar boost for the energy.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Riley replied. ‘And no - no luck, I’m afraid.’

  Eileen relayed Riley’s search to her sister in a voice loud enough to catch the ear of several other women, and soon Riley was the centre of attention, with speculation bouncing back and forth about the mysterious name. She didn’t explain why she was looking for Tristram, and nobody pressed her for a reason. But nobody could offer anything but shrugs and dubious glances, and soon the café returned to normal. Then an elderly man at the next table caught Riley’s eye and leaned across the gap.

  ‘You should ask Jacob Worth,’ he whispered. He winked, then stood up and collected his coat off the back of the chair. ‘He’s a strange one, that. He might not speak to you. But he’s got one of them computers - I’ve seen him use it. Don’t tell him I said so.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Riley. ‘Where do I find this Jacob?’

  ‘In the bog, of course.’ The old man looked at her as if she was slow-witted. ‘Where else would you find a toilet attendant?’ Then he walked out, nodding goodbye to the other customers.

  Riley finished her coffee, wondering if this wasn’t simply an extension to the hoax. But with the long drive back to look forward to, it seemed worth the extra effort to find out if this Jacob existed, and if he could help. She walked across to the toilet block and down the stairs beneath the sign marked LADIES.

  The entrance led to a white-tiled interior lit by fluorescent ceiling lights. A line of cubicles stood on one side, with sinks, hand-dryers and towel dispensers on the other. Everything looked new and shiny. At the end of the room was a wooden door.

  She knocked. It felt solid and unyielding. There was no answer.

  She returned to her car and waited. Council folly or not, whoever heard of a toilet attendant not being in attendance? Maybe he had another block to look after across the other side of town. Or maybe he was deaf and hadn’t heard her.

  She left the car and returned to the toilets. She debated trying the Gents, but decided that was a step too far. She’d probably find herself being hustled out by a couple of local constables and marched to the nick for questioning.

  As she was about to return to her car, a tall, thin man in his fifties crossed the piazza and approached the entrance, walking with a pronounced limp. He was dressed in smart trousers and blue shirt, with a dark blue anorak and matching tie. He eyed her warily but didn’t speak. In his hand was a small paper bag. Printed on the outside was the name of an office supplies company.

  Without knowing why, Riley’s instincts told her that this was the man she was looking for.

  ‘Jacob?’ She spoke quickly before he could disappear down the stairs. ‘Can I speak to you?’

  The man paused, then shook his head. ‘It’s not a complaint, is it? Only you have to address complaints to the council offices. I’m only the attendant here.’ With that, he turned away and hurried down the steps, clutching his bag.

  ‘Wait!’ Riley followed him, but stopped at the entrance, not quite ready to cross the threshold. ‘Jacob? Please – I need to talk to you.’ There was no answer. She heard a door being unlocked and closed very quietly, the sounds echoing clearly over the hiss of water. ‘Jacob,’ she called. ‘It’s about Tristram.’

  She waited, but there was no response. She was about to leave when she heard a noise at the entrance and the man re-appeared. He looked pale, his chin trembling, and was holding onto the wall to keep his balance. He was still clutching the paper bag in his hand.

  ‘What?’ he asked softly, blinking in the light. ‘How do you know about him?’ His eyes glowed with an inner fire and Riley could feel a furious energy coming off him in waves.

  She took out the email and held it up so he could see it. ‘Because Tristram sent me this,’ she explained. ‘And others like it.’

  ‘To you? No.’ Jacob shook his head and began to back away. ‘No, that’s not possible.’

  Riley stepped after him. At least he hadn’t denied the name Tristram.

  ‘Don’t go. My name’s Riley Gavin. You- Tristram’s been emailing me about Sir Kenneth Myburghe.’ She paused as his eyes darted from the email to her face. He showed all the signs of being about to bolt back inside. ‘I think I can help you.’

  ‘No. Can’t do it,’ he muttered defensively, and turned away like a child guarding a secret. ‘See Barbara. The library. She’ll tell you.’ Then he was gone, scurrying back inside. Seconds later, the inner door slammed shut.

  **********

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Jacob?’ The middle-aged woman stacking books on a wh
eeled trolley frowned at her. ‘What would you want with my Jacob?’ She looked pointedly at her watch. The library was about to close.

  After leaving 34A, Riley had asked for directions to the local library, and been directed past a half-timbered pub to a stone-built, almost austere Victorian building. The inside, by contrast, was bright and cheerful, with the welcoming glow of lights and the warm, musty smell of books.

  Riley shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. He told me to come and speak to you. Barbara at the library, he said. You know who I mean, then?’

  The woman gave a wry smile. ‘I should do – I’ve been married to him long enough.’ She looked around at two remaining readers and another woman stacking a trolley on the other side of the room, then said quietly, ‘What’s he been doing now? He’s not well, I’m afraid. You’re not the police, are you?’ Her eyes opened in alarm at the thought.

  Riley was quick to reassure her, sensing that it wouldn’t take much for this woman to shut down, just like Jacob. ‘Nothing like that,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s this.’ She took out the emails and showed them to the woman, and explained how they had directed her to number 34A.

  Barbara read the text, her face draining of colour. Then she handed the emails back, her hand darting to an elegant cameo brooch on a gold chain at her breast. ‘It’s silliness, is that,’ she whispered. ‘It’s so long ago – he doesn’t mean anything by it, not really. I’d forget about it, if I were you. It’s nonsense.’ She turned away, busying herself, hoping her visitor might give up and go away.

  ‘Wait. Please.’ Riley touched her arm. She had to find some way of bringing this to a conclusion. If this was just ‘silliness’ as Barbara described it, then so be it. She could simply chalk it up to experience. Maybe Jacob, the woman’s husband, was unwell. But having seen her reaction to the emails, Riley wasn’t so sure. There was clearly something going on here, lurking beneath the surface, and Barbara knew what it was. ‘He must have wanted someone to know what he knew about Sir Kenneth Myburghe, otherwise, why send me the emails?’

  Barbara didn’t respond, although she stayed where she was, no longer intent on flight.

  ‘Why Tristram?’ Riley urged her. ‘Is that name important to him?’ It occurred to her that without confirmation that Jacob Worth and Tristram were one and the same person, she was still at square one.

  ‘What happens,’ Riley continued, ‘if he sends these emails to someone else – maybe one of the tabloids? They won’t be put off so easily. And they won’t be subtle about it, either. If they smell a story, they’ll come looking for him in droves.’

  It was this point which seemed to penetrate the woman’s mind. She nodded and sighed deeply, as if reaching a decision she had been considering for a long time. She led Riley over to the deserted reference section and invited her to sit.

  ‘He won’t speak to you,’ she explained softly. ‘He doesn’t – speak to women, I mean. It’s part of…what happened to him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Riley leaned in close, intrigued. ‘Part of what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you much… that’s up to him if he wants to. But Jacob was… in the Falklands – in the Navy.’ Barbara spoke concisely. She seemed calmer now, as if unburdening herself was helping. ‘He was with the Defence Intelligence Group, working in Latin America. He never says much, but I know he was working with the British embassies down there, trying to get support against the Argentinians. This was in nineteen eighty-two. He’d been over there for a couple of weeks, travelling about. Then on the fourth of May, he was told to join some other officers on HMS Sheffield. There was to be a conference of some sort and Jacob and a friend named Tom Elliott, were to brief the meeting about what they’d found.’

  ‘The Sheffield?’ Riley trawled her memory for details with a sense of foreboding. ‘But wasn’t that-?’

  ‘She was hit by an Exocet. It didn’t explode, but the ship caught fire. Jacob and Tom were in a wardroom for the conference when the missile struck. A bulkhead door was blown off by the impact and entered the wardroom. It broke Jacob’s leg, but… Tom was crushed. He was taken off the ship with Jacob, but he died of his wounds. There was nothing they could do. It was such a waste.’

  Riley waited, saying nothing.

  Barbara took a small handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘You asked about Tristram earlier. He uses the name after one of the other ships. He said it’s safer than using his own name. It’s useless telling the man, but he blames himself for not saving Tom’s life. The Navy told me he couldn’t have done anything – that the door was too heavy for one man to lift, and the damage was too severe – but he won’t listen. In the end, what with the wounds and that, it all got too much; he suffered a breakdown.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s been like it ever since. Bouts of depression, anger, insomnia – guilt, too, which is worse, poor man. But there’s no getting to him. God knows, we’ve all tried.’

  ‘Is that why he’s working where he is?’ Riley tried to be tactful, knowing this must be difficult for Barbara to talk about.

  ‘Yes. He tried other jobs. I mean, his career in the Navy was over, but he did try. Securicor was one place, but when they asked him to do night shifts, he couldn’t sleep properly in the day and it began to tell on him. Tom’s son, Ben – he’s a policeman - helped by taking him out for drives and suchlike. But it didn’t last. Then he saw the attendant position advertised down at the Job Centre and applied.’ She shook her head slowly, eyes somewhere in the distance.

  ‘That must have been very hard.’

  ‘Harder for him than me, love.’ Barbara looked up with a touch of fire in her eyes, and Riley saw the pride that Jacob’s wife still felt for him, in spite of his problems. ‘Much harder. Especially when friends asked why – knowing his background in the navy, I mean. But he said that’s what he wants.’ She shrugged. ‘And that’s where he’s been ever since. It suits, him, you see. He feels safe down there. Removed. A bit like being on board ship, I think. He’s on his own for the most part, but there’s always people he knows who pop in for a chat. They never stay long because they know it’s not needed, but it’s enough. He likes to read, and he does puzzles and such, like Sudoku. He draws, too – people, mostly – and makes model ships and stuff. He was always good with his hands like that.’

  Riley nodded and felt an unbidden thought creep into her mind. Would that include putting together a fake bomb? ‘But why all this stuff about Myburghe? He wasn’t on board the Sheffield, was he?’

  ‘Not him, dear. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ Riley was about to ask her what she meant, but Barbara twisted her fingers together and continued, ‘What you said about other people… the tabloids. I couldn’t have that happen. It would destroy him. Could you get someone to talk to him? A man, I mean. He won’t talk to you – not alone, anyhow.’

  ‘But he contacted me,’ Riley pointed out.

  ‘I know, love. He probably thought…’ She paused and looked embarrassed, and Riley thought she knew why.

  ‘He thought Riley was a man?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Barbara took a deep breath. ‘He’s not good around women these days. I don’t know why. He used to be so confident – a bit of a charmer, actually.’ She stared off into the distance, a faint smile bringing a light to her face as the memories came flooding in. Then she shook herself and continued, ‘I don’t want him talking to others about it. He could get into trouble, couldn’t he, saying things like that? And the tabloids don’t care who gets hurt, do they? Myburghe is important, after all.’

  ‘You know who he is, then?’

  Barbara nodded, eyes flickering beyond Riley as if she didn’t want to make contact. ‘Oh, yes. I know who he is.’ She dropped her head, but not before Riley saw a flash of something deep in her eyes. It might have been anger, but it was too brief to tell.

  ‘Did Jacob talk about him?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She waved vaguely. ‘He talks about…things, now and then. Things he remembers. I’m not
sure he knows what he’s saying most of the time. But he mentions Myburghe more than most things.’

  Riley held her breath, her heart thudding. This time, while Barbara was talking, she’d seen something more in her face, and heard something in her tone of voice when she talked about Myburghe.

  Was it contempt?

  When Barbara didn’t speak, Riley urged her, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, he’s the man who got so friendly with those lords, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Lords?’ Riley leaned forward and touched the woman’s arm. Instinct told her this was important. ‘What lords, Barbara?’

  ‘Well, they’re not real lords, are they?’ Barbara said dismissively. ‘Not like ours, anyway. Except to their own kind, probably. What is it they call those people in Colombia? Those awful cartels… the drug lords.’

  Riley made the return trip to London in a daze. She’d been on the brink of dismissing Jacob Worth as a certified head-case, a man living under massive delusions, when suddenly she’d been snapped back to basics by Barbara Worth’s revelations about her husband’s background and his connection with Sir Kenneth Myburghe. Whatever she’d hinted about the former ambassador had been fuelled by her husband’s ramblings and would have to be verified. Unfortunately, the only person who could do that – apart from Myburghe, and she wasn’t about to ask him – was Jacob.

  And Jacob either couldn’t or wouldn’t talk to a woman.

  She was still chewing it over when she got home. Tired from the drive, she was about to turn in for an early night when her phone rang. It was Weller.

  ‘We picked up an interesting visitor yesterday,’ the senior policeman announced breezily. ‘From the States. Used to be one of your lot.’