A Web of Lives

by David Medlycott

Tobin rose early on Tuesday morning unsure of just how long he had actually been awake. He felt tired and a bit irritable as he poured some coffee from the previous night’s pot and put it in the microwave; at least the kitchen hadn’t been smashed up.

  He had sat the previous night, with that pot of coffee, in front of the useless television and indulged in some serious self-analysis. There had been a great temptation to go out with Teri for a drink, but sensing the black mood that had descended on himself he cried off. Quite literally, when he was finally on his own; his emotions overwhelmed him.

  His life could hardly be described as an inspiration to others. He had sat and thought about all the times that he had taken the easy option, or what had appeared to be the easy option at the time. Over the years it had become an easy habit. The irony of it was that, in the few instances where he had taken control he, still considered others first!

  At about ten-o-clock he had gathered some scrap paper and made a list of the important points in his life.

  The last few entries were all the same name, Alan Harper; from the job that he was now supposed to be doing, to the flat he now sat in, to the business that had been a success, but he had abandoned, because he didn’t want the responsibilities. He had run away from that, like he had from so much else in his life. Now that he looked back, he couldn’t understand why he had run away, but it was too embarrassing and quite pointless to go back now. But, was it? Events could not be undone, but they could be evaluated honestly. His one wish in all the world would be to be able to go back and erase those little portions of his life that followed him around, embarrassing to his memory and his confidence.

  Even the university he had attended had been chosen for its convenience to home and the course he had taken had appeared to be the easiest of the options available. He wondered if that was why he hadn’t finished it!

  As he thought back, even the choices at school, those that he could remember, had been taken out of his hands; his own ideas had been over-ridden by those who supposedly knew better. They had been wrong and he knew, then and now, that he had been right in his selection of what he wanted to do, but they were inconvenient for others. He had allowed himself to be talked round and had done what was easier for others to cope with; which had been the norm then, he now understood. If you are not given the opportunity to make decisions for yourself, and suffer the consequences or enjoy the benefits, how were you ever going to learn? He had lapsed into a long period of philosophical speculation.

  Reading back through his list again and examining the more clumsy of his life’s choices he had begun to see them in a new light, some were still mildly embarrassing to remember but a lot more understandable.

  In the early hours he had gone to bed, head swimming, marginally less depressed from the day’s revelations, but deeply frustrated with himself. He was not at all sure what he had achieved by all that, but he had slept very well, until his early wakening.

  The microwave pinged at him and he retrieved his coffee, he would have to drink it black again, the shops weren’t open yet. He turned on the radio in time to hear the seven-o-clock news.

  By the time the nine-o-clock news came round he had started his day, albeit with a great effort. He had showered and shaved, done some of his ironing, which he was now wearing, and been to the shops. He had then sneaked into the newspaper office to use the phone. He didn’t need to sneak, there was no-one else in, yet.

  The first number on his list was ringing. ‘Good morning, Norrises.’

  ‘Good morning, Norrises, could I speak to Mr Norris, please? It’s John Tobin here, in Northumberland.’

  ‘Hallo, Mr Tobin, I’m afraid my brother’s not in yet.’ How could he have not recognised that voice? ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’m sure you can Angela. I, I should say we, were wondering how you were getting on looking into that identity.’

  ‘Yes. Well, we sent a report to Miss Shaw last week. Has she not received it?’

  ‘Oh! Not that I was aware of.’ Unless she’s playing games, again, he thought. ‘She’s been away for a week and I think there was some mix up with her mail …well … actually, it could have been stolen.’ He thought aloud.

  ‘Oh, dear. It was confidential stuff. I hope it's OK.’

  Tobin was thinking just the same thing. ‘So do I. Are you able to give me the gist of it?

  ‘I suppose that would be OK.’ She paused just long enough to gather her thoughts. ‘Basically, the boy, Alan Harper, was born in Nottingham on 1st. September 1955; mother local, father is shown as being in the army; their wedding certificate shows them as marrying in May 1955, there’s a little story there, I think! Interestingly, the mother only died a couple of years ago, in Nottingham. We’ve found some ex-neighbours and between them pieced together quite a lot of what happened. The father was posted abroad so was home very little and mother and son lived with her mother in Nottingham. That was until 1959. They then moved down to south London to live with the father’s family, for work reasons, we think, but no-one’s too sure. Sadly, he, the father, was killed. However, the little boy started school in south London at the age of five, but six months later was killed. A collapsing building hit the bus he was travelling on with his mother. She and the bus driver were hurt, but not badly, he was the only fatality. His body was brought back to Nottingham and buried here. That’s the bare bones of it. The report has the precise details, which I can’t recall right now.

  ‘We’ve not gone beyond that for the moment. We were going to wait for Miss Shaw’s reaction to the report. Is that of any use?’ She enquired brightly.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ said Tobin, scribbling down the last of the details. ‘Can we get back to you after we’ve sorted ourselves out a bit?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tobin would have liked to continue the conversation with that nice voice, but the office was now coming to life. They said their good-byes and he hung up. He did not know what to make of it and it was for Teri to instruct the Norrises to continue, if she wanted them to. He wrote ‘Teri?’ at the bottom of the notes, folded them and put them in his pocket. What had become of that report? He reached for the phone to call her but was interrupted.

  ‘Hi! Long time, no see!’

  He looked up to meet the smiling gaze of Heather Millin.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bloody busy! Where have you been?’

  ‘Busy, too.’ He had time for Heather, she was a worker, and didn’t normally complain. She would get on in life. She should have got on by now, but seemed happy to take her time. Can’t criticise that, he thought! ‘There’s been a lot happening.’

  ‘You’re telling me! And I’ve been doing it all!’

  ‘Really? Where’s Nicola?’

  She gave him a wry look. ‘Even more absent than usual. Daddy’s possibly pulling out so she’s lost what little interest she had in the first place.’ That was the first time he had heard her talk of her colleague in that manner. ‘Pauline’s trying to find a way of easing her out sooner, but, meanwhile, I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly!’ She smiled, mischievously. ‘Even Pauline’s doing bits and pieces!

  ‘Actually, you could help me with some of this background stuff. Would you mind? On Julie Lambert and Mick Harton; your name has cropped up in connection with both of them.’ She gave a knowing, quizzical look.

  ‘Really?’ He feigned surprise. ‘I’ll swap you. Full story so far for background.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Julie first.’

  ‘Right. Her friend,’ Heather consulted her notebook, ‘Sylvia, was supposed to pick Julie up for work – they take it in turns, week about – but couldn’t get a response from the doorbell. She tried phoning, no good. She knew Julie must still be around as the milk was on the step and there was mail on the floor inside the door – you can see through the glass. So, she phoned the police.’

  ‘Intuiti
on?’

  ‘Yes! Naturally! The police arrived and hunted about a bit. They found the cat outside the backdoor unable to get in through its catflap, there was something in the way.’

  ‘Julie.’

  ‘I’m telling this! Yes. They broke the door down and found her lying in a huge pool of blood. She’d been stabbed several times. ‘A frenzied attack’ according to your friend McColl.’

  ‘Not my friend!’

  ‘The immediate neighbours say they heard a row the previous day, but didn’t see anything. However,’ she paused for effect, ‘some others, particularly a lady over the road, saw your friend Alan Harper coming and going. And, someone else saw him come back again, later, not long before dark.’

  ‘And go?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It would appear that he was a fairly regular visitor, and not the only one! Some of the more upright citizens in the street are most disapproving of her, I might add.’ She gave Tobin that knowing sort of look, again. ‘She's been the subject of much gossip for a long while in that street with opinion well divided; most of it based on envy or admiration. She is … was … a very charming person, I know.

  ‘Anyway, quite a few people it would seem saw your friend. A friend of one of the neighbours actually saw him arrive and depart outside her house, around the corner, in a small red Nissan car. But, get this, when he got out of the car he put on a crash helmet!’ Tobin looked at her in disbelief. She asked, ‘Not his style?’

  Tobin shook his head. ‘Neither a crash helmet nor a small, red Nissan.’

  ‘A man in a crash helmet was seen walking down the road, and, of course, the woman over the road saw him take it off as he went in Julie’s house, and put it back on again as he came out.’

  ‘They only saw him in the car once?’

  ‘I think so, I’m not really sure.’

  ‘The second time he was only seen walking?’

  ‘Uhuh. I think so.’ She said, slowly, thoughtfully.

  ‘And with no crash helmet?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re not certain?’

  ‘I hadn’t realised there was so much importance attached to it, at the time. He was seen, that’s it. That’s all the police were interested in. Especially as he wasn’t seen leaving, again.’

  ‘We need to be certain. Clothing is important, for one thing. I’d bet the first Alan was wearing something quite different to the second Alan.’

  ‘First, second?’

  ‘Uhuh. The second will be wearing a leather bomber jacket and light trousers and actually looks older than Alan Harper if you get close.’

  Heather looked a little doubtfully at Tobin. ‘I had heard of this other person,’ she said uncertainly, ‘but, I think there are those who are rather sceptical about him; like the police, for instance!’

  ‘Well, I can give you the names of three other reliable people, besides myself, who have seen him. One works here, Linda in reception. And there’s ..’

  ‘OK. OK!

  ‘What about Mick Harton?’

  She flicked through her notebook to another page. ‘The police reckon he left home shortly after he and Mrs Harton went to bed. The car was found at the coast by a dog walker, the engine was still running. They’ve worked out that timing from the amount of fuel left in, roughly. Apparently he had been in a really good mood that day, for him, helping in the café and talking more than usual about the family and the grandchildren. Then you talking to him got him quite excited, you know, happy excited. It seems he hasn’t spoken to anyone outside the family for years.’

  ‘Yes. I did rather trap him, he couldn’t avoid me.’

  ‘Anyway, his wife was just trying to get some sense out of Mick when in barges Brian Dale and drags poor Mick to the kerbside and says something very forcefully in his ear and storms off. Mrs H. rushes out to Mick, who doesn’t want to know and runs upstairs, when she sees Alan Harper coming out of your door, where you have just gone in. She didn’t think much about it at the time, as she was more concerned about her husband. This has happened before, apparently, and they both hate the sight, sound and everything else about Dale.’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Mick has been physically sick over it in the past, so there’s obviously some strong feelings there. The police are looking for Dale ‘to assist them with their enquiries’.’

  ‘How’s Mrs Harton? Did she see a motorcyclist at my door?’

  ‘Yes, she did. Twice. Not long after you went out at lunchtime,’ said Heather, trying to put two and two together.’ I tell you, she knows your every move and habit, that lady.’

  ‘Nothing better to do standing behind that counter all day,’ muttered Tobin.

  ‘So, background, then.’ She turned to a fresh page in her notebook.

  Over several plastic cups of coffee Tobin found himself being quite expertly quizzed about the pasts of Alan Harper, Julie Lambert and Mick Harton. Heather seemed quite happy with the story of the second Alan Harper and Tobin had to make her double check with Linda the receptionist. It reassured him to have his story corroborated, and Heather agreed to speak to the others who had met him; also Tobin remembered Davies the milkman and his sightings of a man in a car. Heather agreed to follow them up immediately and departed full of enthusiasm.

  Talking things over with someone else hadn’t really helped as much as he had hoped it would. Everything was a bit of a jumble in his mind and seemed to exist on two planes. One in which he was directly involved, such as flat break-ins and assaults and the other, the third person aspect where he was trying to assimilate a history that was incomplete and, to a great extent, hearsay that was probably inaccurate. Making sure he made no references to Nottingham and private detectives had complicated matters, as well. He had found himself in danger of losing the thread of his story with Heather, as he had with the police, while trying to avoid any hint of their discovery.

  It was turning into a nightmare into which he had blindly rushed. Or had he been dragged?

  He turned to his list of ‘things to do’ that sat on the desk before him. On the right were a series of phone numbers, he crossed off the first one, ‘done’. After a moment’s thought he underlined the last one and dialled.

  Tobin heard the phone ring twice and then rattle as it was grabbed from the cradle. The familiar, rumbling tones just repeating the Hastings phone number was so reassuring. He knew he had made the right decision, as long as it was acceptable at that end.

  ‘Hullo, Uncle Russell.’ It was faintly absurd this forty-year-old calling someone ‘uncle,’ but, he had always been ‘uncle’ and no other form of address seemed right.

  ‘Hello, my boy!’ Boomed from the phone, he had obviously forgotten the forty years, as well. ‘You coming to see us?’ Straight to the point, as always.

  ‘Please.’ That saved him having to ask. ‘If that’s OK?’

  ‘Whenever. You just turn up. The bed’s made! Where are you?’

  ‘I’m still in Northumberland. Tonight?’

  ‘Don’t take too long, see you when you arrive.’

  ‘Thanks … .’ But he had gone already.

  The next call was to a local handyman to arrange repairs to the flat while he was away.

  The third call was to Teri. She sounded a bit distracted.

  ‘John, you remember when you were helping me tidy the flat on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you looked at the photos I was going to put in the album?’

  ‘Yes!’ Get on with it!

  ‘Did you take one?’

  ‘No. What’s missing?’

  ‘A really nice enlargement of Alan. I printed it specially to go in the front of this album and now I can’t find it.’

  ‘Maybe it's with the report from Norris.’

  ‘What report?’

  ‘The report they posted to you, last week?’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘I haven’t got a report.�
� There was another short silence. ‘Oh. No! The post!’

  ‘What about the post?’

  ‘When I went away I left most of the post unopened. And, when I came back,’ she was speaking slowly as she thought aloud, ‘there was none. I remember, now, even the post I left behind wasn’t there!’

  ‘Do you remember seeing anything from Nottingham?’

  ‘No. But, I was in such a hurry … .’

  ‘So. Whoever did your flat has a good photo of Alan and the report on his false identity. Whoever did my flat has seen, and probably copied, all my notes from the detectives and a good contact list. I hope they are different people!’ He was thoughtful for a minute.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Demanded Teri.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Look, I’m going away for a few days, to see family, can I leave my car at your place when I get the train?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sounded suspicious.

  ‘Great! I’ll see you then.’ He hung up before she could say any more.

  Before leaving the office he sought out Heather Millin once more. ‘I forgot to ask you, what did forensic find at Julie Lambert’s?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Wiped clean was it?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Just a guess. Thanks. I’m going away for a few days’ rest, with family. If anything interesting crops up, you can ring me at this number, the mobile’s not too reliable.’ He copied the Hastings number from his list for her. ‘Thanks again. Bye.’ He escaped before she could ask whatever she was obviously going to ask.

  Pausing only to superficially tidy his flat and fill a bag he headed for Newcastle. He had argued with himself over the value of taking his notes with him, after all, he was going to get away from it all. However, the fear of losing them in some way won the day and they lay on top of his clothes in his grip. The bag was stuffed full as he couldn’t be bothered to decide what he wanted, he had just taken handfuls of everything and bundled them in. Consequently the bag was a ton weight.

  The temptation to divert past Intercon Cuisine was too great and when he got there the gates were open. He drove across the yard and parked next to a small red Nissan. Delving through his disturbed notes he found the name given him by Vince Chapman, Mrs Gould. Looking at the disordered notes he wondered if anyone had been there before him and if so who.

  Inside the plain, red painted door was an aluminium wall plaque inviting visitors to climb the stairs to the office. Beside the plaque was another door through which Tobin took a quick peek into the warehouse. He was surprised, what from the outside appeared to be several small warehouses, with separate doors, was all one inside, stacked high with pallets of goods. The unmistakable smell of stored dried food wafted out. He closed the door and turned to the stairs, observing for the first time the little TV camera watching the small lobby. The stairs led to a small, but plush suite of offices on the first floor at the side of the building with windows looking out on to the side yard. These were the windows that Tobin had seen lit when he had last called by.

  It was strangely quiet, the reception office was unattended and extremely tidy, however it was lunchtime. Through the glass partition behind the reception desk a larger office was open to view. It contained two desks and associated furniture and showed signs of work, papers and folders left neatly stacked with empty coffee mugs and pens set neatly about. A further door behind led into a darkened room, a dim glow showed at the back.

  As he entered the first office the dim glow moved and showed itself to be light reflecting in a pair of spectacles that were looking back at him.

  ‘Hullo!’ He called, giving a tentative wave. There was no response. He moved into the office and the spec’s rose and met him at the second door. They were huge lenses on the face of a small, attractive but determined looking woman with red hair. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Gould,’ he continued.

  The glasses continued to stare back up at him. She was a good nine inches shorter than Tobin, smartly dressed in a fitted, two piece business suit. The red hair was cut short and accentuated her fine, angular features. He thought that he should expect nothing less than such an attractive lady where Alan Harper was concerned. Her face changed, the jawline hardened and her full lips drew thin.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Gould?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name’s John Tobin. I’m a friend of Alan Harper.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m trying to help him; somehow.’

  ‘Does he need your help?’ He could detect a slight Scottish accent.

  ‘He said so, yes.’

  ‘Really? When was this?’ She turned and Tobin followed her into the darkened room. Behind the door was a bank of security monitors, the blinds on the windows had been drawn to keep the sunlight off the screens. Tobin could see that his arrival had almost certainly been monitored.

  ‘He left me a note the other day. Unfortunately the police have it, now. But, he’s given me no clue; just saying he’ll be in touch. But, it’s all piling up against him now and I don’t know what I can do. So, as I was passing, I thought I would look in and see if you could help.’ It was feeble. She obviously felt the same, making no reply. Tobin stumbled on. ‘I’ve not been here before because I didn’t know it existed, but, we, that’s Alan’s stepdaughter and I, reckon he’s gone to France, and … well, I thought this is a link with France, … isn’t it?’ He tried his best disarming smile.

  ‘It is.’

  He tried again. ‘Look. The note was hand delivered; if Alan didn’t deliver it, who did? Someone else from here who wears a crash helmet and drives a small red Nissan?’ Her gaze finally left his face and settled on the desk in front of her. Did he detect a flicker of a smile?

  ‘Just how do you propose to help Mr Harper?’

  ‘However I can! But, unless I get some concrete suggestions, I can’t really do anything! It’s not just the police who are looking for him, there’s a very unpleasant character who’s been around for a while asking questions.’ Her emotionless stare had returned to his face, her eyes magnified by the lenses of her glasses. ‘He’s uncannily like Alan to look at.’ Was there a glimmer of recognition behind those spec’s? ‘He could be a murderer!’ But now he was getting ahead of himself. ‘You’ve heard of a Julie Lambert, have you?’

  ‘Yes. I have. Now.’ Tobin felt himself on uncertain ground.

  ‘Well, you don’t think Alan did that, do you?’

  ‘I do not,’ she replied through tight lips.

  ‘Neither do I,’ this was becoming hard work. Something had changed since Vince Chapman had said she would be on his side. He had a sudden thought. ‘How did you hear about Julie Lambert’s death?’

  ‘This morning’s paper,’ she pushed a copy of the morning paper toward him.

  There, across pages one and three, were the now familiar photos and a rehash of Rosemary’s death backing up a short report on the murder ‘in a quiet Northumberland town’. Julie was referred to more than once as ‘the missing man’s girlfriend’ and references were made to her lifestyle and good looks. In the middle of the report Tobin found a reference to the latest note. Without mentioning the note specifically it was reported that ‘a recent communication from the missing man’ had stated ‘his desire’ to take Miss Lambert away with him. Where had that come from?

  ‘This was all news to you, was it?’ That was a crass question Tobin!

  ‘Yes. Is it true?’

  ‘Well, … .’

  ‘I do know you, Mr Tobin. You’re a newspaper man, is that report correct?’

  ‘Well, … basically … . Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything else. Alan’s a complex man, I’m discovering, and if there is some other purpose behind this, I don’t know what it is. But, it wouldn’t surprise me. Is there somewhere in France where he … I could leave a message for him, perhaps?’

  ‘There’s the head offi
ce in France.’ She took a With Complements slip from a stationery draw and handed it to him.

  ‘I thought this was the head office. Does Alan not own this business, after all?’

  ‘That end of the business is run by M. Martin,’ her French pronunciation was quite precise, ‘Mr Harper’s partner; who I haven’t met!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They each run their own end of the business and meet regularly.’

  ‘I see.’ Did he? ‘Thanks very much. I’ll see myself out.’

  She followed him to the door and watched him descend. As he reached the bottom he heard her shut the door. He ducked through the warehouse door and quickly shut it behind him before he had consciously thought of the move, and before Mrs Gould could get back to the security monitors.

  Keeping close to the wall he made his way to the back corner. He could see to the far end from here and he moved on again. The aroma of foodstuffs, herbs, spices, vegetables and even the sacking that contained them surrounded him. There were labels in French, Italian, Spanish and hieroglyphs that he could only guess at. Each roller shutter door at the front of the warehouse served a separate loading bay. In the first one was a white van, of the type that he had seen on his last visit. Parked next to it was a large motorcycle, resting on the saddle was a crash helmet bearing the logo of the motorcycle manufacturer.

  In the far loading bay stood a curtain sided articulated trailer, partly unloaded. A pallet of Italian olive oil rested on the forks of a fork-lift truck, suspended in mid-transfer. Tobin could hear the beat of rock music and rounding the end of the trailer saw a portable office in the corner of the building by the furthest roller shutters.

  Inside the office a youth had his feet up on the desk, twitching to the beat of the music from a radio; he was engrossed in a tabloid newspaper.

  Tobin rapped on the door and entered without being asked as the lad all but fell off his tilted chair. ‘Sorry, did I disturb you?’ Tobin shouted over the music, which was very loud now that he had opened the door.

  ‘We’re not back till two.’ Said the boy, sullenly. The paper had fallen and revealed that he had been studying page three. At Tobin’s glance he gathered it up, embarrassed.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’

  ‘Oh. It’s OK; I was just on my way out from the office and popped in to say Hallo. Is that your bike back there?’

  The youth nodded, proudly.

  ‘Did I see you coming in on it last Sunday?’

  He thought for a moment and then nodded.

  ‘Overtime, eh?’ No response. ‘I was looking for Mr Harper. You know Mr Harper, the boss?’ A slight nod and a suspicious look. ‘Anybody else been looking for him?’ He asked, casually, looking round.

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Really? Anyone else? Big man, white hair, looks like Mr Harpers older brother?’

  He nodded, again.

  ‘When was that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Two or three weeks.’

  ‘Two or three weeks ago? Nobody else?’

  He shook his head staring over Tobin’s shoulder. Tobin turned to see Mrs Gould standing by the fork lift.

  ‘I thought you were going!’ through those tight lips, again.

  ‘I am. Right now.’ Out of the corner of his mouth he said, ‘Thanks, lad.’ As he passed Mrs Gould he said loudly, ‘That’s a good lad you’ve got there. Bye.’ He strode out of the warehouse, not daring to look back.

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