Never Go Back (15 page)

‘Yes, OK… Well, like you say, it’s fair enough… No, no. It’s quite clear… Yes, we’ll make sure of it… Without fail … OK… See you then… Thanks. ‘Bye.’

Chipchase ended the call and slipped his mobile into his pocket. He picked up his pint of beer, still three-quarters full, whereas Harry’s was nearly empty, and downed several large gulps.

They had been in the front bar of the Boat Inn at Aboyne for an hour or more, hoping food and drink would aid their analysis of what Stronach had told them. So far, little progress had been made, other than in depleting the landlord’s stock of Thrappledouser bitter. Even Chipchase’s call to Kylie Sinclair had been born of necessity rather than inspiration.

‘Well?’ prompted Harry.

‘Oh yeah.’ Chipchase set down his glass. ‘It seems Ferguson has no objection to us decamping to Swindon. According to Smiley Kylie, he’s actually in no position to stop us. But he does insist on us registering with the local Plod. She wants us to let her know when we plan to leave.’

‘The sooner the better.’

‘So we can stop en route and quiz Nixon’s widow?’

‘Don’t you think we should?’

‘I think Coker was off his head. That’s probably why he managed to drown himself. You know, I know, Stronach knows, that none of us left Kilveen during Operation Clean Sheet. Even if my grandmother really had died while I was there, I’m not sure they’d have let me off to go to her funeral. So, all we’re likely to accomplish by visiting the widow Nixon is to drag up a lot of sad memories for the poor woman.’

‘But remember what Lloyd was looking for? A “connection with the other deaths”. Nixon’s is one of them. And he was clearly preoccupied with Operation Clean Sheet. It’s only logical to follow it up.’

‘It’s over twenty years ago, Harry. If you’re seriously suggesting Nixon was knocked off by the same ruthless bloody killer who did for Askew, Lloyd and Dangerfield — assuming they were all murdered — perhaps you’d like to explain to me why he waited a cool couple of decades to tick off some more names on his death list. And, just to be generous, I’ll give you time to think about it. A few minutes, anyway. I’m off to splash my boots.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry did his best to apply his mind to the problem during Chipchase’s absence, but found himself unable to focus his thoughts, thanks in part to the sudden activation of the Boat Inn’s special attraction for children: a model steam train that chugged and whistled its way round the bar on a shelf above the picture rail. Harry watched its progress, knowing Daisy would have called it ‘silly’ but would have enjoyed the spectacle nonetheless. If he could only climb on a train now that would bear him straight back to her and Donna, he surely—

‘Bloody hell,’ said Chipchase, returning to the table. ‘You look as if you’ve cooked up some hare-brained theory you think I might actually swallow.’

“Fraid not, I was just…’

‘Daydreaming?’

‘Home thoughts from abroad. You know?’

Chipchase sat down and grimaced. ‘If I had a home in this country or any other, I suppose I’d know what you mean.’

‘I can’t give you the explanation you want, Barry.’

‘Thought not.’

‘But there is a link between Nixon’s death and the others. Not much of one. But it is a link. Nixon was asking whether he — or anyone else — had left Kilveen during Operation Clean Sheet. On the train up here, Askew was questioning the purpose of Professor Mac’s experiment. Then Lloyd had his fit of déjà vu on the castle roof. They were all, in different ways… querying the record.’

‘What about Danger? What was he querying?’

‘Well… nothing…’

‘Exactly.’

‘He must have known Erica Rawson wasn’t on the University staff, though. Which means he must have known what she and Starkie were really up to.’

‘One up on us, then.’

‘Except that he’s dead.’

‘Too bloody true. Which is not what I want to be in the near future.’

‘Nothing ventured…’

‘Nothing lost.’

‘Unless you count our passports. And perhaps our liberty, if we leave Ferguson to concoct a case against us.’

‘Harry, Harry. Listen to yourself, will you? It’s all so… bloody half-cocked. You seem to have conveniently forgotten, for instance, that Lloyd only died because Wiseman’s car was sabotaged.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes. Ah.’

‘I have thought about that, actually.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘Why couldn’t it have been sabotaged at Braemar? While they were in the pub, collecting Magister’s fancy fountain pen and no doubt toasting its recovery with a drink or two. They could have been followed there from Lumphanan. The steering took a long time to fail if it was tampered with at the castle. Not so long if Braemar is where it was got at. In which case, Lloyd could have been the target.’

‘OK. Say I give you that. Provisionally. But who targeted him? Who was the saboteur?’

‘I don’t know. The killer isn’t one of us. He wasn’t at the reunion. He can’t be in two places at once: Braemar and the pub where we all had lunch. But I suppose he has to be working with one of us. To be tipped off about what Askew said on the train so that he could get on later in the journey and deal with him. To—’

‘Who heard what Askew said on the train?’

‘Who? Well, me, Lloyd, Fripp, Judd, Tancred. We were all there. Not Gregson, though. He stayed behind when we went to the restaurant car.’

‘Right. And we can rule you and Lloyd out as suspects. Which leaves…’

‘Fripp, Judd and Tancred.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Chipchase rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m getting as bad as you. I have to believe one of those is a party to multiple murder?’

‘If my theory’s right, then…’ Harry felt surprised by the unavoidability of the conclusion. ‘Yes.’

‘But it’s a bloody big if. And there’s an even bigger hole where their motive should be.’

‘There’ll be a motive. We just have to find it.’

‘Starting with Mrs Leroy Nixon?’

‘Well, unless you have a better suggestion…’ Harry spread his hands. ‘Yes.’

—«»—«»—«»—

He phoned Donna from Shona’s house late that afternoon — breakfast-time in Vancouver — to console her with the news that (a) he was all right and (b) he was about to leave Aberdeen.

‘We’re catching the sleeper. Next time I call we’ll be in Swindon.’

‘Well, that’s something. I’ll feel happier knowing you’re out of harm’s way.’

‘Me too.’

‘If you really will be. There’s nothing going on you’re not telling me about, is there, Harry?’

‘Absolutely not. Come next week the police will have to give up hounding us. We’ll be free to go. And I’ll be heading straight home.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘Until then, try not to worry.’

‘Are you serious? Of course I’ll worry.’

‘I only said try.’

‘You will be careful, won’t you, hon?’

‘As careful as can be.’

‘Don’t let Barry talk you into anything… stupid.’

‘No chance.’

‘Really and truly?’

‘None at all.’

—«»—«»—«»—

He had not told Donna the real reason for travelling by sleeper was to speed their arrival in London and give them a day in the capital to pursue the truth about Leroy Nixon’s death back in 1983. But nor had he lied by insisting he would not be persuaded by Chipchase to take any risks, simply because it was he who had done the arm-twisting on this occasion. Chipchase had told Kylie Sinclair at his instigation that they would be travelling to Swindon tomorrow. They were thus not expected to register with the local police until Friday. Their stopover in London was a scheduling sleight of hand. The credit for whatever came of it — or the blame — would be solely Harry’s.

—«»—«»—«»—

Shona drove them to the station that evening. She too was concerned for their welfare, though perhaps more for Chip-chase’s than for Harry’s. The farewell kiss she gave Chipchase was certainly more than a friendly peck.

‘You’ll look after yourselves, won’t you?’ she called to them as they headed for the train.

‘Like cats with only one of their nine lives left,’ Chipchase called back. ‘Don’t worry about us.’

‘“Cats with only one of their nine lives left”,’ Harry said to him under his breath. ‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’

‘No. It’s supposed to be an all too bloody accurate description of you and me, Harry old cock. I intend to keep a firm grip on that ninth life. And I advise you to do the same.’

Not having booked sleeping berths in advance, Harry and Barry were banished to the seated coach on the train. Chip-chase’s response to this hardship was to stock up with enough tins of lager to ensure oblivion, failing genuine slumber, for at least part of the journey. Harry was manoeuvred into paying for them, despite having already been obliged to buy both their tickets, Chipchase pleading an unspecified difficulty with his credit card.

In the circumstances, Harry felt drinking his fair share was a point of principle. The predictable result was a raddled, hung-over arrival in London the following morning. Breakfast at Euston station after the indignity of washing and shaving in the underground loo failed to redeem their start to the day. Nor did a Tube journey at the fag end of the rush hour fill their hearts with glee.

They emerged at Stockwell into a muggy, drizzly morning and headed towards Brixton, navigating by an A-Z bought at Euston. Their destination, Colsham House, was one of several drably similar blocks of flats in an area that prompted various chunterings by Chipchase suggestive of a lack of enthusiasm for the concept of a multiracial Britain.

‘Can you see any other white faces around here, Harry?’ he muttered as they waited at a pelican crossing with a group of local residents. “Cos I can’t. Not a single one.’

‘Now you know how Coker felt all the time.’

‘Yeah. Foreign.’

‘We’re from a foreign country, Barry. Didn’t you know? It’s called the past.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Colsham House boasted a ramshackle but evidently functioning entryphone system. Harry pressed the button for number 112 and braced himself for a tortuous, static-fuzzed conversation with Mrs Nixon. But the only response was the decisive buzz of the door release. They went in and made for the lift.

The door of flat 112 was a short step along an open landing on the fifth floor. Somewhat to their surprise, it stood ajar, in readiness for their arrival.

‘Hello?’ Harry called as he stepped cautiously into the flat, Chipchase lagging even more cautiously behind.

Empty white spaces met Harry’s gaze. More accurately, empty primrose-yellow spaces, accompanied by the distinctive smell of fresh paint. ‘You’re early for once, Chris,’ came a lilting, female voice. Then a bustling, sturdily built young woman in blue jeans and a red T-shirt emerged into the passage from an adjoining room. A mass of dreadlocked hair framed her broad, smiling face. But her smile was fading fast. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Who are you guys?’

‘We’re, er… looking for Mrs Nixon,’ Harry replied. ‘Mrs … Leroy Nixon.’

‘My mom?’

‘Well, I suppose…’

‘Who are you?’ The woman frowned and placed her hands on her hips. ‘What do you want with Mom?’

‘We used to, er…’

‘We were friends of your father, luv,’ said Chipchase. ‘Leroy. Well, Coker to us, but—’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Harry cut in.

The frown lifted slightly. ‘You mean… you’re some more of Dad’s RAF buddies?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry with some relief. ‘That’s right.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Chipchase. ‘Some more?’

‘If you’re part of the group that guy in Aberdeen wrote to Mom about a few months back, you must know she isn’t here.’

‘Must we?’ Harry suspected his expression answered the question succinctly enough.

‘You’re friends of Gilbert Tancred, aren’t you?’

‘Tancred? Yes. We are.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Chipchase, determined, it seemed, to over-egg the pudding. ‘Tapper and us are like that.’ He raised his hand, second finger folded around index finger to confirm undying if wholly fictitious amity.

‘So, you surely know he paid for the trip.’

‘What trip would that be?’ asked Harry, as nonchalantly as he could contrive.

‘Mom’s cruise to the Caribbean. Her first chance to see Antigua again in more than forty years. It was really kind of him. With her fear of flying, she thought she’d never set foot on the island again. We’re redecorating the flat while she’s—’

‘When’s she due back?’

‘Not for another six weeks.’

‘Thanks to… Gilbert?’

‘Yeah. That’s right. It’s all down to him. Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No. He didn’t breathe a word.’

‘Just like the bloke.’ Chipchase grinned broadly. ‘Good deeds discreetly done are Tapper’s speciality. Isn’t that so, Harry?’

‘Absolutely. Yes. Hides his light under a bushel.’

‘Gold bar for a heart.’

‘One of the best.’

‘They just don’t make them like him any more.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘They broke the mould after—’

‘Will you two cut it out?’ The young woman had folded her arms. Her brow was sceptically furrowed. ‘Anyone would think he had some sinister motive, the way you’re going on.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Joyce — as it transpired Nixon’s daughter was called — offered them tea, which they accepted. The absent Chris rang while she was making it to report that, far from being early, he would actually be quite late. With a tranche of spare time suddenly wished upon her, she had no objection to sitting down in the kitchen and talking to Harry and Barry about her late father, her Antigua-bound mother… and the uncommonly generous Gilbert Tancred.

‘I was only two when Dad died. I don’t remember him at all. Mom never used to talk about him. What I know I got mostly from other people. Just mentioning him was seriously taboo when I was growing up. Mom’s opened up a bit more about him these last few years, but not a whole lot. He was troubled, though. Even before they got married. That I do know. There were… demons inside his head. I think Mom hoped she could heal whatever was hurting him. But it was beyond her. He’d go off, apparently, for weeks at a time. Searching for something. But nobody ever knew what. Then, one day, Mom heard he’d been drowned. Lost overboard from a ferry off the coast of Scotland.’

‘Where was the ferry going?’ asked Harry.

‘I don’t know. Nobody ever said. Is it important?’

‘Probably not.’

‘The letter from your friend Johnny Dangerfield was forwarded from the house where they used to live in Lewisham. Mom wrote back and explained Dad had passed away. Then your other friend Gilbert Tancred showed up, asking how it had happened. I didn’t like him at first. He comes across as seriously up himself. But when he offered to pay for this cruise for Mom… She was so thrilled there was no way we could turn him down. I had a postcard from her only a couple of days ago. From Bermuda. She’s having the time of her life.’

‘That’s good to know.’

‘Honestly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘So, why do you both still look as if you suspect Gilbert is … up to something?’

‘It’s our twisted personalities, luv,’ said Chipchase. ‘He’s put us to shame and we’re finding the idea hard to get used to. That’s the pitiful truth. Maybe we should force ourselves to call in on Tapper and congratulate him for what he’s done for your mother. What d’you reckon, Harry?’

‘Well nigh essential, I’d say.’

‘That’s it, then. We’ll do it.’

‘So you’ll be seeing him soon, will you?’ asked Joyce.

Harry exchanged a glance with Chipchase before replying. ‘I should think so.’

‘Then, can you tell him how much Mom’s enjoying the cruise?’

‘No problem.’

‘And pass on my thanks, will you?’

‘Oh, we’ll be sure to.’

—«»—«»—«»—

‘Does anyone know where your father went on his wanderings, Joyce?’ Harry asked as they were leaving.

‘No. Except that last time. And even then… not really.’

‘When were the riots here, d’you know?’

‘The Brixton riots?’

‘Yes.’

‘The year I was born. 1981. Why?’

‘Because Leroy was in Scotland that year as well, luv,’ said Chipchase. ‘It’s probably where he always gravitated to.’

‘Why did he go there?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But we intend to find out,’ Harry added. ‘You could say we have to.’