Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton bound up the stairs clutching the fax from Linda, his heart beginning to race as he pulled open the search room door and ventured inside the wintry room. He had no idea exactly how he was going to broach the subject with Max. Maybe he should just come right out with it in a loud, bold voice, as if he were in court. I put it to you, Max Fairbrother that on the first of December 1987 you wilfully removed the 1944 admissions register from St George’s Nursing Home and kept it for your own personal gain…

  Miss Latimer was sitting at the research desk, holding her glasses millimetres above the bridge of her nose as she studied a document on the desk in front of her. Morton knew that he had entered her peripheral vision and that she was deliberately ignoring him. He shuffled lightly on his heels to try and attract her attention and he wondered if he should cough politely.

  ‘It’s downstairs, first door on the right,’ Miss Latimer said loudly, without moving as much as an eyelash.

  ‘Sorry?’ Morton said, before he realised to what she was referring, but it was too late to stop her.

  ‘The toilet,’ she enunciated, ‘it’s downstairs, first door on the right.’

  ‘I don’t need the toilet –’

  ‘Then would you kindly stop wiggling about in front of me,’ she said, finally condescending to look up at him. She placed her glasses down and stared at Morton. He guessed that was his cue to talk.

  ‘Is Max here?’

  ‘Mr Fairbrother is not available at the moment. What is the nature of your enquiry?’ she asked.

  ‘Confidential,’ Morton said with a caustic smile, ‘could you call him, please? It’s important.’

  Miss Latimer sat rigid, contemplating his request. Finally, she picked up the phone. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Fairbrother. I’ve got somebody here to see you. He says it’s important.’ She covered the mouthpiece. ‘Who are you?’ Morton knew she was feigning ignorance but played along regardless.

  ‘The forensic genealogist, Morton Farrier,’ he said dryly. Miss Latimer scowled.

  ‘Mr Farrier. Right.’ She set down the phone and began tapping at the computer. Moments later in strolled Max Fairbrother wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and light blue jeans. He was either going for the young and trendy look or the Biggles look. Either way, he looked ridiculous.

  ‘Morning, Morton. Back so soon?’ he said cheerily.

  Morton smiled, unsure of how to tackle him. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out the fax from St George's and approached the front desk, where Max stood behind Miss Latimer.

  ‘Max, do you remember I was looking for the 1944 admissions register for St George’s last week?’

  Max’s brow furrowed for a moment. ‘Oh yes, I do. It was missing on transfer, wasn’t it? Or something?’ Or something was about right. Morton nodded and thought that Max was acting the part very well. If he hadn’t seen the signature for himself he might have believed him. Maybe he should have been an actor rather than an archivist.

  ‘Well, a funny thing happened. I contacted St George’s and luckily they had an inventory of what was removed on the…’ Morton looked down at the faxed account, Max’s name just out of sight. ‘…first of December 1987.’

  Miss Latimer set down her glasses, intrigued by the exchange taking place between the two men. Max’s cheeks had flushed crimson.

  ‘Apparently,’ Morton continued, his eyes boring into Max, ‘everything was removed, including the 1944 admission register.’

  ‘Pass that to me,’ Miss Latimer instructed, thrusting out her hand.

  Max dived across and snatched the paper. ‘It’s okay, Deidre, I’ll deal with it.’

  Morton looked at Miss Latimer’s disgruntled face. Deidre. He never had her down as a Deidre. She was an Agatha or an Eileen or a Camilla. Deirdre Latimer, the spinster archivist.

  ‘Do you fancy going out for a coffee, Morton?’ Max asked, his face continuing to burn. ‘Nero’s okay for you? I find coffee places are all much of a muchness these days,’ Max quipped cheerfully.

  ‘Sure,’ Morton answered tersely, riled by Max’s blasé attitude. He was desperate for a caffeine injection, and to get away from Deidre was probably the best solution for everyone. Particularly for Biggles and a confession that could cost him his job.

  Morton took a table in the back corner of the coffee shop, which he was grateful to find largely deserted. He didn’t trust anybody at the moment, least of all the man heading towards him with a tray of coffees and two muffins. Max had actually bought him a muffin? Morton found it vaguely disturbing, as if they were old chums on an annual get-together.

  ‘I got a blueberry and a double-chocolate – take your pick,’ Max said brightly. Morton reluctantly took the blueberry muffin – well, he was hungry after all. Max sat back in the leather armchair, crossed his legs at the ankles and took a bite from his muffin. His nonchalance irritated the hell out of Morton.

  ‘Who told you to remove all the old records from St George's to the archives, Max?’ Morton said, barely able to contain his fury.

  Max cleared his throat and blew out his cheeks, his lips vibrating together. ‘County. They’d been asking us to archive all sorts of records for a long time, from schools, the local authority, hospitals, parish councils but we simply didn’t have the resources to achieve it all quickly enough. St George’s was just one of many.’

  Morton was perplexed. ‘But then? Why 1987? What was the urgency? Those records had sat there untouched for years.’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ Max said, shaking his head and steepling his fingers. ‘Let’s just say that I was persuaded by someone to make St George’s a priority.’

  ‘So it was someone in County who told you to pull the admissions register?’

  ‘No, at least not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  Max shrugged. ‘Not the nicest acquaintance I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’ Morton pushed.

  Max’s brow furrowed. ‘If memory serves me correctly, it was a man called William Dunk.’

  ‘Why did he want the records?’

  ‘I don’t know, Morton.’

  ‘Did he want any others?’

  Max shook his head. ‘That was it.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to the records once he’d taken them?’

  ‘I imagine that whatever they contained needed destroying – why else go to such extreme lengths? Lots of people would love to get their hands on original documents which show their family – sometimes touching and holding something one's great, great grandfather once held or signed is the closest one can ever get to them – but nobody would do what Dunk did for that reason.’

  Morton’s instincts agreed with what Max had said about the records likely having been destroyed. He glared across at Max, wondering what had made someone with such a passion for preserving the past want to blatantly sabotage it. ‘Why did you do it? Money?’

  Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, I didn’t get a choice in the matter,’ he answered, his voice trailing off, as if encouraging Morton to jump in with a moral condemnation. Morton preferred to stay quiet and give Max all the rope he needed to hang himself. Max continued, ‘First of all he showed up at the archives and I told him to bugger off, to put it mildly, then the next day he showed up at my house brandishing a weapon. So, I handed the file over. After that I never saw him again.’

  ‘Why would someone be so desperate to remove an admissions register?’ Morton said rhetorically. ‘Seems a bit extreme.’

  Max met Morton’s hard stare. ‘I’ve asked myself the same questions over the years, but I still have no idea.’

  Morton considered the scenario carefully. As an historian, if he had been put in Max’s position the first thing that he would have done would be to pick over every word of that admissions register with a fine-tooth comb to discover its hidden secret. ‘You must have taken a look inside,’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes, I did. I took it home and read it cover
to cover. Then I re-read it and re-read it again. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing. Just the names of children being admitted to a children’s home. I didn’t get it. In a funny way, that kind of made it easier to hand over. It wasn’t like I was giving away the Domesday Book.’

  ‘I don't suppose you recall seeing the name Coldrick in there?’

  Max shook his head. ‘As I said, nothing stood out. I couldn't now tell you a single word that was written in there.’

  Morton didn’t trust Max but he felt that he was being honest with him. ‘Who did this William Dunk work for?’

  ‘I don’t know, he never said and I never asked.’

  ‘How could I find him?’ Morton demanded.

  ‘He’s probably six feet under by now, I shouldn’t wonder. He was at least in his seventies back then.’

  ‘In his seventies? And he threatened you?’ Morton said, slightly incredulous that a beefy man like Max could be intimidated by a pensioner. He had visions of this Dunk character propped up outside Max’s house on his Zimmer frame.

  ‘When I say that he came to the house, I meant that he was inside my house. With a crowbar held over my wife’s head.’

  That revelation slightly dampened the damning fires of Morton’s moral condemnation. Still, he couldn’t quite let Max off the hook; he could have reported it to the police or something. ‘Oh,’ Morton said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Max paused. ‘Look, Morton, I know it goes against everything that I’ve ever worked for and I do feel guilty about it, but I’d like to meet the man who offered a polite ‘no’ to William Dunk and his crowbar. The question is, what are you going to do now that you know I took it?’

  ‘Hadn’t thought about it,’ Morton said, dismissively.

  ‘Can I ask what your desperation is to locate this one register?’ Max asked.

  Morton took a leisurely sip of his drink before answering. He didn’t want to divulge a thing to Max. ‘Just a case that I’m working on, that’s all.’

  Max smiled. ‘You think I’m still working for them, don’t you?’ he said. When Morton wasn’t forthcoming with an answer he added, ‘I’m not, you know.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Max,’ Morton said glibly. He downed the last of his coffee, burning the roof of his mouth, and marched indignantly back to his car.

  Morton left Lewes with a fresh piece of jigsaw to add to his case notes: William Dunk. If Max was correct, and Dunk was now dead, then the implication was that a lot of people had been working for decades to cover up the past – a task which was continuing to this day. He had no doubt at all that the removal of the admissions register was because of James Coldrick. As he zipped through along the High Street in Rye towards his house, he contemplated his next step. To connect this new piece of jigsaw to the bigger picture, Morton needed to know more about William Dunk.

  As he turned into Church Square, he noticed an aged war veteran, standing proudly by the church entrance wearing a blue beret and a full selection of medals, collecting money for charity. His mind flashed to the future – would Jeremy survive an army career in these unstable times and be standing outside a church in his seventies? He felt happier that he was now, at least, headed somewhere that the Foreign Office hadn’t blacklisted as a travel destination. He needed to stop being so damned morose and think about something more positive. Like Juliette. She’d be home watching television, waiting for him. Maybe they could do something nice together.

  ‘Hiya,’ he called into the lounge when he got home. The television was off and there was no sign of Juliette. Her car was still on the drive but he couldn’t see a note or any clue as to where she might have gone. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have paid it any heed, but after all that had occurred, visions of her being bundled into the back of a blacked-out van sprang into his mind. He chided himself for being so melodramatic. He picked up his mobile and called her. She answered. Thank God.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, trying to conceal his concern. She sounded breathless.

  ‘Fine, I’m just out for a jog. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m home and just wondered where you were,’ Morton replied. Jogging? In this heat? Was she mad?

  ‘You sound weird,’ Juliette puffed.

  ‘No I’m fine; I’ll see you in a bit.’

  ‘Okay. Bye.’

  Morton hung up, relieved. Since she was out frying herself in the heat, he had a moment to switch on her laptop and run a search in the Ancestry online death indexes for a William Dunk, born circa 1917, give or take ten years. The results flashed up on screen.

  William Dunk, 1 May 1913 – May 1993, Havering, Essex

  William Dunk, 7 Mar 1902 – Mar 1999, North Somerset, Somerset

  William Charles Dunk, 1 Apr 1913 – Jul 2002, Hastings and Rother, East Sussex

  William Edwin Dunk, 21 Dec 1911 – Nov 1986, Hackney, London

  William George Dunk, 6 Aug 1910 – Sep 1993, Shrewsbury, Shropshire

  William Isaac Dunk, 12 Mar 1911 – Jan 1998, Leeds, Yorkshire

  William Joseph Dunk, 1 Jun 1912 – Mar 1997, Poole, Dorset

  William Roy Dunk, 11 Oct 1934 – Nov 1989, Grimsby, Lincolnshire

  William Thomas C. Dunk, 21 Jan 1915 – Jul 1985, Chorley, Lancashire

  He looked at the list in front of him. Several of the men’s ages ruled them out. One would have been way too old and one too young to pass for a man in his seventies in 1987 and two of the men were dead by that time. That left five men to choose from. Dorset, Yorkshire and Shropshire as places of death were possible, yet seemed unlikely, somehow. That left William Charles Dunk, who died in East Sussex in 2002 as the most probable candidate.

  Morton jotted down the details, opened up a new tab in his web browser and went to www.gro.gov.uk to order Dunk’s death certificate. Ordinarily, he would have selected the £9.25 standard option but decided that it was worth spending £23.40 to receive the certificate on the priority service, since Dunk was a potentially significant window into whomever was hiding the Coldrick past. A few simple clicks later and the certificate was ordered.

  He opened the Coldrick Case file. It was now starting to bulge under the weight of paperwork that he had generated. Never before had he produced so much paperwork with so few answers. The first page contained the scribbled notes made at Coldrick’s house five days ago. Five days – was that really all it had been? He re-read the notes and was suddenly struck by Mary Coldrick’s date of death: 1987. He had never been a great believer in coincidences before but if this case had taught him anything, then it was that a coincidence was simply a connection waiting to be made. Peter had told him that his mother had started looking into the Coldrick family tree just before she died which just happened to be the same year that the 1944 admissions register disappeared. Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

  Morton dialled Soraya Benton’s mobile. She picked up straight away.

  ‘Hi, it’s Morton Farrier here.’

  ‘Oh hi, Morton. How are you?’

  ‘Fine thanks,’ he answered, before quickly pushing on from the pleasantries. ‘I’ve got some questions about Peter’s family.’

  ‘Sure, fire away,’ she answered.

  ‘I was just wondering if you knew anything about Peter’s mum’s death.’

  There was a short pause. ‘Well, it was way before my time. Peter said it was a house fire, I think. He was at school when it happened and his dad was out somewhere. That’s about all I know.’

  ‘Do you remember what the cause was?’

  ‘I think it was an electrical fault or gas maybe. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was just wondering, that’s all. Trying to tie up loose ends. Explore all avenues, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You don’t suspect foul play, do you?’ she said incredulously.

  ‘No,’ Morton replied, unconvinced by his own answer.

  The front door slammed shut and Juliette called out his name. She sounded worried. He covered the receiver and called down to her. ‘I’m on the phone. One second.’ Th
en back to Soraya. ‘I’m just looking under every rock. I’ve got to go, thanks for your help. I’ll get back to you.’ He ended the call just as Juliette bounded into the room, red-faced and slightly out of breath. Her damp hair was pulled up in a ponytail over a translucent-grey tide-line of sweat on her t-shirt. She was worried.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She inhaled sharply. ‘We’re being watched.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re being watched. There’s a guy at the top of St Mary’s Church with a pair of binoculars,’ she said, moving towards the lounge window. Morton followed and stared up through the nets to a dark blurred outline on top of the church tower. ‘I’m going to call it in, get him picked up.’ Juliette pressed some buttons on her mobile.

  ‘Wait,’ Morton said. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? He might be a lead.’

  ‘Well he’s gone, for one thing,’ Morton said. ‘For another thing, what would you have him charged with exactly? Carrying a pair of binoculars?’

  Juliette looked up to the empty church tower and folded away her phone. ‘I don’t like this, Morton.’ She had regained her breath and placed her hands on her hips the way she did when she wanted to exert her PCSO authority. ‘You need to start trusting the police. This is getting out of hand, Morton.’

  ‘How do you know he’s not just another tourist?’ Morton asked. There were always people up there with cameras and binoculars taking advantage of the sweeping vista out to the coast. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

  ‘How many tourists with secret service style ear-pieces and top-of-the-range binoculars trained on our house have you encountered before?’ It wasn’t a rhetorical question. ‘Hmm?’

  None, he was forced to admit.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday

  The skies were ominously dark as Morton walked the short distance from his car to Ashford Library on Church Road. After discovering that he was being watched yesterday, Morton was on high alert. He had checked his rear-view mirrors like he hadn’t done since he had taken his driving test aged seventeen. On his way to the library he’d taken random and sudden turnings in an attempt to throw off any potential chasers, though what good it would do him if someone really wanted to stalk him he wasn’t sure. He was as confident as he could be that he hadn’t brought any nefarious followers with him as he entered the library. If he had been followed, then his pursuers would just have to take a book down to the bean-bag-thronged ‘Chillax Zone’ and wait for him, evidently a place favoured by the bizarre combination of foreign students and tramps. The new-look library even boasted a Costa Coffee concession with the caveat that food and drink could only be consumed within the Chillax Zone, so Morton resisted the urge to grab a large latte and instead took a vacant table in the Reading Room. He looked around the quiet tables: he was safe; his neighbours were a group of old men too tight to buy their own newspapers, grunting and making comment on the day’s headlines.