Morton withdrew his iPhone and pulled the scanned copy of James Coldrick’s mother from his online cloud storage space, holding it aloft beside Maria Charlotte Windsor-Sackville.
‘What do you think?’ Morton asked. ‘One and the same?’
Jeremy and Juliette leaned in either side of him.
‘No way, look at the nose,’ Juliette said emphatically.
‘It could be the same person,’ Jeremy said. ‘Look at the shape of her jawline. I think it could be the same woman.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Morton said, as his view of Lady Maria was supplanted by a humungous backside in black leggings.
A dishevelled mother, with far more children than can possibly have been healthy for her womb, parked herself and her family directly in front of them, marking their territory by pulling a picnic blanket from one of three large Primark bags. Ordinarily, Morton would have taken exception to losing front row seats but the more he thought about it, the more he considered that being slightly camouflaged was no bad thing.
Morton craned his neck around a greasy-haired girl and watched as one of the Windsor-Sackville attendants, a young, slender woman sweltering in a tight pinstripe suit ushered them towards two gold-trimmed, red-velvet chairs in the centre of the stage. It was such a cliché as to be laughable. Morton, half expecting a pair of court jesters to leap out onto the stage, could see that the chairs were cheap fabrications. It was all about image, he realised as he studied them, bolt upright in their thrones, issuing orders to their minions. The image of the Windsor-Sackville family needed to be preserved at all costs. At any cost. Yes, Morton was starting to believe that they would consider murder an acceptable method to protect the family name.
A man, who screamed of self-importance, marched with his clipboard onto the stage and thrust his hand towards Sir David, who greeted him with a vague head gesture, large scowl and reluctant shake of the hand. A narrow, pathetic excuse of a smile passed across the scarlet-painted lips of Lady Maria, before her eyes surveyed the slowly gathering crowds with what looked to Morton like thinly-veiled contempt. The man continued to speak to the pair, gesticulating his clipboard in large circles as he spoke. The racket made by the growing number of people prevented Morton from catching what was being said on stage, but his interpretation was that his jokes and officiousness weren’t going down too well with the knight and his good lady wife, who sat staring at the crowd indifferently.
A few minutes later, with a sufficiently large crowd assembled, the man with the clipboard stepped up to the podium and tapped the microphone. The volume of the crowd fell to a low murmur. ‘Can everyone hear me okay?’ he said with a large grin. A smattering of people in the crowd weakly replied that could hear him and so he carried on. ‘Good, that’s marvellous. I’m so glad to see the sun shining for us here today and I’m delighted that so many of you have turned out to enjoy all we’ve got on offer at the Sedlescombe Fete, including a marvellous falconry display with seven different species of owl, a Tai Kwan Do display and what I’m particularly looking forward to is Tractors Through the Ages – I noticed a fine Massey-Ferguson similar to the one I used to plough this very field as a youth, but that’s another story! Before I hand you over to our very special guests to open the fete, I would just like to use this opportunity of thanking Sir David and Lady Maria for their kind loan of this field to host the event.’ He paused, anticipating some great reaction from the crowd, but what he actually got was a half-hearted, staggered clap, like a pitiable Mexican wave. He spoke over the last dregs of applause, ‘Well, I’m sure none of you paid to hear me droning on, so, without further ado, would you please give a hearty Sedlescombe welcome to Sir David and Lady Maria Windsor-Sackville.’
The crowd gave a unanimous round of applause as Sir David and Lady Maria rose from their thrones. Morton felt something akin to admiration for the pair as they approached the podium without the aid of their walking sticks. Sir David pulled the microphone closer and spoke with clean, crisp grandiloquence; a voice that seemed entirely ageless to Morton. He hoped that he would be so active at their age, but who knew what terrible hereditary illnesses and causes of premature deaths lurked in his unknown genes? For all that he knew, his mother and father could both have been dead by the time they were forty from some godawful disease.
Morton looked across at Jeremy, who was doing what could only be described as eye-flirting with one of the Windsor-Sackville aides, a slick Hollywood-handsome young man with perfect white teeth and bleached blond hair. At least Jeremy knew that there was a risk of cancer in his gene pool and could do something about it. And now heart disease needed to be added to the list. He wondered how his father was progressing today. Jeremy had called the ward this morning to be told the standard mantra that he’d had a ‘comfortable night.’ Would they tell him if he’d had an uncomfortable night?
Jeremy’s relationship with the man on stage had progressed to the next level; they were now sharing in a silent, body-language-dependent conversation about Sir David’s speech – eye rolling, smiling and frowning at each other like they were a pair of teenagers. Morton wondered if he would be more confident if he were gay. He couldn’t imagine ever being so self-assured as a part of any gender combination to be doing what they were doing now.
Morton studied Sir David closely as he perorated. Was there an atavistic resemblance between him and Peter or Finlay? It was hard to picture Sir David’s ancient, papery face as a young person to be able to make a comparison.
As Sir David finished, his wife, with considerable grace and elegance, made her way down to the red ribbon. Her trusty aides had a watchful eye over her, ready to lurch out should she take a tumble.
‘It gives me enormous pleasure to be able to declare the Sedlescombe Fete…open!’ the lady exclaimed loudly.
The gathering, now fully versed in crowd etiquette, clapped raucously.
Moments later everyone had dispersed in a hundred directions, many heading towards the burger and ice cream vans. Jeremy blithely bounced over to his new-found friend on the stage for the next phase in their relationship, whilst two of the entourage hurried walking sticks to the fragile Windsor-Sackvilles.
‘Come on,’ Morton said to Juliette, ‘let’s wait for Lothario’s gay twin over here.’
‘You’ve got to admit it, he’s got a good taste in men,’ Juliette remarked.
‘Hmm,’ Morton mumbled absent-mindedly. It wasn’t something he felt in any way qualified to comment on other than that the aide was handsome. Men were either handsome or ugly as far as Morton was concerned; there was no grey area in-between. They watched with veneration as a clear display of number-swapping took place, before the handsome aide was reabsorbed into the train of attendants following Sir David and Lady Maria back into the buggy where they were whisked off at high speed up the hill. Angry red brake lights flashed abruptly next to the apple-pressing tent and the party disembarked the vehicle once more.
‘Come on,’ Morton said, urging Juliette up the slope, just as Jeremy rejoined them.
‘Guy,’ Jeremy said, proudly wafting a piece of paper in the air. ‘Australian.’
Curious name, Morton thought. Guy. Gay Guy. Very peculiar. ‘Guy what?’
‘Disney,’ Jeremy answered. And he wasn’t joking. Guy Disney.
‘He looks fit,’ Juliette said.
‘I know!’
By the time they had reached the apple-pressing marquee, a number of people had gathered around Sir David and Lady Maria, as if they were some kind of celebrity couple. Juliette returned to rummaging through a stall of paperbacks. Jeremy made a beeline for Guy and their relationship, which seemed to all intents and purposes to be on hyper-drive, progressed to the level of Guy placing his hand in the small of Jeremy’s back while they spoke animatedly to each other.
He turned his attentions to the Windsor-Sackvilles, who were sipping apple juice from plastic beakers whilst speaking to the wasp-besieged proprietor about the need to maintain traditional agricultural practices. Si
r David took a final swig of juice and tossed the cup into a large barrel then turned, his watery, aged eyes momentarily passing over Morton before flicking back in a brusque double-take.
Morton was in no doubt that the eyes that met his bore lucid and unmistakable recognition.
Sir David whispered something in his wife’s ear then hurried towards one of his aides.
It was time to go.
Now.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday
He had driven back to their former home in Rye, back to what felt to Morton like a different world, another lifetime. So much had happened in such a short time that it defied belief. Yet here he was, back where he used to call home. All alone. He looked at his watch – Juliette would right now be in the interview which decided the fate of her PCSO career. She had no idea which way it was going to go and if the last couple of weeks had taught Morton anything, then it was to expect the unexpected. ‘Great, thanks for those wise words, Morton,’ she’d replied before leaving home for the lion’s den. Jeremy had thrown his arms around her and told her it would all work out fine. He would be at the hospital right now, visiting their father, contrary to his original plan of seeing Guy today. He’d rung the hospital first thing to check on their father’s progress to be told that he’d ‘had a very bad night’. He was still alive, though, which Morton thought was a minor miracle in itself. He wondered what would happen to his newfound relationship with Jeremy when their father did eventually leave this mortal coil. At the moment it was based in a surreal, parallel universe where they lived in the same house, shared clothing and went to village fetes together. It was like a dodgy American sitcom on the verge of being axed.
Morton stepped out of the Mini into the damnable heat of the day and stared at the gap occupying the space where his house had once stood. Apparently the two adjoining properties didn’t feel able to support themselves without his house in the middle and had slumped into an unrecognisable pile of building materials, leaving in their wake a miniature Ground Zero. A spider’s web of scaffolding encased the neighbouring properties, presumably to stop the whole of Church Square from dominoing into a pile of rubble. The spectacle had evidently become one of Rye’s latest must-see attractions; a whole horde of people stood behind the hastily erected barricade, gazing at the half-a-dozen workmen who seemed to Morton to be doing very little to clear the wreckage.
A red Vauxhall Astra bearing the logo ‘Fire Brigade’ drew up to the cordon and a burly, brick of a man climbed out carrying with him a Pampers Nappies box. Morton hadn’t really expected to get anything back from the fire but seeing the sum total of thirty-nine years of life heading towards him in a nappy box actually choked him. That was everything: his whole life reduced to one box. Should he take heart that the box was relatively large? Had the Fire Brigade managed to retrieve many sentimental goods? Surely he wouldn’t have bothered returning a packet of cornflakes or a sodden pair of boxer shorts, would he? Morton couldn’t help but think about his school reports, greetings cards dating back to his first birthday, correspondence, an assortment of yellowing photo albums, family home videos – the list of his possessions ran like a tickertape through his mind and made the lump on the side of his head ache all the more.
‘Morton Farrier?’ the fire officer questioned.
Morton nodded and he thrust a meaty hand towards him. Morton’s insides sagged when the fire officer managed to effortlessly balance the nappy box in his upturned left hand while the other rigorously shook Morton’s hand. ‘Assistant Divisional Officer Stephenson. I’m afraid that what the fire didn’t destroy, the sheer quantity of water that we had to use probably did.’ He passed over the Pampers box. ‘Apart from this lot that my boys pulled out yesterday.’
‘Thanks,’ Morton said doubtfully. The box was virtually weightless.
Stephenson made a noise that sounded like a cross between an incredulous laugh and a scoff. ‘Whoever did this used enough Semtex to bring down a large superstore. Amazing.’
‘Yeah,’ Morton agreed. He wasn’t sure that amazing was the adjective he would have used, but it wasn’t worth splitting hairs over.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ Stephenson asked.
Rebuild my house? Catch the people who did this? Find me somewhere to live? Help me solve the Coldrick Case? What could the Assistant Divisional Officer help him with? Nothing, that was what. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Well, good luck with it,’ he said, his job done. He turned on his heels and returned to his vehicle.
‘Thanks,’ Morton said vaguely, unsure of what he was thanking him for. It was a curious parting comment, he thought. He took one final glance at his house then he carried the Pampers box into town in search of a decent cup of coffee. It was a deliberate ploy to delay opening the box for as long as possible. Once he looked inside, he would know exactly what had survived and all the rest of his possessions would be forever consigned to oblivion. The longer away that moment was, the better.
He took a mini-statement from the hole-in-the-wall and stared at his bank balance, as if they were an assortment of random numbers. From fifty to twenty-five thousand in seven days – that had to be some kind of record. Jesus. Where the hell had twenty-five grand disappeared to? He marched inside the bank, the ping-pong ball on the side of his head throbbing with each footfall, and demanded a full statement from a harassed-looking woman at the customer service desk.
The car had obviously taken a fair wodge and then there was his new Apple Mac. The rest, in the spirit of egalitarianism, had been evenly distributed among Top Shop, Miss Selfridges, H&M, Mango, Laura Ashley, Debenhams, Karen Millen, John Lewis, French Connection, Jaeger, and Marks and Spencer. Juliette really had gone to town. Christ. And she’d complained because she’d had her shopping spree cut short because he’d had the audacity to ask her to collect him from Sedlescombe. Now he understood why rich businessmen had offshore accounts out of reach of their wives.
Jempsons always did a good cup of coffee. And they had air-conditioning. He tried to force his dwindling bank balance from his mind, as he sat down in a seat beside the window with a large latte. He stared at the passers-by and tried to avoid the inevitable: the time had come to open the Pampers box; a feeling of mild nausea prickled his stomach. He pulled open the box and took the items out one by one, setting them out on the table in front of him. A black granite squirrel. A darts trophy. A briefcase. A silver jewellery case. James Coldrick’s copper box. It was like a sick joke – just five items had randomly survived the explosion. Well, four actually since the black granite squirrel didn’t belong to him. It was the kind of thing Mrs McPherson next door might have owned though. Quite how it ended up in his box of last worldly goods was another matter. He realised then that he hadn’t even asked the fire officer about his neighbours. Poor Mrs McPherson was in her eighties and had lived in that house since before the war; a shock like this could have killed her if the house crumbling around her hadn’t already done the job. He’d have to find out where she was staying and return the squirrel to her: that might cheer her up. He looked at the other items. How had the darts trophy that he won at the age of twelve survived the inferno? It was made entirely of cheap, gold lacquered plastic.
He opened the small black briefcase and was relieved to find that actually the sales pitch about it being ‘the black box for the home’ was quite true. All their important documents, passports, certificates and insurances (including buildings and contents, thankfully up-to-date) were safe and untouched by the blaze. Last but not least there was James Coldrick’s copper box, blackened and scratched, but with the coat of arms still clearly visible on the top. He unhooked the clasp and fully expected to find the box empty, that someone had got to the contents first, but the letters and the photo had miraculously been preserved.
Morton swigged his latte and stared at the lamentable assortment of junk on the table in front of him. An elderly lady at the next table was staring, looking entirely flummoxed.
‘The summary of my life,’ Morton said helpfully.
‘Oh,’ the old lady replied.
Morton picked up the copper box. It was the only piece of tangible evidence still in his possession and he was stumped by it. Well and truly stumped. It was time to seek help from an old acquaintance.
He gulped down the remainder of his drink, left the coffee shop and made his way back to the car to visit Soraya.
As he walked, he dialled the headquarters of the Forensic Science Service in Birmingham.
‘He's only been to school twice since it happened,’ Soraya whispered to Morton. They had been sitting in her sister’s lounge, a surprisingly large suburban townhouse, for some time whilst Morton brought her up to speed. She listened fixedly, yet to Morton her mind seemed elsewhere. Tired, dark circles curled under eyes and recent events seemed to be finally taking their toll on her.
Fin had yet to make an appearance, playing a PlayStation game that sounded alarmingly destructive to Morton. He wondered if it was a sensible idea to allow an eight-year-old, whose dad’s head had recently been blown apart, to play something so violent. What was wrong with Connect Four or Kerplunk? It had been good enough for him as a child, a revelation which made him suddenly feel old.
‘They’re sending round the educational psychologist to talk to him and try and get him back to school properly. Honestly, Morton, the sooner this whole business is over the better,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Morton replied, which was a bit of an understatement, all things considered. The way that Soraya spoke was as if all of Fin’s problems would be miraculously solved if a DNA connection could be established with the Windsor-Sackvilles. As far as Morton was concerned, that would be when the trouble started.
Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1) Page 18
