He backed out onto the landing and then opened the remaining door: Peter Coldrick’s bedroom. The scene of the crime. Instantly, he was struck by the smell. Six days on and a potent acrid mix of rusting iron and fresh sea salt rushed into his nostrils. He covered his mouth to stop himself from being sick. He couldn’t imagine it being something that the SOCO guys could ever get used to. He guessed that was why they were always suited up like Michelin men whenever they were called to crime scenes. Like the rest of the house, the room was filled with a muted darkness. Keeping his mouth covered, Morton cautiously entered the room. As he moved to open the curtains something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. The bed. Whoever had their finger on the trigger Tuesday night, had pulled it right here. A shallow indentation in the smooth, cream duvet betrayed where Coldrick had sat; confirmed by the disgusting quantity of dark – almost black – blood which splayed out in a perfect formation across the pillows and headboard. No Bodily Fluid Removal Team had swept through, changing bed linen, vaxing the carpet or touching up the magnolia walls: everything was just as it had been the day a cold metal bullet passed through Peter Coldrick’s left temple into his brain.
Morton pulled open the curtains and tentatively inhaled, filling his nostrils with the stale air that smelt like a stagnant pond. With a little stretch of his imagination he could attribute it to the house having been closed up for several days and not from the spilling of several pints of Peter Coldrick’s blood. He supposed that everyone involved in the death industry passed their way through the various stages of desensitisation. How else could a coroner slice open Coldrick’s head like it was a boiled egg to determine that his brain weighed 1637kg? It must be a fine line between coroner and psychopathic killer, he reasoned.
He began the uncomfortable task of rooting around a stranger’s belongings, tugging open doors and drawers around the room, casting his eyes over the contents for either the copper box or anything else which might help the case. He opened the cheap, flat-pack bedside cabinet and rifled through a lifetime’s worth of junk. He found nothing. The only two other items of furniture were a large oak wardrobe and a chest of drawers, which he quickly discovered was filled with clothes, towels and an abundance of hot water bottle covers. He pulled open the wardrobe. Inside were rows of multi-coloured jumpers, all carefully ironed. Morton didn’t think that Coldrick was the type to even own an iron, much less use one, judging by the state of his clothing the day that he had met him. A solitary black suit book-ended the run of clothing, which Morton guessed would be the final piece of clothing Coldrick would ever wear. He’d never understood the idea of dressing a dead person in a perfectly good suit and he made a mental note to tell Juliette his last wishes when he got home: cardboard coffin; woodland burial; naked; no flowers. At the base of the wardrobe were a pile of ancient blankets and three tatty suitcases. Morton pulled the cases out and, at the back of the wardrobe, noticed a small copper box the size of a paperback. Was this the copper box Coldrick had mentioned in the answerphone message? It had to be. He lunged at it and pulled it out of the wardrobe. The lid was emblazoned with an intricately decorated coat of arms. He carefully prised open the lid. Empty. Completely empty. Whatever Coldrick had found inside was long gone.
‘Morton,’ Soraya yelled from downstairs. It was an ‘I’ve found something’ kind of a call, as opposed to ‘I’m about to be shot’ kind of call, so he took his time replacing the cases in the wardrobe before making his way back downstairs.
‘I found this on the shelf,’ Soraya said, handing him a hardback book. Morton read the title and his heart rate began a new, thumping rhythm. All About Sedlescombe. ‘Look inside.’
Morton opened the book and withdrew a fragile letter with a photograph attached by a rusty paperclip. He instantly recognised the crudely cut headshot as being the woman holding James Coldrick as a baby. Even though he guessed that Soraya had already read the letter, he felt compelled to read it aloud.
‘Fifth of June 1944. My Dear Baby, I am placed in an abominable situation and one which I prayed would never occur. The war has taken many deviations and wrought much destruction but nothing to what I fear will happen to you, my precious boy, whom I have loved more than any other. There is so much to say and yet so little time; I pray that you will be spared any involvement in the injustices of this war and that you may live a quiet, protected life when justice, peace and all that makes life sweet will reign over the earth. Your ever loving mother, M.’
‘So that’s Fin’s great grandmother writing that?’ Soraya asked, leaning over to get another look at the letter.
‘That’s the way it looks,’ Morton said. He remembered his analysis of the photograph of James as a baby. The letter added weight to his belief that James Coldrick was born sometime in April or May 1944, not June. He re-read the letter and spoke out loud those parts that most troubled him. ‘…what I fear will happen to you… so much to say and yet so little time…’ He looked across at Soraya. ‘Does it sound to you like a goodbye letter?’ She nodded in doleful agreement. Morton looked back at the decapitated photo. A body-less arm to her left suggested at least one other person was present at the time the picture was taken. He looked at the signature, M.
‘History isn’t my best subject; do you know what was going on in the war at that point that might mean she has to leave him?’ Soraya asked.
‘Well, D-Day had just started over the Channel, but there wasn’t much going on locally to my knowledge. I think the air raids had all but ceased and the doodlebugs hadn’t yet started…’ Morton shrugged, having nothing to suggest that made any kind of sense.
‘Well, I think James certainly lived a quiet and protected life but I’m not sure about justice and peace.’
‘Maybe the price of peace was that he lived a quiet life and didn’t ask questions – unlike Peter.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Where was the book?’ he asked.
Soraya tapped on the top shelf of the nearest bookcase. ‘Right here. Under our noses.’ Morton looked at the shelf where her hand rested – right on top of Tracing Your Family Tree – then down at the bold title on the binding of All About Sedlescombe. He was as sure as he could be that the book was not there on Tuesday when he visited the house, as the row of books to which Soraya referred - Ancestral Trails: The Complete Guide to British Genealogy and Family History, Tracing Your Family Tree, Explore Your Family’s Past, From Family Tree to Family History – had been a topic of discussion between him and Peter.
‘I’m sure that wasn’t here on Tuesday,’ he said to Soraya.
‘How can you be sure?’ she asked.
‘Peter and I were discussing all the avenues he had explored to research his family tree and the books came up. I would have noticed that book.’
Soraya shrugged dismissively. ‘Maybe the police moved things around during their investigations?’
‘Maybe. Anyway, look what I found upstairs,’ he answered, holding up the copper box.
Soraya took the object and turned it over in her hands, not quite sure what she was supposed to be looking at.
‘Peter mentioned it to me in a phone message - it belonged to his dad.’
‘Oh, right. Does it help?’
Morton shrugged. ‘Maybe. I was really hoping to find something inside the box but maybe it was the box itself that Peter wanted to show me. The coat of arms could be a lead. Heraldry isn’t my forte so I’ll have to get it checked out.’
Soraya half-heartedly pulled open another drawer. ‘I can’t find anything about his wishes,’ she said, making ‘wishes’ sound like a demand. ‘I mean, who the hell do I get to take the ceremony? He never went to church so far as I’m aware – does that make him a humanist or just a lazy Christian? I’ve got no idea.’ Soraya looked at Morton for help, but he had no idea either. Six weeks of the Tenterden Times revealed an alarming trend in modern funerals – for young people at least – no black clothes, a large photo of the deceased on an easel by the coffin, Angels and/or
I’ll be Missing You (the Puff Daddy and Faith Evans version – never the Police version), a mixture of friends' tributes and the odd religious passage followed by a burial in a football shirt. Not really something Morton could suggest for Coldrick.
‘Just get a Church of England minister and keep it simple,’ he suggested.
‘Hmmm.’
Other family members would be the obvious next step but Morton knew that was a blind alley. ‘Any friends?’ he suggested tentatively, knowing the answer before Soraya answered.
‘Not really…’ Her voice trailed off, leaving the silence to finish the sentence.
‘Are you going to let Fin go to the funeral?’
Soraya looked dumbstruck, as if this was the first time she had even considered it. The blood appeared to drain from her face as she weighed the prospect of her eight-year-old son attending his father’s funeral. She shrugged and turned her back to him, retuning her focus to the stack of paperwork in the bureau behind her. Her rummaging became more frantic until a huge pile of papers fell to the floor. ‘You know what, I can’t do this. You’re right, just keep the funeral simple. If he wanted a special all-singing, all-dancing service then he should bloody well have told someone.’ She burst into tears and Morton now felt comfortable in pulling her into an embrace. Soraya clung to him, sobbing gently on his shoulder. ‘I just want all this to be over.’ She released her hold and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ he reassured. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s nothing more to be done here today.’
Morton carefully placed the copper box and the book containing the letter and photograph into his briefcase and led the way out of the macabre house into the pounding rain.
Morton pulled up outside his house, the impacting rain relentlessly hammering the car. He switched off the engine and stared out into the grey gloominess. He hoped that Soraya would be okay by herself after she had insisted she wanted to be alone when they left Peter's house. ‘I’ve got some bits to do before I collect Fin from school,’ she’d said, so he sat and watched as she ran from the car with her coat pulled up over her head. Seconds later she was gone inside and he made his way home.
Morton picked up his briefcase from the back seat of the car and dashed inside his house. He slammed the door on the foul weather and picked up the collection of damp post squashed against the wall. He set down his briefcase and flicked through the pile of dreary bills and correspondence; at the bottom was a white envelope with the familiar red stamp of the General Register Office emblazoned on the front: William Dunk’s death certificate. Morton tore it open and scanned the content.
Date and place of death: Eighteenth July 2002, Conquest Hospital, Hastings
Name and surname: William Charles Dunk
Sex: Male
Date and place of birth: 1 April 1913, Stepney, London
Occupation and usual address: Handyman (retired), Smuggler’s Keep,
Dungeness Road, Dungeness, Kent
Name and surname of informant: Daniel Dunk
Qualification: Son
Usual address: Smuggler’s Keep, Dungeness Road, Dungeness, Kent
Cause of death:
I (a) Myocardial infarction
(b) Left ventricular hypertrophy and coronary atherosclerosis
(c) Diabetes mellitus
It was correct; it had to be the right William Dunk. Morton read the certificate three times and wondered what a ‘handyman’ - a euphemism if ever there was one - born in London and living in Dungeness, was doing coercing Max Fairbrother into stealing the 1944 admission file for St George's.
He scooped up the rest of the day’s post and made his way upstairs. Juliette was on a late shift, so the house was deserted. Still feeling paranoid about the house being watched, Morton tentatively checked that each room was definitely empty, even going as far as looking in the wardrobe and under the bed. Outside, Church Square stood deserted, the inclement weather deterring tourists and nefarious visitors alike. Satisfied that he was completely alone, he made himself a coffee and a cheese sandwich and sat down at his desk with the death certificate, the copper box, the headshot photo and letter. No matter how many times he studied each item, he could find no common link that made any logical sense. He had two new leads: firstly to locate William Dunk’s son, Daniel, and politely enquire as to his father’s ‘handyman’ dealings in the late 1980s and secondly, to research the coat of arms on the box which, he realised, might well not have any connection to the Coldrick Case at all. James Coldrick could just as easily have picked it up from a junk shop as inherited it. Was it the box itself that Peter wanted to show him, or the contents, which were now missing?
Morton opened up Juliette’s laptop and ran an online electoral register search for Daniel Dunk. Two minutes later, the results unequivocally confirmed that Daniel still resided at Smuggler’s Keep, Dungeness. Perfect.
Chapter Eight
7th May 1944
A vociferous skylark rose hastily from the noiseless orchard, piercing the calm skies which had, for the past four years, been filled with turbulence and anger. For almost two months now, the skies had been empty of the German Luftwaffe planes, which Emily had watched droning over in their hundreds, day and night for what seemed like a lifetime. The current tranquillity alarmed her.
‘Emily, smile!’ a voice belonging to William Dunk called fondly behind her, snapping her from her reveries. Smile. That’s what she needed to do – it was no use fretting. It was always going to be a long game.
‘Wait!’ Emily said. ‘I want a photo with the baby.’
William playfully rolled his eyes and waited as she passed through the white-blossomed plum trees to her home, where the baby was resting in his cot. Inside was pleasantly cool, the flagstone flooring providing a welcome barrier to the oppressive heat outside. She pushed open the door to the bedroom that she shared with the baby and found him wide awake, contentedly staring through the window at the dense woodlands in the distance. Emily smiled and watched, wondering what the darling child could be thinking about. Maybe he had some innate sense of the foreboding she felt. Maybe he knew that things were changing.
The baby turned his head and noticed Emily, the faint flicker of a smile erupting on his tiny, precious face. His first smile had appeared just four days ago, an event Emily now wanted to try and capture on camera. She picked the baby up and carried him out into the calmness of the afternoon.
‘How do I look?’ Emily asked her companion.
‘Stunning – as always,’ William replied, holding the Box Brownie camera up to his face.
‘Try and get him smiling,’ she said, ignoring his flirtatious comment. She carefully angled the baby towards the camera, avoiding the direct glare from the sun.
A clunk and a flash and the day was forever captured.
William set the camera down in the long orchard grass. He walked the short distance to her and leant in to kiss her on the lips but she turned at the last moment.
‘No, we can’t. I’ve told you – it’s over. Now that I’ve got the baby…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘We can go from here. Disappear – it’s easy in wartime. I’ll pretend he’s mine, I’ve told you.’
Emily shook her head indignantly. ‘I need to feed him. Goodbye, William. You shouldn't come here again - for all our sakes.’
She pulled the baby tight to her chest and strode through the orchard into the house.
William, used to her brashness by now, watched and wondered.
Chapter Nine
Tuesday
Dungeness really was a bleak craphole when it was raining, Morton thought. It was also a bleak craphole when it wasn’t raining. Craphole was the wrong word; it was just weird, all those wooden and tin shacks, dilapidated buildings and all that endless shingle. They even had tumbleweed. If anything told you that a place was uninhabitable then it was tumbleweed. A paradise for artists, though, apparently.
Morton slowed down to ten miles an hour
as he drove along Dungeness Road, the monstrous nuclear power station looming large in front of him. He’d once heard that the residents of Dungeness were issued with free iodine tablets, ‘just in case’ of an emergency at the power station. They’d need a bit more than that to protect them in their balsa wood homes if that thing went up, he thought. Maybe that was why they didn’t bother with bricks and mortar down here: nothing short of a concrete bunker hundreds of feet below ground would be left unaffected if the power station had so much as a minor leak.
Google Maps on his iPhone had helpfully stuck a bright red pin in the exact location of Daniel Dunk’s house, so Morton knew to slow to a snail’s crawl as the building drew closer. The house was a ramshackle, wooden construction with a lopsided garage slumped to one side, having lost the will to live countless years ago. The garden, comprising shingle and sporadic bursts of ugly, green sea kale, merged seamlessly with that of a neighbouring garden. Property boundaries didn’t seem an issue in Dungeness.
Morton indicated to pull over, though he had no idea why, since there wasn’t a single soul around. Not even a seagull braved the harsh Dungeness rain. Morton leant over to the back seat and pulled out his Nikon D90 digital SLR. He attached a telephoto lens, zoomed into the house and snapped the bungalow during the brief seconds of clarity provided by the intermittent windscreen wiper. If it weren’t for the electoral register telling him that the house was actually occupied he would never have believed that anyone could have lived here. He zoomed in to rotten window frames with tightly drawn, washed-out curtains and photographed the peeling paint on the blue door. What made anyone want to live here? The only explanation he could come up with was isolation. William Dunk might as well have been living on another planet. He considered the nefarious goings-on which could take place in such acute remoteness. All sorts of plotting and scheming.
Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1) Page 10
