by Rob Campbell
Among several nuggets of information imparted by Henry was the fact that apparently, Abram was a keen gardener, had once turned down a commission to paint Prince Albert – Queen Victoria’s husband no less – and had even managed a meeting with the legendary escapologist, Harry Houdini!
“So, you see,” Henry Bannister-Reeves said excitedly, “you may think that your town is a small backwater that fame has passed by, but I can assure you that in Josiah Abram, it has a famous son held in the highest regard in artistic circles! Why, he even has a couple of his paintings on display in the local public house.”
He paused again for a sip of water. “Next time I’m in The Lamb and Shepherd, I’ll have something a little stronger than this, and I’ll be sure to raise a glass to Abram’s creations,” he said, receiving a generous wave of laughter. Why people always felt the need to laugh at an off-handed comment about alcohol, I couldn’t say, but even at my tender age, I’d come to recognise it as a quintessentially British thing, like obsessing over the weather or only eating plum pudding on Christmas Day.
A few questions from the audience, and a few TV-related anecdotes later, Henry Bannister-Reeves was leaving the stage to tumultuous applause.
“There’s a man who likes the sound of his own voice,” quipped Frank.
“I thought he was rather good,” responded Anja. “He certainly knows how to work a crowd.”
“What was it that Neil said about him?” asked Monkey, thinking back to the meeting in the Recorder office when the subject of Henry Bannister-Reeves’ visit had first been broached. “Something about an old fossil?”
Anja nodded her agreement. “Well, he’s had a lot of years to polish his act, hasn’t he?”
Whilst all of this was going on around me, something clicked into place in my mind, causing a brief rush of excitement. Henry Bannister-Reeves’ enthusiastic talk had solved a small problem for me; suddenly I had the spark that I needed for my local history project in Victoria Halfpenny’s history class.
“Foggy?” Frank exclaimed suddenly. The lights had just gone up, and as everybody began to stand, stretching their cramped legs, Frank appeared to be looking down to the end of our row. The student-type in the leather coat, who I had seen slipping into his seat just before the lecture started, glanced our way, and from the look on his face, he seemed surprised to see Frank.
Frank started to shuffle past us, heading towards the stranger, who by now was pushing his way through the crowded aisle and looked for all the world like he was attempting a quick getaway. He glanced back a couple of times to see Frank gaining on him, but he finally slipped out of a side door and was lost from sight. Frank, the jacket of his suit flapping wildly, gave chase.
“Come on,” I said to Monkey, not sure what was happening but wanting to see it all the same. We ran down the row and headed out the door after Frank.
When we reached the pavement outside the theatre, Frank was on the corner, hands on his hips, looking one way and then the other.
“What’s going on?” Monkey asked.
“Who was that?” I added before he’d had time to answer.
“Damn. Where’s he gone?” Frank said, scanning the darkened streets for a sign of the man.
“Where has who gone?”
“Dylan Fogg,” Frank replied as if that explained everything.
“Who’s Dylan Fogg?”
“He used to work for Lester.”
“Used to?”
Frank turned to look at me, his face set in a grim expression. “They had a bit of a falling out.”
Chapter 9
“Used to work for him?” I repeated, growing more confused with every half-hearted answer uttered by Frank.
“Yes. You saw the data centre. Dylan used to work in there. He was quite a big noise a few years ago.”
By now, Anja had joined us outside. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Frank thought he recognised somebody who’d scratched Lester’s car in town last week, but it wasn’t him.” Sometimes it frightened me how good I was getting at lying.
Anja looked at Frank and then back at me. I could tell that she wasn’t buying the explanation, but given that she was in the dark about our involvement with Lester’s organisation, she couldn’t possibly have known what to say next. “If you say so,” she said finally, giving Frank a black look. Frank looked back at me. He nodded almost imperceptibly in what I thought was a thank-you gesture. Clearly, there was more to be said on the matter, but now wasn’t the time.
“Let’s get back inside. I hear they’ve laid on a buffet, and I’m starving.” Frank rubbed his hands together theatrically – an affectation that I was sure he’d picked up from Lester somewhere along the line.
Buffet was probably too grand a word for what was being served in the foyer; cheese and biscuits with assorted nibbles was closer to the mark, but it tasted good all the same. There were even a couple of bottles of champagne, plus a choice of orange juice or water. Although the crowd had thinned out, there were still plenty of people milling about, mixing with the town dignitaries. Henry Bannister-Reeves was currently holding court with a town councillor. At the conclusion of some anecdote, Henry was roaring with laughter, stopping just long enough to gulp a generous mouthful of champagne.
“Here she is,” said the councillor, gesturing towards Anja. “Anja Kasana, of the Culverton Beck Recorder.”
“Pleased to meet you, my dear,” said Henry, reaching out to shake Anja’s hand.
“And you, Mr Bannister-Reeves.”
“Oh, I think that we can dispense with the formalities.” He leaned in towards Anja. “My good friends call me Banny,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Anja looked slightly embarrassed. “I’ll stick with Henry in my report if that’s okay. Don’t want to confuse the readers.”
“Can I say how much I enjoyed your talk?” I interjected, deciding that now was as good a time as any to enter the conversation.
“Why, thank you, Miss…?”
“Lorna Bryson. I help out at the Recorder office when they let me. But it should be me thanking you. You’ve really helped me out.”
“Really? How intriguing. Do tell.” Henry was suddenly wide-eyed.
“I need to do a college project on local history, and thanks to your talk, I’ve decided to write about Josiah Abram.”
“Well, that’s splendid, young lady. I’m glad that I’ve been of assistance.” He reached into the pocket of his silk waistcoat and pulled out a small card. “If you need any more information on the subject, my number and e-mail are on there.”
I thanked him, putting the card in my jeans as an older gentleman, who wore a red cravat about his neck, pushed into the circle.
“Henry! Fabulous talk. Gerald May, proprietor of The Art of Life.” He reached an arm around Henry’s shoulder and shepherded him off to the side. I knew the shop: a quaint little store just off the high street, not far from where we were standing in the theatre. I heard Gerald May asking the TV historian about some painting or other, but whatever was said next was lost in the babble of conversation as the two men receded into the crowd.
When I looked at Monkey, he appeared to be in a trance.
“Monkey, are you okay? You’re not saying much.”
“Yes, I mean no… I mean I’ve never met anybody famous before.”
“But you said you’d never heard of him!”
“I know, but he’s off the telly and everything!”
I had to laugh at that. I wouldn’t have expected my friend to be the type to be star-struck, but it appeared that that was very much the case. Reaching towards a bowl on the table behind me for a bite to eat, I caught sight of the greasy-haired fat man that I’d spotted earlier. He was looking towards me, nervousness etched into the features of his large face.
“Don’t look now, but do you know who that guy is?” I said, canting my head in the direction of the stranger.
Of course, the first thing that Monkey did was lean behind me an
d look in his direction.
“I said don’t look!” I hissed.
“How do I know if I know him if I can’t see him?” Monkey protested.
The man, clearly uncomfortable at being the sudden focus of our attention, once again diverted his gaze, stuffing a large handful of cheese nibbles into his mouth. However, he fumbled a couple of pieces, dropping them on the carpet. A middle-aged couple chose that moment to walk past, the man’s brogues crushing the wheaty snack into the carpet, much to the annoyance of the theatre manager, who was no doubt wishing that the caterers had opted for a few rounds of ham sandwiches or some other food that would be easier for the cleaners to scrape off the floor.
“No. Never seen him before,” Monkey finally answered.
“I don’t like the look of him. He was staring at us earlier.”
“Surely, you are an Andalusian princess, no?” The heavily accented voice belonged to a tanned man who had appeared at Anja’s left shoulder.
“Excuse me?” she replied.
“Your dark hair, your beautiful skin, your eyes, and your elegant poise. You are Spanish, no?”
“I’m sorry, you must have me confused with somebody else. Do I know you?”
The man rolled his wrist with a theatrical flourish. “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Ramón Blanco.”
“Hello. Anja Kasana, Culverton Beck Recorder.” Anja settled for a neutral tone.
“Ah, you work for the local press, no?”
Anja nodded in agreement.
“Then our meeting is fortunate. As you English say, we are in the same game. I work for Soundforce in London.”
The name didn’t mean anything to me, but it clearly did to Anja, “Right, the indie music magazine?” she said, the pitch of her voice indicating an uptick in interest.
“The very same,” Ramón confirmed. “Are you sure that you are not from Spain? Sevilla? Granada?”
“Sorry to disappoint you. My father is from India and my mother from Leicester.”
Ramón gave a silent laugh. “You must forgive me. When I see dark hair on a woman, I always think of the girls back home in Sevilla.”
“So, what is a music journalist doing at a Henry Bannister-Reeves lecture?”
“Filling in for a colleague – a freelance art critic who’s got a heavy cold. I owed him a favour, plus I didn’t have any stories to cover this week, so here I am.”
“Whoa, nice tattoo!” Monkey was pointing towards Ramón’s right hand. I looked down at the music journalist’s hand and spotted a small tattoo of a snake wrapped around a cross. He held it up so that we could all get a good look at it.
“From my college days back in Sevilla. A band I followed called Nudo. This was on the cover of their first album.”
“Nudo?” I said, puzzled.
“It means ‘knot’ in Spanish,” Anja said.
“Maybe you are Spanish,” Ramón chuckled.
“Hardly. I studied up to GCSE level, and you pick up the odd word here and there.”
“We all do stupid things when we are younger,” said Ramón, looking at his tattoo wistfully. “Then we are stuck with the consequences, no?”
“Why do you keep saying ‘no’ at the end of every sentence?” Monkey asked, genuinely puzzled at what was probably his first meeting with a real-life Spaniard.
“It’s a Spanish thing, mi amigo.”
Anja laughed. “That’s another Spanish thing. But listen, Ramón, you’re not the only one who’s done something stupid when you were young.”
“Really?” he said, his interest piqued. I had to admit, if Anja was going to spill some juicy secret that had been buried since her youth, I was all ears too. But to my surprise, she pointed at Monkey.
“Ask Monkey here about his trip on the church roof.”
“It was you?” Ramón’s eyes widened in genuine astonishment.
“What, you heard about it?” Now it was Anja’s turn to act surprised.
“There was some story about a boy who climbed the church. I remember seeing it in a paper I picked up somewhere. The name of the town, Culverton Beck, stuck with me.” Ramón sounded casual, like he was reciting some oft-told anecdote that he’d grown bored of years ago.
“Hi, I’m Lorna.” I was feeling a little left out and offered my hand to Ramón. “I was there when he climbed on the church roof.”
“Hello, Lorna,” the Spaniard responded, shaking my hand gently.
“Listen, Ramón. You’re not the only one who loves indie music. Why don’t we grab a drink, and you can tell me all about this Nudo?” Anja said. Ramón smiled and held out his arm, gesturing for her to lead the way. They laughed as they made their way to the drinks table.
“They seem to be getting on well all of a sudden,” commented Monkey.
“Strikes me as a bit of a charmer, that one,” I said. “All that guff about beautiful Spanish ladies. I hope Anja knows what she’s doing.”
“What’s that?” The unmistakable Cockney tones of Frank.
“Nothing. Some Spanish journalist is talking with Anja about music.”
“Hey, listen. I’ve been talking to some guy who works for the local radio station, and he reckons that the pilot of the plane that crashed the other day is Ukranian.”
“Ukranian?” said Monkey, once again demonstrating that whatever he knew about climbing, it was taking some of the space usually reserved for geographic knowledge.
“It’s near Russia,” I clarified.
“The plane was registered in the Ukraine too. Stopped off in Poland, Germany and Belgium before entering British airspace.”
“Do they know where it was headed?”
“Not yet.”
Whilst that was another interesting piece of information, I was eager to press Frank on the subject of the man that he had chased out of the theatre earlier.
“So, this Dylan Fogg. What did you say he did for Lester again?” I tried to sound casual, but Frank was wise to my plan to extract a bit more detail from him.
“I didn’t say what he did. I told you he worked in the data centre.”
“Doing what exactly?”
Frank laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “I’m sorry guys, I can’t say any more. To be honest, I don’t know that much. Talked to him a few times but only casually. It’s something that you’re going to have to take up with Mr Hawkstone.” Frank’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter further.
“Fine,” I huffed, doing my best to let Frank know that I was peeved. This was probably unfair, given all that he’d done for us.
“Come on, let’s not fall out about this,” said Monkey.
“Monkey’s right. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, and I’ll give you a lift up to Mr Hawkstone’s place on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” I blurted, this time feeling a tad shameful at acting like a spoilt kid who couldn’t wait for her birthday present.
“Got a couple of days off, and I’m taking Joey to a vintage steam rally.”
Who couldn’t help but smile at that? The thought of Frank’s brother, Joe, aka Train Man, amongst all those steam engines was enough to lighten the heaviest heart.
“Okay, Frank. Tuesday’s fine.”
I chatted with Monkey for a few more minutes before deciding to call it a night. I said my goodbyes – Anja was still deep in conversation with her new friend, Ramón – and headed for the bus stop. Tonight’s events had given me a good deal to think about. I’d grown up in Culverton Beck believing that it was the kind of place where nothing special ever happened. The last twelve months had done a lot to tear that myth apart, and what with Ukranian pilots crashing their planes onto my town, Spanish journalists, larger-than-life TV historians, semi-famous artists who may have met Houdini and a mysterious man who used to work for Lester Hawkstone, a sixth sense told me that things would remain interesting for a while longer.
I tried not to think of the greasy-haired man who’d been watching me tonight, especially when I headed out into
the darkness.
Chapter 10
There was still no word from either of his contacts, so Gooch was playing the waiting game.
If he was looking for a positive, it was a game that he’d had to play many times over the years, and he’d become skilled at it. In his former life, he’d sometimes been impatient, but the years had taught him that sometimes the best results were achieved when you sat back and let somebody else swing the hammer.
Of course, that didn’t mean that he had to be happy about the situation. He paced back and forth across his apartment, thinking through the events of the last week, looking at things from different angles to be sure that he hadn’t missed anything. The plane crash had been nothing that he’d set in motion, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t another player in the game. He’d learned to live with the feeling of constant vigilance. This was how he’d lived for most of his life – always looking over his shoulder for a watcher in the shadows, somebody who might appear without warning to turn the game on its head.
He looked at the phone, willing it to ring. But if it did, it could just as easily be bad news from his angry superiors as any good news he might want to hear from his contacts. Would his first contact be as good as his word? Would the second be capable of delivering on the plan that he’d set in motion? He’d been led down many blind alleys over the years.
Some dark alleys too.
--- Charles Gooch, 1929 ---
Gooch stepped into the alley, glancing briefly at his watch. Five minutes to nine.
He was early, but was he in the right place? Prohibition had made everybody nervous, and it wasn’t as if the speakeasy would have its name in lights.
Go up the steps, second door on the right, his instructions had said.
They hadn’t said anything about the smell.
All he could see from the light that filtered in from the street was a cluster of trash cans. Somewhere further down the alley, the sound of a cat screeching was silenced by a gruff Italian voice and the crash of something metallic hitting stonework.
