Death in July (12 page)

But it was one he recognised.

Dunker.

Sam tucked the piece of paper carefully into his pocket and gazed in the general direction of Geoffrey Compton's grave.

'Thanks for listening, Geoffrey.'

***

Sam returned to his flat to find DI Jackson waiting outside for him, hands in pockets, slouched on the bonnet of his modest saloon car. The detective's languid pose reminded Sam of himself years ago, before he moved to undercover. The laid-back attitude. The lack of airs and graces. The way it lured others into a false sense of confidence.

'Have you got some news?' asked Sam, getting out of his car.

The serious look on the detective's face didn't bode well. Sam thought of Alice and feared the worst.

'Yes, I've got news,' replied Jackson. 'Let's talk in your flat.'

Sam took him into the living-room this time. Both men took a seat, with Sam perched right on the edge of his chair, waiting impatiently for Jackson to commence. When the detective spoke, his words weren't what Sam expected.

'There's been a complaint made against you.'

Sam had lost count of the number of times he had been hauled into his superior's office while a detective. He had always worked on the edge, in a shady area where investigative procedures were more questionable. That dubious ability meant he flourished following his transfer into the murky world of undercover. It also resulted in even more complaints, mainly from colleagues bemoaning his unorthodox methods. Sam cared little for protocol, and he wasn't going to change now just because he was working in the private sector.

However, this time he shook his head, puzzled. He didn't know what Jackson was on about.

'Apparently, you were snooping around-'

Then it came to him.

'Oh, you mean Joe Sale's place?'

'That's it,' nodded Jackson. 'Mr Sale isn't a very happy man. He said you wandered around his property and hassled him about his recently deceased grandfather.'

Sam looked out the window. The sun was burning fiercely now.

'How did you know it was me?' he asked.

'We traced the car registration number. So, what's the story?'

Sam thought back to earlier that morning. He couldn't deny he had been pretty intense. Desperate, almost.

'I was investigating a case.'

'Would you like to elaborate on that a bit further?'

Sam actually gave serious thought to doing just that. Jackson seemed a reasonable guy. It was most likely he would treat Sam's suspicions about the two deaths seriously. However, the threat to Benjamin was too realistic. He couldn't take the chance.

'No can do,' he replied. 'Client confidentiality, I'm afraid.'

Jackson studied Sam with a thin smile. His curiosity was apparent. However, both men knew the score. A crime hadn't been committed, therefore Sam didn't have to give up anything.

'Okay, Sam, we'll leave it at that. But, please, stay away from Joe Sale's home.'

Sam gave him a contrite look.

'No need to worry, Detective. I've got no intention of going back there. Now, what's this news you've got?'

Jackson pulled a face.

'Richard Brown was spotted this morning...well, more than spotted...he was chased...'

'Come again?'

'Patrol officers saw him in a car...a stolen car...a mile or so from the Barton Arms. Brown lost them when he ditched the car and started running.'

'Where was he last seen?' asked Sam.

'Along the beachfront,' sighed Jackson, exasperated. 'He mingled in with the crowds and that was it...he was gone. Our man is proving to be one difficult individual to pin down.'

Sam thought of his own futile endeavours recently.

He knew exactly how the detective felt.

As soon as Jackson left, Sam retrieved the piece of paper from his jacket pocket and went into his office. He laid the sheet out on his desk and studied it. A list, spread over six lines. Two words per line. Dunker was the second word on one of the lines. That had to be Billy Dunker. Sam presumed the rest were also names.

Six names on a piece of paper.

A piece of paper found where Sam had grappled with the man. They had hit the floor and rolled uncontrollably. The sheet must have fallen out of the man's pocket during the tussle. Both of them had left the scene unaware.

He scrutinised the paper closer.

One name.

Five to go.

The combination of dried mud and blurred ink meant he could only pick out odd letters. It was like a puzzle game. Fill in the blanks. Two of the names began with the letter G. Sam had to presume one of them was Geoffrey's name. If that was the case, he had the names of two deceased men in Newgate. The last entry in the list was almost entirely covered by mud. Sam figured that could be Erica Wright's name, which would make three of the group of friends. Sam looked at the available letters again and shook his head. Marjorie's name didn't fit any of them. Still, he appeared to have in his hands a list of local people, all from the same generation. It gave Sam the creeps. He needed to find out more, but from where?

School.

They had all been in the same class. He could match the random letters off this piece of paper with the names in a school photo. He gave Benjamin a ring on his mobile.

'Benjamin, which school did your father go to?'

Sam could hear intrigue in Benjamin's voice. The bluntness and energy of the call had taken him by surprise.

'He went to St Josephs. It was one whole school then. Infants, Juniors and Seniors. It's still there today. Why are you-'

'No time, Benjamin. I'll be in touch.'

Sam got on the internet and discovered St Josephs Secondary had their own website. The school proudly proclaimed itself the oldest educational establishment still standing in Newgate, but there was little else about its history on the site. There were no class photos. No stories from yesteryear told by former students. Perhaps it was a security thing. Sam wasn't giving in. There had to be something.

He noticed a list of contacts and gave the school secretary a ring, holding out little hope for an answer. How many school secretaries went in on a Sunday?

Well, this one did.

St Josephs' secretary answered the phone with a jaunty tilt in her voice, as though she was constantly on the verge of laughter. The school had just broken up for the summer holidays, and she was in tying up a few loose ends before the long break. Sam explained who he was and told her he was tracing someone's family ancestry. To his surprise, she told him she might be able to help.

If he could just get down to the school within the next half hour...

Sam made it in fifteen minutes. He showed the secretary his badge and retold his story about two local residents who had hired him to research their family histories. They wanted the venture to be carried out locally, not online through some impersonal computer system. The secretary nodded earnestly. What did he have to go on? Not a lot, replied Sam. Just the name of the school and a couple of pupils from seven decades ago. Sam was reluctant to show her the piece of paper in his pocket. The secretary raised her eyebrows and gave him a thoughtful smile. Sam watched her walk over to a bookshelf and pull out a large, leather-bound photo album. She held it out in front of her and blew on the cover, sending a small cloud of dusty cobwebs flying into the air.

'The albums are in fifty year blocks. This one is for the first half of the twentieth century, 1900-1949. We've been keeping yearly pictorial records of our pupils ever since 1863, you know.'

Sat there with a fixed smile on his face, Sam was impressed. He would be absolutely overjoyed if the woman would stop talking and give him the damn thing to look at.

'We've got every class photo, from every year, going back...'

Sam let her drone on. Her enthusiasm for the school and its history knew no bounds. Eventually, she ran out of steam and handed the book over. Sam was taken by the sheer weight of it, this historical tome carrying so much potential significance to present events. The secretary got up out of her chair.

'Here, use my desk if you want. Would you like a drink?'

Sam told her he would absolutely love one, talking in a voice that had never sounded so parched. As soon he heard cups rattling in the adjoining kitchen, he flicked through the pages of the album until his eyes rested on the one he wanted. The class of 1941, a black and white memento taken during the final school term. Sam scanned the picture, studying the rows of proud, upright teenagers about to embark on their journey into the wider world. He immediately picked out Geoffrey Compton at the back, his features recognisable from the later photos found in the chest at his cottage. At the other end of the group, next row down, Sam recognised his future wife, Marjorie.

Sam had the right picture.

He took his camera out and snapped a quick picture. Then he put it away and looked at the names underneath the photo. In the front row was Erica Wright. Sam ran his finger along the line of seated children until it came to rest on Erica. Those same twinkling, mischievous eyes peered back at him from a youthful, delicate face. Sam suddenly felt very humble, glad to have known the woman, even for the tiniest fraction of her life.

He found Billy Dunker, far right in the middle row, a short boy with rather large teeth. Sam was alarmed by the nagging sensation he had seen the face before. Now, how could that be? Joe Sale was standing right behind Billy in the photo. Even in this old, fading picture, Sam could see the resemblance to his grandson. He was suddenly struck by a slight tinge of sadness. These young people, still no more than children, their lives full of hope and promise. He wondered how many were still alive. Hopefully, he would find at least one.

Sam took out the piece of paper from his pocket and examined the scattered letters again. The name at the top of the list revealed only its first three letters clearly.
G-E-O.
Sam looked along the names under the photo. He already had Geoffrey Compton. Here it was, second row. George Howell. It was the only other possible match. Now, he had three for definite.

Geoffrey Compton, Billy Dunker, George Howell.

He needed to find out more about Billy and George. As for the other three names on the list, Sam was still certain the bottom one was Erica Wright. He couldn't get anywhere with the other two, the few letters he had of their names not matching any of those in the class photo. Sam could only think they were friends from somewhere else. Another school, perhaps?

The secretary returned carrying drinks.

'How are you getting on?' she asked.

Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He didn't want to divulge too many details.

'Well, I've tracked down a name or two. Were there any other schools in Newgate in the early forties?'

The secretary shook her head immediately.

'No, this was the only one. Newgate was only a small town back then. It wasn't until ten years later that people really discovered it and started moving here in big numbers.'

***

'Mrs Dunker. Pleased to meet you.'

Greta Dunker had a large blanket over her, despite the stifling heat permeating throughout her house. Her tiny body looked lost in the armchair, highlighted by the fact her head was the only visible part Sam could see. She was studying him like a hawk watching its prey, sharp eyes never once deviating away from its target. She was also clearly losing her marbles.

'What's your name again?' she screeched.

Sam gave her the same false name and story for the third time since his arrival five minutes ago. A newspaper reporter researching Newgate before it became the popular resort of today.

'What do you want to know about that for?'

Sam sighed in response to the shrill question. Finding Billy Dunker's wife had been easy. Too easy. A look in the phone book, a quick call, and here she was. Now the mad old hatter was going to balance it up.

'People are interested in that sort of thing, Mrs Dunker. They want to know about the history of Newgate...how people lived years ago.'

Mrs Dunker screwed up her nose as though something foul had just dropped on her lap.

'Can't see why,' she said, her eyes widening for some unknown reason. 'I lived through it, and I didn't find it interesting.'

This brought on a wild cackle of laughter. Sam shook his head. He needed to get to the point before he lost his own sanity.

'And your husband?' he asked.

The inane laughter stopped, replaced by a scathing look.

'What about him? Useless lump of-'

'What was he like?'

Apparently, Billy Dunker was the most worthless, laziest excuse of a man ever to walk the planet. Sam took this with a huge dollop of salt. Of more interest to him was Mrs Dunker's account of her husband's death four years ago. How he had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck while she was at her day care centre. How the silly old sod had never so much as tripped up before in his life.

***

Sam left deep in thought. Billy Dunker had fallen to his death. Geoffrey had committed suicide. Erica appeared to have been literally frightened to death. None of these replicated the slipping away of life so common at the end of elderly people's lives. There was too much violence. Too much suspicion.

What was Sam investigating here? Some kind of pensioner hit list? Somebody with a grudge against Geoffrey and his friends? It didn't make sense. The main suspect was a man half their ages.

George Howell was next on his list. This was the man Sam knew the least about so far. All he had was the picture of him in the school photo, tallied up with the partial name on the piece of paper. Fortunately, George Howell, ex-pupil of St Josephs, had been a minor celebrity in the area, running businesses in the town, even standing for mayor later in life. Sam was able to read numerous articles on him from archive material on the web. That wasn't all. As a former mayor, his funeral service had been recorded on film. Sam played the footage of the slow, respectful parade weaving its way through Newgate. The year was 1992. Sam went back and viewed the reports surrounding George's death. A multiple pile-up on the motorway caused by a lorry driver falling asleep at the wheel. Skidding in the hazardous weather conditions. Bringing carnage to the road as he fought with his runaway truck. Sam stared at the related pictures, scenes of twisted metal in the snow. The lorry driver survived and received a paltry sentence. George Howell died at the scene.

Sam switched off his laptop. That morbid news had scuppered his theory somewhat. George Howell's death could hardly be described as suspicious. It was an anomaly on the list. Three fairly recent deaths, all highly questionable, and now this.

It didn't fit in.