by Peter Hey
‘DNA,’ said Jane, in a tone that was somewhere between a statement and a question.
‘I did wonder about that,’ responded Alan immediately. ‘But I don’t think the Cuban authorities are going to let me have a sample from Che’s mausoleum. As I said, he was a ladies’ man. There’s probably a queue of would-be children desperate to prove they were fathered by him.’
Jane had picked up her coffee and was cradling its warmth in her hands. ‘You can take an ancestral DNA test,’ she said slowly, gathering her thoughts. ‘Guevara was Argentinian, wasn’t he? If the test says you’ve got Argentinian blood then that would be a clue. That said, there’s some debate about how accurate those ethnicity profiles are. What would be much more compelling is if someone else related to Che – I don’t know, his uncle’s great-grandson or his second cousin twice removed, anyone with a reasonably recent genetic link... If they came up as a match with you, then that would be pretty strong evidence.’
‘You don’t have to be a direct descendent then?’ Alan’s face had the troubled expression of someone whose preconceptions were being refuted.
‘No, you just need a common ancestor. Every human has mutations in their DNA. They get passed down, though they get diluted at each generation. But if you share a unique segment of inherited code with someone, it means the two of you are related, somewhere not too far back. Depending on how much you share, it can be guesstimated how close you are. A computer can rapidly sift through all the results looking for matches. The point is, millions of people have now been tested worldwide. How many Argentinians, or Cubans, I couldn’t say, but I would have thought it was worth a try.’ Jane paused. ‘Assuming you really want to know?’
‘Because it might prove my father was a Cuban goatherd and not the icon that was Che Guevara?’ Alan shook his head dismissively. ‘No, I’m game. It always seemed a bit of a fantasy, let’s be honest. It was probably a fantasy for my mother as well. She was a hardcore leftie, you know.’
‘A leftie?’
‘Yeh, apparently that’s why she was photographed with Che in the first place. She was working in a flashy hotel in Havana. Saw some of the nasty things Batista was doing to his people – he had an awful reputation for brutality and torture, not to mention corruption – and my mother somehow got drawn into supporting the rebels. She would talk about it a bit and then get cagey. I don’t know why. Maybe she saw some horrible things. Anyway, as we all know, Castro won the revolution and transformed Cuba into a communist state, with himself very much in charge. My mother got swept up in it all. My middle name’s Fidel, by the way.’ He grinned. ‘Seriously, Alan Fidel Shaw. But she came home to have me, I guess. Flirted with the communist party over here then joined Labour. Always going on marches when I was a kid. Very much towards the loony left.’
‘You don’t share her politics?’
Alan took hold of the second photograph and stared at the later face of his mother, the one he remembered from his childhood. ‘I loved my mum, respected her. As much as any son, believe me. When I was young I did sympathise with her ideology, though she would have terrible rows with my grandparents.’ Alan looked up again. ‘But running a business makes you appreciate how things really work, not some idealistic notion of how you’d like them to. And I think my mother eventually realised that as well. She took over when my grandfather fell ill. She’d been working during the week in London and had to come home. Turned out she was very good at selling houses. I think she justified it as taking money off the bourgeoisie - we’ve always focused on more upmarket properties.’ He smiled. ‘We all have to live with compromises, I guess.’
Alan pointed to a final object on the bookcase. ‘For a socialist, my mother knew some very rich and famous people. Well, I assume he was rich. He was certainly famous. You’ve heard of Fangio, of course?’
Jane dug deep into her memory, but nothing came. ‘Sorry. The name rings vague bells, but remind me who he was. Was he some kind of pilot?’
‘No, he was a racing driver, but don’t worry, he was way before your time. Mine too, actually.’ Alan stood up and lifted down an old pair of what looked like aviator’s goggles, nickel framed and finished in tan leather with a matching elasticated strap whose edges were starting to crinkle with age. ‘Many people think Juan Manuel Fangio was the greatest grand prix driver there’s ever been. In the modern era you’ve got Schumacher – and Hamilton now – but in his day Fangio was head and shoulders above the rest.’
‘When was his day?’
‘Before I was born – he retired in about ‘58 or ’59. He was always older than his peers, so I think he was well into his late forties by then. He was still winning, but at that time it was a seriously dangerous sport, and I guess he quit before the inevitable caught up with him.’
‘So how did you get the goggles?’
‘My mother came home with them one weekend. She’d gone to Silverstone, I think, and Fangio had done an exhibition circuit in one of his old cars, probably a Mercedes. She said she’d met him before, and he took the goggles off his vintage racing helmet and gave them to her. For me. That’s the sort of man he was – a total gentleman. I was a little boy who was crazy about cars, you see. I’d have loved to have gone with her that day, but for some reason it wasn’t possible.’
‘Where had your mother met him? I mean, before?’
Alan was stroking one of the glass lenses with his thumb. ‘Not 100% sure. She spoke fluent Spanish, of course. They taught it at the small private school she went to – another inconsistency with her left-wing leanings – and then there was her time in Cuba. Fangio famously only spoke Spanish and Italian. She said something about acting as translator between him and some of the English drivers. You know, the likes of Graham Hill, Stirling Moss...’
They talked for another 30 minutes. Alan filled in a few more sparse details, and Jane discussed the practicalities of the exercise she was about to undertake. She explained she was still working on another commission and its completion would take up much of her time over the next couple of weeks. Alan seemed relaxed and in no great hurry. He was belatedly celebrating his retirement with an extended holiday in Thailand, flying in about ten days. He said he was happy just to get the ball rolling before he left. Jane suggested that if she ordered the DNA test promptly, Alan could give his sample and the results might be ready on his return. Concerned she might have questions while he was away, he promised he would be checking his emails and would try to respond, whatever exotic beach or tropical island he found himself on.
He came across as kind and was certainly easy to talk to. Jane found herself ever more drawn to him, and not just because of the similarities in their upbringing. She had to remind herself he was way too old for her and, perhaps, his manner was just the professional veneer of an estate agent who had been selling to people all his adult life.
Jane was about to put her notepad away when Alan picked up the second photograph frame once again.
‘There’s one other challenge I’d like to set you. In any spare moments you have,’ he said cautiously. ‘The other girl in this picture.’
‘Yes?’ said Jane as she studied the young woman more closely.
‘She’s called Cyn. It’s short for Cynthia. Obviously.’
‘She’s absolutely beautiful.’
‘Yes, she is,’ agreed Alan. ‘The thing is, my assumption is that she worked with my mother when she was down in London. The original of this photograph is in an old album of my mother’s. Towards the end, when her mind was wandering, she would often say, “When’s Cyn coming to see me?” And I’d say, “I don’t know who Cyn is, Mum. Who is she? Where would she be now?” And my mother wouldn’t be able to tell me. But she was adamant that she wanted her to have one of my grandmother’s old necklaces. Quite a valuable one. I foolishly promised I’d do my best to give the thing to Cyn. It seemed to make my mother happy.’
Jane had her pen poised over her notepad. ‘So what have you got to go on?’
‘Th
at picture. There’s one other in the album. She’s called Cyn. I think they worked together.’ Alan listed out the facts with obvious embarrassment.
‘No second name?’
Alan shook his head like a guilty schoolboy.
‘Okay, so where did your mother work?’
Alan sighed. ‘All I know was that it was something to do with the railways. I remember my grandmother taking me on the train to Euston Station. It would have been in the late 1960s. The station itself had just been rebuilt and was excitingly modern back then. We met my mother there and had lunch. I’m pretty certain she worked in Euston. And I know that she was a secretary.’
‘Anything else?’
Alan hesitated and then smiled. ‘I know it’s not much. But I’ll let you borrow the album. I suspect there are a few clues in the photographs and my mother’s notes underneath. If I’m honest, one of the reasons I contacted you was that your website said you’d been a police detective. I thought this was sort of a missing person enquiry with a historical twist. I thought it might be right up your street.’
Jane looked unconvinced.
‘Okay,’ said Alan, now openly turning on the salesman’s charm, ‘I know I’m asking the near impossible, but all I want is for you to try your best for me. I’m happy to pay your fees on a per diem basis as we go along. I’m not living in high expectations, on any of it really, but I just want to feel I’ve made an effort. And... I’ve always been a pretty good judge of character.’ He pointed his index finger towards Jane. ‘I think I’ve found the right woman. If anyone can do it, you can. Just try to do your best with the Cyn thing. Just, as I said, when you’ve got a spare moment.’
The match
The traffic had been far less kind on the return journey, mainly due to an accident in roadworks that were already slowing the north-bound carriageway of the M42. Jane felt drained when she got home, and the last thing she wanted to do was go out again. She had planned on a detour to a sportswear shop but had run out of time and energy. Now she was looking at herself in the bedroom mirror. Her tennis kit was decidedly past its best. A paint tin would label the colour Linen Dove or Vanilla Haze. Brilliant White, it was not. Sarah had told her to ‘make a teensy-weensy effort, darling’, but it was too late now. The man Sarah had insisted she meet would have to take her as she was: tired and showing her age.
Once Jane had a racquet in her hands, however, adrenaline worked its magic, and the doubles match turned out to be one-sided and short. Despite its ending early, Sarah and her partner made their excuses and left. Jane found herself in the clubroom looking out at their empty court, still floodlit because of the superfluous pound coins that had been fed into the meter. She had made noises about leaving too, but Xander had been gently insistent and Sarah’s pointed stare had backed him up.
Jane watched him ordering at the bar and could see what Sarah found so attractive. He was tall, though not as tall as Dave, and his muscles were well defined, particularly his chest and arms. His face was pleasant rather than drop-dead handsome. As much as anything, he was well groomed, perhaps too much. Jane had been slightly disconcerted by his eyebrows, which appeared to have been professionally sculpted and shaped. She wasn’t sure she approved.
He turned towards her and grinned. It was just a smile, but somehow Jane interpreted it as predatory. The dating game had always made her feel uncomfortable. She shuffled in her seat as he, and his distracting eyebrows, made their way over.
‘One totally alcohol-free lime and soda,’ said Xander, placing a glass on the table.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you to a little bit of fizz?’ he said, optimistically staying on his feet. ‘You deserve it. You’re really good. We made a great team.’
‘No, honestly.’ Jane reached for her glass as confirmation. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Fair enough.’ He took a sip from his own drink, whose contents were colourlessly indeterminate.
‘You’re an excellent player too,’ said Jane as she watched him sink into the leather Chesterfield facing her. ‘You get an awful lot of topspin on your shots. You’ve obviously been coached well, and from an early age.’
He shrugged with unconvincing modesty. ‘Benefit of going to a good school, I guess. Had an ex-pro on the staff. Plus indoor courts. Essential if you’re going to play year-round in the wilds of Scotland where I grew up.’
Jane had been struggling to place his accent. Now it made sense. He sounded like a cross between Sean Connery and Tony Blair, hints of a Scottish burr all but hidden by privilege and years living down south.
Jane was expecting to explain her own tennis background, but he changed the subject with a very different question.
‘So, how long have you been divorced?’
‘Gosh, erm, a couple of years, I guess.’
He glanced to the side and then back again. ‘I’m still in the process. Nearly there. And I’ll be glad when it’s over. Despite being considerably poorer.’ He smirked to show he was meaning to be funny. ‘Still, I’ll no longer have psycho-woman-from-hell in my life, so it’ll be worth it.’
Jane thought about outing herself as a fellow psycho woman, but simply adopted an enigmatic face.
‘Sorry,’ he added quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. As you can tell, it’s all a bit raw. It’s just she has very strong opinions, shall we say. Especially when it comes to politics. The usual profile – save the world, welfare and benefits all round, et cetera, et cetera.’ He realised he needed to backtrack again. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Sorry, do you hold strong views?’
‘No. I’m never really sure who to vote for. I mean, I was brought up that you should always vote, but as to who for...’ Jane left the sentence hanging. Her grandfather had also impressed on her that it was safer to avoid religion or politics in casual conversation.
‘That’s like me,’ he said, reassured. ‘I’m very much of the centre, middle of the road. So long as you’re not talking about raising taxes all over the shop. We pay more than enough already. If a few more people worked as hard as we do, if they worked at all, we’d be okay. Then you can fund some of these airy-fairy ideas.’
Jane wondered if she should be flattered she was being included in the club of diligent workers. Perhaps Sarah had told him about her burgeoning family-history business. She had mentioned what Xander did for a living, but Jane had managed to forget.
‘So,’ she said, sitting more upright. ‘What is it you do exactly?’
‘I run a software company. We focus on the leisure industry. In the UK predominantly, but we’re looking to expand overseas.’
‘So you’re a computer programmer then?’
He looked amused at the suggestion. ‘God, no. We outsource most of that to India. My technical director handles the geeky stuff. I’m very much on the investment and strategy side. Finance, making deals happen, that kind of thing. How about you?’
‘It’s still early days, but I’m a professional genealogical researcher.’
‘Now that is interesting,’ he said. ‘My sister did our family tree. We’re descended from the Stuart kings, would you believe. My wife’s lot were very low-rent, mind you...’
They chatted for 30 minutes, though Xander did most of the talking, with his soon-to-be ex-wife making repeated appearances in his narrative. She remained nameless, as if avoiding such familiarity lessened her hold on him. He offered to buy Jane another drink and she declined. It would have been her round anyway, though she knew he would not have let her pay. Or perhaps he would. Perhaps the rules of the game had changed and the old conventions banished like smoking in pubs or jokes about minorities.
Jane decided to give Xander the benefit of the doubt. He was clearly nervous and weighed down by the machinations of his divorce. It was too soon. On a different day, in different circumstances, he could easily have been charming, if a little domineering. He was attractive and successful, and would be a good catch for someone. Thou
gh not for Jane. She had expected a suggestion of dinner, sometime, or at least another match, but it didn’t come. Was that nerves too, or did he read Jane’s body language and see he was onto a loser? Or did he see and hear something else, and one psycho woman in his life was enough. Jane would have declined dinner but might have said yes to the tennis. She had enjoyed his company on court. As she made her way out to her car, her mood sank. She had reluctantly let herself be engineered into a situation and was left empty and disappointed, feeling she had entered a competition and failed. Was her inner child wanting something just because it couldn’t have it, or was she still the big-boned, plain little girl her mother had always seen? Maybe the simple truth was that Xander didn’t fancy her?
It was a short drive home, but Jane had to concentrate as the night had blackened and was mucky with a mist of drizzle that teased the Mazda’s wipers into intermittent life. As she pulled into her road, her headlamps sideswiped a large, dark car parked more or less opposite her house. There was a bulky shadow behind the wheel and the flash of a face, a broad, masculine face. Their eyes met for an instant, though the man’s other features were barely discernible in the momentary glare.
Xander was immediately purged from Jane’s thoughts, and her pulse began to race. She tried to turn into her parking space, but her access was partly blocked by her inconsiderate neighbour’s monstrous 4x4. It took Jane two attempts to manoeuvre in, swearing angrily as she did so. She killed the engine, threw open the door and leapt out.
The other car’s taillights were disappearing up the street. Jane stood in the damp evening air and watched, motionless. It was some moments before she began to regain her composure, talking herself down with an almost mantra-like chant under her breath.
