by Neil Watson
He looked through the bundle, and noted who the addressees were. He knew for a fact that three no longer worked at the newspaper, so he would bin those letters. Another four looked obviously like junk mail, so they followed, straight into the waste-paper basket. That left another three to be dealt with. Should he confess to his error, he asked himself? Three remaining letters were preferable to ten, but zero would be an even better number, so maybe he could just accidentally-on-purpose lose them all over again, and no one would be any the wiser.
Yes, that’s what he’d do, he decided—except for one particular letter that stood out because it was written in precise, neat handwriting, and addressed to ‘Mr. Oliver Markland’. Zac thought back. He recalled that, soon after he’d commenced his employment at the newspaper, he had attended Oliver Markland’s leaving presentation, and the man in question had seemed like a very nice guy, and if his memory served Zac correctly, Mr. Markland had left his forwarding address in case he received any future correspondence. Yes, that’s right, Zac recalled after an anxious minute or two. Markland had definitely left a forwarding address, and it was in England.
In fact, the harder Zac thought, the more he vaguely recalled sending on one or two letters very soon after he’d joined the Terre Haute Daily Times. And now, here in his hand was one more letter to be forwarded. Never having set foot out of his own country, he found it difficult to imagine just how far away England was—but he guessed it must be an awfully long way. This long-distance letter would just take a little longer to reach its destination, he thought, trying to excuse his mistake and banish his feelings of guilt.
He looked up the address and put the envelope into a new International Post bag, slipping in an accompanying note that read: ‘Dear Mr. Markland. This just arrived for you. Judging by the post-mark, I guess it must have been lost in US Mail system. Best. Zac’
“Phew!” thought Zac, relieved that he’d come up with a solution to his dilemma, and pleased that he would be able to continue with his work without anyone being any the wiser. He finished up the herbal tea that he’d been letting brew to perfection, and then went off to collect his colleagues’ afternoon drinks orders.
***
During the past five months since returning to Essex, Oliver had settled back into Wivenhoe life, and was very glad to be home.
His blog for the East Anglian Chronicle had continued to be a great success, and after his welcome return he had been asked by the magazine editor not only to take overall control of the burgeoning travel section, but, under instructions from the parent company, to also become Editor-in-Chief of the entire online presence for the whole publishing group.
While Oliver had been away in America, regularly submitting blogs, articles and pictures by email, the readership of the East Anglian Chronicle had been captivated, and advertising revenues had gone through the roof, especially from tour and travel operators. This fact hadn’t gone unnoticed by Adam Hellinger, the CEO of the publishing group behind the Chronicle, and it was he who suggested to editor Edward Wright that Oliver be given a key role within the company.
This had now become a ‘proper job’, and Oliver was happy to recognise it as such, as well as relishing his new upgraded role within the organisation. He knew that his promotion was mostly due to the way he’d handled the Bike Radio Murder story. But he was very happy with the way things were now panning out for him, and equally happy with his increased salary, sufficient to help him afford something rather better than his current old banger of a car.
So wrapped up in his writing and publishing career, Oliver had almost forgotten the disappointment he’d felt when Yushi Yakamoto’s confession note had come to light. It was true that until Siobhan and he had gone over it in fine detail while he’d been recovering in his hospital bed, up to then he’d been convinced that Yushi had been innocent of the crime he’d been executed for.
Oliver admitted to himself that, despite Yushi’s eventual fate, all along he’d very much hoped he might have been able to clear Yushi’s name. He didn’t know why he’d felt so compelled to do this. After all, Yushi had been a complete stranger to him, from a period many years before Oliver had even been born. It was too lame a reason simply to suggest that it was because both Yushi and he had shared a passion for cycling. He knew there was more to it than that but, whatever the reason, Oliver couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was as if the purchase of his Florida Key had somehow drawn him towards Yushi, and it had then become Oliver’s mission to prove that Yushi hadn’t been a murderer.
Having studied the whole story so thoroughly and intently, Oliver felt like he had come to know Yushi personally, and had been able to understand the cyclist’s mindset. It was like Yushi had become a friend, and a friend whose passing Oliver now grieved.
CHAPTER 49
WEDNESDAY, 4TH JULY, 2018
Book
A lthough he’d been deeply saddened by the end of Yushi Yakamoto’s story, Oliver had benefitted enormously from the whole affair. Newspaper CEO Mr. Hellinger had called for Oliver to go to his office in the City where he made a proposition that he was sure would benefit the business, as well as Oliver himself.
Mr. Hellinger had suggested that Oliver’s story would make a terrific book, and that if he wrote it, Hellinger’s company would publish it. He even went as far as suggesting a title for the book —The Bike Radio Murder. It was fairly unimaginative and quite a mouthful in Oliver’s opinion, and Oliver felt sure it could be improved upon. But not wishing to introduce any negativity to such a positive meeting, he decided to keep quiet—for the time being—at least until he could hopefully come up with a better alternative at a later stage.
Now back at his office in Colchester, Oliver glanced down at the large Joliet prison key that he was now using as a paperweight on his desk.
He reflected for a short while on the unbelievable journey he’d been on, and the new one he was about to embark upon as a book author. He couldn’t wait to get started.
As he sat there, staring at the ceiling, he thought about his time in America. Of course, he missed the friends and acquaintances he’d made there; Ursula O’Mahoney had obviously played a key role in helping him, as had Steve Borowitz for being receptive to Oliver’s initial handwritten correspondence. That had been a smart move to send a letter in that way, thought Oliver, and he gave himself an imaginary pat on the back. Katie Copeland had been a real help too, and the TV news crew who’d filmed him outside Mrs. Toporofski’s house had been a great thrill to work with.
Ah yes, Mrs. Toporofski. How could he forget her? She had certainly proved herself to be a larger-than-life character, and Oliver laughed out loud when he remembered the time he flooded the house with a waterbed and was almost shot by the lady. And then of course there was the time when he really did get shot.
As Oliver continued to mull over the events that had occurred at Flatrock Creek, he shuddered. It had only been thanks to the professionalism of Detective Hardy and Police officers Theresa Ashley and William Wheatley that he was still alive. That had been a very narrow escape, and he owed the emergency services a huge debt of gratitude.
“Perhaps one day I’ll return to Illinois and Indiana to pay a visit, and thank them personally,” he thought, because the last time they had seen him he was unconscious.
There was one person though who Oliver very definitely would not be visiting unless he were to be surrounded by at least half a dozen armed police to protect him—Marc Ozborn. At least Ozborn would be behind bars for another seven months, he thought.
While reflecting on his horrific ordeal at the hands of Ozborn, what Oliver didn’t know was that, thousands of miles away, the old man was being called into the prison Governor’s office. Ozborn sat and listened to what was being said, hardly believing his good fortune on hearing that he’d be released on parole within just three weeks. By that time, he would have only served six of his twelve-month custodial sentence, and the Parole Board had clearly deemed him fit to re-enter societ
y. Politely thanking the Governor, Ozborn was unable to wipe the smug grin off his face as he walked back to his cell.
***
Presently, back in Colchester, England, Oliver looked at his iPhone. It was 5.30p.m.—time to pack up and go home from work. He shuffled and tidied the documents on his desk, all prepared and ready for the next day. For the whole day, he had been looking forward to trying out Bambu, the Vietnamese restaurant situated by the River Colne on the outskirts of the town, later that evening with a special friend who he expected any minute. As he stacked the final bunch of papers and placed them under his Florida Key paperweight, a beautiful young woman appeared at his office door.
“Ready?” she asked, looking truly radiant in a dark pencil skirt and smart light blue blouse. How does she manage to look so good after having been at work for the past eight hours? Oliver wondered, looking up at her admiringly.
“I am indeed, Siobhan,” replied Oliver, locking his desk drawer and grabbing the jacket from behind his chair. He hadn’t seen Siobhan all day, and with a broad smile stretched across his face and a glint in his eyes, he looked forward to telling her the news about his book-writing project.
“Whatever’s got into you?” Siobhan asked, when she noticed he looked like the cat that had got the cream.
“I’ll tell you soon,” smiled Oliver.
Oliver felt enormously grateful for the hospitality offered him by Chris and Kerry Dickinson. He probably wouldn’t have gone ahead with his trip to America if they hadn’t so generously offered accommodation for him. But although he still thought very fondly of Sam, he recognised that the special place in his heart actually belonged to the girl he was now with, here in Essex. They walked hand in hand to the car park where the red-and-white paintwork on a sharp-looking new Fiat 124 was gleaming in the evening sunshine, Oliver having picked it up earlier that morning.
The sports car was on loan from a local dealership for a three-day test drive, and going by very favourable first impressions as he sped along Clingoe Hill towards Wivenhoe, Oliver decided that he’d soon be signing up to keep it. At yesterday’s meeting in London, his boss’s boss not only told Oliver to expect a further pay rise the following month, but also that the company would provide him with a generous allowance for a lease car of his choice, within certain parameters, of course. Oliver was delighted to discover that the new 124 fell within those parameters and, knowing how his dad Leslie Markland owned and had such a passion for his own classic 1968 model, he couldn’t wait to take him out for a spin in this latest 2018 version.
After arriving back in Wivenhoe, and before going for the meal that had been booked for eight-thirty that evening, Oliver had made an earlier appointment to see a dear old friend he’d known for years, and for moral support he was pleased that Siobhan would be with him. He was sure that with her American-Irish charm, Siobhan would help soften Miss Alberta Louise Baudet to be receptive to a specific request he had in mind.
Miss Baudet had moved south from the county of Yorkshire a few years previously, and had always followed Oliver’s progress with enormous interest and enthusiasm, helping him in any small way that she could. She’d become a kind of mother figure to him, and Oliver cherished their very special relationship. Since settling in Wivenhoe, Miss Baudet had bought and now owned a lovely old river-cruiser, moored in its highly-desirable position directly outside the popular Rose & Crown pub on Wivenhoe Quay. Since purchasing the boat from a local man by the name of Watson, she’d meticulously looked after it, having it regularly painted and cleaned by the previous owner. It now looked newer than the day it was built, some forty years ago, and Alberta Louise was very proud of it.
Oliver knew how much Miss Baudet loved her boat, and hoped she’d agree to his proposal. On the way to meet her, Oliver told Siobhan that he had some very exciting news to tell, but she’d have to wait until they got to the boat before he’d say any more.
Oliver parked his glamorous car on the quayside, drawing some degree of attention from the crowd sitting outside and enjoying a pint in the evening summer sun. Siobhan, as she did every day since arriving in England, thanked her lucky stars she’d moved to such a wonderful riverside village. Initially scheduled for a three-month period, her work experience at the East Anglian Chronicle had been extended to a whole year, and she was grateful to Oliver for finding her such a perfect and adequately sized apartment only a few hundred yards from the riverfront. Siobhan absolutely adored living there.
Oliver and Siobhan walked along the wooden pontoon that Alberta Louise had especially commissioned to be built alongside her boat. This was the first time that Siobhan had seen the boat close up, and she smiled when she noticed the boat’s name emblazoned on its sides—MISS BAUDET.
“Welcome aboard!” called out the boat’s owner from the rear deck. Her two young guests stepped off the pontoon and clambered inside. As soon as Siobhan met the real Miss Baudet, she instantly felt a warmth for the person, who was perhaps fifty years her senior. She seemed a straight-talking lady, full of charm and character. After a few initial pleasantries had been exchanged, Miss Baudet got straight to the point: “So, Oliver, what’s so important that you couldn’t wait to come and see me?”
Oliver was glad that he could now broach the subject that he was bursting to talk about. “I’ve been asked to write a book called The Bike Radio Murder about my time in America! It’ll be published just as soon as I can get it finished.”
Most impressed, and excited for their mutual friend, both Siobhan and Miss Baudet looked at each other and beamed. “That’s fantastic! I think this calls for a celebration,” said Miss Baudet, as she stepped down to the small galley kitchen just inside the main cabin, soon emerging with a bottle of Champagne and three flutes. After she’d finished pouring the drinks and the three of them chinked glasses, she continued: “That’s great, Oliver, but what has that got to do with me? What is it you wanted to ask me about?”
“Well . . .” Oliver began, elongating the word a little too much.
“Come on, Oliver. Spit it out,” demanded the boat’s Captain.
“Well, Miss B., I need somewhere to work. Somewhere to write in peace and quiet, and your boat would be just the ticket.” Siobhan chuckled at Oliver’s very British expression while he continued. “I know you like straight talking, so I’ll just come straight out with it. Could I please come down to the quay and use the boat as my writing space—my own ‘Writers’ Retreat’? I might have evenings where I’d be working quite late, so sometimes I’d like to sleep here too, if you didn’t mind.”
It was Miss Baudet’s turn to make Oliver wait as she responded with a repeat of Oliver’s artificially stretched word. “Well . . .” she began, relishing the expression on Oliver’s face as he waited with bated breath for her answer. “. . . Of course you can!” she said emphatically. “In fact, I’d be honoured if you did. Actually, I insist that you do! Start whenever you like.”
***
Later that evening at Bambu, where the loving couple enjoyed a delicious shared platter, Oliver moved his hand across the dining table. He took Siobhan’s in his and gave it a squeeze. “That went rather well, I thought. And I’m sure there will be many nights on the boat when I may need a little company,” he said with a mischievous inflection. Siobhan smiled at the prospect of spending romantic evenings and candlelit dinners with Oliver while the rising tide gently lapped at the boat’s sides.
“But there’s something that’s bothering me about the book,” she said cautiously, not wishing to sound critical.
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “What’s that, darling?” he asked.
“I don’t think the title’s right,” Siobhan said slowly and thoughtfully. “The Bike Radio Murder just doesn’t have the right ring to it. That’s only my humble opinion though, and I hope you don’t mind me saying.”
Oliver was relieved that Siobhan’s concern wasn’t overly serious, and in fact echoed his own thoughts. “I’d been thinking exactly the same thing, but I haven
’t been able to come up with anything better yet,” he replied.
“I have,” responded Siobhan instantly. “How about calling the book Florida Key?”
How it all Ended
by Oliver Markland
WIVENHOE
(MONDAY, OCTOBER 8TH, 2018)
T hat fine summer’s evening in July had been very special. Siobhan and I enjoyed Bambu such a lot. Miss B., as I affectionately like to call her, was at a loose end and we invited her to come with us to the place, but sadly she was busy and couldn’t join us then.
However, during the following few months since that evening, Siobhan and I would revisit the place several times, cycling along the Wivenhoe Trail by the river towards Colchester, always ordering our favourite shared platter. Occasionally we would increase the size of the shared platter for three, or even four, when we welcomed Miss B., and sometimes also my dad, to join us.
Still, being by ourselves on that particular evening did give us an opportunity to seal a few personal arrangements of our own. One arrangement in particular meant another visit to Miss Baudet and to Dad the very next day.
You see, on that evening in question I had asked Siobhan to marry me. I’m delighted to say that she said yes, and at the time of writing this account we are currently organising our wedding that will take place next year in her home town, Terre Haute. The Terre Haute Daily Times have offered to contribute toward the cost if they can include a section about it in their Sunday supplement, and I have to pinch myself to quite believe our good fortune.
