Crossed Out

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “Coincidences!” Cyril said out loud as he immediately thought again of the letter he had received and the questions that he had wrestled with for so long. A historical coincidence… that was one of the reasons he had wanted to be a copper in the first place. His life now seemed to be full of coincidences and he was determined to separate the facts from the fiction. It was like when you buy a red car, every car you seem to then see is red!

  “Is Mr Hill our Gideon Fletcher?” April asked.

  That was a bloody good question and Cyril had been thinking the very same thing. “We need to find our Mr Hill or we need a warrant to search his premises but we won't get one on a pure coincidence.”

  Shakti’s phone rang. She listened before slipping her hand over the phone as she relayed the information. “There’s a Christian convention, a seventy-two hour prayer meeting going on in Southport at the moment.”

  “Shakti, ask them to get a list of those attending in any capacity and see if there’s anyone by the name of Fletcher, Hill, Nicholson or Knights.”

  Cyril nodded. “Good, April, very good. So what else?”

  “It was something that Barlow said. The cross was found at the vicarage containing the number three, which we now believe is a reference to theft. Barlow said that Fella was concerned that he was and I quote, ‘stealing a living, as he didn’t seem able to build a stronger congregation’; the congregation in fact was diminishing and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to entice more people to the services. Fella said on more than one occasion that if it weren’t for the community element to his job, he’d have left, given up his calling and the church.”

  “He said that to Barlow?”

  Owen nodded.

  “I wonder if he said that to Gideon Fletcher on the night they met? Remind me, was there a bag of hair attached to Fella’s cross?”

  “As with the others, dyed scarlet. It only contained Fella's hair.”

  33

  Graham Baker sat opposite his daughter-in-law. He ate very little of the Swiss onion quiche that he usually ordered but he was on his second glass of Gewurztraminer. Felicity watched as his hand shook slightly.

  “Are you alright?” she asked. “You don’t seem yourself. Usually you’re bubbling after your morning in the fresh air telling me all about your observations.”

  He looked straight at her and lied. “I’m fine. Sometimes the discomfort in my back is more severe than usual. Let’s leave it there.” He took what appeared to be a short blister pack from his shirt breast pocket, and popped out two tablets. They were his last two, and from his earlier conversation with Sam, they would be the last he would receive. He put one back into his pocket and swallowed the other, finishing the white wine in one go. Felicity was surprised to see him then attract the waitress’s attention before pointing to his glass.

  “Have you seen the doctor for stronger tablets?”

  “He says that I can’t have the ones that help because there’s a chance of addiction. Bloody hell, if they had the constant pain I have, they’d take them, believe me. They just don’t listen! It’s all about bloody budgets and looking after all these people coming into the country. Those who’ve paid in all their lives are soon forgotten. In fact the sooner you die the better, then they’re not paying out on pensions.” His voice grew in volume above the respectful murmur of the dining room. A number of diners looked across disapprovingly at their table, as did the maître d'.

  “You’re embarrassing me, Dad. Please keep your voice down and try to enjoy your lunch.”

  Graham turned to observe the number of staring faces and sighed. He looked back at her anxious face. It was then that she saw a tear roll down his cheek as he mouthed the word, sorry. She slipped her hand across the table and patted his.

  “Never mind, it’s nothing.” Felicity smiled and handed him her napkin. “I understand.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think you do and I doubt you ever will.” He forced a smile to his lips. “I’m sorry, I’ve been a fool!”

  “Don’t worry, everyone is eating, it’s forgotten.”

  “You really don’t understand.”

  Felicity parked outside the bungalow. She normally dropped him off and left but today she felt as though he needed her there. She helped him from the car and they went inside. Graham's wife, Pat, sensing something was wrong, came out of the kitchen to meet them. Felicity smiled. “He’s not been too good, a lot of discomfort with his back.”

  Pat helped him to his chair and brought up a footstool. “He can have an afternoon nap then he should be fine.”

  They moved to the lounge door. Felicity noticed his shaking hand travel to his breast pocket and retrieve what she believed to be a tablet. He popped it into his mouth and put his head back as if relieved to have managed to swallow it. He slipped back the empty foil and plastic wrapping.

  “What tablets does he keep taking?” Felicity asked Pat. “He seems to take a lot more than I remember.”

  “For the pain I think, my dear. If he doesn’t take them he gets extremely annoyed over the smallest of things. Says he can’t sleep and goes out in the car quite early for a paper. Sometimes he seems to go out at a ridiculously early hour. Mind you, I’m one to talk, I’m the opposite, can’t seem to get up in a morning. Graham thinks it’s all the fresh air from gardening. More like old age and poverty!” She chuckled. “Thanks for taking him out. Cleaning’s done and most of the ironing. Glad to get him from under my feet. I keep telling him he’s turning into a real grumpy old man!”

  Felicity bent and kissed her cheek. “Love you. Please keep an eye on him, I know he’s not himself.”

  Graham heard the front door close as he considered his next move.

  April’s phone rang and she answered. “Thanks. Send it over ASAP. Thanks again.” She turned to see the three faces looking in anticipation in her direction. “None of those names is on the list. They’re sending it over along with contact details or email addresses of those present. Some information they don’t have as they were walk in.”

  “Then it’s got to be a warrant,” Cyril said as he collected the papers. “I need to speak to Mada. You all need to eat soon seeing as Owen has cleared the majority of the biscuits.”

  The anxiety conveyed in Felicity’s phone call to her husband was enough to bring him home from work early. He promised, traffic permitting, that he would be home by three; he arrived fifteen minutes early and within the hour they were at his parents' house.

  Rupert looked at Felicity. “Are you sure before we do this? You know what Dad’s like!”

  “You’ll have to trust my female intuition. Something is seriously not right.”

  As they approached the front door, it became clear that his father was far from well. Even from the outside they could hear his ranting. Felicity took her emergency key from her bag and opened the front door. Suddenly the anger seemed to enwrap them in the hallway as Graham’s voice boomed from the lounge.

  “No one understands, not even you. All you do is bloody sleep when I’m pacing in agony. Look at you sitting there in floods of tears, you’re no bloody good, never have been since my accident. I should never have listened to you. It’s your fault, all this. ‘Claim for the accident’, you said, ‘exaggerate your disability and they’ll compensate us more’, compensate us for what? Go on, tell me what happiness your scheme’s brought us?”

  Hearing the front door close he walked to the window, his sticks still resting on the chair. Rupert rushed into the lounge his eyes immediately alighting on his mother. She was sitting huddled on the settee, her apron drawn up to mask her face as she wept openly. His father stood, red faced and simply stared, his fists clenched tightly to his side showing a marked tremor.

  Rupert sat next to his mother, wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Come on, Felicity’s in the kitchen. She’ll make you some tea. We could all do with some tea. I need to talk to Dad.”

  Graham was just about to speak.r />
  “You say nothing, do you hear me, nothing!” Rupert did not raise his voice but it quickly became evident that he would not tolerate his father’s anger. “From what I’ve heard and from what I can see, you’ve ranted enough. Sit down, now!”

  He gently brought his mother to her feet and led her into the kitchen. Graham stood defiantly, he was not going to tolerate his son dictating to him, not in his own home.

  “I told you to sit! If you’re in as much pain as you seem to be announcing to the neighbourhood, you’d be holding on to those sticks or you’d be resting. Now sit.”

  Graham reluctantly moved to his chair.

  “What’s going on? Felicity's seen a change in you over the weeks, from before you found that paper. Suddenly we have today’s shocking behaviour whilst you were out, and now at home. What scheme were you screaming about?”

  His father looked down at his feet.

  Felicity sat opposite Pat. She was still upset, and every now and again she blew her nose into her handkerchief. “My tiredness, his early mornings, his pain, the tablets, I don’t know. Maybe we’ve both changed, maybe its old age.”

  “What’s he taking?”

  “Paracetamol, that’s all the doctor will give him. According to them he shouldn’t be in pain after the operation he had. There’s no evidence of nerve damage; he’s had three scans. He seems to just want painkillers.”

  “And what are you taking?”

  “Me?” she laughed. “Too much wine maybe but I don’t take medicine. You know I believe that we all consume too many chemicals. Let nature take its true course, that’s always been my motto.”

  “Where does he keep his tablets?”

  “Since the accident we have separate rooms, as you know. In his drawer, I would think.” Felicity stood. “Flis, you can’t go in there! He’ll know you’ve been in.”

  She ignored the comment, mainly because she could detect a false degree of anxiety as if her mother-in-law were hoping that she would. She pushed open the door. The curtains were drawn. Opening them enabled the light to flood in. The room was ordered and precise. She noticed that the drawers were not all fully closed but were each open to a different extent. She only touched the bottom, bedside drawer and withdrew it completely. Ignoring the drawer, she ran her hand along the bottom of the frame and was immediately rewarded. She held four small blister packs in her hand. Turning one over, she read the print, Amitriptyline. She removed her phone and searched on line before reading the information. She noted that the side effects matched many of Pat’s symptoms. She ran her hand round again but there was nothing else. Sliding the drawer back, she returned to the kitchen.

  “Felicity tells me that you’ve been taking more tablets than usual. What tablets are those?”

  Graham was silent. His hands shook when he lifted them from the chair arm and Rupert noticed the beads of sweat forming under his arms darkening his light-coloured shirt.

  “She mentioned the tablets you had today. What’s in your shirt pocket, Dad?”

  A hand immediately went to the pocket but Rupert was too quick, having already anticipated his father’s move. He pushed his hand away, thrust two fingers into the pocket and withdrew the part of the empty blister pack that had held the two tablets. His father tried to grab it but it was now secured in Rupert’s hand.

  “A lot of fuss over paracetamol, Dad. What are they?” He moved away looking at the print on the damaged foil that had covered the two empty spaces. The word Xanax, 3mg, was clearly written twice alongside the dosage.

  Felicity came into the room and passed the packs she had found to Rupert. “Hidden beneath his drawer. Strangely, I used to hide love letters in exactly the same place when I was a teen to stop my brother from finding and reading them.”

  “How dare you go into my room and rummage!”

  Rupert lifted a finger in front of his father’s face. “If you utter one more word I’ll strip that room.”

  Felicity studied Graham who now not only seemed shocked but looked a defeated and tired old man.

  “Did you take these as well, Dad?” Her caring voice seemed to calm him and offer a way back.

  Graham shook his head. “I’m so sorry. It’s the pain. Nobody understands, nobody apart from Sam. Thank God he knew what I was going through.”

  “Who’s Sam?”

  “I don’t really know other than I met him when I was by The Stray. He was sitting on my favourite bench. I remember his first words to me, after noticing my sticks. He’d been in the army and some injury he’d sustained caused him a great deal of distress. He recommended those.” He pointed to the pack Rupert held. “Said they worked wonders. I met him again and he gave me two packs, ten in each pack. He said to take them three times a day, that they were the best things for pain relief. Spot on, he was. I tried to get them from my GP but he refused me saying that the side effects were severe and that there was a risk of becoming immune to their efficacy and a strong possibility of dependency. This is from a man who doesn’t believe that I’m in any sort of pain. The man’s a fool and I told him so.”

  Rupert looked at Felicity and shook his head. “So where have these two come from that you took today?”

  Graham fidgeted nervously. He held his hands tightly to keep them from shaking. “I’ve told you, Sam gets them if I do some morning errands now and again.”

  “What errands?”

  Leaving them, Felicity returned to Pat. She also had questions she needed answering.

  34

  Cyril crossed The Stray. He looked at the familiar sight of The Coach and Horses. The metal penny-farthing hanging from the end of the building always made him smile. He had quickly grown to enjoy the pub's hospitality. It did not allow children or dogs and there was no TV, music or games machines, just a perfect pint that varied from week to week and, if you wanted it, polite conversation. It was a place where he could be left alone to become lost in his thoughts after difficult days. Of course, if they served Black Sheep, then it would have to be that, after all it was his preferred poison but he had learned that there were so many excellent local breweries and the chance of finding another favourite made for a welcome change.

  He sat in a corner. He needed to reflect on the day. Interestingly, Mada had also been surprised by Mrs Rhodes’ stoical attitude. She had identified her daughter with a degree of control that Mada had rarely witnessed; there was clearly sadness but also respect. The way that she had touched the body clearly showed a mother’s tenderness, as had the brief outpouring of grief. It was clear that the Family Liaison Officer had time and respect for her.

  Cyril reflected on the words that Mada had reported that the mother had said on arriving back at her flat. “Although I’ve never really been a good mother and there have been times when Angie wasn’t with me, I realise that she was always with me, even when she was in care. Now, of course, she’s dead, no longer the homing bird she always was. Suddenly and selfishly, I feel as though I’m in a dark void, where there’s little reason to seek the light, to go on and be better.” She clearly realised that she had missed so many opportunities to be a good mother and now it was too late.

  Cradling another pint, his mind crashed agonisingly to his own position, a situation not too dissimilar from that of the bereaved mother. He took the envelope and reread the contents. How many times had he read it? He could not be sure. Should his stubborn arrogance prevent him from making peace with his father? If he went would it be for purely selfish reasons or was he prepared to forgive and forget? Like the voices Angie Rhodes heard so clearly, he was now experiencing a similar dilemma.

  His mind suddenly turned to the family from Ripon; the abuse the daughter had suffered at the hands of her parents made him shudder. He remembered how dignified she had been when she discovered the truth behind her past. It should not have come as a surprise but he realised that not everyone has a perfect upbringing, a childhood filled with wonder and happy memories. The years tumbled in his mind and although he could see t
he sadness, he could also remember the joy. At least he had enjoyed the security that brought with it an education and a freedom of choice.

  The landlord looked across at Cyril and could clearly see that he was wrestling mentally with an issue; he had grown to appreciate when to chat and when to leave well alone. Misguidedly he presumed it to be a police issue but thankfully left him in peace.

  Cyril opened his notebook to a clean page. It was unmarked white. Smoothing it with his hand, he took his pen, adding a small spot of ink. He drained his glass, picked up the notebook and approached the bar.

  “Another, Cyril?” The landlord smiled as he collected a fresh glass in anticipation.

  “No, Ken, thank you. What do you notice here?”

  He pushed the notebook across the bar. Ken picked it up and studied the page.

  “Trick question? You coppers are all the same. A black spot, there.” He pointed to the small dot.

  “Correct, Ken. Tell me, didn’t you see a whole page of white, too?”

  He pulled a face. “Took that for granted, Cyril, thought that was too obvious.”

  Both smiled. “Maybe we just don’t look too carefully at what’s around us.” Cyril leaned over, shook Ken’s hand and turned to leave.

  Once outside, Cyril took out his phone and tapped in the familiar number. He stared across at the now dark sky streaked with fine, deep, red lines. He checked his watch before shaking his wrist and looking again. Julie was quick to answer.

  “Julie, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to see him one last time. I’ll not be attending the funeral, but I want to see him, I want to forgive and forget. I also want to see his wife, Wendy, my stepmother. Will you come?”

  “In all the time we’ve been together you’d never talked about your past, and in some ways that’s fine, that’s private. I shall be honoured to go with you.”