by M J Lee
'Get a move on, Jayne, you haven't got all day.' Once again, she spoke out loud. She entered the address in the satnav and put the car in gear. If they were following her, then there was nothing she could do about it.
Not yet anyway. But if she ever discovered who they were, she would kick the living shit out of them. After she had asked them, politely, who they were and why they were following her, of course.
Always get the answers before the violence. First thing you learn at Police Training College.
Chapter Forty
M62. Lancashire. November 20, 2015.
Time for his noonday call. David Turner pressed the speed dial on his phone, it linked him directly to his client.
'Hello, you're on speaker phone. I'm on the M62 at the moment, following her car.' This time he had attached a Zoombak tracker to the rear of her vehicle. The satnav in his hand beeped reassuringly and a small dot travelled on the M62 slightly ahead of him, showing her car and its route.
'Find out where she's going. Call me back at three pm. I want you to stay in touch more often now. She's getting closer.' The client's voice had changed from being tentative and unconfident. Now, he was the one giving the orders.
'My operative will have broken the code on her computer by now. Do you want me to send you the hard disk?'
'Do that. Call me back at three pm sharp.'
'Will do. I'll call back then with an update. Any further orders, sir?' He was beginning to sound like he was back in the army again. It felt good, playing this client as he had played the officers. The added 'sir' at the end snapped out like an unspoken salute. He could feel the client enjoying it on the other end of the line.
'Good, carry on. Three pm sharp.'
God, he's even beginning to sound like an officer. The connection was cut and a buzzing noise filled the car. Well, he didn't mind taking orders again as long as he was in charge. More orders meant more money. And he was always happy to receive more money.
The small dot on his satnav began to bear left towards the M606. Going to Bradford or Halifax then. He wondered if he would have time for a curry. Loved a good curry he did. Got the taste for it when he was in Singapore, training their army. He often went down to Racecourse Road, eating a mutton curry off a banana leaf with his hands, his fingers stained a bright yellow by the time he had finished. A Bradford curry would have to be pretty good to beat the taste of Muttu's, eaten off a banana leaf with fried chicken and sambal on the side.
His mouth began to water at the thought of it. Come on, lad, concentrate on work, not on food. Do your duty, your stomach can be filled later.
He followed her off the motorway onto the M606. Where was she going?
Chapter Forty-One
Bradford, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.
The detached house was set back slightly from the road and had evidently seen better days. Above the porch, the numbers 1641 were inscribed on a stone. Perhaps it had been a prosperous farmhouse when it was built, sitting high on a hill above the small village of Bradford.
But the arrival of steam power had changed all that. The many streams in the valley had powered the mills where carding, looming and weaving had been carried out. The mills needed a labour force to man those machines. Houses were built, long rows of back to back houses, like ranks of soldiers on a battlefield. Gradually, the houses reached out up the hill, swallowing up the old farmhouse like a tidal wave flowing over a sand castle. The mills grew more and more dense, each one spewing out dense fogs of smoke, turning the green and pleasant land into something brown and stony and terribly unhappy.
Somehow, the house had survived, surrounded but still standing. An outpost of a gentler, quieter, more rural life in amongst the terraced back-to-backs. The faceless men, women and children of the mills isolated from its gardens and lawns by a high stone wall.
Jayne parked her car at the entrance to the house and walked up the driveway. The front door was old and battered, with green paint peeling from the wood, revealing another coat of brown beneath. She tried the doorbell.
No sound. Was it working? She looked up at the windows. No sign of any life at the curtains. In fact, no sign of any curtains. The house looked and felt deserted. She knocked anyway. 'Hello?' she called out.
A noise came back. Somebody jumping down uncarpeted stairs. The door flew open. A young woman stood in the opening.
'Hello.' Jayne smiled.
'Are you the cleaner? Come on in.' The woman walked away.
Jayne followed her into the house. 'I think there's some sort of mistake...' she said tentatively.
'This way,' the voice shouted from the kitchen.
Jayne stepped over a pile of boxes in the hall. The kitchen was straight ahead. 'I think there's some mistake,' she repeated, 'I'm here about Mrs Clavell.'
'I'm Mrs Clavell.' The young woman stood with her hands on her hips.
'I'm here about Emily Clavell.'
'I think you have the wrong place. My name is Sonia Clavell.'
She must be a relative. 'I should explain. I'm a genealogical researcher.' She handed the young woman a card. 'I've been commissioned by my client to research his past. My investigations have led me to this address.'
The young woman was still looking at the card. 'Well, it's been in the family for a long time. Just sold it recently. You don't know how happy we are. But, as you can see, we're very busy, and if you're not the cleaner...'
'If I could just ask you a few questions. It wouldn't take more than a couple of minutes.' She smiled hopefully. 'It would be an immense help in my researches.'
The young woman looked at her watch. 'Just a few minutes?'
Jayne nodded.
'Well, it is time for a cuppa while we wait for the cleaner to come. Would you like one?'
'Lovely.'
'No biscuits, I'm afraid. Roger ate the last of them this morning.'
'Roger?'
'My Lab.' As if on cue, a large black Labrador, tail wagging like a regimental drummer, bounced into the kitchen, sniffed at Jayne and went to its owner. 'He's hungry again. I'll put the kettle on if you can get the dog food down from the shelf. What did you say your name was?'
'It's Jayne, Jayne Sinclair.'
'Well, Jayne, how can I help you?'
Jayne reached up for the bag of dog chow on the shelf. Roger immediately switched his attention from his owner to her. 'Where should I put this?'
Sonia Clavell poured a stream of hot water into a teapot. 'The bowl is somewhere on the floor where he left it.'
In the corner, Jayne spotted a bright green bowl. She filled it full of dog chow with one hand, pushing Roger away with the other. When she stepped away, he dived in, wolfing down huge mouthfuls of dried food.
'Roger, manners...' shouted Sonia.
The dog stopped what he was doing for a second, looked back over his shoulder at his owner and then went back to inhaling food.
'I give up.' Sonia handed over a hot cup of tea. 'There's milk on the table. Help yourself.'
Jayne poured a splash of milk into her tea and smelt the rich aroma. 'Where to start?' she said aloud to herself.
'The beginning is usually the best place.'
She liked this no-nonsense woman. 'I'm looking for the father of my client. He was adopted in America from the Ilkley Children's Home.'
'When was that?'
'In 1929.'
'A long time ago. Why don't you ask at the home?'
'Unfortunately, it burnt down in the 1930s.'
'So he wants to find his relatives.'
'Right.'
'Where do I come in?'
'I don't know. His mother was Emily Clavell. She died in 1928 and he was put into the home in early 1929, we think.'
'Emily Clavell? The name rings a bell.'
'The census has her living in this house with her parents, and two elder brothers in 1911. One brother was killed in the war and the other died in the fighting in Ireland in 1921.'
'I didn't know there was any figh
ting in Ireland.'
Jayne passed over the photocopy of The Times article. 'See his address is given as this house.'
Sonia read the article. 'Poor people, losing a son like that.'
'Do you remember anybody of that name?'
The young woman thought for a moment. 'No, but I wouldn't, it's my sister who's the family history expert.'
Right on cue, there was a loud knock on the door. 'At last, the cleaner is here.' Sonia put down her tea and answered the door. She came back with a broad smile on her face. 'Speak of the devil. You're in luck.' She stepped aside to reveal a taller, more careworn version of herself with short hair and glasses. 'This is my sister, Annie.'
While Sonia made more tea, Jayne explained what she was looking for to Annie. At the mention of Emily Clavell's name, her face lit up. 'My great aunt. She was my grandmother's younger sister. Twelve years younger, actually. Our side of the family inherited this house from her when she died in 1928.'
'But she was married, why didn't the husband keep the house?'
'I don't know. My grandmother didn't talk about her much. Some family scandal. They were all devout Methodists, you know.'
'Do you have any old pictures or anything like that?' Jayne asked hopefully.
'I don't think so. Everything was lost or thrown out by our mother. She was a stickler for tidiness. You wouldn't believe it, looking at the place now, would you? She wasn't able to keep it up in the end. Too much for her. We tried to get her to move into sheltered housing but she wasn't having it. This was her home and this was where she was going to stay till the end of her days. Her church was around the corner and the shops were close by. This was her life and she wasn't going to change.'
Jayne felt deflated by the news. It looked like she was never going to get to the bottom of the case. It was Saturday now, she had to report to John Hughes before he left on Monday. What was she going to do?
'The only thing we still have from the old days is a family bible. As I said, they were devout Methodists. It's got all the births and deaths in it from 1850 odd. Would that help?'
Jayne sat up straight. 'That would be brilliant. At least, it would give me background to your family.'
'Hang on, it's here somewhere. Sonia, have you seen the Bible?'
'It's in the box of old books. I was going to give it to the Oxfam shop. It's out in the hall.'
Jayne followed Annie out there. They moved aside boxes full of old lampshades, bits of crockery, old pots and pans, finally getting to the bottom where a box of old books lay.
'It should be in here.'
They took them out one by one. Old recipe books were on the top, followed by Reader's Digest Specials. At the bottom, they found a black cover with gold lettering on the front. Holy Bible.
'Why would my sister want to throw this out? Sometimes I despair of her.' Annie brought out the old book. She opened the inside cover. In elaborate gothic writing, the inscription read;
This holy book belongs to Nathaniel Clavell and his family. May the Lord keep them and watch over them. Followed by a date, MDCCCLVIII.
'1858,' said Jayne. 'The inscription was written in 1858.'
There followed a list of names, dates of birth and death, written in a variety of inks and styles of handwriting. 'See, there's Emily.' Annie pointed to the middle of the list. 'Emily Clavell. Born 27 April 1894. Died 4 Dec 1928.'
'The other names are your descendants? Who is this?' Jayne pointed to the last name on the list. 'That's Mary Clavell, a distant cousin. She was the last person to live here full-time. A sad story really. Her fiancé was a pilot who died in the war, and she never married afterwards. Went a little doolally, don't you know.' Annie made a circling signal next to her head. 'Lived in this house all alone until three years ago. It all became too much for her and she went into an old folks' home out in Haworth.'
'Bronte Country?'
'It is. The home's called 'Wuthering' funnily enough.'
'Would she have any old photos or family documents?'
'I talked with her when I was researching the family. She had some things but not many. Didn't show them to me. As I said, went a bit strange after the war, she kept expecting her fiancé to walk through the door one day.'
Jayne thought of her father and his moments.
'Anyway, she wasn't much help. Kept remembering the grand balls she had gone to as a child and talking of the fiancé who was killed. It was as if he was still alive.'
'Can I go to see her?'
'If you wait till three pm, I'll take you there.'
Jayne looked at her watch. 11 am. She would have to kill four hours. 'You said you researched your family history?'
'We were quite a prominent family in the area. Had one of the first mills.' She sighed. 'But it's all been lost now. This house is the last one left and even then, it's not worth very much.'
'Did you get far in your family history?'
She smiled proudly. 'Took it back to 1723. We originally came from around here. Farmers who made it lucky during the industrial revolution.'
Jayne thought for a moment. 'So, if you were a prominent family in the area, births and family events would have been in the local newspapers.'
'Of course, that's how I found out about the mill we owned. You don't know how many hours I spent down at Central Library.'
Jayne stood up and rushed into the kitchen. 'Thanks very much for the tea, Sonia. Sorry, got to rush, I've had an idea.' She picked up her bag and coat. 'Thanks Annie for all your help, you don't know how much it means to me. I'll be back at 3 pm. We can go and visit Mary then, ok?'
Annie nodded. 'Fine, but I don't know if it will be any use. She's not really with us if you know what I mean.'
The two sisters stood in the hall as Jayne opened the door and ran to her car. Then she ran back to them. 'Er, Central Library is where?'
'It's called something else now. You know what councils are like, always changing names, I think it's just to keep their signwriters busy. But it's down in the centre of town, opposite the town hall. Just head straight downhill. You can't miss it.'
'Thanks once again.'
She got in the car and backed out of the drive. She didn't notice the Audi that pulled out and followed her down into the centre of Bradford.
She looked at her watch. 12.15 pm. The library probably closed at five on a Saturday. She drove quickly, shooting through a series of lights which were luckily all green.
After fifteen minutes, she saw a sign for the centre, drove past a rather ugly block of university buildings on the left, followed the road as it bent right, and a minute later was at the edge of a jumble of functional sixties buildings surrounding a beautiful old town hall. A sign for the library was on the right.
She parked the car in one of those municipal car parks modelled after medieval dungeons but twice as dour. Sixties town planners had so much to answer for. If she had her way, she would have them all paraded in front of the people whose lives their stupid decisions had blighted, letting them throw eggs and rotten tomatoes at the assembled idiots. A sort of modern version of the stocks.
She rushed up the steps to the library. A sign led her to the local studies library. She approached a severe middle-aged woman standing behind a desk.
'Do you have old editions of the Bradford Telegraph and Argus for 1924?'
The woman smiled condescendingly, imparting her knowledge as if reading from the Bible. 'It didn't exist then. The T&A wasn't formed until the amalgamation of the Bradford Daily Telegraph and the Bradford Daily Argus in 1926.'
At least, she was on the ball. 'Could I have a look at those papers in 1924?'
She reached behind her, scanned the boxes of microfilm for the right dates and handed Jayne two of them. 'There's a free reader in the corner.'
Jayne pulled out her notes from her bag. Everything had to be by hand until she bought herself a new MacBook Air. Who had stolen her previous one? The IRA? But they said nothing about it in the car. The people who were following her
? She didn't know. Too many things were strange about this case. As if she were investigating in a sea of treacle being held back by the arms and legs.
She shook her head. 'Concentrate, Jayne.' The old man sitting at the microfilm reader next to her looked across, as if she were the village idiot.
Jayne ignored him, loading the Bradford Telegraph microfilm into the machine. She checked her notes. According to her initial search, the marriage was registered anytime between October and December 1923. She quickly whizzed through the reader until she hit a new paper dated October 1st.
She scanned each page looking for a clue or a headline that would give her the answer. She knew it was a long shot, but if the family were prominent mill owners then the marriage of a daughter should be given some space.
The paper covered everything; the price of wool, worsted and finished cloth. The latest scores at Headingley, Yorkshire were bowled out for 124. A man arrested for stealing threepence. A woman found dead in her home, smoke inhalation from a faulty heater was the verdict. Even international news got a look in. Wars in China, Ramsey McDonald's treaty with the Soviets, the Australian immigration policy condemned by the League of Nations.
This was going to take ages, she thought. She had three whole months to search, from October to December, and she didn't have time.
She pressed the button to advance to the next page. It was a new paper with a date of Monday, October 6. She scanned through the headlines and, near the back, she finally found what she was looking for. On page 24 was a group of pictures headed, 'This week's weddings.' Beneath it, photographs of happy couples, in their best wedding outfits, were laid out like cards on a table. Beneath each picture were the names of the happy couple and a brief description of the wedding.
She checked each picture. No mention of an Emily Clavell.
She quickly whizzed the microfilm forward to a week later. The same again. Wedding photos on one of the pages near the back. This time page 26. She stared at the pictures of the couples, each one smiling into the camera, wondering if they truly enjoyed their married life. For a second, she thought of Paul. He must be in Brussels now. She hadn't heard from him today, not even a call when he was at the airport. She would talk to him tonight. Let him settle into his hotel first.
