A Web of Lives

by David Medlycott

Tobin had spent the last week buried in his work. One day was spent re-recording the carpet advert voice-over, where he noted with satisfaction that the re-write was virtually what he had suggested, but there was no recognition of the fact. By the end of the week his eyesight felt permanently damaged from staring at the monitor for so long. His back and buttocks ached from sitting and his arms, shoulders and neck were stiff after long hours hunched over the keyboard. The newly cleaned flat had suffered from a week’s inattention, too.

  But, on the other hand, he was on a high at completing the book. He had written up the ending based on the notes he had finally found. That had worked out really well. He had also rewritten the first three chapters to send off, with the synopsis that he had just pulled from the printer, to an agent he had contacted during the week. He wasn’t relishing the prospect of proof reading the rest of the book, but nothing could dampen his spirits now. As the last page came out of the printer he had jumped and pranced around the flat, punching the air and yelling like an excited child. It was good, he knew it. He just had to convince someone else, and convince them enough to buy it.

  He shaved off the week’s growth of stubble and had a shower. Tidying the flat would have to wait; it was Sunday after all. Anyway, he was going to reward himself, in the way that he usually rewarded himself; with food; he was starving. He had slogged away all week with breaks only to sleep and eat, and occasionally to shop.

  The sun shone, the traffic was light and the pub was not far away. With a spring in his step he approached the Northumberland arms and pushed open the door. He could not stop himself from surveying the bar before entering. It was only a momentary pause, undetectable to others, but it took some of the gloss off the day. He need not have worried, the bar was empty. The sound of quiet conversation drifted from the back room along with the smell. His stomach gave an involuntary turn and rumbled loudly, his mouth watered.

  ‘Ah! Austin.’ He said to the benevolent, smiling and overweight form of the landlord. ‘A pint of the very best and is that wonderful aroma for sale?’

  ‘You mean Lizzie’s Sunday lunch? Why, of course it is, man. You don’t think I have that aroma pumped through here for nothing, do you?’ Words such as aroma when said in the Northumbrian dialect, with the exaggerated vowel sounds and guttural ‘r’s, had always pleased Tobin.

  ‘Grreyat!’ He could never copy the accent. ‘I’ll have an enormous one, please.’

  ‘Is that enormous as in next size up from gigantic?’ His huge hands were indicating plate diameters of wheelwright proportions.

  ‘No. Nooooah.’ He tried the accent again, Austin looked pained. ‘Several sizes up!’ He flung his arms wide. Euphoria was setting in with hunger, obviously. The landlord departed with Tobin’s order muttering, ‘aromah, ahroma, ahromah!’ The word had caught his imagination, as well.

  Tobin fetched himself a barstool and sat at ‘his’ end of the bar, by the hatch. It was the worst place, really, as the staff came and went through it all the time to collect and deliver. But, the position was good for observing the activity in both the front and back rooms. Something he never tired of doing.

  Austin had just returned and begun pouring Tobin’s pint when the door opened and a figure paused on the threshold. The landlord reached beneath the bar and threw a rubber wedge at the newcomer. ‘Stick that …….. under the door, Simon, please.’ He smiled at Tobin with some little private joke that remained private.

  Simon Waddington caught the wedge, dropped it and smartly kicked it under the door in one practised move. He smiled momentarily and then reverted to the dour expression with which he had entered.

  ‘John, here, is in a good mood for some reason, and he’s just buying, so, if you say something nice he’ll buy you a pint!’ said the publican as he placed Tobin’s glass in front of him.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Tobin, magnanimously. ‘What would you like? But, only if you cheer up!’

  Austin poured the second drink and left them in contemplative silence. Tobin’s mind was still working on his storylines. True to form he had forgotten his notebook and was trying to commit an idea to memory by acting out a scene in his head, but, the facial contortions were a bit of a give-away. Fortunately, Simon Waddington’s mind was elsewhere and Tobin’s facial antics went unnoticed. They were both still quiet when Austin returned, beaming and carrying Tobin’s meal. The plate wasn’t of the proportions that had been suggested, but no more food could have been piled on it safely. It was placed reverently in front of Tobin with a knife and fork wrapped in a white serviette.

  ‘Get round that, then!’

  Tobin did, watched intently by Simon.

  Silence prevailed once more, except for the sounds of cutlery on crockery. Tobin now realised how hungry he was and the massive plateful disappeared at a steady and impressive rate. Simon just stood and watched and drank his pint.

  ‘Wow!’ Said Tobin, finally, wiping his mouth on the serviette and pushing away the empty plate. He stood up to ease his full stomach. ‘That was fantastic!’ He beamed at Simon and indicated his glass, ‘another one, Simon?’

  ‘Oh! Thanks.’

  Tobin had hoped for a counter offer of a drink being bought for him, but never mind, he was full of good humour as well as food. Until Simon raised the one subject he had wanted to avoid, for the time being, at least.

  ‘Heard anything about Alan, yet, then?’

  ‘No!’ Kill the subject, quick! He looked away to find Austin to refill their glasses.

  ‘Things are getting desperate, you know.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Tobin tried to sound as non-committal as possible.

  ‘Well.’ Simon wasn’t going to be put off. ‘He has a one third share, you know? And going off like this puts everything at … you know? What if the bank wants their money? I don’t know what to do.’ Now that he was sharing his troubles he was getting even more morose, staring down into his pint glass.

  ‘Have you spoken to the bank?’

  ‘Oh! No!’ as if that would give the bank the idea. ‘He used to do all that kind of thing. I wouldn’t know where to start. The wife wants me to sell the shops and retire.’

  I’m not surprised thought Tobin. ‘You don’t fancy that, then?’

  ‘Oh. No.’

  ‘Well, just get on without him, then. Just speak to the bank and tell them what you’re doing. Don’t ask them, tell them! Can you pay the bank, should they want it?’

  ‘Oh. Yes!’

  ‘Well, what’s the problem? When was the last time Alan actually did anything in one of your places?’

  ‘Oh. Ages ago.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. He doesn’t need to be there, he’s just collecting his share of your profits. If he chooses to bugger off then that’s his loss, not yours!’

  ‘That’s another strange thing. The cheque came back.’

  Tobin looked at him quizzically.

  ‘His share. I banked his last quarter’s money and it bounced straight back. The account was closed, apparently.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So what do I do about that, then?’

  Tobin was deep in thought. Alan had closed a bank account, just one or all of them? ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘What do I do with his money?’

  ‘Put it aside for a while and if he doesn’t turn up put it to better use.’

  ‘Aye. I suppose you’re right. But, it is a worry, you know, when you don’t know what’s going on. And something strange is going on.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Tobin’s memory of his lunch was fading fast now, he was going to have to abandon his drink and leave if Simon did not shut up his whining very soon.

  ‘And that fellow certainly upset our Michelle, turning up again, like that.’

  ‘What fellow?’ Tobin’s interest returned.

  ‘The one that caused all that upset looking for Alan.’

  ‘Upset?’

&nb
sp; ‘The week Rosemary died, although we didn’t know then of course, in the shop he was, making a hell of a fuss looking for Alan. ‘Though he didn’t use that name that time, just pointed to a photo.’

  ‘That time?’

  ‘Aye. Well, he was back last weekend, looking for Alan, again. Only this time he used his name. Alan Harper. ‘Cos the first time round he’d got the wrong name, Michelle reckoned. Quite upset our Michelle, he did, too. Got quite nasty, apparently. She’s only fifteen, you know.’ Tobin knew, alright, but, she didn’t look it. If only uncomplicated, naïve, Simon Waddington knew even part of the truth about his worldly-wise young daughter … but, well, perhaps better not!

  ‘Did Michelle say what he looked like?’

  ‘Oh. Aye’

  ‘Big man, white hair?’

  ‘Aye. And horrible eyes, she said.’

  ‘But looked like Alan?’

  ‘Aye. That’s right. How did you know? What’s going on?’

  ‘Wish I knew.’ He knew he was going to have to get out into the fresh air and walk a bit. ‘Look, I must go, now, Simon. Don’t worry about your business, you’ll do fine.’

  ‘Don’t you want another drink?’ Now he asks!

  ‘Another time. Thanks.’ He left the little patch of gloom in the otherwise bright and cheery pub and walked down the street. The town was getting busier, now. Families were out walking off their Sunday lunches or possibly walking to a late one. Tobin checked his watch, it was early in the afternoon and he hadn’t anticipated being out and about at this time. He could collect his camera and the car and drive out of town; or borrow a dog and have a good walk nearby. Both ideas appealed, but, meant having to change his clothes, so he headed home.

  The phone began ringing as put the key in the lock, but whoever was calling rang off before the answering machine could cut in. As he was kicking off his shoes he pressed the dial button and one, four, seven, one, three and heard the phone at the other end ring.

  A familiar female voice said, ‘Hullo!’

  ‘Ah! So you’re back are you?’

  ‘Oh. It’s you!’

  ‘Yes, Teri, it’s me. Where have you been?’

  ‘None of your business! I’ve just had a few days holiday, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve started a rather longer one, I think, according to your boss. Sorry, your ex- boss.’

  ‘What have you been saying?’

  ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘Why were you talking to him, then?’

  ‘To find you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To wring your bloody neck! But the urge has passed now; after a week. Why did you have to drop me in it with McColl like that?’

  ‘Well. You two had been talking about me behind my back!’

  ‘So, tit for tat, eh?’ He heard her sniff at the other end of the phone. ‘Anyway, why did you ring me just now?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Technology was never a strong point, was it?’

  ‘I need you here. Now!’

  ‘Where’s here? And, why?’

  ‘My flat!’ She slammed the phone down. With a sigh he replaced his shoes, made a mental apology to the dog for the lost walk, found his keys and went out for a kangaroo session with the car.

  His flippant mood expired as he entered Teri’s flat.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’d offer you a coffee, but ….’ She waved her hand, limply, at the flat interior. They stood in the centre of the living room and surveyed the mess. Whoever had searched the flat had done a neat job, as far as searches go, but had left everything turned out. As far as Tobin could see, nothing had been broken, but, the contents of every shelf and drawer had been carefully stacked close by. The untidy feature was the upturned furniture.

  ‘When did you find it? Have you reported it?’

  ‘I got home at two, and, no, I haven’t reported it.’

  ‘Well, we’d better, where’s the phone?’ He began hunting.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Or your mobile … Pardon?’

  ‘I said no. I don’t want them trampling all over the place! They’d probably say I’d done it myself, or something! One intruder’s enough. There’s nothing missing.’

  ‘I see.’ He felt like arguing the point, but thought better of it. How could she tell nothing was missing?

  ‘Do you?’ He followed her gaze to the photo albums lying open on the coffee table.

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I want to let it go, let it drop. OK? It won't take long to put back and it will all be forgotten.’ She said, with uncharacteristic decision.

  Tobin looked at her in surprise. ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘I’ve had time to think, that’s all. I’m sorry to have dragged you all this way down here. I suppose I panicked a bit, walking in to all this.’

  ‘Well, you would. I’ll help you clean up, then. Earn that cup of coffee, maybe.’

  As they worked Tobin became convinced that the flat had been searched by a professional. Drawers had been removed, bottom ones first and tipped over to empty them, then carefully stacked; shelf contents had been removed and similarly stacked and the furniture had been overturned with care. No damage, and no noise either, he was willing to bet. Teri was almost cheerful about it, continually pointing out the lack of damage. Still nothing appeared to be missing, she assured him.

  ‘How did he get in? We’ll presume it was a he.’ Tobin wondered aloud, wiping dry the phone, having found it outside on the window ledge, and plugging it in. It still worked despite its weathering.

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that, too.’

  ‘Who else has keys?’

  ‘Just my moth … …. There should be a set at the bungalow. I don’t know if they’re still there. I’d forgotten all about them.’

  ‘Were they labelled?’

  ‘They were, yes.’

  ‘That could be the answer.’ He looked, questioningly, at her. She said nothing. He filled the kettle. ‘You’d better get the locks changed.’

  ‘Tomorrow, after the inquest.’

  The inquest! He’d completely forgotten, again. ‘Are you going to stay up there tonight, then?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to, but … .’

  ‘Best idea.’ He tried to sound reassuring. In reality he was troubled by the Alan look-a-like apparently roaming the area.

  Simon Waddington had said he was about last weekend, this could be his handiwork as Teri had been away a week. If it was his work, then, how did he get the keys? There was certainly no forced entry. Had he been at the Harpers? Before or after Rosemary died? Or when Rosemary died?

  They made the coffees and sat in silence; each wrapped in their own thoughts. Teri, having regained her composure, was now feeling the effects of her drive back from holiday. She still had not revealed where she had been. Tobin idly flipped through the photo albums. They were much the same as Rosemary’s, except for one thing.

  ‘There’s quite a lot of photos of Alan here.’ He commented. ‘I’ve never seen so many.’

  ‘Mmm. He didn’t mind me taking them. But, I know he didn’t like other people taking them, even mother. His antics in avoiding cameras were quite funny, sometimes.’ She smiled at the thought. ‘Silly, though. There’s some more up there on the shelf that I’ve got to put in from this year’s ski trip.’ She pointed to the shelf where the albums were normally kept.

  Tobin fetched the folders as Teri laid her head back on the settee and stretched luxuriously. The loose photos were much the same in content, but they were a larger format. They showed the same resort as most of the others and the same café. In these Alan could be seen smiling broadly with his arms round the shoulders of two men who both looked local. He showed Teri a photograph of a man wearing a red ski suit with blue and white on it.

  ‘Ah. That’s Denis.’ She said wistfully. ‘A ski instructor, very nice, but married.’ That w
as the first time he had heard anything like warmth from her when speaking of another person, especially a man.

  He held up the photo of Alan with the two men in the café. ‘What about them? That’s seems a regular haunt, is it?’

  ‘They’re some kind of distant relatives of the family that brought Alan up, I think. He’s very close to them. We stay with them whenever we go there. Mother hated it; she just used to drink all the time. They didn’t discourage her, either. They have a different attitude, - ‘if that’s what she wants to do, fine, it’s her liver’. She shrugged. ‘It kept her out of the way while we skied all day.’

  Tobin gathered all the photos and albums together and replaced them on their shelf.

  ‘I must say, you’re very calm about all this. You weren’t last week.’

  ‘I told you, I’ve had time to think it over!’ She relaxed back onto the settee, again. ‘There are probably some very good reasons for all this, and when we hear them we’ll all realise that we’ve got the whole thing out of all proportion.’ He could hear Alan Harper as she made the declaration.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Did you know that someone who looks very like Alan has been enquiring about him for the last month or so?’

  ‘That private detective?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The one working for the Norrises!’ she repeated.

  ‘I thought that, too. But, then I actually met him. And it’s not anyone working for him, either.’

  ‘Well, maybe someone else employed one! There are a few who might.’

  ‘True. But, I don’t think so. He’s too heavy-handed.’

  ‘Well. I’m not going to worry about him.’

  ‘Even after all this?’

  ‘You don’t know it’s him. It could be a total coincidence. Anyway, thanks to you, it looks as if it never happened and I’m going to carry on where I left off.’

  ‘Find a job?’

  ‘Oh. I’ll get something. They’ll probably take me back at Prentices. They did the last time!’

  The sheer arrogance of the girl! Tobin shook his head in disbelief. The reality was, she was probably correct. ‘I’ll be in touch. Let me know how it goes tomorrow. OK?’

  She flashed him a big smile. ‘OK. Don’t worry. I’m fine now. I’ll give you a ring and then take you out to dinner! How’s that?’ She reached up and gave him a little kiss on the cheek and a very affectionate hug.

  He left, still shaking his head.

  Driving back home Tobin pondered on the change in Teri. She had become so upbeat, from having been very down and moody; she was always moody. Where had she been for the last week that could have had this effect on her? He wondered as he drove.

  He made a last minute decision as he left Newcastle and diverted to the industrial estate where Intercon Cuisine had their office. He had called past on the night when he first discovered its existence, but, that had also been a Sunday and there was no sign of life. This time, however, there were lights showing from windows at the back and a couple of vans, both French registered, were parked by the doors.

  It was a large organisation with its own secure compound, the gates of which were now locked. Tobin was still puzzled how he had not known about it before. He had known that Alan had some involvement with a business of this sort, but nothing on this scale. However, it did explain his frequent trips to France.

  What did he know about this man? Another wave of doubt passed through his mind; how many others thought they knew Alan Harper, but in reality just knew one aspect? How many versions of Alan Harper were there? Was everyone, including his own family, kept at arm’s length? And, who really was he, anyway?

  He reversed down the side of the compound for a better look, but could see nothing in the lighted windows and pulled forward again to examine the two vans. One was a Citroen of the type commonly made and used in Britain and most of the continent; it was white and had the company’s markings on the side. The other was more of a small truck with a refrigeration unit on the front of the truck body. He wound down the window and could hear the fridge motor running. This second vehicle bore the same livery as the first, but from his viewpoint he could not read all the information on either. However, he could read the number plates and noted them down. He didn’t know why, it just seemed useful; he could remember Alan explaining to him how the last two digits on old French number plates indicated the department of origin, and the new EU style ones, like the small truck, showed them at the end. He was about to drive away when he remembered his camera in the back of the car. He steadied the long lens on the window frame, filled the viewfinder with a van side, he could read it clearly now, and ran off several frames at different exposures. There was still no sign of movement in the factory so he packed up and returned to Longalnbury.

  He was grateful to find his parking space at the top of the back lane was free. Rather than use the back door to his flat, he walked down the side lane to the square and along Main Street to his front door. The setting sun cast a mellow glow over his side of the road and he was just daydreaming about sun and the righteous when a movement over the road caught his eye. The lights were on in the café as Mrs Harton cleaned up behind the counter and Tobin was amazed to see Mick Harton outside, sweeping the step. He quickly crossed the road and caught Mick before he could retreat inside.

  ‘Hallo, Mick.’ He tried his friendliest, casual manner.

  A frightened, hunted look passed across the other man’s face. Tobin just caught a whispered, ‘Hallo’. They had frequently exchanged looks and an occasional wave across the street from behind their respective windows, but had not spoken. Tobin thought quickly.

  ‘I’m really glad I’ve seen you, Mick. I need your help.’ Mick frowned suspiciously.

  ‘I’m writing an article on transport and drivers from the good old days and you’re a veteran of them, aren’t you; pre-motorways and power-steering and all that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Driving over Shap in mid-winter and all that … .’

  ‘Aye.’ The suspicion faded into a faraway stare.

  ‘I was wondering if I could have chat and get some reminiscences from you. Would that be alright?’

  He nodded again, almost with enthusiasm.

  ‘Are you alright out there, Mick?’ Came the strident tones of Mrs Harton, coming to her husband’s defence.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks.’ Tobin called softly in reply. He gave Mick a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow. OK?’

  Another nod and almost a trace of a smile and the little man scurried indoors.

  Tobin crossed the road to his front door unaware of the large figure that emerged from the shadow of the newsagent’s door and followed him. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open as the shadow fell across him. He spun round in fright and stumbled across the threshold as the big figure bundled him into the hall and kicked the door shut behind them. The hair shone bright white in a brief flash of sunlight and then Tobin was pinned against the wall in the near darkness.

  ‘You know who I am?’ It was a menacing growl right into his ear. A large hand had Tobin’s collar twisted tight and suspended him against the wall. The other fist was pressed up under his ribs as the man’s elbows pinned Tobin’s arms.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, but, I’ve heard about you.’ His collar was choking him.

  ‘So you know what I want, then.’ Tobin could feel the warm breath on his face and the man’s considerable strength and weight pressing him against the wall.

  ‘Not exactly … .’

  ‘Where’s Jim … where’s Alan Harper. That’s all I want to know. See?’ There was a strong London accent turning Harper into ‘Awrpah’ and the ‘Th’ sound had a trace of a ‘v’ in it. All of it quiet and close into his left ear.

  ‘I honestly don’t know!’ The twisted collar was choking him.
Suddenly the grip eased and the bulk pressing on him gave a sharp twist and a knee slammed into the inside of his left leg just above his own knee. He gasped in agony.

  ‘I know you’re all hiding him, covering for him, see? I don’t want no bovver, see? And I don’t want to hurt no-one else, see?’ Each question was punctuated by a hard shove of the body, winding Tobin more each time and causing him agony in his leg. ‘But, if someone does get in the way … well, too bad, … see?’ To really emphasise the last question Tobin was thrown on to the foot of the stairs, hitting his head on the rail as he went down. He lay there trying to refill his crushed lungs, one hand nursing his leg, the other his bruised head.

  The face appeared close to his again. ‘By ve way. You’ve had a visitor upstairs, done a bunk when he saw you chatting to that bloke out there. So don’t try and blame me for any mess. OK?’

  The door opened and Tobin could see in the light from outside the striking resemblance to Alan Harper. He also registered a brown leather bomber jacket and light trousers before the door slammed shut and he was alone in the dark.

  He lay there trying to recover his breath, head swimming, stomach churning, he began to shake. The pushing and shoving and close face brought back dark memories of school bullies. He had buried those memories twenty five years before, but, this encounter had brought them flooding back. He needed a third hand to massage his constricted throat. He sat up breathing deeply to fight back the sickness. The light switch was just within reach and the sixty watts of light steadied his nerves. He turned and climbed the stairs, slowly, on all fours. The intruder’s parting words came back to him as he reached the top and saw that all the doors were closed, something he never did. His heart, which had just started to calm down, began to pound again. He took the two steps to the living room door and opened it. The room had not been searched like Teri’s had; his room had been vandalised. The only item that appeared intact was the light bulb in the table lamp that still glowed, lying bare on the floor, dimmed by some papers which lay over it. He picked his way across the room and stood it upright.

  He walked cautiously to his office, his heart alternately in his boots and his mouth. He pushed the door, he pushed harder and whatever was obstructing it gave way and he looked round it. The contents of every folder, file, drawer and shelf lay on the floor. On top were the computer, printer and fax machine, all smashed and topped off with the contents of the cafetiere that he had not drunk that morning because he had let it go cold.

  He turned his back on the mess and retraced his steps to the kitchen. The back door hung open, the frame splintered around the lock keeps. He looked outside down into the backyard and saw the back gate standing open. He turned to go back in and saw the black scuff marks on the outside of the back door by the lock where a boot had made several contacts before the door gave way.

  He picked up the kitchen phone and dialled. As he put the phone to his ear he realised that there was no response. He replaced it and walked to the office. A black scuff mark down the skirting board showed where a boot heel had stamped the telephone socket off, breaking the circuit.

  He thought back a few hours to Teri’s flat, which had been tidy by comparison. Tobin’s was going to take an awful lot more time to restore. He wouldn’t dream of letting this go unreported. With a deep sigh that almost released the tears he went back down to the front door. He might as well walk round to the police station as stand there contemplating the destruction. He pulled out his mobile phone, flat battery.

  Behind the front door crumpled against the skirting board was a white envelope. He picked it up and straightened it out, there were footprints on it, but there was no name or address. He pushed it into his back pocket.

  Mrs Harton’s café was in darkness as Tobin emerged into the street. He didn’t have to walk far before finding Murdoch and Symmonds parked at the corner of the square.

  It was midnight, nearly six hours later, when Tobin finally closed his front door wishing the last police officer ‘Good Night’. Quite surprising had been the early appearance of D.S. McColl, who was supposed to be off duty and his sympathetic attitude toward Tobin when he saw the damage. A Scenes of Crime Officer was only a few minutes behind McColl. Her initial checks showed that the intruder had probably worn gloves. The only detectable prints were Tobin’s and in many places they were smudged out by a blank patch, caused, possibly, by a gloved hand.

  When Tobin speculated on the motive behind the break-in, he was surprised when McColl did not disagree with a possible link to the disappearance of Alan Harper. While Murdoch had a sift through the other rooms of the flat Tobin, McColl and Symmonds tried to sort through the office. Beneath the surface layer of tipped paper work, which they just shovelled into boxes for Tobin to sort later, they found the first signs that Tobin’s suspicions might have some foundation. His address folder and another folder containing notes he had made on the disappearance of Alan Harper were lying neatly open on the floor. Tobin commented to McColl that all the papers were in reverse order. The detective stopped what he was doing, thought for a moment and dug out the damaged fax machine. Prising it open he produced the end of the paper roll from within. He held it up to Tobin in mute question.

  ‘Yes. That was a nearly new roll. I never use it these days,’ agreed Tobin. The pages of notes and addresses had been fed through the fax machine to make copies. He quickly scooped the loose pages together before McColl could get a look.

  After bidding PCs Murdoch and Symmonds farewell four hours after they were supposed to finish their shifts, he returned to the front room and reached for the TV remote control. He threw the useless instrument on the floor as he remembered it wouldn’t work, his mindless visitor had spitefully put something threw the screen of his television.

  Tobin felt something in his back pocket, he took out the envelope. In a closer study it now looked familiar. Not that it was anything other than a plain white envelope; it was the two previous white envelopes he had seen recently that gave this one a certain familiarity. As he tore it open and extracted the single white sheet he knew he was right. In Alan Harper’s neat handwriting it was dated and timed that afternoon.

  ‘John,

  Sorry I’ve missed you, but I can’t make appointments!

  I just wanted to say thanks for fighting my corner. I know it's not been easy and there have been some complications that no-one could have foreseen. I suppose that it's nice to know that some folk should think me that important that they panic, as some have. I’m not of course, and they can all get on perfectly well without me. Better, in fact, ‘cos they don’t have to pay me money anymore! We’ll have to find a way of telling them that, won't we?

  Please don’t give up, John. It will be worth your while. Honestly. But, we do need to talk tho’. I’m not really hiding from the police. I expect that Teri has explained a few things to you by now and that you will understand when I tell you that I was not exactly heart broken when I heard of Rosemary’s death, sad – yes, broken-hearted – no.

  By now you will also know about me and Julie Lambert. Well, you do now! I’m going to try and persuade her to come away with me. I might need your help there, especially as Teri doesn’t know anything about this, and Julie isn’t too keen on leaving.

  I’ll sort her out, never the less! OK?

  Keep smiling

  Cheers

  Alan.

  Tobin laid the letter on the settee beside him and blew out a lung-full of air. It took a large handful of salt to believe the, ‘I’m not really hiding from the police. … ‘bit. He was certainly hiding, and if not from the police, then from whom? Tobin had met one of the answers earlier that night, he was certain; he rubbed his throat as he recalled the incident. Alan had been hiding for twenty years, perhaps he was so used to it that he’d forgotten! Now came the ultimate foolishness, Julie Lambert! How could Alan think she would leave with him? She had a string of men trailing after
her. Alan was just one of them. She was certainly a good looking lady and, by several accounts he had heard, ‘good company’! Charming, discreet, attractive and with a voracious appetite for men was the picture that had been given to Tobin, and the chances of her going off with Alan Harper were nil, in his opinion.

  Well, he’d found the fatal flaw in the character of Alan Harper: women!

  He folded the note and put it back in his pocket. He felt sick with tiredness and as a reaction to the evening’s events. He’d had enough for one day. He checked the security of the chair wedging the back door shut and collapsed into bed, thoughtfully remade for him by PC Murdoch. Now, there was a prospect … he didn’t remember his head touching the pillow.

  He was waking up to the sound of bells again. It wasn’t the phone, but it took Tobin half a minute of shouting down the thing before he remembered that it wasn’t working. He sat up, blinking; someone was ringing his doorbell with a double ring. He fell out of bed tangled in the duvet and looked at the clock, he double checked with his watch. Eleven-o-clock? The ringing stopped as he was hopping to the door, he still had on one shoe. Where was the other? He couldn’t see it, it must be in the bed!

  ‘I’m coming!’ He yelled down the stairs, as he finally shed himself of the bedding. He kicked off the single shoe and slipped down the top three steps in his socks. ‘Wait! Wait! Wait!’ He called frantically, tumbling down the stairs. He fell against the front door and opened it a crack, just enough to peek through with one bleary eye.

  Teri stood outside, her eyes widening with horror as the door opened further revealing a creased and crumpled John Tobin.

  ‘Christ!’ She caught her breath and coughed. ‘Have you not been to bed?’

  ‘Course I have. You just dragged me out of it.’ He opened the door wider to allow her past and followed her up the stairs.

  ‘Well, you look awful!’ Looking at his rumpled clothes.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got news for you, too.’

  She took one look in the office and front room and looked at him accusingly. ‘When are you going to tidy this place up? It looks like a bomb has hit it!’

  ‘I did, and one has! You should have seen it before the police came.’ She turned back from the mess of the office her mouth open and her eyebrows rising in question. ‘Yes. Me, as well. But, not nice and neat like yours. This guy went through here with a bulldozer. But, he’d had a search first, and copied some of the stuff I’ve got on the Alan thing. I played it down with McColl, didn’t let on just what was in the notes, but he’s not stupid. No matter what you think! He agreed that it wasn’t just vandalism and was almost certainly connected with Alan’s disappearance. Therefore, if someone’s copied notes and things, why? McColl didn’t say anything last night, but, I bet he’ll be back.’

  ‘Mmm. Well, I just left one rather irritable copper at the inquest, and I wouldn’t risk a bet on it ‘cos I’m certain he’ll be back.’ She paused. ‘Did Alan ever talk to you about a Julie Lambert?’ She watched him carefully as he turned away.

  ‘Yes. He .. er .. did mention her. She’s the manager in the estate agent chain.’ He said, lightly, but cautiously.

  ‘Oh. I know that! She was more than that! And now she’s dead as well!’ Tobin was staring out of the window seeing nothing. ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘Yes. I heard. How?’

  ‘I don’t know. McColl just got the call as we left the inquest. Which was adjourned, by the way, to wait for reports.’

  Tobin fished the letter out of his back pocket, flattened out the creases and slowly held it out to her. ‘Read that.’

  She read it through several times as they sat on the settee and Tobin related the events of the previous day after leaving her flat.

  ‘That’s typically Alan. He’s dated and timed it; and that’s not long after you phoned me yesterday. So, he could only just have missed me. He must have then gone somewhere and written that and come back and dropped it in. It doesn’t sound as if he came with it already written, does it?’ She shook her head, biting her lip.

  ‘So,’ Tobin continued, ‘he was here in broad daylight. It’s a wonder no-one saw him. I just hope he didn’t go to Julie’s.’

  ‘Or at least wasn’t seen.’

  ‘I hope he didn’t go at all!’

  ‘We’re presuming she was murdered, we don’t know yet.’

  ‘That’s true. But, I’d put money on it. With her lifestyle there’ll be some men out there with guilty consciences. Look at the hold she seems to have got over one, otherwise, very rational man that we know.’ Tobin said, indicating the note. He got up from the settee and walked back to the window. ‘Well, he was rational once.’

  There was a police car drawn up at the kerb opposite. The lights in the café were still off and the ‘closed’ sign still on the door. His gaze rose to the windows above and he could see Mrs Harton sitting on the sofa. She looked distraught, biting the knuckles of one hand as PC Murdoch sat next to her looking concerned. As he watched the café owner’s eyes met his across the street. She sat up and pointed across the street at him saying something to the policewoman in an agitated manner, her finger viciously stabbing the air in Tobin’s direction. Murdoch, too, was looking straight at him as he turned away, a lead weight forming in his stomach.

  To pass the time they continued clearing up the office. Tobin had great difficulty keeping Teri’s nose out of his work. Eventually he had to abandon the job as she kept reading bits. In different circumstances he would have felt flattered, he rarely invited examination of his work preferring to trust his own judgement, but, the stream of questions and flattering comments merely irritated him and just increased his sense of anxiety. He could not understand why the feeling of foreboding had suddenly descended on him. It wasn’t Alan now; it was the sight of the police over the road. Something was wrong, somehow, somewhere. Another schooldays analogy came to his mind; it was like standing outside the head’s office; you hadn’t done anything wrong, but you still felt guilty.

  It was a relief when the doorbell finally rang and Tobin admitted PC Murdoch.

  ‘Mick Harton’s disappeared,’stated the policewoman, with no preamble, as she entered the front room. ‘Oh. Good morning.’ She said, surprised at seeing Teri emerge from the office. Tobin could see the policewoman’s imagination working.

  ‘Teri’s just helping me clear up after last night.’

  ‘Of course. Exactly what were you talking to Mick Harton about last night, Mr Tobin?’

  ‘I asked him if he would help me write a piece about trucking and road transport, from the time when he was driving.’

  ‘Nothing to do with Dale Transport, by any chance?’

  ‘No!’ His reply was too quick. ‘Certainly not. Er … why?’

  ‘He was a bit agitated after you left him. But, before his wife could settle him down Brian Dale barged in, took him outside and said something. After that she could do nothing with him. This morning when she woke he was gone and so was her car. He hasn’t driven in years, doesn’t have a licence any more. Naturally, she’s worried sick and associates you with him running off; partly, anyway.’

  ‘No. No. That’s all I said to him. And that I’d contact him today to arrange a time, that’s all. Really.’

  The policewoman considered that for a moment.

  ‘Something else Mrs Harton remembers; immediately after Dale left their place she saw Alan Harper come out of your door and make off down the street!’ She stared him straight in the eye. ‘That wouldn’t be who you disturbed up here last night, would it?’

  Tobin spluttered in astonishment.

  ‘Rubbish! That was … .’ Teri’s interruption had been instinctive and Tobin’s warning glance too obvious.

  The policewoman looked from one to the other, one eyebrow raised, quizzically. ‘That was … who?’ She settled on Tobin.

  ‘That wasn’t Alan Harper.’ Tobin
said, resignedly.

  ‘Then, who was it?’

  ‘This is going to be a bit difficult to explain,’ began Tobin. Murdoch was already getting out her notebook.

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘For some time now, since around the time that Alan Harper disappeared, there’s been a man, who looks just like Alan Harper, snooping around the area.’

  ‘Really? No-one else has reported seeing him.’ She countered.

  ‘Well, perhaps not. They probably didn’t think it very important.’ More likely they didn’t want to get involved, thought Tobin.

  ‘Mmm,’ her doubts were plain to see. ‘I think you had better save this for the D.S.. He’s on his way.’

  For an hour Tobin tried to relate the broader picture, as he saw it, without giving away too much to the detective as they sat in the living room going over the events of the previous few weeks. He reluctantly handed over the most recent note from Alan Harper. Finally, he sat head in hands, elbows on knees as the detective reviewed what he had just heard.

  ‘Mr Tobin,’ he began, ominously. ‘A man, a close friend of yours, goes missing and a week later his wife turns up dead, a suspicious combination, you must admit, and you omit to inform us of a communication that you received from him.

  ‘The flat of their daughter is entered and searched, very professionally by the sound of it, and you omit to inform us.

  ‘You do tell us about your own flat being broken into, but, you omit to tell us of an ‘alleged’ assault on yourself.

  ‘You omit to mention that the missing man is in your flat and seen leaving by a witness, and, subsequently, the missing man’s girlfriend, one of several, apparently, also turns up dead.

  ‘And, now you tell us that it wasn’t the missing man at all, but someone who looks uncannily like him! Although the missing man must have been here, as well, as you have yet another letter from him. You’ll pardon me if I suggest that you’ve spent a little too long, perhaps, with your own fiction!’ He snapped shut his notebook and, with heavy irony, said, ‘don’t go too far away, I think we’re going to have to go over this again!’ With a nod to Murdoch he left.

  ‘It’s all true!’ Tobin said to Murdoch, with a gesture of despair, once the detective was gone. ‘Look, you saw that note, why would he risk coming back here again the same day?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought you would help him get away again.’

  ‘Again!’ Tobin exploded. He looked to Teri for support. She just stared at the carpet and said nothing.

  ‘What else have you not told us, sir? Just what are we to believe?’ asked Murdoch.

  They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs. Symmonds appeared. He stood in the doorway and, with a jerk of the head, said to the policewoman, ‘Going to need you over the road, again.’

  As they left the room Tobin heard Symmonds say, ‘They found him, in the car, on a golf course at the coast.’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Murdoch.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Said Symmonds, quite matter-of-factly. ‘Hosepipe from the exhaust.’ He added with a sigh, a trace of regret in his voice. Their voices faded down the stairs and the door slammed.

  Tobin stared despairingly into space. Teri stared out of the window, expressionless.

  -------------------10-------------------