Hostage to Fortune

by Carolyn McCrae

  “Probably wisely in some cases.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she agreed.

  “But I would really like to find something about him.”

  “So where have you been looking?” she asked. Having decided he was not going to be put off she felt she had to be constructive.

  “I’ve been checking the family’s property. That was fairly easy to find as the family was an important one in the Granada region. The house was a ruin for nearly fifty years. It was burned down, just as the war began. That is quite well documented as Luis’s parents were murdered at the same time, probably by Republicans. Five randomly chosen men were lined up against a wall and shot for it and no one wanted to touch the place.”

  “Wasn’t there any other family to take it over?”

  “Luis was an only son, Federico his only child.”

  “So it was just abandoned?”

  “Like so many other houses. It wasn’t renovated until the early eighties when property values started to climb. Look.”

  Fergal turned his screen around so Skye could see the images of the house that had been Stratford Eden’s home, at least for the earliest years of his life.

  “Nice,” she said. “I wonder if he ever remembered it.”

  “I doubt it. How much can you remember of where you lived when you were six?”

  Skye looked around her at the kitchen of the house that she had lived in since she was a baby, that her father had given her before she married Fergal. “Stupid question!”

  “Maybe he remembered something of it,” Fergal acknowledged sheepishly.

  “I bet he remembered feeling the sun on his face and playing in that garden, under the trees, and in that olive grove.”

  “And then all those memories would be expunged by what he saw between there and Bilbao and then on that ship and in Southampton fields.”

  “So all he would remember of his childhood was dirt and war. That would be very sad.”

  “Anyway, the house gave me no clues as to Luis’s fate,” Fergal continued brightly. “So I tried the local church records but there’s no mention of him after the summer of 1936.”

  “So it doesn’t look like he returned to the area after the war.”

  “Nope. It doesn’t.”

  “So if he survived he is somewhere else.”

  “Yup. It would seem so.”

  “Anywhere else to look?”

  “Nope. It’s a dead end.”

  “Shame.”

  “Anyway, I went back to look at Stratford. I wondered if, in all his exploits in Spain with his businesses and his collection, there was any evidence he had looked for, possibly even found, his father.”

  “Was there?”

  “I couldn’t find anything. Obviously it would have been wonderful to have been able to look at the collection itself rather than just the catalogue but I did what I could. He did focus on the Mediterranean coast, but I can’t see that had anything to do with his family memories, it would have been more to do with where his tourism business was most likely to succeed.”

  “More dead ends?”

  “Not quite.”

  “No?” Skye realised Fergal was keeping important information back from her, ready for a dramatic announcement.

  “I went back to the Habana. There is an organisation that has been researching the ‘Basque Children’ and have achieved far more than I ever could. They started up about fifteen years ago and have pulled together an enormous amount of material: photographs, official documents, first person accounts, that sort of thing. It’s an absolute mine of information. When I asked about Federico Jiménez Rodriguez they were very helpful.”

  “Yes?” Skye knew Fergal had something else up his sleeve. “Out with it.”

  “The very helpful woman added, almost as an afterthought, that there was a note in a file they had acquired when they had first advertised for information.”

  “A note? Oh come on, Fergal, stop mucking about. Tell me.”

  “It said that there had been an enquiry about a boy with that name.”

  “Someone else asked after him? When?”

  “In the back end of the seventies. Someone was looking into the possibility that Federico Jiménez Rodriguez and his mother, Maria Rodrigues Garcia, could have been on the Habana.”

  “Someone else? Who? Luis? Don’t tell me it was Luis.”

  “No it wasn’t Luis.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake Fergal!”

  “It was Harry Bush.”

  “I knew it! I knew Pat wasn’t telling us everything she knew! I just knew it!” Skye hugged her husband.

  “Hold on a minute, just because Harry asked something doesn’t mean to say that Pat knew, does it?” Fergal tried to calm his wife down.

  “I bet you anything you like she knew exactly who Stratford cum Federico was and who Warwick and Barford were, and no doubt Brian Cliffe and Guy too.”

  “But none of this gets us anywhere, does it?”

  “It means phone calls are no bloody use whatsoever. If we want to ask her anything, and we do, then we have to ask it to her face. She’d find it more difficult to lie then, wouldn’t she?”

  “What makes you think she’d lie?”

  “What have we asked her recently?” Skye countered.

  “Whether she recognised any of the names of the crew.”

  “She said she didn’t. But I know she did.”

  “And whether it was Diane on the boat?” Fergal came back with a rejoinder. “We didn’t mention she was wearing yellow. She mentioned that completely off her own bat.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll give you that, but who’s to say she hasn’t seen her since? She’s been ever so quiet for days now.”

  “Weeks, it’s pretty much two weeks since we spoke.”

  “I feel a trip coming on.” Skye smiled, knowing she had won the argument.

  “I’ve been thinking that too. But we’re not going to go straight to Altea and Pat.”

  “No?”

  “We’ll have a bit of a tour. We have to go to Salamanca then to Granada.”

  “I can see why Granada but why Salamanca?”

  “There is something I really need to get straight before we face her.”

  “What?”

  “You know I said that Luis’s parents were murdered early on in the war and that lovely home destroyed by fire?”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “The men shot for the crime were just randomly chosen, they had nothing to do with it. After the war there was an investigation; it wasn’t a trial as such, just the local mayor interviewing people to record what had happened in the area since 1936. I found some of the evidence given by those who were responsible for the destruction of the Jiménez estate. Those descriptions were pretty graphic.”

  “It must have been difficult stuff to read.”

  “I suspect somewhat more difficult to be part of. But in all the evidence given to the ad hoc court one important detail seemed to be unexplained.”

  “What was that?”

  “There is the description of the killings and of setting fire to the property but there was no mention of looting. I thought there should have been so I checked back and could find no mention of looting the estate, not in the original descriptions of the attack or in the mayor’s investigation after the war. In fact, more than one participant was reported as saying there was nothing of any value in the house. They swore the safe was empty, that there was no gold or silver and, unbelievably, Doña Jiménez appeared to have had no jewellery.”

  “She must have had!”

  “Of course she would have had, that was how families showed how important they were. The assumption was that Luis stole everything to fund his escape.”

  “Really?”

  “So you see, we have to
investigate the archives which will be held in Salamanca and we have to visit the village where it all happened. Someone may be able to tell us whether Luis survived the war and if he did, what happened to him. Only when we’ve exhausted all those possibilities can we face Pat and see how much she really knows.”

  Chapter 27: Jenna Runs

  Jenna Freece was not easily intimidated by anything, but the people with cameras and microphones hanging around her front door twenty-four hours a day were too much to bear.

  For three days she had seen what people were saying about her. She knew she should not have read what was written but she had to see for herself how her life story was being laid bare in the tabloids and online newspapers. She couldn’t stop herself listening to the radio phone-ins as they discussed whether she was a wronged innocent or a money-grabbing bitch. But she couldn’t bring herself to check Twitter, Facebook or Instagram.

  She wasn’t angry, or afraid; she was simply frustrated by the injustice of it all.

  She had no interest in yachts, nor in billions of pounds of property and cash. She would have no idea what to do with wealth like that and she didn’t want any part of it. She was content, working in the library in the Devon market town, living in a tidy flat and completing her Open University degree in Modern European Literature.

  When her mother had phoned her to tell her Warwick Eden was her father and warn her that Billy was going to the funeral and would be talking to the press, Jenna had brushed off any idea that the news would change her life.

  She had been wrong.

  She could no longer go to work, she couldn’t even leave her flat and she could do nothing to keep in touch with her friends and colleagues over social media and all because Billy was greedy.

  After three days of hell she escaped.

  She sat back in the almost empty train compartment, closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on what she could do until the media storm died down, as she knew it would eventually.

  When the train stopped at Westbury she phoned the library and explained she would be taking a few days off and she was unsurprised when her manager told her to take as long as she needed and added that he would tell the photographers hanging around the library that they were wasting their time.

  And she phoned her mother.

  “I’m fine, no thanks to Billy,” she tried to reassure Wave.

  “The bugger’s lapping up all the attention.”

  “Well I’m not. I’m going into hiding for a few days, weeks if need be.”

  “Are you okay for money?” Wave asked anxiously.

  “Of course I am. Don’t worry. Just don’t tell anyone, least of all Billy, that I’ve been in touch.”

  “Love you.”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “You know.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “I’m not sorry I had sex with War as he called himself then. I wouldn’t have had you if I’d kept him away from me. No, I’m just so sorry I let on to Billy.”

  She wasted the rest of the train journey, staring out of the window and dozing fitfully, instead of making a decision about a course of action.

  When she left the train at Paddington she watched as people rushed around, knowing exactly where they were going and what they were doing. Having no idea what to do she simply picked out a woman from the crowd and followed her to St Pancras and eventually found herself getting down from the train in Sandwich.

  The house with the Bed and Breakfast sign was only a short walk from the station.

  “Now you say you only want a couple of nights?” the landlady asked.

  “Just two, thanks.”

  “And what did you say your name was? I have to keep records you see.”

  “Of course. My name is Jennifer Priest.” She thought it was close enough to the truth. “Though my friends call me Jenny.”

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” the landlady asked her. “You look very tired. You’re not going to be ill, are you?”

  Jenna wasn’t sure whether the woman recognised her but she didn’t seem the type to follow gossip columns or England Force.

  “I’m fine, I’ve just had a long journey,” she lied. Lying didn’t come easily to her and she knew she did it badly.

  “Let me show you to your room and then when you’ve made yourself at home pop down for a cup of tea. That might perk you up.”

  Jenna thanked her and followed her up the narrow stairs to the room under the eaves of the old terraced cottage.

  Jenna had no idea how they tracked her down but as she had breakfast with her landlady the next morning she saw a couple of people who looked like reporters outside on the street.

  “They’ve been there a while. Are they looking for you, love?” the landlady asked kindly.

  “I think they might be.”

  “I don’t want to know what trouble you’re in, pet, but I’m sorry, I’ll have to ask you to leave. But finish your breakfast first.”

  There was no way of avoiding the reporters as she left.

  “How did you find me?” she asked politely as they took their photographs. It didn’t matter, there were so many pictures of her in the press a few more would make no difference.

  “A man on the train, yesterday. He recognised you. My paper had a reward out once it was obvious you’d left your flat.”

  “That figures.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Far away from here. Please, can’t you leave me alone?”

  Not caring if she was followed she ran to the station and just caught the train that was leaving. She didn’t care where it was going but it took her to Dover. She understood the sign. She was to leave England for a while. She realised it would be some time before she would find any peace in England and was pleased she had thought to pick up her passport when she left her flat.

  Valencia, she thought, was as good a place as any to hide. She had always wanted to go there and now seemed as good a time as any. She spoke Spanish well from her studies of European literature so she would not feel isolated or a stranger in the city. She would use the time well. She would not have to hide away in a room in the small guesthouse. She would be able to go out and about, she would spend time in libraries. There was work she could do there. She didn’t have to abandon her life entirely just because of her stepfather’s greed.

  As the train passed through the flat fields of France she checked her phone and found far too many messages to answer though she noticed none was from Wave or Billy.

  She was disappointed that nothing important had happened in the world to turn the media’s attention away from ‘Warwick Eden’s billionaire heiress’.

  All she saw as she checked the internet news was that two tabloids were offering competing rewards for any information leading to discovering where she was hiding. She checked her bank balance and worked out that, if she was careful, she had enough money to stay away for a month, possibly more if she was really careful.

  After that she felt sure the furore would have died down and she could return to England and to her quiet life.

  Jenna had only been in Valencia two days when she was wakened by a knock on her door.

  “Jenna? Jenna Freece?”

  She did not answer.

  There was no hiding place.

  She accepted that somehow they had found her, but she was determined not to make anything easy for them.

  “Jenna. Open up. I know you’re there.”

  For several long moments Jenna stayed silent. The concierge would have told this person she was in the room. She had to say something.

  “Go away.” Her words came out almost as a whisper.

  “Jenna? My name is Anne Hill. Look, I’m not the papers or any part of the press—”

  “How do I know
that?”

  “I’m with the police.”

  “Then put your ID or whatever it is under the door.”

  “I’m not that sort of police.”

  “Then what sort of police are you?”

  “Please, Jenna, I can’t do this talking through a locked door. I’m with the Home Office.”

  “Does that mean you’re a spy? Don’t MI5 and MI6 come under the Home Office?”

  “No, Jenna,” Anne replied patiently, “I’m not a spy. I’m not with MI5 or with MI6. I’m what you might call a special investigator and I do need your help.”

  A minute later Jenna opened the door. “You’d better come in then.”

  Jenna was reassured when she saw Anne Hill who seemed perfectly normal and not much older than she was.

  “Please explain,” she said in what she hoped was a reasonable voice.

  “First, I should warn you that I am not the only person who has been looking for you and if I could find you they will be able to too.”

  “I think just about every tabloid journalist is looking for me.”

  “Not just them.”

  “And everyone with a camera phone and a Twitter account.”

  “Not just them.”

  “Who?”

  Anne did not answer. She sat back and crossed her legs showing that she was relaxed and in control before asking Jenna a question in return. “How much do you know about your family?”

  “My family?”

  “Not your mum, Wave, or Billy Watkins, I mean your father’s family.”

  “Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I only just found out that man was my father a few days ago. I hate his politics. I hate what he stood for…”

  “But you knew of him.”

  “Of course I did. Everyone’s heard of Warwick Eden, except those who never watch the news or read a paper. But I didn’t know I had anything to do with him.”

  “Did no one ever say to you that you look the spitting image of him?”