by Neil Watson
Meanwhile, would you be kind enough to send me any more information about Yakamoto, please? I understand he was a cyclist—like me! But I can’t find any further reports on the internet, other than the two I already have (attached); one about the killing of Sandy Beach, and the other about Yakamoto’s upcoming trial. I’m intrigued to learn as much as I can.
Best regards
Oliver Markland
***
The following few days went by far too slowly, but Oliver had plenty to do preparing for his trip, what with putting the finishing touches to the Chronicle’s online pages, as well as his blog. Edward was over the moon with Oliver’s achievements, and was keen for his bosses to see as well. He would of course credit Oliver with most of the work, he decided, but as he was Editor, a fair share of praise from HQ ought to be directed at him. After all, it was he who had hired Oliver, and it was he who had sanctioned the magazine’s digital development. At last, he should be able to get his superiors in The City off his back once and for all until pension day, he thought.
Oliver wasn’t concerned with any such office politics or point scoring. He was just so excited to be flying out from Heathrow for such a great experience, and to be meeting Steve Borowitz and Ursh. Or should he refer to her as ‘Ursula’, or ‘Uschi Ne Mathghamhna’? He had no idea, but he guessed he’d soon he’d be finding out. He could hardly wait to see the Dickinson family once again, and especially Sam, of course.
Tuesday eventually came, and not a moment too soon as far as Oliver was concerned, but far too quickly for his father. After an emotional farewell at Heathrow, Oliver boarded the plane, nervous yet excited in equal measures. As Leslie made his own way back to the multi-storey car park, he felt sick with worry, plain and simple, as he hoped and prayed that his son would be safe during the whole time he’d be away. Despite him now being a young man and no longer a boy, this was still nevertheless the first time he’d taken a flight away on his own. Leslie sighed, knowing full well that he had no choice but to stand aside as Oliver carved his own life’s path and got on with what he wanted to do.
Meanwhile, Oliver was now strapped firmly in his seat. With the engines roaring for take-off, the acceleration of the jet thrust him backwards as the plane took off, bound for JFK airport. “New York, New York!” Oliver couldn’t hold back from saying the words out loud. The elderly lady sitting next to him turned and smiled, recalling her first time arriving in the Big Apple over fifty years earlier.
Somewhat embarrassed, Oliver explained that he’d never been there before. “I wonder if it’s just like I picture it,” he elaborated, “skyscrapers and everything!” Not that he’d be visiting the city yet—although for his return trip he may be making a stop-over, depending on available time and funds. If he did, the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty and Ground Zero were at the top of his must-see list.
The lady nodded her head. “It will be everything you’ve imagined—and a whole lot more.”
Having to pinch himself that this was all actually happening, Oliver thought ahead. On his outward journey, he’d be stopping at JFK for a couple of hours, awaiting the connecting flight to Indianapolis International. From there, Sam and her parents would be collecting him and taking him back to their home in Plainfield. He wondered what their home would be like, and speculated whether his and Sam’s fondness for each other would be rekindled. He hoped so.
He also reflected on the fact that, only a few short weeks earlier, he’d been stacking shelves in the Co-op, and now he was an international jetsetter—and writer—on a mission! A mission to investigate the unfortunate case of Yushi Yakamoto, and the ‘Bike Radio Murder’. And judging by the second email he’d received from Ursh, his investigation wouldn’t only be for the benefit of the East Anglian Chronicle. Half an hour into the flight, and after the stewardess had been along offering drinks and snacks, Oliver retrieved his laptop from the overhead locker.
Would he at some point wake up and discover that this had all been a pleasant dream? He studied yet again the number of newspaper clippings dating from 1981 that Ursh had kindly sent him, attached with the accompanying email that he reread for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Hi again Oliver
Please find the attached files of press cuttings. It all happened before my time, but colleagues here tell me this was big news back then.
My niece is so pleased you’re coming over, and she wants to pick your brains about London – and Colchester and Wivenhoe. It’s incredible that your boss Edward has offered to hook her up with his journalist contacts. He said there might even be a temp job for her at your offices later this year. Thanks so much for running with this.
Why don’t you do some writing from our Terre Haute site? We’ll be glad to include some in our paper. You’d be our ‘Young Sherlock’! We love that TV series over here. Sure, we can find a desk for you. And no worries about vehicles – we have a pool car you can use.
Apparently, a lot of people around here thought Yakamoto was innocent back in ‘81. Just a cyclist in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I’ll get the car over to our Indy office.
See you soon, Sherlock!
Ursh
This was going to be such an adventure, Oliver knew. After closing up his laptop, he flicked through the various video channels on the in-flight entertainment system. Rejecting the latest CGI blockbusters, he settled back for the next 138 minutes to enjoy an old 1970s classic with Michael Caine and Laurence Olivier—Sleuth. Oliver loved a good old mystery.
PART FOUR
OLIVER RETURNS
TO AMERICA
CHAPTER 24
(TUESDAY, 16TH JANUARY, 2018)
Newspaper Offices
W hen Oliver walked down the steps of his Delta Airlines plane to the tarmac below, and followed the string of passengers making their way towards the Baggage Reclaim area of Indianapolis International Airport, he had no idea what to expect, and was suddenly hit with a head full of nerves.
What if Sam and her parents weren’t there to meet him? What would he do? Where would he go? But then, as he and the other travellers were being funnelled through the crowded arrivals hall and he read the overhead ‘EXIT TO STREET’ sign, he noticed a silver banner in the distance spelling the words ‘WELCOME OLIVER’. There, in front of him stood Sam and Kerry Dickinson on one side of the aisle, and Chris on the other, holding the banner above their heads. All the other passengers that walked under that banner ignored it, but Oliver didn’t. As he approached, he almost cried with a mixture of joy and relief. There were hugs all round when he reached Sam and her parents.
As Chris drove them along the freeway to the Dickinson’s family house in Plainfield, Oliver spent the whole journey answering a flurry of excited questions from his hosts, especially from Sam, who was clearly delighted to be reunited with her friend. Today was a day to settle into his new surroundings, his home for the next 21 days. Once inside, he was shown to his room next to Sam’s, where he unpacked and took a shower. A little later, he was downstairs and seated around the large oak dining table for a meal with the family. This gave him the opportunity to outline his plans, and to also ask a favour.
“Absolutely!” assured Kerry, responding to Oliver’s question of transportation. “Sam has her own car, and I’m sure she won’t mind getting you over to the newspaper’s offices in the morning. Sam nodded enthusiastically.
“But now . . .” Chis suggested, “. . . just relax, eat and rest. You must be tired after those flights. Tell us more about your project. From what Sam’s told us so far, it sounds pretty interesting.”
For the remainder of the evening, Oliver described, in as much detail as he could, all the elements that brought him to where he now was. He enjoyed elaborating to his captive audience about his recent research into Joliet prison, Yushi Yakamoto, and the ‘Bike Radio Murder’ story of 1981.
But then, as if being hit by a brick, all of a sudden he became overwhelmed with fatigue. It must have bee
n a combination of his exhausting journey, jetlag, the evening dinner, and the non-stop talking. He excused himself and went up to the room he’d been allocated. After cleaning his teeth, he almost fell on the bed. Wearily pulling the duvet over himself and adjusting the pillows, he very quickly felt himself drifting towards sleep. In his state of semi-consciousness, he dreamed he heard a soft knock at his door. As it turned out, it was no dream. Despite his exhaustion, Oliver mustered up a second wind. He and Sam had a lot of catching up to do.
The following morning, he woke early. His natural body clock was in turmoil, and it took him a while to work out where he was. As he adjusted, he was as excited as he was apprehensive about the big day ahead, meeting his temporary colleagues at the newspapers. Or were they his bosses? As he lay in bed, it felt as though he had a million things competing for his attention.
But it was his late night liaison with Sam that was still firmly on his mind. Where was she? He was expecting her to be lying next to him, but then he vaguely recalled her giving him a final kiss on the lips before tip-toeing out the bedroom, carefully and quietly closing the door behind her. He must have fallen into a deep sleep immediately after she’d left. It was great to be back in her company again.
As he gazed around the large bedroom, Oliver admired his surroundings and thought about his first impressions of the house into which he’d been welcomed. By Wivenhoe standards it was huge—even larger than the house he and his dad had stayed at in Florida. Coming up the drive yesterday after being collected from the airport, he’d been impressed by the mock-Tudor façade, and the topiary hedges shaped like peacocks in the garden. The inside of the house was tastefully presented, and there were rooms in every direction leading off the enormous hallway with its oak-panelled walls and flooring. The Dickinsons certainly liked oak. His own room had an en suite shower room and, as well as the king-size, very comfortable bed, there was a large writer’s desk facing the window. That would be perfect for doing his work, Oliver decided. He rose from the bed to look out of the window. As he focussed on the kidney-shaped swimming pool below, he smiled. For the next three weeks, he was sure he’d be extremely comfortable here.
His present surroundings were all well and good, but Oliver reminded himself that this wasn’t a holiday, and that he was here for a very specific purpose. His mind raced ahead, anticipating how the day might unfold. Eager to get on with it, he showered and dressed in the lightweight beige suit that he had brought especially, and went downstairs for breakfast. It was in fact his only suit. Kerry and Sam were already there. “Ah, there you are! We thought we’d never see you. Wow, you’re looking smart!” said Kerry, with a warm, welcoming grin.
Oliver looked at his phone to check the time. 10.15a.m. His appointment at the Indianapolis Daily Times to meet Steve Borowitz was at midday. “Don’t worry, it’ll take less than half an hour to get downtown,” assured Sam, reading Oliver’s concern about being late. While her mother turned back to continue preparing Oliver’s breakfast, Sam mouthed a sexy kiss at him. He sent one across in return, just at the moment when Kerry turned around. She said nothing, nor did Sam, but Oliver went bright red. He looked down, trying desperately not to make any further eye contact.
***
Sam dropped Oliver off in the street outside the newspaper’s offices at five minutes to twelve, and wished him good luck. “Call me if you need picking up,” she shouted through the open window of her car as she drove off. Oliver kept telling himself not to be nervous, but he couldn’t help it. He brushed down his suit and adjusted the pink tie he’d never previously worn as he entered the building. He approached the unattended receptionist’s desk, and wondered what to do.
Just then he heard a man’s voice call his name from the gallery at the top of the stairs. “Oliver! You’re Oliver, right? I’m Steve. Come on up.”
As Oliver ascended the stairs towards Steve’s outstretched beckoning hand, he turned back to see two women returning to their posts in the reception area. Did he hear one say to the other “He’s kinda cute, don’t ya think?” or had he misheard? For the moment, it didn’t matter. He followed Steve to his office and took the sofa seat that was offered.
“So, you’re our Young Sherlock, are you? Or are you his sidekick Doctor Watson? Ha ha,” laughed Steve, rather too loudly at his own joke that made no sense. “Oliver Sherlock or Oliver Watson? Who’s it to be?” Before Oliver had a chance to answer, Steve continued. “We like the idea of you coming here. This Bike Radio Murder case was the talk of the town way back when, and I guess a lot of our readers will remember it. We want you to write a column in our paper all about what you are up to here, in our country. It’ll be fun, and the readers’ll love it! Beef it up, won’t you? Make it terribly British, what what? Ha ha.” Again, he laughed at the way he mimicked the English accent, before he continued. “See what you can find out about this Yushi guy, huh? Some folks felt sorry for him. Wrong place, wrong time. Always said he was innocent. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Tie it in with your key story, huh? We’ve got a car here for you. It’s nothing special, just a pool Hyundai, but I guess you’re used to small cars over there in Blighty, ha ha. Well, I gotta be gettin’ on now. Do a good job for us, huh?”
Oliver wasn’t able to get a word in edgeways, such was the machine-gun tirade of Steve’s quick-fire dialogue. He wanted to ask some questions about the Bike Radio Murder files, but never got the chance. He’d been in the Editor’s office for barely five minutes before Steve was standing up from behind his desk and ushering him to the door, and directing another torrent of words at Oliver: “Now go downstairs and get the car key from Tabatha on Reception. She’s got it all covered, and no doubt she’ll give you some forms to sign. You know the sort of thing—just to protect our liability—and then I’d get on over to Uschi’s office in Terre Haute if I were you. She’s waiting for you. We call her Uschi, but she prefers ‘Ursh’. Or ‘Urs’–we never know. Best you call her ‘Ursh’ to begin. Should take you an hour or so. Take Interstate 70, or Route 40, but I think 70 will be quicker.” With that, Steve held out his hand for Oliver to shake, holding open his door. “Do a good job for us, ya hear, Sherlock? This could be good for our bottom line.”
Poor Oliver. He exited Steve’s office, still open-mouthed as he descended the steps to where Tabatha was waiting for him, his head in a spin. Bottom line? What was that? Interstate 70? And had Steve meant ‘Route 40’, as in ‘root’? Then why call it ‘route’, rhyming with ‘roundabout’? The meeting was over far too quickly for Oliver to conclude whether he liked or disliked Steve, so he decided to just do what he was told, and go to see Ursh over at the Terre Haute office. He hoped he’d find the way. He hoped he’d be able to drive the car okay on the Interstate highway. He hoped Ursh wouldn’t be like Steve.
Tabatha noticed that Oliver was looking a little pale. “Take no notice of Steve—he’s always like that. I guess that was how he was with you?” she whispered. Oliver nodded, still somewhat shell-shocked from his encounter. Then, in her normal voice, Tabatha asked the other woman to come over with the car keys and papers that needed signing. “This is Dianne,” she introduced her colleague. “But don’t be having anything to do with her—she’s married. But I’m not!” Whether it was just an innocent flirt or not, Oliver blushed red for the second time that day.
Half an hour later, aware that he’d better not exceed the speed limit on his first drive in America, his car jogged along the highway. He couldn’t complain about the little silver Hyundai—in fact, he quite liked it. It drove easily, it was automatic, the air-con worked, and so did the radio. Oliver was in his element, wondering what Ursula O’Mahoney would be like, and hoping he’d have a little more time with her than Steve had granted. He dearly wanted to ask more questions about what the paper wanted him to write, and what they had on file about the events from 1981 that he was so interested in. As he drove along, the sexy name of ‘Ursula’ conjured up all kinds of images in Oliver’s mind. For some inexplicable reason, he picture
d Jessica from the Bob Hoskins film Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Perhaps he was getting carried away, what with his exploits with Sam last night, and the undoubted flirtation from Tabatha and her work colleague a short while ago. And now here he was anticipating that Ursh would be even more sultry and sexy than Jessica Rabbit.
In another thirty minutes, he was being ushered into the editor’s office and, incredibly, she and Jessica Rabbit did indeed share similarities. Perhaps not exactly as the cartoon character had been portrayed in the film, but not far off. Ursula’s hair was brown and not red, and she was shorter than the cartoon image—more in line with Bob Hoskin’s height. But Ursula was just as sexy—perhaps even more so. If this were the aunt, what would her niece be like? Oliver wondered. He reminded himself that he really shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts—after all, he already had a girlfriend, didn’t he?
The whole situation he was in seemed like a surreal dream, and he struggled to differentiate between what was real and what was make-believe, as he drifted into a semi-trance. He was brought to his senses by the woman who had just greeted him in the Terre Haute Daily Times head office.
“It’s very lovely to meet you, Oliver, to be sure,” Ursula said warmly, with a charming mixture of American and Irish accents. “I guess you have a hundred questions for us, wouldn’t you, now? Take your time, and let’s go through everything, shall we?” Oliver immediately warmed to Ursula’s friendly stance, and breathed a huge sigh of relief that they could actually have a conversation lasting more than a few seconds.
For nearly two hours, they discussed ways in which Oliver’s articles could be best presented in the newspaper, and how they could capitalise on the popularity of the Sherlock TV series. After their meeting had concluded and Oliver was driving back to Plainfield, a large folder of newspaper cuttings and photographs on the back seat, he was already making plans for what he’d be doing the next day.
