The Plantagenet Vendetta (6 page)

The DG of MI5 was speechless. Leaving the subterranean prison cell after seeking to question the occupant, he walked quickly alongside the smartly dressed officer, doing his best to ignore the unsettling sound of manic laughter coming from behind the bars.

“That tears it,” the DG said, keeping his eyes in front of him at all times. “Let the King have his wish.”

Standing in the windswept grounds of the palace, the young man felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Father.”

The older man smiled. Like his son, he was dressed for the occasion.

“Come inside. When you’re ready, your uncle would like a word.”

8

Twenty minutes later, Jen had established a reasonably solid body of information about the late, and largely unlamented, Luke Rankin, and the supposedly late, and widely mourned, Debra Harrison. She had spent over a tenner and lost almost half of her chips, but the result was worth it.

From what she had gathered, Debra Harrison had been something of an outgoing sort: a smiling child and a smiling teenager, a friend to all and enemy to none. As a cute little girl with pigtails, she had been something of a darling among the villagers, particularly the elderly. As her breasts got larger, so did her male fan base, according to the barflies, including a few who really shouldn’t have been. Her initial aim had been to work in fashion – don’t they all at that age, Jen thought – whereas, according to Gavin, the new craze was to be a photographer and journalist.

At least that agreed with the official stance, the words of her mother a year earlier.

The word on Rankin was more interesting. The boy died just shy of eighteen, his death purported to be suicide. Unlike Harrison, Rankin had been something of a lonely child, who had endured an unhappy childhood – particularly at St Joseph’s. His father had died when he was eleven. According to Gavin, he was a man of similar tendencies to his son, whereas, according to Brian, he had been well regarded in the local community. Though Jen had decided to keep an open mind about Gavin’s claim that the father had committed suicide, she had come to the conclusion that Hancock was the more open-minded of the two.

Despite Rankin’s difficulties, it appeared the boy was more than competent. If Hancock was correct, Rankin was even set for university. Harrison, being two years younger, would have been staying on at St Joseph’s to do her A-levels.

Jen looked through her notes, finished her Coke, and ordered another from Mitchell. She rewarded her witnesses with two more pints of Abbot Ale, and each man a bag of pork scratchings.

Jen fiddled with her hair. “Okay, so let me get this straight: Debra and Rankin were not good friends.”

Hancock tasted his latest pint and wiped white froth from his upper lip. “They knew each other; like I say, everyone in Wootton knows each other, but they definitely weren’t friends.”

Hancock seemed pretty certain.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, for a start, Rankin were two year older. For the most part, they were at separate schools.”

“Were they ever at the same school?”

Hancock shrugged. “You’d have to ask the teachers.”

She intended to. “How well did they know each other?”

“I’d guess hardly at all. People like Luke Rankin don’t hang about with people like Debra Harrison.”

She detected snobbery in his tone. “You mean because Debra was pretty?”

“Aye, she were definitely that, but not just that: Debra were popular, even the girls went crazy for her.”

“Did Debra have a boyfriend?” Jen had never heard one mentioned before.

“Not that I’m aware. Not that she lacked admirers, mind.”

“Any casuals? Dates? Anything like that?”

Hancock shrugged. “Well, now that you mention it, there was this one fella. Wasn’t really a boyfriend as such.”

“Go on.”

“She were quite good friends with the Rat’s nephew.”

“The Rat?”

“Aye, see that’s what we call him: Richard Ratcliffe, or Lord Richard, I should say. He’s something of a bigwig round these parts.”

Ratcliffe, Ratcliffe: she had seen the name a few times already. The church and the graveyard had been full of Ratcliffes.

Ratcliffes and Catesbys.

“So who is this Lord Ratcliffe?”

“He lives in one of those big mansions,” Hancock said, gesturing with his hands. “You know that footpath what heads off down by the church?”

She guessed he was referring to the same one she had seen Catesby heading toward earlier.

She nodded.

“Follow that, and you come to a lane. He lives down one of those. Lived there for years, his family has.”

Jen allowed the information a moment to sink in. “Tell me about his nephew.”

“Nothing to tell, really. I haven’t seen him for yonks.”

“Yonks? What happened to him?”

“He went away,” Gavin said, his first comment for a while. Almost immediately he returned to his pint.

“Where?”

Brian delayed his answer, distracted as the outside door opened. “Ey up, you can ask him yourself.”

Jen turned, her eyes on the door. A smartly dressed gentleman had entered. He wore a black overcoat that matched the colour of his hair, a white scarf, and shoes so well polished that they practically sparkled. A vibrant smile shone from between his shaven chin and bushy moustache.

“Evening, Lord Richard,” a bald man said from his position by a booth near the door.

“Ah, how do, young Michael. How’s that trouble and strife?”

The man named Michael raised his beer as a salute.

“Good evening, Mr Ratcliffe, sir,” the next man on said.

“Ey up, Billy lad. Ey, I just saw your missus; she was just finishing with the butcher – or maybe it was his assistant.”

The man laughed at his own joke, as did the others. Watching from the bar, the first thing that Jen noticed was how the man attracted attention, as if a switch had been flicked.

He headed straight for the counter, less than a couple of metres from Jen, and removed his scarf, placing it on the bar by the till.

“How do, Lord Richard?” Hancock asked.

“Ah, how do, Brian lad? Good result for City, wasn’t it? I mean they only lost six-nil.”

Jen laughed, failing to control herself. The man’s charisma was contagious.

“I say, who’s this pretty young thing sitting next to you?”

“This is Miss Farrelly,” Brian said.

“She’s the one with the Picanto,” Gavin said.

“A Picanto?”

“Don’t start,” Mitchell said, appearing behind the bar. “We’ll be here till bleeding Christmas.”

Jen smiled, silently relieved.

“It’s a car,” she said.

“Is it really?” Ratcliffe replied. “Well, in that case, I’ll have a pint of the best Abbot’s for moi, two pints of your second-best Abbot’s for Brian and Gavin, something stifling for Sir William, and a sticker for the Picanto,” the man said, laughing. “Oh, and, of course, whatever Miss Farrelly’s drinking?”

Jen smiled. “Just a Coke, thank you.”

“Just a Coke, thank you,” Ratcliffe said.

“Can I take one for myself?” Mitchell asked.

“Cor, it never bloody rains, does it? Alright then, Harvey, if you must.”

“Ta very much.”

Ratcliffe searched his pockets for change and began to count it in his hand. “Never seen you around these parts before, Miss Farrelly.”

“I’m just here for a few days on business.”

“Oh, I see; what kind of business are you in?”

Jen hesitated. “I work in television.”

“Oh, super.”

“Jen is here to film a documentary,” Hancock said.

“Is that right? What you here to film? A wildlife show?”

“It’s a documentary on the disappearance,” Gavin said.

Jen grimaced. She felt as if she could have throttled him.

Ratcliffe was confused. Then his expression changed. “The disappearance. Oh, yes, I’m with you. Poor Debra Harrison. Oh, why do such things happen to the young?”

Mitchell reappeared with three pints of Abbot Ale and the Coke. “Anything else?”

“Just the usual for William.”

Mitchell picked up a glass before turning his attention to the brandies that occupied three shelves behind the bar. “I didn’t realise he was in tonight.”

“I just got off the blower to him; he’s on his way down now.”

Mitchell poured a single brandy and placed it down on the bar. No sooner had he collected the money, the door opened.

“Ey up, speak of the devil.”

Jen watched the door as the newest arrival made his way inside. As expected, it was the same man she had met earlier that day in the graveyard.

“Ey up, it’s the Cat,” Hancock said.

Catesby smiled wryly. “That’s Sir William to you, Mr Hancock.”

“You’re quite right,” Brian replied. “Let me buy you a drink, Sir William.”

“Oh, I wish you’d have volunteered a minute ago; that way, I need not have bothered,” Ratcliffe said.

Catesby approached the bar and picked up his brandy. He downed it in one and replaced the glass on the counter.

“Ahhh.”

Two seats along, Hancock’s enthusiasm had faded. “Same again, please, Harvey lad.”

Mitchell raised his eyebrows before turning to refill the glass.

Brian fidgeted for change. “We don’t often see gentlemen of your status down here in the common part of the moors.”

“Tell you the truth, there was nothing good on the telly,” said Ratcliffe. “Every single channel was nothing but politics – there’s nothing I hate more than bleeding politics.”

The comment made Jen laugh. As soon as he had said it, she recognised him.

“Hang on a minute. Now I know who you are. You used to be chancellor!”

She couldn’t believe it was the same man.

Former Chancellor of the Exchequer and Democrat Party MP, Richard, now Lord, Ratcliffe.

“Oh yeah, back in the boom years – and a Democrat government.” He looked at Catesby. “This is Miss Farrelly.”

Catesby nodded. “Ah, yes, the girl from the graveyard.”

Jen forced a smile.

Not the one with the Picanto.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes, thank you. I really liked your dog.”

“That’s the one unique thing about Wootton, Miss Farrelly,” Hancock said. “It must be the only place in England where you see a Cat walking a dog.”

Hancock’s joke got a grin from Jen and a boisterous laugh from Ratcliffe. Catesby remained purposely firm.

“I’m guessing that’s your Picanto parked outside.”

“Did you see it?” Hancock asked earnestly. “What did it look like?”

“Now that you mention it, it looks just like a Picanto,” Catesby said.

“You’re kidding?” Ratcliffe said. “A Picanto that looks like a Picanto. By gum.”

Jen smiled, shaking her head. Six years had passed since leaving Nottinghamshire. She’d forgotten how much she missed the northern banter.

Catesby sipped his second brandy. “Come on then, Richard. Let’s find ourselves a nice table, away from all the riffraff.”

Ratcliffe picked up his pint. “Aye, I think we’ve been pleasant long enough. Good evening to you, Miss Farrelly.”

Jen shook Ratcliffe’s hand as the former Chancellor of the Exchequer made his way through a large archway, heading into the heart of the bar area.

“He’s much more down-to-earth in real life,” Jen said. “Why do you call him the Rat?”

“It’s short for Ratcliffe,” Mitchell said.

“It’s all to do with history,” Brian added. “The village goes back a long way; most of them from the old side of the village can trace their ancestors back to the Middle Ages.”

“The old side?”

“Aye. Everything this side of the river is the old side. Or the posh side as we call it.”

The comment intrigued her. As a history student, Jen was aware that a William Catesby, Richard Ratcliffe and Francis Lovell had been prominent statesmen during the reign of Richard III. She thought back to earlier that day, particularly the cloisters of the church. Many of the windows were concerned with that period of history.

She knew that Yorkshiremen were always proud of their history.

Her mind began to wander. Ratcliffe’s nephew had been a friend of Debra Harrison; perhaps they had been even more than friends. The Ratcliffes were clearly a family of prominence in these parts, the head of the current generation particularly high profile. She wondered what had happened to the nephew. Ideally she wanted to interview him, see if he could shed any light on Debra Harrison’s last days – assuming, of course, she was dead.

Should that fail, an interview with the man’s uncle could surely do no harm.

Had the last election gone the other way, the man could well have been the current Prime Minister.