by M J Porter
He turned the first photo over, relieved to find the date written onto the back of the photograph.
“This one is from 1926, so we’re in the right year.”
“Here, split the photos. It’ll be quicker if we both look,” Higham offered, placing her tea mug back onto the tray.
“Okay, here you go. So what was the date again? September?”
“No, it was October,” Higham replied. Sam hid his grin of delight. It had been a test, just to make sure she knew for what to look. Higham was bright and paid attention. He would have been content to have her as his constable in Erdington. Not everyone was so intuitively inquisitive.
He reached for the tea and savoured the warmth as he picked up another photograph, this one of some sort of farming event, glanced at the date on the back, and then carefully placed it on top of the other pictures. He and Higham worked quietly and quickly, and he snagged a biscuit and hoped it would settle his increasingly hungry stomach. Even with his sandwiches in his pocket, he couldn’t be distracted from his task for long enough to savour them. There would be time for that when he was on the way home.
Sam shuffled through all sorts of photographs, so often found in local newspapers, people and dignitaries he didn’t know, places and events that were alien to him. He was convinced that he’d find nothing of help and was already cursing the plan when recognition struck.
“Is this the Women’s Institute?” he asked Higham. She glanced up, biscuit crumbs on her lips and nodded.
“Yes, yes, it is. What’s the date on it?”
He turned the photograph but cursed.
“September 1926.”
“Well, you’re nearly there,” she encouraged before letting out a cry of victory.
“Here we are,” and she spread seven photographs out, like a fan.
Sam fastened his eyes on the familiar building. He was looking for a photograph of the body and quickly picked up one of the many images that Cyril had taken on that fateful day. It showed Anthony as he must have been found, only surrounded by police tape and other people, probably Allan and the other police officers, as they examined the body. One bent low, and Sam imagined it was Allan. Two stood close by, one with a notebook in hand, perhaps Cook and Singh. And others stood further away, no doubt ensuring no one looked, who shouldn’t.
He couldn’t quite see all of Anthony. His head was hidden behind Allan’s kneeling shape. But it was the rest of him that intrigued Sam.
“This is it,” he confirmed, a spurt of triumph in his voice. Again, the image was grainy, but it felt much more immediate than the pencil drawings he’d found earlier. They’d shown things, given the hint of what Sam had hoped to find. But now he had it confirmed.
“What does this look like to you?” He turned the image toward Higham, and her eyebrows knit together as she concentrated. He wanted her to see it but didn’t want to tell her. He wanted someone to confirm his suspicions.
Time stretched between them, and still, she looked confused, and Sam felt all of his enthusiasm draining away. He was seeing things that weren’t there. He was convinced of it.
“Well, with those stripy socks, and his feet spread like that, it almost looks like he’s playing football, only he’s lying on the ground.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Sam asked, a broad grin on his face.
“He does, yes, but I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, neither do I, but my victim, if you study the way the body lay, looked as though he was playing cricket, it’s just come to me, here and now. I knew the body had been placed, but now I realise it was placed in a very particular way, to give a particular image.”
“Well, that’s a strange coincidence,” Higham offered, her words slow, picking up the other photographs to gaze at them carefully, considering what he was telling her.
Sam’s attention was caught by Beatrice returning to his side, carting a wooden trolley behind her. There was a large box on the cart.
“Here it is. Honestly, I’ll be having words with James when I next see him—messing with the system when it’s already a pig’s ear. Now, this box says 1926. Ah,” only then did her eyes fall on what they’d found.
“Oh, you’ve found them,” her disappointment was palpable.
“Well, we’ve found seven images. Do you think there might be more in there?”
“Oh, I would think so. Seven isn’t many. Even for a crime scene, where he always tried to be a bit more restrained. What was the date again?”
“3rd October 1926.”
“This box contains all the negatives for 1926. Let’s hope they’re not all mixed up.”
Without moving the box, Beatrice removed the lid and began to take out neat little boxes.
“See, they have the months on. Here’s October. At least Cyril kept these in order.”
Beatrice picked the long, thin box up and placed it on the table. It’ll be fiddly.” So speaking, she pulled the first image toward her, squinting at it.
“Oh, I can hardly tell what it is. Here, you look.” She directed the comment to Higham, but Sam stepped in first. He didn’t want either upset if the images were unintentionally graphic.
The first image, all highlighted with shadows and white lines, seemed to be the Women’s Institute. He picked up the second and immediately noticed a foot in the foreground. The rest of the body was more difficult to decipher.
“These are them,” he confirmed. Picking up the next and the next. All in all, there were twenty-five images, including the ones he’d seen already.
“Would it be possible to get them developed?” he asked Beatrice.
“Hum. We’d need James, and I’m not sure he’s even in the office today.”
Sam was immediately torn, but there was no huge rush to solve a nearly twenty-year-old murder in all honesty.
“Would you be able to get them done when he’s next in? And send them on, or get Higham here to collect them for me. She knows how to find me?”
“Of course, that won’t be a problem. Shall I leave everything here in case you need something else?”
“I think now we know where everything is; it would be a good idea to keep everything together. If that’s okay with you.” Beatrice nodded, her lips pursing.
“It shouldn’t be a problem. But, let me know if you decide you’re not going to need anything else. I don’t like the mess; I’m sure you can understand.”
For a moment, Sam wavered, thinking that he didn’t want to upset Beatrice. But it was either leave it here or try and get it back to the police station, and it might well get lost there. No, it was better where it was.
“Thank you for your help,” Sam offered, and Beatrice looked him square in the eye.
“If you can solve this, it would be a weight off the mind. That poor family, every year, coming in to place their memorial. It breaks my heart.”
“I’ll do my best,” he felt compelled to offer, and then he handed the negatives over to Beatrice, watched her place them in an envelope, with James’ name written on the front, as well as Higham’s and his own, and only then did they say their farewells.
“Now, show me the graveyard at St Paul’s,” Sam asked Higham.
“Absolutely, but explain to me about the football.”
“I can’t,” he quickly confirmed, “I can only tell you what I see when I look at it.”
“Well, it’s extraordinary,” Higham muttered uneasily, opening the car door and starting the engine, which rumbled to life quickly.
“I’d never even considered it. But something was niggling away in my mind, and the photographs have confirmed it.”
“Why would they do such a thing if indeed the perpetrator did do it?” Higham was evidently curious.
“I don’t know the answer to that either, but it resolves the conundrum as to why Anthony was found away from where his life was taken from him.”
Higham drove in silence then, slower than before, and Sam hid a smile. He could almost hear her thinking as h
e risked a glance at her serious face. Her amusement in the task had disappeared.
“It’s just up here,” she broke the silence. “It’s vast, but I know where to look.”
Sam saw a sign up ahead, a wooden one, with the church's name carefully depicted on it in a golden shade. It reminded him of his local church.
“We’ll have to park here and walk the rest of the way.”
Sam glanced upwards, suppressing a groan at the steepness of the path. His back was starting to ache once more, but he wanted to see the grave. It seemed important, even if he merely bowed his head and offered words of apology.
“It’s not that far,” she assured him, interpreting some of his look, but offered nothing else. Sam worried that she was already too preoccupied with the long-unsolved murder.
“I think we need to check what the report said about the victim’s socks.” Sam startled at her words, and she shrugged, even as she pointed to the left.
“It’s just down here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m sure the report mentions plain, white socks, not football socks. I might have misremembered.”
They’d walked beneath an elaborate iron gate and were now in the graveyard proper. It was peaceful, tranquil, as they so often were. Sam noted some of the names and the dates on the gravestones, and he was aware when they were drawing closer to the McGovern family plot, just by ticking down the intervening years. But even so, he was unprepared for the sight before him.
The plot was a large one, probably a triple, and not a double, and a black marble gravestone covered most of the area, a stone garden covering the plot itself. But, it was the words, again, in a golden script, that were most unsettling.
“Here lies Anthony McGovern, 18th August 1919-6th October 1926. Taken from this life too soon. Here too, will lie his family in good time. Together once more.”
Just below those words, more had been recently added. “Here too lies Harold McGovern, his brother, 14th February 1912-28th December 1939. Taken from this life too soon.”
Sam shivered. Just once.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Higham stated some verve back in her voice. “I think it caused a lot of problems when the stone was put in place.”
“I’m sure it did,” Sam responded honestly. There were fresh cut late-blooming flowers in a small vase, their colours starkly red. It was apparent that the site was routinely visited and well-maintained.
The gravestones that surrounded it looked diminutive in comparison, the words on them much more challenging to read, where they’d been chiselled into the stone and left to the elements. Some of them even had green moss and other creeping growths over them, but Anthony’s grave had none of those things. It almost seemed to glimmer in the waning light of the day.
“Well,” but he could think of nothing further to say.
“Can you take me to the railway station,” he said instead, glancing at his watch and realising that it was nearly 6 pm. Too late to speak to Hatly.
“I want to report back to my Superintendent and decide what to do next. If you could send on the photographs when they’re developed, it would be a huge help and will solve the mystery about what sort of socks they were.”
“Yes, I’ll do that. Will you let me know if you find out anything else?”
“Yes, I will. You’ve been a huge help and confirmed my suspicions. Thank you.”
Higham’s face transformed with a bright smile, which only dimmed when her eyeline flicked over the gravesite before coming to rest on a woman coming towards them.
“As Beatrice said, it would be good to have the murder solved. Even now,” she finished. “Especially for his mother. This is her now. If you want to speak to her.”
Sam paused, watching the slow progress of the woman. She was so bent; it was almost as though her nose scrapped the ground. He swallowed heavily, but perhaps this was too good an opportunity to miss. Especially as an upright man followed behind, his steps slow, but his eyes focused on Sam and Higham. It was evident he’d noticed their interest in the monument.
“Good day,” Sam took the initiative, startling the woman, if not the man.
“Who are you?” the man’s accent was rough, the sound like a stone being pulled over cobbles.
“My name’s Chief Inspector Mason, from Erdington Police Station.”
Two sets of tired eyes settled on him, and he knew whatever he said next might spark hope in them. Could he be so cruel when so much was as yet unknown?
Mrs McGovern puffed through her cheeks, and he noticed the fine hairs above her lip in an unwelcome flash of late sunlight. Her lip quivered, and in her hand, she clutched yet more bright red flowers for the graveside.
“I’m visiting Weston because I may have an old murder to solve from Erdington, that could, and I must stress, could, have some connection to your son. My sympathies for your loss.” He held his peaked cap in his hand, aware that Higham had managed to step behind him so that Anthony’s mother and father didn’t seem to notice her at all.
“What?” Mr McGovern startled, his eyes fierce. “After all this time?”
“Potentially, yes. I must warn you; this is only a preliminary investigation. I came to see if there were any similarities between my victim and your son. I believe there might be. I plan on investigating further, provided my Superintendent allows me to do so.”
The words settled on Mr McGovern like a thunder cloud, his eyes flashing with fury, before he turned aside, evidently done with the conversation. Sam couldn’t quite hear the words he muttered beneath his breath.
But then there was a claw-like hand on his right arm, and he focused on Mrs McGovern’s pain-hazed eyes. Despite her infirmity, they held the promise of ice, their gaze piercing.
“You must find out the truth, even after all this time. I would like to sleep in peace for the first time in seventeen years. I should like to wake with the answers instead of the questions that run through my mind throughout my every waking moment. Even now. Even now, it would bring me peace. My oldest son lost his life fighting for our country, but at least I know what happened to him. I can honour him and mourn him. But not poor Anthony. Even now, I still sometimes open my eyes and think he stands before me, ready for school, as he was that day.”
Sam held his hand over Mrs McGovern’s. The grief she carried had stooped her.
“I would make my peace with my God for what happened to Anthony. But I can’t. Not until I know everything.”
Sam nodded his lips a tight line.
“I’ll do what I can. For now, can you tell me if you can recall if there was anything strange about Anthony the last time you saw him? Or anything that happened before he disappeared that has since made you consider if it was all connected.”
A single tear trickled from Mrs McGovern’s eye at the question.
“I believed my son had gone to school. I was too ill to rise from my bed for a day or two. The older girls looked after the children for me. Somehow, we all managed to lose sight of Anthony. So no, I can offer you nothing, other than it was not my husband who did this. I know people have whispered about him over the years, but he wouldn’t hurt the children, only ever me.” Mrs McGovern spoke with surprising candour, and Sam only understood it when he looked away from her gaze and realised that Mr McGovern was making his way into the church, deep in conversation with the vicar.
“He comes every day,” Mrs McGovern offered, noting her husband’s movements. “He comes to pray for forgiveness for his sins. It doesn’t matter that I tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t to blame; he’s carried that grief all these years. And I tell you, he’s never laid a hand on me again. Not in all that time.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, and Sam bit back his flurry of emotions. So often in his profession, he only saw people at their worst. It wasn’t for him to see how they sought restitution with themselves or how they came to forgive themselves.
“Anthony was my youngest child, my last baby. And he was the fi
rst to die. If you can bring me some satisfaction, I would thank you. It would make it easier if we only understood.”
“I understand, and I’ll do what I can. I assume the police at Weston know where to find you?”
“They do, yes. They always have. But tell me, why only now?”
“The newspaper ran an article on Anthony. A family member of my victim saw it and brought it to me.” A pleased smile touched her lips.
“Then, it was not a waste to keep reminding the newspaper people. Not at all. Thank you, Chief Inspector Mason. I offer you my best wishes, and I hope to hear from you soon.”
With that, she placed the new flowers before the grave, her movements surprisingly smooth, and hobbled after her husband. Sam and Higham watched her in silence.
“So, the railway station,” Higham eventually prodded him.
“Yes, the station. Thank you.” And he turned aside, vowing to do all he could for the family of Anthony McGovern.
Chapter 6
“How did it go?” Sam looked up, surprised to find Smythe out of his back office.
“I didn’t hear you come in, apologies.”
“You seemed focused on something. It’s not a problem,’ Smythe mollified, surprising Sam, both with his interest and understanding.
“I think they must be related. It’s all very strange. I was going to speak with you about it when you came in. I believe we should send a nationwide appeal to all the police forces. I can’t help but think that there must be more than just these two cases.”
“But why would one occur here, and one so far away, and three years later?”
“I can’t answer that. But perhaps the perpetrator realised they couldn’t keep murdering young victims in the same place. It’s worked for them. Twenty years and I’m only now convinced there’s a pattern and that these two sad cases are connected.”
“You make a good point. Do what you think needs to be done. You have my agreement. If anyone else gets back to us, you’ll have to go and investigate as well. Decide as to whether they’re related or not.”
