‘The Chatsworth Hotel,’ said Oswald, ‘and then I want you to wait for me. I want to go on to Worthing police station.’
The drive wasn’t far and he liked what little he saw of the town. There weren’t many people about, probably because of the weather. Most were hunched under umbrellas or keeping under the large blue blinds pulled down in front of almost every shop which sheltered shoppers from the rain. The taxi turned by the pier where the Christmas panto was in full swing and then along the sea front for a short while. His attention was caught by the fishing boats on the beach, their bright triangular flags tugging at the long poles which secured them. He spotted a blackboard with ‘Fresh fish for sale’, but the rain had made the chalk run and there was no sign of customers. As his taxi turned the corner, he passed a few people, huddled under a shelter, looking anxiously up the street as they waited for the bus. The taxi drew up and the doorman called for a young boy who ran down the steps to take his bags.
‘Will you be staying long, sir?’ the receptionist enquired as he checked in.
Oswald shrugged. ‘Not sure.’
At the police station he was met by the newly promoted Detective Sergeant Nyman, who, immediately after he had introduced himself, took him into an interview room. The room was windowless and smelled stale. Oswald was trembling as he lit a cigarette and sat down. The DS had followed him in and put a brown folder onto the table between them.
‘I’ll get straight to the point, sir,’ said Nyman. ‘I don’t suppose you want me to keep you in suspense.’
He laid a photograph on the table and turned it around so that the subject was facing Oswald. Oswald took a deep breath and looked down but he could not prevent a sound of anguish escaping his lips. He screwed up his eyes and began to rock slightly. Then he took a long drag of the cigarette and looked up at the ceiling. He could feel the tears filling his eyes and his nose. He swallowed hard. When he looked back at Nyman, out of respect for him the detective sergeant had turned the picture over and was looking away. Oswald fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. He cleared his throat and said the words he wished with all his heart he didn’t have to say. ‘Yes, that’s my son. That’s George.’
As if on cue, the door opened and a fresh-faced constable came in with two cups of tea. He put them silently onto the table and Oswald watched the cup in front of him wobble slightly, spilling some tea in the saucer. His mind was in a fog. He would never see his son again. How was he going to tell Mildred? What the devil was the boy doing here in the first place?
As the constable left the room, Oswald cleared his throat again. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Coming up for two years ago, sir.’
Oswald looked up sharply. ‘Two years? Two bloody years. My boy has been dead all that time and you didn’t tell me?’
For the first time, Nyman heard the soft South African lilt in his voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It took us some time to locate you and I’m afraid the South African police were more than a little slow in replying. We wanted to make completely sure of the facts before we asked you to come all this way.’
Oswald nodded sagely.
‘Do you want me to tell you everything, sir?’ Nyman began again. ‘It’s not exactly pleasant.’
Oswald nodded. ‘I’d appreciate your candour.’
‘It took some while to find out who he was,’ Nyman explained. ‘The body was in an advanced state of decomposition so he had to be formally identified by dental records. That photograph comes from the local paper. They did a feature on the new factory and your son was pictured working the machine.’ He paused, anxious that the man in front of him had no colour in his face. ‘Do you want me to go on, sir?’
Oswald took a gulp of the scalding tea and nodded. ‘I want to know everything, Detective, er …’
‘Detective Sergeant Nyman. I was the DC on the case when we found the body. Detective Inspector Chester was in charge.’
The name was meaningless to Oswald. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Your son was working in a knitwear factory,’ said Nyman.
‘Not very exciting.’ Oswald sucked his bottom lip. ‘What happened?’
‘He was found in the cold room of a disused factory. There was an inquest but because of lack of evidence …’ he opened his hands as a gesture of incomprehension, ‘as to how he got locked in there and why, and the state of the body … the coroner returned an open verdict.’
Silence drifted between them as Oswald picked up the photograph again. It was definitely his son. He was side on to the camera and concentrating on the machine he was working. Oswald rubbed his thumb over the boy’s face and his chest grew tight. He was only twenty-six, he thought. That’s no life, no life at all.
‘Do you want me to carry on, sir?’
Oswald cleared his throat again. He liked this man. He was kind, sensitive, and respectful. ‘Yes.’
‘We carried out extensive enquiries. Your son was seeing a local girl but no one is sure who she is. She’s never come forward and anyway we have no reason to believe she is in any way implicated in your son’s death.’
‘What about the other people in the factory?’
Nyman consulted his notes. He had been part of the investigation for the first two days, that was all. Inspector Chester had bumped him off the case for some reason he couldn’t quite remember now, but they didn’t get on anyway. ‘We interviewed the owner,’ he said, ‘but he was unable to shed any light on the subject.’ Smarmy-looking bastard, he remembered.
‘I should like to talk to him myself,’ said Oswald.
‘I don’t think there’s anything to be gained,’ said Nyman, but seeing Oswald’s determined face, added, ‘Having said that, I’m sure Mr Finley would be happy to help in any way he could.’
‘What sort of chap is he?’
Nyman shrugged. ‘He’s a well-respected employer and property owner in the town. What you might call the very model of an Englishman.’
Oswald stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m staying at the Chatsworth Hotel for a few days. Now that I am certain that it really is George, I must go back and fetch my wife from South Africa. She’s an invalid. She can’t travel alone.’ He paused. ‘You said my son was buried. Where?’
‘Offington cemetery,’ said Nyman. ‘I’m afraid he has an unmarked grave.’
‘I intend to alter that as soon as my wife gets here. Where was he living?’
‘109 Pavilion Road. He was lodging with a Mrs Kerr.’
‘And what happened to his things?’
Nyman consulted his notes again. After much flicking through papers, he was none the wiser. ‘I’ll check on that for you, sir.’ He hoped Mr Matthews hadn’t noticed that his face was flushed with embarrassment.
The two men stood up and shook hands. ‘Can I keep this photograph?’
‘I’m afraid this one is police property, sir, but I am sure the
Worthing Herald
would be pleased to accommodate you with a copy.’
Oswald looked at it for one last time. The boy looked more at peace with himself after his dreadful experiences during the war. His hair was pushed back and tidy. Oswald longed to make it flop in the same way as it had when he was a lad. He sighed. The last time he’d seen his son was in 1945, soon after the war ended, when he’d travelled with them to Southampton to see them off. Mildred needed to be in a warmer climate and they had seized the opportunity to go to South Africa. They had begged their son to go with them but he’d said he had some unfinished business to attend to, something to do with that damned war, Oswald supposed. But it wasn’t that memory which filled his mind. All he could see was a tousle-haired little boy with a dirty face and a runny nose. He was holding up a jam jar full of tiddlers by a piece of string. ‘Look, Dad. Look what I’ve got.’
Oswald swayed and Nyman grabbed his arm.
‘I’m all right,’ Oswald said huskily as he steadied himself.
‘Tell you what, sir,’ said Nyman. ‘I’ll see if I can get you a copy.’
Oswald nodded and walked out of the room. After a year of fruitless searching, he’d found his only son. What irony. George had made it all though that damned war only to end up on the floor of a cold room in this god-forsaken seaside town. And for what? Nyman had been kind enough but Oswald needed to know what had happened. Until he did, he could never rest. They had rung for a taxi and as soon as it arrived, he thanked the police officers and went outside. As soon as he felt able to, he would find as many people as possible who knew George. But there was no need to rush for now. He didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish before his wife came over. He felt in no fit state to ask questions and besides, he couldn’t trust his emotions. For the sake of George’s memory, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of strangers. First of all, he’d have to tell Mildred. She’d be devastated. God, what a bloody thing to happen. He’d have to travel back to South Africa and fetch her of course. Then they’d come back and bury their dear boy with dignity.
Norris was bored. What he wanted was a bit of excitement. He picked up a letter left on his drinks table. It had a Worthing postmark and the address was typed. He tore it open but then the two phone calls came one after the other and right out of the blue. The first was from Major Freeman, chairman of the cricket club.
‘Been thinking, Finley,’ he told Norris. ‘Your family has been in Worthing for donkey’s years. Fine, upstanding, useful members of the community. Remember your father. Bloody fine officer. Could have done with more of his ilk in the last bloody show. Damned shame he died so young. Anyway, got to thinking. Have you ever thought of running for office?’
Norris stared blankly out of his office window.
‘Thing is, old boy,’ the major went on, ‘the council could do with some new blood. Someone to get things done. Popular man like you could rustle up a few votes quite easily. Anyway, think about it and get back to me, will you? I’m sure I could drum up some support to get you on the borough council. Who knows where that might lead in a few years, eh, what?’
By the time he had put the receiver down, Norris’s imagination was already working overtime. He’d been thinking about running for office for some time. Just never got around to it, that was all. He could just picture himself in mayoral robes. He’d have his portrait painted and hung in the town hall. Of course he’d have no problem in getting votes. He was still young. Women liked him and he could call in a few favours when the time came. He wished his father were still alive. How he would have loved to say, ‘Look at me, Pa. You never thought I’d amount to much but I’m a really important man in this town now. How wrong can you be? You always favoured my brother over me. You never gave
me
a sports car for my twenty-first.’ Norris gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white. Bloody unfair, that’s what it was. But perhaps it was just as well after all. He might have gone and got himself killed too. Right now, he was very much alive and on his way at last. Mayor of Worthing … It had a nice ring to it. Cllr Norris Finley, Mayor of Worthing. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. His only problem was that public office inevitably led to public scrutiny.
He’d successfully buried much of his past. In the thirties, when Mosley came to the Pavilion for his meetings, he’d spent many an evening writing Fascist slogans all over Worthing. He’d signed them ‘P.J.’ and there had been speculation for years as to who P.J. was. Nobody guessed it was him. It was the one time all those gruelling Latin lessons had come in useful.
Perficio justicia
– perfect justice, that’s what it meant.
He’d never actually joined the Blackshirts because he found crowds of people intimidating, but he had attended the rallies,usually slipping in at the back and moving on at the first sign of trouble.
The only thorn in his flesh at the moment was this blasted Fair Rents panel. They had insisted that all of his tenants have a proper rent book and he had to agree to a much reduced rate for some properties. He’d been furious, vowing to fight them all the way. He would have done too, but this changed everything. Now he needed to impress people with his generosity. Damn and blast it. He’d have to get onto his collectors and tell them to issue the books. The panel hadn’t offered to buy the books, so that would be another expense.
Of course, he’d have to get rid of Grace once and for all. He hadn’t bothered to use her lately; he had another dainty little morsel on the go, but he had planned to get back to her later on when the new girl began to bore him. Pity he had to let Grace go. He hadn’t meant for it to happen but he liked being with her. She’d been unwilling at first but he’d soon sorted that. Now she wanted it as much as he did, gagging for it, he was sure of that.
He stood in front of his desk and admired his reflection in the office door. He was still an attractive man and women flocked to men in power. They said Il Duce used to wave to the crowds on the balcony, step back into his office and take one of his secretaries on the floor, and then go back out and enjoy the adulation of the crowds again. There were three little balconies on the front of Worthing Town Hall, but he’d never seen them in use, more’s the pity. Perhaps he could get them opened up when he was mayor.
When he was mayor
– he liked the sound of that.
The second telephone call came as the most appalling shock. It was from Detective Sergeant Nyman.
‘You’ll be relieved to hear that we have had a relative come forward to claim the body of George Matthews.’
Norris hardly dared to breathe.
‘It’s his father,’ the DS went on.
‘Why on earth didn’t he come forward before?’ demanded Norris. He cleared his throat. His voice was high with panic.
‘It’s taken us all this time to trace him,’ said the DS. ‘It turns out that he lives in South Africa.’
Norris lowered himself into a chair. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Apparently the boy’s mother is an invalid,’ Nyman continued. ‘Mr Matthews has gone back to South Africa so that he can accompany his wife back here. They must have more money than sense if you ask me.’