The Unburied Past (17 page)

They moved obediently through the indicated doorway and Graham waved towards an easy chair. ‘Beer? Wine? Whisky?'

‘Beer will be fine, thanks.'

Graham absented himself, returning with two glass tankards, and handed one to Adam. ‘Now, you've some questions, you said. Fire away, and I'll do my best to answer them.'

‘I'd like you to tell me everything you can about my father,' Adam said.

‘He was my closest friend. We met at uni, were each other's best man, and then he and Emma asked me to be your godfather. Unfortunately we were never in a position to return the honour.' He had a drink of beer. ‘I've been a pretty mediocre one, I'm afraid. I'd have liked to do a lot more, for Mark's sake, but you were so far away and I didn't want to tread on Harry's toes.'

‘The cheques were much appreciated.'

Graham shrugged dismissively. ‘What else can I tell you? We shared the same hobby – photography – and used to vie with each other in competitions. In fact, we were about to enter one when … he was killed.'

‘And his camera went missing?'

‘Yes, the entire bag.'

‘What would have been in it?'

‘Well, the camera itself, of course. Otherwise, mainly filters and lenses – wide-angle, zoom and so on. Expensive equipment, all told.'

‘You think that was the reason for the theft?'

‘Quite frankly, Adam, I don't know what to think. I do know he'd been intending to take a selection of photos while he was away, with the competition in mind, and it's odd there was no evidence of this – no used cassettes or anything in the cottage, though possibly they were in the bag too.'

‘I know you went up to collect their stuff; did you go to the village? Penthwaite?'

‘No, everything had been taken to the police station in Hawkston.'

‘I find it strange that none of the family went.'

‘Surely it would have been too painful, and not served any useful purpose.'

‘Well, I'm going up myself at half term, to have a dig around.'

Graham looked startled. ‘You said you wanted to look into it, but I didn't realize you meant to be quite so hands-on.'

‘I read the local archives on what happened in and around Penthwaite that summer. There are one or two things that could do with following up.'

‘You do realize that if the killers are still around, you could be making yourself a target?'

‘Fine, if that means flushing them out of the woodwork.'

Graham was silent for a while, staring down at the clasped hands between his knees. Then, reaching a decision, he looked up. ‘In that case, I have something to show you. I'd decided against it, on the grounds that it doesn't take things much further and might be distressing, but if you're really set on this path and nothing I can say will dissuade you, it's only right you should see it.'

He stood up, walked over to a cabinet and took out a video cassette. ‘A few years ago there was a series of programmes on TV examining what are known as cold cases – you probably have something similar over there.'

Adam had stiffened, his eyes fixed on Graham.

‘The Lakeland Murders, as they were called, were featured in one of the programmes.' Graham glanced at him briefly. ‘It might be worth saying that the journalist carrying out this research had considerably better facilities than you're likely to have, yet he didn't get anywhere. I doubt if you'll have better luck.' He gave Adam a crooked smile. ‘After all of which, I presume you'd like to see it?'

‘Most definitely,' Adam said inadequately. Graham switched on the player under the TV and inserted the cassette.

For the next half hour Adam sat mesmerized as places whose existence he'd only learned of in the past few months materialized before him – the village of Penthwaite with its winding main street, the cottage where they'd all been staying – now with a garage that, they were told, wasn't there in the eighties, the village green across the road from the post office. He was even more interested in the interviews with the villagers, many of whom had been there at the time – the milkman, whose comment he had quoted to Kirsty, the woman who had kept the village shop; and he caught his breath at the inclusion of a clip from an old
Crimewatch
, broadcast only weeks after the murders, in which actors played the parts of his parents walking through the village pushing a buggy, with a child masquerading as himself trotting alongside.

Lost in the past, it took him a minute to readjust when the programme came to an end and Sue put her head round the door to announce that dinner was ready.

‘That was … mind-blowing,' he said. ‘May I borrow it, to show Kirsty?'

Graham brightened. ‘You're in touch with her? I'd hoped to see more of her while she was growing up, but I'd the feeling her relatives wouldn't welcome it. Janice in particular was very possessive of her.'

‘I've seen her twice,' Adam said. ‘Once at a family lunch, and once over a drink to discuss my plans.'

‘And is she in favour?'

‘Not really, but I'm sure I can win her round.'

‘Well, take the video by all means. In fact, keep it. It might help to jog memories while you're up there.'

‘That's very kind of you – thanks.'

The subject dropped as they went through for dinner, and Adam resigned himself to answering all their questions about his life in Canada. They asked kindly after the family – ‘Such pretty little girls!' Sue said – and whether Lynne's parents had settled happily out there.

‘It was the best thing for them,' Graham commented, ‘with both Mark and Lynne gone.'

But though Adam kept the conversation going, he was on autopilot, longing to be alone to weigh up what he'd learned and to sift through it for anything concrete that might help him. And now, damn it, with term starting tomorrow and weekends not giving sufficient time, he must control his impatience until the end of October – an aeon away. It would not be an easy task.

T
ony Vine was tired and frustrated as he drove home from work in the Cumbrian town of Hawkston.

When he'd joined Ferris Engineering six years ago, the sky had seemed the limit. He was bursting with ideas which, in his position as Development Manager, he was anxious to put into effect, certain he could boost production by a significant amount. But from the first day he'd been thwarted; the Ferris brothers, having inherited the firm on their father's death, were determined to follow rigidly in his footsteps and resented any implication that things could be done better.

Tony had watched with dismay as business slowed, profits diminished, and more go-ahead rivals overtook them. Several times he had broached suggestions that would improve turnover, only to be ignored. But he'd continued to turn his ideas over in his mind until they coalesced in the form of a machine that he knew without doubt was the answer to their production problems.

Eager and excited, he'd approached his bosses; but on hearing it would require a capital outlay of several thousand, Barry, the elder brother, had refused even to discuss it.

‘With business in the state it is, we can't afford to invest a substantial sum in a contraption that mightn't even work,' he'd said. ‘Sorry, Tony – in happier times we might have given it a go, but not in the present climate.'

‘It's because it can
change
the present climate that now is exactly the right time!' Tony had argued, but Barry had shaken his head.

‘And I don't want you wasting any time on it during working hours, either,' he added. ‘We have to keep our heads down and concentrate on doing what we do best, and eventually the tide will turn.'

Well, Tony thought now, he
hadn't
‘wasted' as much as a minute of the firm's time. Instead he'd worked long hours in the evenings and weekends, jiggling and tweaking at his invention until it evolved into exactly what he'd envisaged. And now that he had his prototype, the idea that had been forming almost below the level of consciousness had swum to the surface. It was time to make a break and set up on his own.

All he had to do now was write out the specification of his invention for submission to the Patent Office. And when it was accepted – as he was confident it would be – he and Marilyn would move south and he'd start his own business. An elderly aunt had died the previous year, leaving him her modest savings and her house in Surrey, which would make an admirable base for the new venture. All that remained, in due course, would be to hand in his notice and, of course, break the news to his wife.

He hadn't confided in her earlier because, bless her heart, she was totally incapable of keeping a secret and he didn't want his plans known before he was ready. In any case, she'd told him often enough that she'd follow him to the ends of the earth, as long as there was somewhere she could go shopping.

Tony smiled, remembering. He loved her dearly, but he'd known from the first that she'd little interest in the work that paid for their comfortable lifestyle. On the rare occasions he
had
tried to discuss it, she'd laughed and said, ‘Sweetie, you know I haven't a head for business!' and promptly change the subject. Very different from Vivien Ferris, whose sharp mind and astute brain were such a help to Barry.

Still, Tony thought, his heart lifting as he turned into his drive, he wouldn't swap his pretty, dippy wife for a hundred Viviens. And, switching off the engine, he went in to greet her.

Vivien Ferris turned into the gateway of the unimposing little semi on the edge of a housing estate and switched off the ignition. For several minutes she sat unmoving, her hands in her lap, too dispirited to go in.

She
hated
it, she thought passionately; hated its smug complacency, its metal-framed windows and nineteen-thirties pebbledash, the small, sad square of grass that comprised its front garden. And that was just the outside!

The last year had been a nightmare as things at the family firm spiralled steadily downhill. They'd exhausted their overdraft with the bank, and although Barry had kept it from her, Vivien knew that other loans applied for had also been turned down. Thank God her job at least was holding up, but her salary alone couldn't finance their lifestyle and they'd been forced not only to sell their home but to remove their daughter from her private school. She still burned with the humiliation of it.

Yet far more important was the effect it was having on Barry. Night after night she'd hear him slip out of bed to go to sit at the kitchen table, endlessly going over figures and specifications, a glass of whisky beside him. Living on his nerves and drinking too much, his personality was noticeably changing as he became more irritable and more aggressive, flying into a rage for no reason. It broke her heart to see Daphne cowering away from him, though he'd never touched her in anger and, she was certain, never would.

Apart from the overriding worry of finances, there was the awkwardness with Tony Vine, the Development Manager. Vivien liked Tony and his empty-headed little wife, and more than once had suggested he be made a partner, but Barry and Dean clung stubbornly to their father's maxim: that all partners in the firm should be Ferrises.

Some months previously, Tony had come up with an idea that he insisted would revolutionize production. The drawback was that it would require a capital outlay, on the grounds of which Barry had refused even to consider it. She'd tried to persuade him at least to listen to the proposition but he'd become even more adamant, possibly because he feared Tony was brighter than either himself or Dean, and resented the fact. And so what might have been a viable and much-needed solution had fallen by the wayside, leaving them to sink still lower.

‘Mummy!' twelve-year-old Daphne called from the front door. ‘Are you going to sit out there all night?'

Recalled to the present, Vivien picked up her briefcase and, with a sigh, went to join her.

It had become a tradition for staff members to meet in the pub after work on Fridays. Numbers attending varied from two or three to a dozen or more depending on circumstances, but the Ferris brothers made a point of being there – mainly, Tony suspected, to demonstrate their accessibility to their workers. He'd been about to set off for home when Dean hijacked him into joining them, and as it happened they were the only three that week.

‘Sorry we couldn't run with that idea of yours, Tony,' Dean said unexpectedly, as they settled at a corner table, ‘but I'm sure you appreciate we have to keep our eye on the ball and can't go chasing after every fanciful notion someone gets into their head.'

It was a red rag just when he least needed it, and before he could stop himself he retorted, ‘Except that
my
“fanciful notion” actually works!'

Dean smiled dismissively. ‘Sadly, without testing it we'll never know.'

He should have left it there – of course he should – but that damn pride of his reared up before he could stop it. ‘Ah, but you see, it
has
been tested!' he told them and, seeing he had their attention, recklessly continued. ‘When you wouldn't consider it I cashed in my savings and I've been slaving every night and weekend for the past six months. And when it was finally finished and I ran it, it worked like a dream. It'll literally halve production time – and this is just the prototype.'

Too late, he'd realized what he'd done.
God
, he could have bitten his tongue out! He'd blown it, when he'd only had to keep quiet for another week or two, and all would have progressed as planned.

They were both staring at him, unsure whether or not to believe him. ‘Well,' Barry said at last, ‘that's great, Tony.'

Crunch time, then. No point now in beating about the bush. ‘The specification's ready for the Patent Office, and once it's been accepted—'