This time, however, he arranged them in date order.
The first thing he noticed was a good number of illustrations. On checking them, he discovered that some were scanned images that had been enhanced to print standards. Others were not. There was an illustration of a pithead captioned, ‘Broom colliery, circa 1850’, showing miners trudging to work. They looked nothing like modern miners. Carrying Davy lamps, without hard hats, one or two carried caged birds; they had an air of depressed resignation about them. On checking the file properties, Joe discovered that it had originally been produced on Photoshop.
The more recent images that interested him. There were several of Dennis Wright, all taken on Christmas Eve. Not that Joe needed the date stamp on the picture properties to tell him that. All were taken in Leeds and the presence of so many Christmas decorations on the street and in shop windows, and Santas, all in the background, told him everything he needed to know about the photographs’ history.
There was one of them together. Taken, Joe guessed, on Briggate, Wright had his arm around her shoulder, she had her arm around his waist and they smiled into the camera taking no heed of the bustling crowd, the street entertainers, a Father Christmas amidst a sea of children. If Joe had not read the emails, if he had not talked to Wright the previous day, he would have sworn they were a couple in love.
There was someone else in that photograph. Someone quite familiar. In the background, almost lost amongst the sea of faces and bodies, stood a squat, stout figure, clad in a dark overcoat, his cheeks flushed with either the cold or high blood pressure. Joe knew different. The colour came from anger, and the narrowed stare confirmed it. There was something about Wright and Jennifer, the way they stood, perhaps, their nearness, that infuriated Oliver Quinton.
So not only had Kirkland followed her round Leeds, but Quinton had, too.
He also spotted another photograph that interested him. Not one, but two. Both the same photograph but with a minor difference. In one, George Robson was holding the CD; in the other, he was holding a coin in a presentation case.
Puzzled, he shut down the photograph folder and looked over the desktop icons. Up in the top left corner, next to the recycle bin, he found Adobe Photoshop. He double-clicked the icon. It took an age to open and when it did, he stared blankly at the screen.
He freely admitted that his computer skills were limited to opening and saving word processing files, and downloading photographs from his camera. He, too, had Photoshop on both his computers but he had never been sufficiently interested in image manipulation to bother with it. Now he wished he had. The blank screen was inundated with menus and icons, most of which he did not understand.
Clicking on ‘File’ he spotted the ‘Open’ command, and below it, after several other options, he noticed, ‘Open Recent’. Hovering the mouse over it produced a fly-out menu listing the last ten files Jennifer had used. The top two took his eye. The first filename, he recognised as the original photograph of George he had just viewed on Windows. The one beneath it was named, 1933coin. When Joe clicked it, the picture filled the centre of the screen. It was a penny in a presentation case. Joe zoomed in on the date and read ‘1933’.
He sat back and considered the possibilities.
Kirkland had insisted Jennifer knew where to get hold of the Middleton Penny. It seemed likely that Quinton must have thought so, too, else why follow her on Saturday? Yet here she was actually in possession of that penny. Had she arranged its theft in 1970?
Joe dismissed the idea instantly. She would have been about 12 years of age, and whoever had gone about stealing that coin, would have been well organised. Too well organised for someone who was no more than a child. If she had come across the penny at all, it must have been later in life, but again it seemed unlikely. If she had, why not use it to apply pressure on Dennis Wright? Also, why ask George to pose for a picture so that she could fake him as owning the penny?
The word ‘fake’ rang round his head and Joe’s suspicions swung in a new direction.
It couldn’t be. Could it? A photograph of a coin was not the same as a coin. She could have got that picture from anywhere on the web, and used Photoshop to manipulate it.
But why?
He closed down Photoshop and opened up the email package again, this time concentrating on exchanges between her and Kirkland and her and Quinton. Her final message to both men had been the same. Be at the Regency Hotel, Leeds, over the Christmas weekend. It will be to your advantage.
Fresh scenarios developing in his mind, Joe turned his attention to the documents folder. Had she written it all down there?
Once again, he found a huge list of works. Scrolling through it, unable to find anything resembling the document he had hoped was there, two items took his interest: missporig and misspnew. Joe intuitively translated missp as Missing Pennies, and when he opened the files, he found full manuscripts for the book.
After hearing Sheila’s tale on the coach, Joe had assumed that the book was a history of the coins buried in the local churches, but he soon realised it was not. Instead, it was a detailed account of valuable coins from all over the world that had gone missing; like the Morgan Silver Dollar and the Double Eagle 20-Dollar gold coin. The Leeds Pennies comprised only one chapter of the book.
Nevertheless, given Jennifer Hardy’s and Dennis Wright’s connection to the West Yorkshire city, Joe concentrated on that chapter. He read orig first, making notes as he went along, and then closed the file down and opened up new.
He had not read past the first page of the double-spaced document when a frown crossed his brow. Shrinking the window to half size, he opened orig again, shrunk that too, arranging both windows alongside each other, then read the same line on both pages.
In orig, he read:
In 1970, during renovation work, the penny encased in the cornerstone at St Cross, Middleton, was stolen.
In new, he read:
In 1970, during renovation work, the penny encased in the cornerstone at St Mary’s, Hawksworth, was stolen.
Joe sat back in his seat and again stared through the window at the deserted streets.
“Can’t get people out spending when the weather’s this bad, Joe,” he muttered to himself. It was a distraction, a means of taking his mind from the immediate problem, so that a solution might occur to him.
Two different accounts in two different documents. What did it mean? Had Wright made an initial error and had Jennifer spotted and corrected it? Or was there something more sinister to it? And which was the correct account? Joe wished he had paid more attention to Sheila on the bus.
Thoughts of his friend reminded him that she had bought a copy of the book in Leeds. He dug into his pocket, pulled out his mobile and called her number.
It rang for a long time. He was on the verge of cutting it off when she finally answered. “Joe, what is it? Brenda and I are trying to get ready.”
Her complaint reminded Joe that time must be getting on. As he replied, he looked through the window at the grand dome of Leeds town hall, and its clock reading 7:10.
“You bought that book of Dennis’s Wright’s yesterday.”
“Yes I did,” Sheila replied. “What of it.”
“Could you bring it to dinner? There’s something I need to check on.”
Sheila was appalled.”You’re going to read through dinner? Joe, that’s the most ignorant…”
“Hang on,” he cut her off. “You want to see George cleared of all charges?”
“Well of course I do.”
“Then I need to read at the dinner table. Bring the book with you. I’ll see you down there in about twenty minutes.”
Without waiting to hear more protests from Sheila, Joe cut the connection, tucked the phone in his pocket, and switched off Jennifer’s laptop.
Once disconnected from the mains, he replaced it in the bag from which it had come and dropped the diary in with it. Standing up, ready to put both in the wardrobe, he looked down and found the
tissue, which had been stuck to the diary, now stuck to his shoe. With a cluck, he removed it and threw it in the waste bin, then left the computer in the wardrobe.
Stripping off his shirt, moving to the bathroom while he washed and shaved, questions rang round his head.
A simple error in a book by a famous academic, a woman besotted with him to the point where she would not take no for an answer, and a hint of darker machinations between the two of them which were not followed up on the computer.
Why had Quinton followed them? If Quinton’s relationship with Jennifer was so casual, why did he look so angry in that photograph? Kirkland had followed them, too, but he had been neutral on them. Had Quinton discovered something he didn’t like?
It all added up to something, but of all the questions he asked himself, he could come to only one sure conclusion: George Robson was a patsy. He just did not know who had cast him in that role.
Chapter Twelve
In 1970, during renovation work, the penny encased in the cornerstone at St Cross, Middleton, was stolen. Alarmed at the theft, in order to prevent a repetition, the Diocese of Ripon ordered that the penny in the foundations of St Mary’s, Hawksworth, be removed and deposited at the bank for safe keeping.
Joe pushed the book to one side, and took another mouthful of veal cutlet.
Through the hum, clatter and chatter of a busy dining room, Sheila insisted, “I do wish you would tell us what all this is about.”
Pushing her plate to one side, Brenda took a sip of white wine. “Joe likes to be secretive, don’t you, Joe? I think he had a thing about Jennifer Hardy and he’s jealous of George.”
George laughed. He had showered and shaved, grabbed a little sleep and now looked much happier than he had earlier in the evening. More like his usual self. “Joe couldn’t have coped with her, Brenda.”
“And I think the wine’s going to both your heads already,” Joe retorted. To Sheila, he said, “I don’t know what it’s about, except that I found two versions of this book on Jennifer’s computer, and they tell different stories.”
“One will have been an early draft,” Sheila speculated. “Dennis Wright did tell you that Jennifer was his researcher and editor.”
“Reader,” Joe corrected. “His reader, not his editor. Yes I thought that too, but the error is so glaring that I’m surprised Wright made it in the first place.”
Brenda rubbed her belly, suppressed a burp with an apology, and looked over to the carvery tables. “To pud or not to pud, that is the question. Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous weight loss, or take arms against a sea of sherry trifle and say sod it.”
Sheila smiled and gave Brenda a round of applause. “That’s very good.”
“I’m sure Shakespeare was talking about appetite when he wrote it, and we can’t help our urges, can we?” She whipped her head round on Joe. “And we might be able to help if you told us what you’re talking about.”
“Go get your trifle, Brenda,” Joe ordered, “and bring me a slice of lemon meringue while you’re there.”
“You want anything, Sheila? George?” Brenda asked.
George declined, but Sheila pushed her plate away and said, “I really couldn’t eat another thing.” She smiled wickedly. “Bring me a dish of trifle, too, please.” Brenda wandered off and Sheila turned her attention to Joe as he finished his meal. “Now, Joe, what’s troubling you?”
“This business of the churches here in Leeds. You were telling us the tale on the bus coming here, yesterday, but I wasn’t taking too much notice. Tell me again.”
“Two George the Fifth pennies were set into stones in two churches. St Mary’s at Hawksworth and St Cross at Middleton.”
“And one of them got nicked,” Joe said. “But which one?”
“Middleton.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Sheila frowned. “Of course I’m sure.” She pointed at the copy of Missing Pennies at Joe’s elbow. “You’ve just read it for yourself.”
“And that’s the problem,” Joe replied. “Like I said, there are two versions on Jennifer’s laptop. The first tells it the way you just did, but the second tells it the other way round. It says the Hawksworth Penny was stolen and the Middleton one, sold. I can’t rely on this book because one version has it wrong and I don’t know which one.”
“Does all this matter?” George asked.
“It might, it might not,” Joe replied.
Sheila’s clear brow creased. “Joe’s right, George. It’s a strange mistake for Wright to make. Anyway, book or no book, you can take it from me, Joe, that it was the Middleton Penny that was stolen. I first heard the tale many years ago.” She smiled, shyly. “When I was the secretary at Wakefield Road Comprehensive, a certain, rather dishy history teacher told me all about it.”
George laughed again. “And there was me thinking you never had eyes for anyone other than Peter.”
Sheila returned the laughter. “Eyes, yes, but imagination … well it is apt to wander, isn’t it?” Sheila’s face became more serious. “Still, it is a strange mistake for a man like Dennis Wright to make, isn’t it?”
“Did he make it?” Joe asked.
“Considering it’s his manuscript, I should think…”
“No, no, you’re not with me,” Joe interrupted as Brenda returned to the table. “The file named missporig had the correct account, but misspnew was wrong.”
“Miss who?” Brenda asked placing a slice of lemon meringue before Joe and a dish of trifle in front of Sheila. Keeping the other trifle for herself, she sat down and tucked in.
While working his way through the dessert, Joe repeated the tale he had just told Sheila and George.
“So you were saying it may not have been Dennis Wright?” Sheila asked when he had finished.
Swallowing a mouthful of meringue, shuddering at the tart bite on his tongue, Joe nodded. “Let’s assume that missporig means the original Missing Pennies file. In it, the account of the two Leeds’ pennies was correct, but it had been altered in misspnew – the rewrite. Who made the change? Since Jennifer was his reader and researcher, it’s reasonable to assume she was authorised to make changes to manuscripts.”
“And she got it wrong,” Sheila murmured. “Mind you, I’d say it was an odd mistake for her to make, too. She was, after all, a history graduate, and she would have checked her facts before making the corrections.”
“I’d say you’re both missing the obvious,” Brenda commented through a mouthful of trifle.
“You shouldn’t speak with your mouth full,” George warned her.
Brenda grinned. “That’s what Colin used to say when…”
“Are you trying to put me off my dinner?” Joe interrupted.
“I was going to say when he was kissing me,” Brenda argued.
“Yeah, sure you were. Anyway, what is this obvious that we’re missing?”
“This bint was hopelessly in love with Wright, yet he kept giving her the order of the boot, didn’t he?” Brenda said. “You told us she was all over him in her emails, but he wasn’t buying. George, did she mention Wright to you?”
He shrugged and fiddled with his glass of wine. “Only in passing. Y’know. She told me they’d had a bit of a thing back in the seventies, and struck sparks again when she was in the States last year. I got the impression she was a bit piddled off with him.”
“There you are then,” Brenda declared.
“Where are we?” Joe asked, completely flummoxed.
“I think I can see where Brenda’s heading,” Sheila remarked, “but go on, dear.”
Brenda swallowed another spoonful of trifle. “Delicious this. Think I might have to go back for seconds.”
“Saints preserve me from gluttons. People like you are the reason why I never offer all you can eat for a fiver. You’d bankrupt me.” Joe paused for breath. “Never mind the trifle. Tell us what you’re on about.”
“Yesterday, in Debenhams, we heard Jennife
r say, and I quote, ‘please your damned self. You know what happens next’. What did she mean by that?”
“Well, according to Wright…”
“We know what Wright says,” Brenda declared, cutting Joe off. “She was gonna tell his lover all about them. As if he’d give a toss, and anyway, he claims not to have a lover. Now think about it, Joe, how do you hurt an academic?”
Joe shrugged. “Wright explained that, too. You kick him where it hurts the most. His reputation.”
“Precisely.”
Joe threw his hands up. “Well, you’ve lost me.”
Brenda sighed and put down her spoon. “Let’s suppose Jennifer has had enough of chasing him, but she’s determined to get him back for giving her the order of the boot. How does she do it? She fiddles with his manuscript, changes the churches and boots it off to the publishers, claiming it’s a revised edition. If she could get through all the channels, and it’s printed, it makes Wright look a complete berk. Even if she can’t get it out there, the publisher may doubt Wright’s credentials. And what would that do to his prospects for further titles and the professorship?”
Polishing off the last of his meringue, Joe sat back. “I can see what you’re getting at, but she couldn’t hope to get away with it. Publishers have so many checks and balances in place that the book would never get through, and the first person they would contact would be Wright himself, to verify that he’d authorised the revision.”
“True,” Sheila agreed, “but perhaps Jennifer only meant to threaten him with it. That alone might be enough for him to respond to her. Dennis Wright cannot afford any hint of scandal right now, Joe, or he’d lose the history chair before he’s even landed it. And he already has financial worries, doesn’t he? If he lost that post, it would probably aggravate his money problems.”
“So he decided to call her bluff,” George suggested.
Joe ruminated on the possibility. “I’m missing something here. In fact, I’m missing quite a lot, but on this angle, there’s something I’m not taking into account.”
A Murder for Christmas Page 17
