Legacy of Lies

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘You didn’t mention this last night.’

  ‘No. I wanted to be sure. Alec was very fond of this man. I’ve no wish to sully a reputation unnecessarily or spoil a memory.’

  ‘No, perhaps you’re right. We’ll have to face up to it sooner or later though. There’s the possibility that this house and Alec’s inheritance are tied up with this. A serving officer; dodgy inheritance …’

  ‘I can imagine the consequences,’ Harry said. ‘Some of the more interesting entries referenced the stock market.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Um, do you think Alec would mind if I took another look at Rupert’s study? Only if I’ve read this right there should be records of his portfolio somewhere. Of course, it might be with his solicitor but …’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have thought so. The solicitor gave Alec a pack outlining his inheritance and all the tax side of it and so on. He’s had a good look through and he never mentioned anything like that.’

  ‘Right, well, we shall have to see what we can find out. I’d like to think I’d have a handle on this before Alec returns. It would be nice to tell him there’s nothing to worry about in that direction, but at the very least it would be good to make him aware of exactly which laws his uncle Rupert had been breaking.’

  Naomi nodded slowly. ‘There’s something else I want to do,’ she said as Harry got up to make more tea. ‘We’ve got a list of names and addresses for people Rupert contacted in his research. They may not be remotely relevant, but I’d like to check them out. I thought we could say we were trying to finish his book. A sort of posthumous tribute.’

  ‘Sounds like a reasonable cover story,’ Harry said.

  ‘So, when do we start?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Well, I thought this morning, unless Harry wants to get on with the financial stuff?’

  ‘To be truthful I could do with some thinking time. I’ve stared at those figures so long I can still see them imprinted on my eyelids.’

  ‘Good. So, you and Patrick take half the list and I’ll contact Marcus, rope him in for the rest.’

  ‘Marcus.’ Patrick was disgusted.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Naomi told him, ‘I think you were right. Marcus is holding back. I’m hoping that he’ll drop his guard a little if we seem to be involving him. Besides, we can’t all turn up on people’s doorstep. Two of us is OK, three plus dog is going to look intimidating and, anyway, if we split up we can cover more ground. Unfortunately, I do need a driver. Far as I see it, Marcus is it.’

  Alec was exhausted long before he reached the capital. He stopped twice for coffee, lacing the strongest brew he could find with painkillers. He’d heard somewhere that it was OK to take ibuprofen with paracetamol and he hoped it was fact and not something he had made up. He alternated the painkillers every couple of hours, saving the ones the hospital had given to him for the bad night he knew was going to come.

  His whole body ached; the bruising on his abdomen was still black, showing a purple hue only at the very edges. The seat belt dug deep just where it hurt the most and his ribs protested vigorously every time he changed gear. He knew he wasn’t really fit enough to drive and began to wonder just what the hell he was doing rushing headlong towards a place he hated for its dust and noise and crowds to meet a man who could probably tell him little more face to face than he could have over the phone.

  He was aware that he hadn’t been entirely straight with Naomi. She was right and he didn’t actually have to drive all the way down here and he wondered what it was that had compelled him.

  He told himself that he couldn’t access the newspaper archive by phone, that he really needed to get to the actual records. He told himself that people opened up in face to face meetings in a way they did not on the end of a telephone. He told himself that he could call on his parents on his way back to Epworth and challenge them about the row with Rupert and whether it had any bearing on present events.

  He repeated these reasons and excuses over and over again until he almost believed them. After all, they were all valid and true. But they weren’t the genuine motivation, Alec thought as he guided the car through the midday traffic on the Edgware Road. The genuine motivation was that he needed to get away, to escape from the concern and questions and the challenge of it all. He thought he’d known Rupe; his cherished memories of his uncle had misled him into thinking that they were the sum total of the man Rupert had been.

  He had never looked further.

  Alec had grown up but his thoughts, attitudes, knowledge of his uncle Rupe hadn’t grown up with him, they had remained frozen in that infant time and Alec wished fervently that he had been able to maintain that cherished fiction, not been faced with a Rupert who attracted violence. A Rupert who brought danger to those he cared for and who acknowledged that fact in writing in the little leather-bound book.

  Naomi had been right, he thought. Rupert had known that he was going to die. The question was, had he gone to meet Kinnear to give him what he wanted – that seemed unlikely seeing as how Kinnear was still looking for it – or did he go to challenge Kinnear in some way, to tell him he wasn’t about to give in?

  DI Phil Malcolm had arranged to meet on neutral ground. Alec was not, in this case, an investigating officer; there was no professional courtesy to be extended. This was a casual meeting slotted in and arranged as a favour to DS Fine. Alec was grateful for the time.

  ‘You not drinking?’ Malcolm asked as Alec came back to their table with a pint and an orange juice.

  ‘Can’t. On painkillers,’ Alec told him. It seemed the easiest thing to say. Explaining that he’d most likely fall asleep mid afternoon if he drank at lunchtime seemed inappropriate and unmanly and there was something about Malcolm – the near shaven head, perhaps, or the scarred knuckles – that invited Alec to make excuses.

  ‘I heard about your run-in with Sam Kinnear,’ Malcolm said. ‘You got off light.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  He waited until Malcolm had drained half his glass, wondered if he should set him up with another before they went on. Malcolm placed the half empty vessel back on the table, centring it with elaborate care on the cardboard mat.

  ‘Right bastard, Kinnear,’ he said. He sounded satisfied, Alec thought. ‘You got the faxes?’

  ‘Thanks, yes. Reg Fine gave me copies. The list of known associates you sent. Who would your money be on?’

  Malcolm wiped the condensation from his glass with a fat, paw-like hand. Boxer’s hands, Alec thought. Heavyweight.

  ‘If you’re asking, then I’d take a guess at two,’ Malcolm said. ‘The first choice would be Colin Berridge, fat man, same age as Kinnear, inside with him for armed robbery on this last stretch, but the association goes back to when Kinnear first fetched up here in the seventies. The two of them worked the door at some less than salubrious establishments, did the odd job on the side. It went to Kinnear’s head. Listen to him and you’d get the impression he was enforcer for half the hard men in the East End. True, he had dealings, but he was strictly a back-up man. If you needed the likes of Kinnear you were already in deep shit. My dad had a friend who was ex-SAS, reckoned you took the bag off his head and pointed him in the right direction, then got out of his way. Only trouble was getting the bag back on again. Kinnear was the same way. Once you’d switched him on he was like that bunny in the battery advert. Kept on going when others had packed up and gone home.’

  Alec thought of his own acquaintances in Special Forces and could not in any way equate them with this description. True, he would rather they were on his side if it came to a fight, but they didn’t go looking for one. Kinnear, Alec thought, would not have got past the psych test, but he got the point Malcolm was making and he could not argue with the reality of his own experiences with the man.

  He dragged his attention back to the matter in hand. ‘And your other choice?’

  Malcolm drained the rest of his pint and stood up. Alec gathered that his time was almost up. ‘
Derek Reid,’ he said. ‘Youngish bloke, early thirties. Bright enough by all accounts, but could never hold a job down. I checked up; got out of jail about a month after Kinnear. They were cell mates for three months. If I was a betting man I’d be putting my money on him.’

  ‘What was he in for?’

  ‘Like I said, he’s a bright boy, just lacking in common sense. Where Kinnear is strictly strong arm, Reid uses what he’s got up here.’ Malcolm tapped the side of his head. ‘Got some scam going selling shares in phoney companies. He’d use legit businesses as a front, usually without the owner’s knowledge or consent.’

  ‘How did that work then?’

  Malcolm shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can get for you, send it via our friend Fine.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Malcolm nodded and left. Alec watched him go as he played with his untouched orange juice.

  So, a possible link? The use of legitimate businesses? Alec discounted the first of Malcolm’s options. Naomi had been sure that the second man had been of lighter build and, with his record, he felt that Reid was a better fit. So had they tried to involve Rupert? Had they in fact drawn him in to whatever game they were playing?

  Alec downed his juice, using it to swill down more painkillers. The combination left a powdery, metallic taste in his throat. He was tempted to call it a day and go back home to Naomi. He felt in his pocket and found his phone, intending to call, but then he put it away again. Hearing her voice would be enough to break down what little resolve he still had, and now he was here there were things to do and he may as well get on and do them.

  Retrieving his car from behind a small factory unit backing on to the canal, and thanking the gods of motorists that he had not been clamped, he headed for Colindale.

  Twenty

  Marcus had responded to Naomi’s call with such alacrity that by ten o’clock she was in his car and heading for the first person on their list. He was curious about Alec’s absence.

  ‘He never intended to stay more than a few days,’ Naomi reminded Marcus, somewhat reluctant to go into details about Alec’s trip, particularly as she didn’t have a great deal of information herself anyway. ‘There were things he had to go back and see to.’

  Marcus seemed satisfied for the present. He was, Naomi thought, in good spirits today, describing the scenery and speculating as to the relevance of those of Rupert’s sources they were going to meet.

  ‘It may have nothing at all to do with this man Kinnear,’ Naomi reminded him, ‘and remember, Marcus, our story is that we’re simply interested in completing Rupert’s book for him.’

  ‘Oh yes, quite so. We’re here, our first address.’

  Mr and Mrs Parry, Naomi recalled from Rupert’s notes, had contacted the oral history unit at the local university regarding a story told by Mrs Parry’s uncle. Marcus had phoned ahead that morning and recited their cover story and found himself with an immediate invitation.

  Naomi’s heart sank. She could guess what this was going to be like. They might be getting in easily enough but she wondered how long it would take to escape.

  Two hours fifteen minutes was the answer. By this time Naomi knew every last detail of Uncle Wally’s treasure rumoured to be buried in the orchard … or was it the garden …?

  Tea, cake, enthusiastic fussing of Napoleon once permission had been granted. Condolences that that nice man had died so suddenly, listened for hours, he did.

  Naomi, rather sourly, wondered if he’d had any choice.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ Marcus said after they’d finally made their escape.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ He sounded rather put out.

  Naomi sighed. ‘Sorry Marcus, I’m thinking like a police officer. Ask the relevant questions and get out on to the next job. I suppose there was never really time for the social niceties.’ Thank goodness, she added silently.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ He brightened. ‘It’s the vicar next. The Reverend Fullerton. Rupert consulted him regarding the parish records.’

  Naomi groaned inwardly. She had hoped to have worked through their half of the list by mid afternoon. At this rate, two hours plus per consultation, it was going to take till the end of the month.

  Harry and Patrick were not having much luck. The first three names on their list had been out. The second two insisted that they had told Marcus all they could and they really couldn’t be bothered with it all again. Didn’t he take notes? The next was an elderly lady called Mrs Thorpe who lived alone if you didn’t count the African Grey parrot that harassed them from the second she allowed them to come through the front door.

  ‘Of course I remember Mr Friedman,’ she said. ‘What a charming man. I had such a nice time with him. He was with me all afternoon one week and then he came back the next. It was so nice; one gets so few visitors, you know.’ She turned to look quizzically at Patrick, taking in the baggy jeans, long-sleeved surfing shirt and the canvas record bag he carried slung across his body. She drew in a deep and rather hesitant breath, as though teenage boys were a novelty she wasn’t sure she included in the category of pleasant visitors. She turned back to his father. ‘He took a lot of notes and even recorded some things I told him. It was very exciting. Please sit down. Do.’

  They sat. The parrot came and stood on the back of Patrick’s chair. It squawked loudly and dived a beak into his unruly hair.

  ‘Ow!’ Patrick protested.

  Mrs Thorpe turned and frowned in his direction. She said nothing to the parrot. ‘Now how can I help you?’

  Harry launched into the story of how they wanted to finish Rupert’s book. Mrs Thorpe nodded and smiled. ‘Oh, how nice.’

  The parrot started on Patrick’s ears. He hunched his shoulders and sat forward trying to get out of its way.

  Mrs Thorpe looked back in his direction. ‘Oh, don’t slouch, dear. I do think it’s such a shame the way young people slouch, don’t you?’

  ‘Um …’ said Harry glancing absently at his son.

  ‘It’s the parrot,’ Patrick protested.

  Mrs Thorpe clucked her tongue at him. ‘No, dear,’ she said firmly. ‘My parrot doesn’t slouch.’ She focussed attention back on Harry. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘where were we?’

  The parrot switched tack and hopped down on to the arm of Patrick’s chair, out of sight, he noticed, of its owner. Once there it began a concerted attack on his sleeve, pulling viciously at the cuff and sinking its beak through the fabric and right into Patrick’s arm.

  Patrick yelped again.

  ‘My dear –’ Mrs Thorpe stared sternly at him through rimless spectacles – ‘perhaps if you are determined to torment my parrot, you ought to go and wait outside.’

  Stung by injustice but more than happy to escape, Patrick fled. Outside he examined his torn sleeve and the damaged flesh beneath. The beak had drawn blood. He wondered what nasty diseases you could catch from parrots and whether you might risk going to jail should you wring its neck.

  There was a patch of overgrown grass in front of the cottage and Patrick sat down with his back to the wall wishing he’d brought his MP3 player. Instead, from the inside pocket of his record bag he pulled the journal that he had been reading after breakfast and hidden in there when Marcus arrived to collect Naomi.

  He wasn’t sure why he should be worried about Marcus seeing it – he had made a point of taking the other two journals to his room that morning. Patrick wasn’t sure, either, what made him so uncomfortable around Rupert’s business partner but something did.

  The journal he had brought with him was the second one of the three. The first they had skimmed briefly and the third read in more detail the night before. It contained several references that appeared to relate to Sam Kinnear, but never by name and nothing that added to the sense of what they already knew. The second journal had remained untouched until today.

  Patrick had begun to plough through the accounts of cinema visits and restaurants and buying trips detailed in the journal
. He flicked back to the page he had been reading that morning. On the face of it there was no reason for Rupert to have concealed these books or, for that matter, the laptop. An initial examination of the laptop last night had revealed the text of his new book, some saved emails and a favourites list of internet sites that were fascinating for the variety of sites he visited if nothing else. Patrick was eager to get back to the task.

  He found his place in the journal. Rupert was writing about a film he’d watched the night before and the entry was for June 14th 2004. Rupert liked his films and he wrote short reviews on them. Many of the films seemed to be art house or foreign language films that Patrick had either never heard of or never seen, but this one was familiar: Memento, a film Patrick had watched with Naomi. It had been a fascinating story, Patrick remembered. A man who had lost his memory was slowly trying to piece together who he was. The film ended with a twist and Patrick had liked that. He’d enjoyed The Usual Suspects for the same reason, that twist in the tail, and had watched it several times over, noting the clues by which he could have worked it out.

  Patrick looked up from the book and stared out across the road and into the field beyond. There was something … something now nagging at the back of his mind. Something about the way the journals were written? He wasn’t sure. Patrick shook his head. It would all come together, he thought. It usually did but he had learnt that such flashes of intuition could not be forced.

  He read on. Another lunch – Rupert had been fond of his food – another meeting with a client who collected arts and crafts silver and gave details of what he might be looking for. Patrick read on. His heart skipped. Another reference to a man who was probably Kinnear:

  I thought I’d got rid of the man. Last year, when he first barged his way back into my life and started making his demands, I thought I’d done enough to satisfy the man’s greed. I should have known better than that. Men like him are never satisfied. I should have cut my losses then, before he got out, cut my losses, signed the business over to Marcus, and gone away. You may not be able to run away from your past, but at least you can try to run from the people you left behind there.