Unlikely Graves (Detective Inspector Paul Amos Mystery series)

by Rodney Hobson

  Furthermore, his elder brother, though not quite so academically bright, had been expected to pass but did not. In those days parents had not heard of appeals and although the primary school headmaster was sympathetic, the case was not taken up. Consequently, a wedge was also driven between Amos and his resentful brother although they there was only 15 months difference in their ages.These thoughts went through the inspector’s mind as he walked into the school in warm sunshine. The shadows cast by the sun he thought of as the shadows of his past life, the people he once knew and never saw. The case was getting to him, he realized. There was so little to work on.

  It was one of those buildings that you could tell immediately was a school, reassuringly solid and secure, built of brick and stone with tall railings round the perimeter. Amos had taken the precaution of ringing the headmaster’s secretary to warn of his impending arrival.

  There were three solid doors, one on the left with ‘Boys’ and one on the right with ‘Girls’ etched prominently into the stone above the lintels. The middle door, the most solid of the three with thick metal hinges stretched across solid oak, was presumably the one for staff and visitors. Torn between a bell and a knocker, Amos selected the long metal dangling pole and was gratified to hear a clanging within. Old fashioned bells have more class, he felt, and were fitting for the type of establishment he was about to enter. For the third time in the short life of this inquiry, Amos found himself being ushered into a head teacher’s study. William Fox was aged about 50, probably too young for Amos’s purposes unless he had worked his way up through the school from his first posting.

  Fox greeted Amos expansively, talking at a measured pace in cultured English but with a hint of an accent that could not be entirely hidden.

  ‘I’m looking for a teacher who was at this school 20 years ago,’ Amos said. ‘Is there a long serving member of staff you can think of? I take it you yourself are not from round these parts.’

  Fox’s face fell at being rumbled.

  ‘No, I’m originally from London,’ Fox replied a little coldly.

  Ah yes, Amos thought. That hint of accent is Cockney. Funny to think of someone trying to ditch a Southern accent to get a job further North. He knew of people who had concealed any connection with Lincolnshire in order to get employment in the capital, never the other way round.

  ‘Mrs Quinn, our head of chemistry, is from that era,’ Fox continued. ‘We’re very fortunate to have such an excellent teacher. I’m afraid girls didn’t take chemistry when she went to school and there was prejudice against employing her but my predecessor had more vision and snapped her up. The barriers preventing her from getting a department headship elsewhere worked in our favour. She’s busy at the moment blowing up the lower sixth – that’s a joke,’ he added hastily, ‘but she has a free period at ten thirty so you could see her then if you wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes. Unless it’s very urgent, of course.’

  ‘Ten thirty will do fine,’ Amos responded amicably.

  ‘May I ask what this is about?’ Fox inquired reasonably. ‘If it affects the school I should know about it, even if,’ he continued, hesitating for a moment then continuing with an overdone accent, ‘I was still darn sarf then. Nothing too grisly, I hope.’

  Amos decided that a decayed body on a rubbish tip might be classified as grisly and replied simply and not untruthfully: ‘Missing person. And as you will have gathered,’ he added hastily, ‘from a long way back.’

  Both men looked down at their hands for want of anything more to say. Amos was a poor conversationalist, especially so after an adulthood of asking questions bluntly rather than subtly.

  It was Fox who broke the ice.

  ‘Will you be at Sincil Bank next season? Oh, no, I suppose that’s just uniformed officers.’

  ‘Actually, I will be there except when I’m tied up with a case but I shall be among the long suffering supporters, not on duty.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a problem for me,’ Fox responded in relief that he had found some common ground. ‘Leyton Orient were my old team. I’m never sure which side to support when they play Lincoln City. I guess you always look for your home town’s results first and it’s a bit of a wrench when I follow the Imps these days.’

  ‘Still, I think wherever you live you should fit in with the local life.’

  Amos, who had never lived outside Lincolnshire but who felt some affinity, from his earlier days in the police force, for Skegness Town in a lower league, concurred. Then the bell for the end of the period rang a merciful conclusion to the banal and stilted effort at conversation.

  Mrs Quinn came from Newcastle (‘that’s upon Tyne, not under Lyme,’ she stressed) but there was no need other than civic pride to explain as she made no attempt to hide her Geordie accent.

  Besides, as she pointed out forcefully when Fox introduced the inspector as a fellow Lincoln City supporter, she had no cause to be ashamed of HER team, being in the Premier League and not among the soft southerners supported by her male colleagues. Lincoln to her was in the south.

  ‘Still, I don’t suppose you came here to be taught a lesson in football,’ she ventured. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Mrs Quinn,’ Amos said as Fox departed to leave them to it, as he put it. ‘I understand you have been here for some years. Do you by any chance remember John Paul Randall?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Quinn replied enthusiastically. ‘The Saint.’

  Amos raised his eyebrows in query. Quinn smiled enigmatically.

  ‘It was when Pope John died only a month after taking office and he was replaced by Paul. So we had John and Paul in quick succession. John Paul Randall was rather a quiet boy with a saintly air and that was when he acquired his nickname. Funnily enough, a few years later we got a Pope called John-Paul.’

  ‘You obviously remember him very well after all these years,’ Amos prompted.

  ‘I certainly do,’ Quinn said rather alarmed. ‘Has something happened to him? I hope not.’

  ‘We’re trying to trace him,’ Amos explained, again selecting the element of truth that suited his purpose. ‘His father has died and we have no idea where he is.’

  Quinn reflected on this news. She had obviously not noted the murder reported in the media, or at least not connected the name of the victim with her former pupil.

  Finally she said: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is either. He was a brilliant chemist, which is why I remember him so well, and he well deserved his place at Cambridge. He called in to see us during the three years he was at university just to let us know how he was doing. Then he just stopped calling.We get used to it. Most of our brighter pupils call in after they leave but they gradually all drop off. His visits lasted longer than most.’

  ‘So he left here in 1975 and you last saw him in 1978?’ Amos asked.

  ‘That sounds about right. I’d have to check the dates to be sure but that does sound right. He was a brilliant boy. I hope nothing has happened to him.’

  ‘Did he have any particular friends?’ Amos asked.

  ‘Not really. He was, as I say, quiet, and didn’t get into trouble. I wanted to nominate him as head boy in his final year but the head master – not Mr Fox then, of course – blocked it. He felt that John lacked the charisma and outward-going nature needed in a leader.’

  ‘Anyone who didn’t like him, then? If he was so talented there must have been some jealousies.’

  ‘I suppose there were, but nothing serious. Mind you,’ Quinn said thoughtfully and then paused. ‘I’m not sure I should mention this as it wasn’t really anything to do with John.’

  ‘Please forgive me for pressing you,’ Amos said gently, ‘but I would not be asking you about events so long ago if it were not important. Anything you say could help us to find what we are looking for.’

  Quinn was clearly disappointed not to elicit anything more definite from Amos but she could hardly stop now, having broached what was evidently a sensitive subject.

  ‘J
ohn had a younger sister, Rita, who also attended this school. She was good at chemistry as well and she too ended up in Cambridge. Rita was only slightly less able but she made up for that in application. As a matter of fact, she was even more quiet and studious than her elder brother. There were just the two siblings, I believe. Well, John came to see me just after he got his Cambridge place and asked to have a quiet word in strictest confidence. He was very worried about Rita and wondered whether he should give up his place at Cambridge. You can imagine, I was absolutely stunned. I knew from the parents’ evenings that it was John and Rita’s father who turned up and took an interest. John told me that his mother had left home when he was about 13. His father had been violent towards her but had never touched the children. Thinking they were safe, she had escaped to relatives. John kept in touch on the QT. His father removed all trace of her. Any photograph she appeared on was destroyed. The clothes she left behind and any other personal possessions were dumped in the bin.’

  Amos shuddered as he heard those last four words. Quinn did not notice and continued her narrative.

  ‘John said that his father had started to molest Rita and he was worried that his absence during term time would give his father free rein. I said to leave it with me but under no circumstances was he to give up his golden opportunity. The family lived in a cramped cottage and were struggling to make ends meet. I couldn’t believe what John was saying. Mr Randall was working nights to earn extra to keep his family together and be there to get breakfast and an evening meal for them at the start and end of his shift. He really encouraged them to do well and Rita’s school work did not seem to be suffering. I took her on one side discretely and asked if everything was OK at home. She said things were fine and I didn’t take it any further. John went off to Cambridge and Rita followed him in her turn.

  ‘You say John called in to see you for a while after he left. Did Rita ever come back?’ Amos asked.’

  ‘No, never,’ Quinn shook her head. ‘John didn’t mention her either and I couldn’t bring myself to ask after her. I don’t see what I could have done unless Rita reported her father and I’m sure there was nothing amiss, really, but I couldn’t help just wondering after it was too late whether I did right.’

  Quinn looked at Amos as if for reassurance. The inspector knew she should have alerted social services but in his opinion they were mainly a bunch of interfering busybodies who did as much harm as good so he decided to leave the unasked question unanswered.

  ‘I say John didn’t mention her but he did, just once … well, sort of. He just remarked that Rita was all right now and didn’t come home anymore and that was it. He changed the subject and that was the last I saw of him. I took it as an accusation.’

  ‘Did Rita have any particular friends who might know where she is?’ Amos asked.

  Quinn shook her head sadly.

  ‘It was all so long ago,’ Quinn replied sadly. ‘The price of giving children a good education is that they move on. Good for them but not for those of us left behind. Lincolnshire is a big county. It used to be big enough to keep them in. Now they can’t wait to get out.’

  Chapter 19

  The team gathered as agreed at 12 noon at a fish and chip shop with a restaurant attached in the High Street. It was not yet full swing in the holiday season, since the schools had not broken up for the long summer vacation, but Skegness was still very busy, mainly with older people plus a fair sprinkling of young parents with pre-school age toddlers. The season effectively lasted for three months. Amos knew it was vital that the resort made most of its money within a short timeframe. The inspector had driven one car and Det Sgt Juliet Swift the other. He had told her to park the marked police car anywhere convenient as long as it did not cause too much of an obstruction. Finding a legal parking place would be a challenge but no-one was likely to book a police car and if they did the ticket could easily be cancelled.

  Amos drove into the town centre from the school and spotted an empty parking bay just off Lumley Road, which ran roughly parallel with the much narrower High Street. He would be there much longer than the time allowed even had he bought a parking ticket but at least he was not on a double yellow line. He was well in time for the meeting so he took a stroll along the sea front to consider the situation. One line of inquiry, the girls, had ground to a halt without getting even close to the man who lay dead on a slab in the mortuary. They would have to get at the dead man through his son or daughter.

  Fate had transformed the family. It was not just that the children had done well academically. Even the father had found some means of moving from a downbeat back street to a very pleasant home in a firmly middle class neighbourhood. Then fate had turned fickle and dashed their hopes. The daughter had disappeared without trace. The son likewise, perhaps to end up years later on a rubbish tip. And now the father, too, consigned to oblivion. The sunshine was exhilarating but as Amos walked back to the High Street he felt an increasing sense of foreboding. The school had provided some insight into the family but not much that took the inquiry forward. Perhaps the others had also got nowhere much.

  By getting to the chip shop early, before the lunchtime rush to feed overweight holidaymakers with excessive portions of chips, Amos was able to commandeer the one large table, at the far end away from the kitchen and takeaway area. The others arrived pretty much together. Amos suggested that as there was so many of them they should order straight away so they could be served before more people arrived. While they waited for the food, Amos said: ‘Without saying anything sensitive within anyone else’s hearing, has anyone got any lead as to what happened to John or Rita Randall?’

  This was slightly comical, as the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen and no other diners had arrived. In any case, he need not have worried. The other seven all shook their heads. Swift spoke for all of them when she said: ‘They had plenty of friends but they gradually lost touch when they went to Cambridge. No-one else from their year did.’

  Chapter 20

  Just as everything looked bleakest, DC Michael Yates came riding to the rescue. Or rather, the team who had a day out at the seaside came riding home to find that the Cinderella they left behind had traced Christine, the girl at the centre of Mrs Daley’s tragic story. It had taken all day and the Education Department was not best pleased but the department and Park Road school between them finally worked out who she was and where she lived.

  Christine Evans was 22. There was no need to have her parents present at the interview, though that had not stopped other mothers from inviting themselves. If neither Christine nor her parents, assuming they knew that she was talking to the police, asked for a chaperone then Amos was not going to raise the possibility. He was in no doubt that the fussy, doting mothers who viewed their daughters as angels had thwarted his interviews. The girls had been reluctant to tarnish their saintly images, Amos was sure, but he had wanted to keep the chats informal at this stage. After all, there was no suggestion that any of the girls was involved in the murder or that they had committed any other crime.

  Evans had her reason for shunning parental control, one that soon became readily obvious to the easily embarrassed Amos. The inspector eyed her up, as he would anyone he interviewed whatever their age or gender, while trying not to make it obvious that he was doing so. This caused Evans considerable amusement, which discomfited Amos all the more. Being eyed up by older men she apparently took in her stride. She probably doesn’t even mind being mentally undressed by them, Swift thought with just a little disapproval, despite having had a more broadminded upbringing than Amos had been blessed with.

  Amos had confided in her during a period of depression that lasted on and off for several weeks. Cases were going badly and his relationship with his wife was strained. He had just needed someone to talk to and Swift, who had herself just begun a promising relationship with a burly car mechanic and amateur rugby union player, offered a sympathetic ear.

  The inspector had been brought up
in an austere, middle class household. As a child he had been sent to Sunday School at the local Baptist Church, morning and afternoon, during a period of several years when attendances were waning. He and a boy who was learning to play the organ had become the sole juvenile attendees at the morning session, along with a church deacon who ran the Sunday School and his wife, who joined in the hymns as she polished the brass memorial to those who had lost their lives in the forces during the first world war. The morning session was abandoned when, at the age of 13, Amos graduated to the evening service. This was younger than the norm at their church but he was getting bored with what he came increasingly to regard as the babyish Sunday School with its annual prize day where the only qualification for the reward of third rate juvenile fiction was simply turning up. In any case, the young Amos was beginning to have his doubts about religion, becoming increasingly distressed that he could not square what he was told at Sunday School with what he saw in the world around him. At least the evening service occupied one hour against the split shift of Sunday School which, in two one-hour sessions, effectively stretched from 10am to 3pm.

  In particular, Amos was greatly troubled that he could not accept the concept of an all loving, all seeing and all powerful god. Any two from three was possible but all three together could not account for the troubles of the world, nor for the fact that the overwhelming majority of god’s creatures were eaten alive. To add to his anguish as he struggled with this betrayal of all he had been brought up to believe and the nagging fear that he might rot in hell for allowing his doubts to overcome him, he felt unable to discuss the matter with his parents or his siblings, who retained their innocent faith. Mr and Mrs Amos senior were not bad parents. They brought up their children to be decent, law abiding, charitable individuals. They did not mistreat their offspring and although money was fairly tight the family was well fed and well clothed. It was just that the word love was never mentioned in the home despite its Christian ethos. There was no doubt that the parents did love their children, whose wellbeing they put before their own, but they never told them. There were never hugs and kisses.