Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  A rough calculation told her that Hulbert must be in his eighties. A call to Lewis – ‘What was the Christian name of that Hulbert man?’ ‘Brian. Why?’ ‘Nothing.’ – followed by another to Directory Enquiries gave her a telephone number.

  Yes, he was still alive, still in the town and pretty on-the-ball by the sound of his voice when he’d answered her call.

  ‘I’ll be away for a couple of days,’ she told Dan. ‘I thought I’d go and see Barbara; take flowers to the cemetery; wander down memory lane.’

  ‘Researching a book?’ he asked.

  ‘Sort of.’

  Hulbert lived in an unattractive bungalow with pebble-dashed walls and a crazy paving path. It was indistinguishable from dozens that surrounded it and wholly fitting, Tessa decided, for a man who had spent his working life trying to blend in with the scenery. He greeted her with a stiff smile and an outstretched hand but affability didn’t suit him. He might be older, smaller and less robust but he was still Hulbert, the copper.

  Sipping instant coffee in his neat, soulless living room, she came straight to the point. ‘I intend to find Gordon, Mr Hulbert, and I was counting on your help. I’ve no doubt that my father was the prime suspect so don’t feel you have to pussyfoot around that one. But I’m sure you have your own theory about what happened.’

  Hulbert said nothing. He’s waiting, she thought, until he’s sure of my motives.

  ‘You probably think I’m crazy, raking it up again. But now Mum and Dad are both gone, whatever I unearth isn’t going to trouble them.’

  Still the old man remained silent.

  ‘I’ve come into a little money, Mr Hulbert. I can afford to employ someone to help me. But you were the obvious place to start.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose the story of that girl got your hopes up.’

  Tessa was impressed by the old man’s deductive powers. ‘I suppose it did. It made me think that, with enough media coverage and the Missing Persons organisation, I’d stand—’

  He raised a finger. ‘Point of order. “Missing Persons” usually know that they’re missing, if you see what I mean. As a rule they don’t want to be found. Your brother was only three months old when he disappeared. If he’s alive, he certainly has no inkling that he is “missing”. And there’s no chance that anyone could identify him from this.’ He pulled a creased black and white photograph out of his cardigan pocket.

  A baby stared at her, slightly out of focus, propped up against a pillow. Tessa had seen the picture before, of course, and knew that this must be a copy because the original was safe with Lewis in the family album.

  ‘Why did you keep it?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you. This case became a bit of an obsession with me. My late wife would have vouched for that,’ he grimaced. ‘I kept thinking that one day I’d crack it. But I never did.’

  ‘Not yet, anyway, Mr Hulbert.’ Tessa needed him on her side. ‘It would be really useful if I could hear your thoughts on it. You must have a gut feeling. You’re the expert, after all.’

  ‘And you always had the gift of the gab, Miss.’

  She took a small dictaphone from her bag and held it out towards him. ‘Just talk into this. There must be lots I don’t know. For example, how long was it before the police decided it was hopeless? Everyone was very protective of Lewis and me. We didn’t have much of a clue what was going on.’

  Hulbert needed no encouragement. Gordon’s disappearance had cast a long shadow and it was obvious that he had been – still was – fixated on the case. Tessa hadn’t imagined that she would discover anything new but it was fascinating to view their family’s calamity through his plodding objectivity.

  He cleared his throat and, staring at some point on the picture rail behind Tessa’s head, he began.

  ‘In cases like this we always start close to home. We look at the people who’ve got the most to gain and the most to lose; the people with inside knowledge of habits and routines. We eliminated your mother, your brother and you—’

  ‘You really thought Lewis and I might have…’ She’d intended to remain silent, so as not to break the old man’s train of thought, but this wasn’t easy.

  ‘I try never to make assumptions, Miss. Many a villain slips through our net because someone makes an assumption.’

  It was telling that he’d slipped into the present tense, as if he were still in the throes of the case.

  ‘Your father was the obvious suspect. He took the pram to the shop all right but it could have been empty when he left the house. It was possible that something had already happened to the baby.’

  ‘You mean that Dad had killed Gordon?’

  Throughout disaffected teenage years and disgruntled twenties it had suited Tessa to deem her father capable of murder. And it had fitted so neatly with the far-fetched notion that her mother and Frank Swinburne had been lovers, and Gordon their child. But that version of events had always belonged entirely to her. It was a fiction which she’d felt at liberty to use in Lost, although no one else seemed to understand that, and it was shocking to hear even an element of it voiced as a possibility.

  ‘Not necessarily. He could have had an accident. Dropped him or the like then panicked. Even the most level-headed people panic, Miss.’

  Hulbert shifted his gaze to his hands, clasped across his broad chest. ‘Your dad was lucky there. A neighbour was cutting their front hedge and stopped him to admire the baby and chat about the Cup match that was to be played that afternoon. Fred Johnson his name was. Number thirty-two. Johnson’s evidence put him more or less in the clear.’

  ‘Did you ever think that Mrs Channing was involved?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘Not for a minute. I knew what you were up to though. Trying to protect your dad. Very laudable if a bit misguided. No, someone would have noticed an old lady, done up like a dog’s dinner, hanging around a pram. Of course we had to go and see her and the old man. As it transpired they had a watertight alibi.’

  When he’d finished, Tessa asked quietly, ‘Is Gordon still alive, Mr Hulbert?’

  Hulbert took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose, making the most of his big moment. ‘I think he was taken from the pram. It might have been a spur of the moment snatch but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, if that were the case, without a plan whoever did it would have slipped up sooner or later, unless they were very lucky.’

  ‘So you think it was premeditated?’

  ‘I do. I do. I think someone set out to steal a baby. Any baby, that is, not specifically your brother. It could have been for themselves or to order. The baby trade is nothing new, you know.

  ‘In those days nobody thought twice about leaving a baby outside a shop. In fact you were considered a nuisance if you took the pram in. They were bloody great cumbersome things. The way I see it, the perpetrator was prowling around with an empty pram, on the lookout for a suitable target. By that I mean a very young baby who couldn’t give the game away. Once they were sure there were no witnesses … wham,’ Hulbert’s hand shot out and grabbed the cushion from the sofa. ‘It’d be over in ten seconds. The abductor would be streets away before the alarm was raised, just another mum or dad pushing their kid out on a Saturday morning.’

  Hulbert’s theory was persuasive but the old man wasn’t finished. ‘I’d put money on your brother being alive, barring accidents. But that won’t get you very far because he could be anywhere. And you can bet your bottom dollar he won’t be called Gordon.’ He stood up and pointed to a mock-leather briefcase on the polished sideboard. ‘It’s all in there. I kept copies of everything. Against the rules, but I did. It’s all yours. I’m done with it.’ He lifted the shabby, brown case and presented it to her. ‘A word of warning, Miss. It can get to you. My wife would have vouched for that.’

  They’d lived in Yorkshire for more than a year but Lewis still felt that he was adrift in an ocean, treading water. He might drown or he might be saved.

&n
bsp; One day, when he and Kirsty were reorganising the downstairs rooms, she pointed at several boxes of his books, stacked in a corner where they’d remained since the removal men dumped them there.

  ‘It looks like you’re in two minds whether to stay.’ She hugged him, standing on tiptoe, pressing her cheek against his. ‘Is it that bad?’

  It was, but in such a monstrous, impalpable way that he dared not reply.

  He wasn’t sure that Tessa’s mission to find Gordon was a good idea. What if she were successful? Who would it benefit? Certainly not a thirty-five-year-old bloke who thought he knew who he was. True to form, Tessa had gone off like a rocket, first visiting Hulbert then pestering Uncle Frank and anyone else who was mentioned in Hulbert’s papers. When he’d complained that he was the last one to learn what she was up to, she’d talked a lot of nonsense about not wanting to bother him until she had something concrete to report. Of course there was nothing. How could there be after all this time?

  School finished for the year. Lewis had six weeks off but Kirsty went to work, covering for staff who needed time off for family holidays. ‘It’s good management practice,’ she explained when Lewis accused her of being over zealous. ‘We’ll go somewhere special at half-term. Promise.’

  So, with the long holiday stretching ahead and nothing much to do, he went to London.

  He’d counted on Tessa running out of steam on the Gordon business but she seemed as resolute as ever and was talking about getting the media involved.

  ‘What good will that do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Someone must know something. Or at least have suspicions. You can’t produce a three-month-old baby without a relative or a neighbour noticing. You can’t just say, “Oh, and by the way I forgot to mention that I gave birth to a son a few months ago.”’

  ‘Then why didn’t they come forward at the time?’

  ‘Maybe whoever took him is waiting for the right moment. I’ve been doing some research, talking to people who know about these things. You wouldn’t believe how many transgressors want to be found out.’

  ‘What, after thirty-five years?’

  ‘Possibly. There are countless reasons why they might be ready to make a clean breast of matters. Remorse. Fear. Shame. Religion. They might be dying and want to set the record straight.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a bit … selfish on their part? It might salve their conscience but it wouldn’t do Gordon much good, would it?’

  She smiled, knowingly. ‘It might if it meant that he would come into money.’

  ‘Money? What money?’ Lewis felt as if he had turned over two pages of a detective novel and missed the vital clue.

  ‘I’ve still got Dad’s money sitting in the bank. And, not wanting to blow my own trumpet, I’m quite a successful writer. I’ve got no children to inherit my estate. A long-lost brother could do quite well out of me.’

  ‘Great expectations, eh?’ Lewis grinned but he was troubled by her perverse determination.

  ‘Ward & Cox are going to republish Lost. It makes sense for them to cash in on any publicity that’s going around. And I’m going to write an end piece, telling the real story of what happened to our family when Gordon disappeared. I’ll include an appeal for information.’

  Lewis hated the idea of his parents’ sad lives being used to drum up interest in a cause that was best left undisturbed.

  Dan was worried, too. ‘I’ve never seen her so … focussed. Did you know she’s engaged a private detective?’

  She hadn’t told Lewis but he wasn’t surprised. ‘She’ll soon get fed up. Tessa’s never been one to stick at anything for long.’

  Dan frowned. ‘I hope you’re right. I don’t know if I can handle being cuckolded by a three-month-old baby.’

  Chapter 36

  Hulbert’s briefcase contained a muddle of carbon copies and handwritten notes, everything tainted with a smell of oil cloth and failure. Tessa sorted the papers, eavesdropping on words that had been whispered in strictest confidence by people who had been the bedrock of her childhood. Her mother and father. Gran. Mrs Channing and Mr Zeal. All of them dead.

  There was the routine stuff – statements from her parents, the neighbours and people who had been on the spot when her father came out of the shop. None of them had seen, heard or knew anything. No one had a bad word to say about Peggy and Dick Swinburne who had been, it appeared, model parents. Hulbert had dismissed Mrs Channing and Mr Zeal in a couple of sentences. ‘Pair of weird old birds living in a world of their own. No record of hanky-panky with kids.’ Below, he’d added the details of their alibi.

  The police had taken a great interest in Uncle Frank. Homosexual activity was a criminal offence then and ‘queers’ – Hulbert had used the term several times in his notes – evidently provoked suspicion amongst policemen. The detective had visited him more than once in the days after the abduction but her uncle had been selling insurance on that particular Saturday morning, an alibi confirmed by several customers.

  Then there were the records of local mothers whose babies had died around that time, their individual tragedies revealed and their guilt dismissed in a few stark sentences.

  Hulbert had been incredibly diligent.

  Tessa became addicted to the thrill induced by the musty pages, yet it was soon clear there was nothing amongst them to provide a fresh lead.

  So she tracked down everyone she knew who had media contacts, anyone who might be persuaded to publicise her mission. She engaged a private investigator then sacked him when he told her that she was wasting her time. She found another – an unlikeable young man who wore nylon shirts and smiled too much but who was ready to assure her, ‘One good lead, that’s all I need, and we’re home and dry.’

  She had less time to go to Brighton. This displeased Rundle who was becoming irritatingly possessive. He pried into her life, asking whether Dan was a good lover; what she had been doing since they were last together; when she would next come. Sometimes he would pull away when they were making love and accuse her of ‘not being there’. More often than not, he was right – she was light years away, shadowing a stealthy figure pushing a pram down a featureless street; trailing a boy who looked a bit like Lewis as he walked to school, hand in hand with loving parents; spying on a dark-haired young man in a library or on a farm or on the deck of a ship.

  Rundle was becoming a drag and she ought to put an end to it. But he was a moody, passionate man and she was fearful of how he would react if she did.

  Dan, on the other hand, was drawing away from her. It was evident from his watchful silences that he disapproved of her attempt to find Gordon. It would have been good to have his support but, with or without it, she was going to continue.

  ‘Tessa’s on Radio Four,’ Kirsty shouted from the kitchen.

  Lewis switched on his radio and heard his sister’s voice. She was on some book programme, talking about the new edition of Lost, contrasting the fiction of the novel with the events that had taken place. She was making a good job of it, too. It was easy to imagine listeners thanking their lucky stars that their own child or grandchild was upstairs safe in bed. It was more difficult, however, to believe that her words would persuade anyone to reveal a secret that they’d kept for nearly forty years.

  He’d not told anyone here about Gordon. It wasn’t the kind of thing you announced to new acquaintances. But everyone at school and in the village seemed to know. They didn’t say anything to him but it was obvious from the way they looked at him and stopped talking, or talked too loudly, when he came into a room. He shouldn’t be surprised. Tessa had done a brilliant publicity job, hinting that new evidence had come to light in ‘the Swinburne mystery’, keeping the story alive.

  Swinburne was a distinctive name and local journalists harassed him.

  ‘Don’t be so wet,’ Tessa snapped when he complained of the intrusion. ‘We’ve got to do whatever it takes.’

  ‘Remind me again,’ he said, ‘why you are doing this. D’yo
u really want to shatter a young man’s life and slam a couple of old people in jail. What would be the point of that?’

  ‘They screwed up our lives, Lewis. Why should they live happily ever after?’

  ‘Look. If it hadn’t happened we might have been the happiest family on the planet. Mum might not have lost it. Dad might not have turned into a narrow-minded bigot. On the other hand, Gordon might have turned out to be a psychopath who slaughtered us in our beds.’

  ‘He’d have been a lot more fun than you are.’ She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. ‘Let’s not fall out. I suppose I’m doing it because if I don’t, who will?’

  ‘Are you sure anyone needs to?’ Lewis touched her hand.

  ‘You haven’t read the Hulbert stuff. It’s heartbreaking. Mum’s statement. Dad’s statement. The phrases they used. The way they put things. I can hear their voices as clearly as if they were speaking.’

  He handed her a hanky and she wiped her eyes.

  ‘Why not leave it now, Tess? You’re going to make yourself ill. You’ve done your best. Let them go in peace.’ Trite words but it was how he felt.

  ‘It’s easy for you. You weren’t mean to him. I used to pinch him when Mum wasn’t looking. When he was asleep in his cot, I used to shout in his ear and watch him jump.’

  He wondered whether Tessa had been drinking. It would explain this sudden sentimentality.

  ‘Brothers and sisters do that sort of thing to each other. It’s part of being a family. You were mean but you didn’t harm him.’

  ‘Barbarity begins at home.’ She blew her nose.

  Wanting to rescue her from her misery and demonstrate his steadfastness, he said, ‘There’s a new test – a bit like a blood test. They take a sample of DNA from one person and can deduce pretty accurately if they’re related to another person.’

  She stared at him. ‘We can use this test to find him?’

  ‘Don’t get too excited. Not to find him. But if someone came forward we might be able to prove whether he was related to us.’