Cowards Die Many Times

by Peter Hey

  Jane had not found any immediately obvious errors in Guy’s cousin’s research, but there did appear to be an absence of detailed birth, marriage and death certificates to back up some of the assumptions. Jane busied herself ordering the key documents and then dug deeper into the tree looking for branches that had been missed or didn’t quite link up.

  The old DS

  Jane was sitting at her dining table, looking out over her back garden. Her laptop was open and next to it was the morning’s fourth cup of coffee. It was empty and she was trying to decide whether to make another. She knew it had a tendency to make her jumpy, but its comforting warmth also helped her concentrate. Or perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps she should avoid getting up and going to the kitchen, and make a decision on one of Guy Ramsbottom’s antecedents instead. Jane was back in the late 18th century, a time before nationwide civil registration, and the parish registers were inconclusive. The family had obviously moved from one part of Lancashire to another, but there were at least two possible places they could have come from. Guy’s cousin had seemingly just opted for the nearest, but at times she did seem more interested in the numbers game, building as large a tree as possible, even when the evidence was weak. There was another instance where she’d continued three further generations behind a supposed ancestor whom Jane had found to have died at the age of six.

  Jane had just typed a note summarising her questions when her phone rang. Dave’s picture appeared on the screen.

  ‘Hi Dave. You back home now?’

  ‘Yeh. Mind you, the place looks ransacked now that Bridget’s moved out.’

  ‘How are you coping with that?’

  ‘I’m coping,’ said Dave unconvincingly. ‘Look, I’ve got somewhere with your dad.’

  ‘Really?’ Jane’s voice rose in anticipation.

  ‘There was a vague sniff in the records and the investigating officer was an old DS who was my skipper when I first became a detective. You probably don’t remember Bill Cropper? “Cropper the copper” we used to call him.’

  ‘That‘s the kind of sophisticated humour a girl would remember, but no, he doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Well, he’s long been retired, but there’s nothing an ex-plod likes more than to talk about old times. Back when he had a bit of clout. It’ll be me in a few years. Anyway, I phoned him up and we went for a beer in the Black Dog in Hammersmith. It’s a bit poncy now, but it was a boozer we used to frequent back in the day.’

  The in-vogue expression ‘back in the day’ somehow always grated on Jane, but she ignored it. ‘He knew my dad?’

  ‘He knew a villain called Steve Jones. We’re going back a while, but he could picture a huge bloke with an eye patch. That kind of narrows it down.’

  Jane’s excitement was cut with disappointment. ‘So he was a proper villain then?’

  ‘Well, yeh, though we could never pin anything on him. He had some unpleasant friends and was involved in shady business deals. The sort where people end up in hospital, you know the kind of thing.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Cropper reckons he might have stood on the toes of a bigger, nastier player and had to move abroad. The point is, Cropper remembers his sister more.’

  Jane knew nothing of her father’s family, but found herself genuinely surprised. ‘My dad had a sister?’

  ‘Stacy Jones. Convictions for criminal damage and assaulting a police officer. And the rest. Cropper reckons he dealt with some real hard men in his time but she was up there with the scariest. I think he was only half-joking.’

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘Still living in west London. One of the dodgier estates out near the airport. I’ve got her address.’

  ‘That’s sorted,’ Jane said decisively. ‘I’m going to see her. She must know if he’s still alive and how to contact him.’

  Dave’s enthusiasm was becoming muted as his ex-wife’s climbed. ‘Maybe I should come with you,’ he suggested tentatively.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she may not welcome a visit from her brother’s…’ Dave searched for a euphemism. ‘...long-lost daughter.’

  ‘Dave, she’s my aunt. And I can look after myself. I’m an ex-policewoman and I’m not going to be intimidated because someone’s a bit rough. Maybe I won’t get a great welcome but I’ll cope.’

  ‘We could—'

  ‘No. Thank you, but no. If I turn up with a six-foot-four-inch copper she really will slam the door in my face. Now, please, I really am grateful for everything you’ve done, but please may I have that address?’

  ‘I’m worried you’ll make yourself ill again, Janey. You know you don’t always react well to things. At least if I’m there—'

  ‘Dave, thanks for caring, but I’m not your problem anymore, And I’ll be fine. I explained – my dad doesn’t have the same hold on me anymore. Now, give me the address and stop fretting...’

  Family reunion

  Jane thought about writing to the woman who was likely her aunt but quickly discounted the idea. It was too easy to throw letters in the bin or file them under ‘Not sure. I might think about it later.’ Jane was too impatient to wait and turning up on someone’s doorstep meant they couldn’t simply ignore you. They could swear at you and tell you to get lost, and Stacy Jones sounded like the type who might, but at least Jane would have seen her face-to-face. Jane felt she might recognise something of her father and then she could have confidence she was on the right track.

  Jane pulled up in her car around 9:30 am. She had woken very early, but delayed her departure so as to miss the worst of London’s rush hour. There seemed little point spending an hour sitting in traffic on the M25 when you don’t know the person you’re visiting will be in, the obvious disadvantage of arriving unannounced. If necessary, Jane would talk to the neighbours and was prepared to hang around to the evening unless she was told Stacy Jones was away.

  The house faced onto a large and irregularly shaped playing field. There were a few mature trees on its edges and it had been recently mown, but it still seemed scruffy and poorly maintained. A football pitch had once been marked out, but one of goals was now twisted and leaning and the other had gone completely. A dilapidated wooden fence ran down two sides and had been extensively tagged by local youths, only interested in marking their territory rather than aspiring to be Banksy. The open space had once been the site of an old jam factory and stood at the centre of a sprawling estate that dated from the 1950s, with additions and refurbishments in the ‘80s and ‘90s. The buildings were mostly low rise with a few narrow blocks of four-storey flats standing in regimented, parallel line. Along their ends was a parade of shop fronts, but over half had no signage and their shutters were down. Grassy areas were dotted everywhere and Jane imagined it would have come across as a garden city on the architect’s drawing board. Now, years of neglect by council and residents alike gave it an air of run-down sadness, and the sort of place you wouldn’t dare leave a soft-top car parked overnight.

  Jane made sure the Mazda was locked and walked up the short path to the front door. It was a modern white PVC design and identical to that on the adjoining houses. She pressed the bell; nothing seemed to happen so she gave a sharp tap, tap with the door knocker. After a short delay a blurred figure appeared behind the arch of frosted glass panels. The door opened.

  ‘Yes?’ It was an accusation rather than a greeting.

  Jane hesitated as she studied the woman in front of her. She looked to be in her early sixties, but her age could have been a good five years either side. She had short hair dyed an unnatural shade of chestnut, and the harsh red tinge emphasised the lined greyness of her skin. Her pallor said heavy smoker, an assessment confirmed by the stench of cigarettes that hung in the air around her. She was tall, though not as tall as Jane, and solidly built more than fat. Her face had large, almost masculine features that Jane recognised. They were her own. It was as if she were looking into a fairground mirror that distorted y
our reflection and showed what awaited you should you lead a hard life.

  ‘Look, what do you want?’ The woman’s tone had softened as if she too had seen something familiar in the stranger on her doorstep.

  ‘My name’s Jane Madden. I think…’ The words she had rehearsed in the car escaped her. ‘...I think you might be my father’s sister. I lost touch with him as a child. Sorry, I should have asked – are you Stacy Jones?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Jane’s aunt leant forward and looked both ways down the street, searching for accomplices or prying eyes. ‘I always wondered if you’d turn up one day,’ she mumbled thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

  Jane was shown into the hallway and found herself looking for a staircase to the upper level. It seemed to be missing though there was the sound of a television coming through the ceiling.

  Jane looked upwards. ‘Is someone else in?’

  ‘No, that’s Terry in the maisonette above. Deaf as a post, the old git. His door’s hidden down the side. They wanted these to look like proper houses but they’re not. Does me though – now I’m on my own.’ There was now an audible wheeze in the older woman’s voice.

  ‘Do you have children?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Why exactly are you here? I mean, what do you want?’ returned her aunt, clearly uninterested in small talk.

  By now they were in a cramped sitting room with a scuffed grey-leather three piece suite and a bulky, old-fashioned TV that looked like it would take two people to lift it. A half-full ashtray sat on an ugly side table pretending to be mahogany. Jane’s aunt pointed to the sofa and lowered herself into the chair.

  Jane sat down herself before replying. ‘I know almost nothing about my father. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. I’ve tried looking, but there must be thousands of men called Stephen Jones. I just want to get in touch, I guess. Assuming he’s willing. And alive.’

  The older woman’s expression still maintained its sternness. ‘The bastard pissed off and left you. Getting even’s a family trait. And with a past like his you could easily stitch him up with something. You’re a policewoman, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, not anymore.’ Jane felt wrong-footed and confused. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Not anymore?’ probed her aunt.

  ‘No. The police force and I had a… a falling out.’ Jane’s discomfort was in danger of making her reveal more than she wanted. She stopped herself before she went any further. ‘I do family-history research these days. I’m a genealogist who knows virtually nothing about her own father. Look, how did you know I was a policewoman?’

  ‘They have a smell about them, don’t they? Something about the way they stand on your doorstep. Had a good few round my place over the years. The women are the worst. Gave one a good slap once. Hate to give you one too.’

  Jane returned the cold stare. ‘I warn you, I slap back. Hard. Sometimes too hard.’

  Stacy Jones sank back into her chair and the first hint of warmth cracked her face. ‘Well, maybe I’ve met my match. You’re a big strong girl. Your father’s daughter in more ways than one. He’d be proud of you. If he gave a shit that is.’

  ‘So he is alive?’

  ‘Last I heard. Buggered off abroad years ago. My brother’s not the type to exchange Christmas cards.’

  ‘Where abroad?’

  ‘Spain. That’s all I know. Costa del Sol or Costa Brava, one of them Costas anyway. Where you sun yourself by the pool all day and drink yourself stupid. He’d be good at that.’

  Jane suspected she wasn’t getting the full story and decided to try a different approach in the hope her aunt might soften and become more trusting. ‘What can you tell me about my father’s family? Your family. Our family. I know absolutely nothing.’

  Stacy huffed contemptuously. ‘Bastards the lot of them. In both senses of the word. Our dad was in the army. Private, sometimes Corporal, Billy Jones. We moved around a lot when we were kids. Until he got kicked out for pilfering. We became too much of a burden so he just buggered off. Your grandmother pretty much went on the game. Is this the sort of family history a nice middle-class girl like you wants to know?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I’m middle class. I’m certainly not sure I’m nice.’

  Stacy looked unconvinced. ‘There’s some of your mother in you. She was all airs and graces and full of herself.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d met my mother. She hasn’t mentioned it.’

  Stacy’s eyes flicked to the window as if it were a gateway to the past. ‘Just once when you were a baby. She’s either forgotten or chosen to. We didn’t get on. Stuck-up cow.’

  ‘You remember me as a baby?’

  ‘Yes. And what an ugly lump you were. It was obvious you were your dad’s. I did have my doubts.’ Stacy slowly put her face in her hands and sighed. When she looked up her demeanour had changed. ‘Jane, I don’t want to seem a hard-nosed bitch, but I’ve got enough trouble with my own kids. I’m not taking on my brother’s cast-offs as well. I’m sorry if that sounds blunt. I don’t think I’ve got anything I can give you.’

  ‘I’m just looking for clues that will help me find him, or at least understand him better.’

  Stacy laughed and shook her head. ‘My brother is easy to understand. He’s a sod and always was a sod. You’re better off without him. Just like I was better off without my own waste-of-space father.’

  ’But—'

  Stacy’s face hardened again. ‘I’m pretty certain Private Billy bastard Jones is long dead. But if my dad walked through that door now, it wouldn’t be all hugs and tears – I’d want to hurt him. And I’d find a way, I promise you. For what he did to us, selfish...’ She looked at Jane intently. ‘They’re not worth it. Let it go, love. Let it go…’

  Guy’s cousin

  Jane was heading westwards on the M62 as it traversed the Pennines, the range of mountains and hills that form the spine of northern England. The carriageways had just diverged to form a narrow island of land on which sat a solitary farmhouse. The farmer had reputedly defied the bulldozers, but in reality the engineers had been forced to split the roadway because of an underlying geological fault. The building’s 18th-century windows now looked past streams of constant traffic to an otherwise remote landscape. Despite the bleak beauty of this section of the journey, Jane’s preferred route would have been to cut across the Peak District, but motorway driving required less concentration and she wanted to focus at least some of her mind on the meeting that lay at her destination. Instead, her thoughts kept returning to that west London council estate and how little her aunt had actually revealed. There were a few snippets of family history, a brief outline of her brother’s childhood and upbringing. Jane had left her contact details, but doubted Stacy Jones would have a change of heart and be more forthcoming. Maybe she really didn’t have more to tell. Her indifference was convincing and Jane thought she’d meet the same brick wall if she pushed again. There was one thing that nagged. Did she really still come across as a policewoman?

  As the road descended down into Greater Manchester, the traffic briefly ground to a halt as drivers rubbernecked a nasty accident between vehicles travelling in the opposite direction. Nonetheless, Jane arrived a few minutes early and was able to gather her thoughts before leaving her car and climbing the short flight of steps that led to Prospect Villas, a short terrace set on a steep main road to the north of Rochdale. It was of the ubiquitous two-up two-down, stone-built design that characterised all the Victorian working-class houses of the area, but these properties had presumably been elevated to the status of villas by the addition of bay windows. The prospect was an outlook over a wooded hillside, now largely obscured by later red-brick semis on the other side of the street.

  The door was answered by a plumpish woman with red cheeks and slightly frizzy shoulder-length hair. She smiled warmly and bubbled a greeting. ‘Jane! I’m Betty. It’s lovely to meet you! Thanks for coming all this way. Isn’t this exciting?’<
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  Jane was shown into a small front room. It would once have enjoyed the panoramic view and had a certain unused feeling that suggested it was normally kept for visitors and special occasions. Its stillness was disturbed by the plastic figurine of a cat which sat in the window, a solar-powered paw clicking up and down in an incessant wave meant to bring good luck. Jane accepted the offer of tea, and began setting up her laptop. Her host soon returned with a pot and a pair of bone china cups and saucers.

  ‘They’re pretty,’ said Jane.

  ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t got any biscuits. I’m trying to avoid the temptation, but I should have gone out to get some,’ replied Betty anxiously.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m probably better off abstaining as well.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry with a figure like yours, Jane. And can I say, I love your taste in clothes. Not many people can carry off orange like that.’

  Jane smiled self-consciously and took a sip of tea before guiding the conversation onto more substantial ground. ‘It’s good of you to see me, Betty. Your cousin Guy suggested you and he were, I don’t know, no longer in contact?’

  Betty grimaced like a child admitting an act of naughtiness of which they’re secretly proud. ‘I’ve only met him once, when we were kids at our grandfather’s funeral. It’s a long story, but suffice to say my dad didn’t live up to the family’s expectations. They’re all doctors, aren’t they? He was more of a free spirit, like me, like his mother. They had different mothers, you know. The relationship was rocky and then there was a huge row at the funeral. They never spoke again. I don’t bear any grudges, obviously. Not in my nature.’

  Jane smiled again, this time from gratitude. ‘All the same, some people would be nervous of having a stranger come round, particularly in this day and age.’

  Betty leant over and tapped Jane’s hand. ‘I trust my intuitions. And like you said, it’s much better chatting face-to-face than sending emails backwards and forwards. And it’s very exciting for an amateur like me to meet a professional genealogist. Someone who’s working on my own tree!’