Extract 1:Part 1-England
1 Two heavy blows on the same day
It was January. In England it was freezing. In Italy, as in Greece, it was a bright fresh day. In Egypt it was already warm and promising to be hot.
In this month, and for most of the year, a whole series of significant events would occur in each of these very different countries.
Charles John, in Shoreham, near Brighton, was feeling terrible. An aerodynamicist and wing designer, he had only been at Wren Light Aircraft for about six months, but he had found the little aircraft company a really enjoyable place to work. And now Wren was bankrupt, and Charles was unemployed.
Bill Jones, the boss of Wren, had called all his staff into the canteen on that cold January afternoon and told them, very sadly, that they were all unemployed, with immediate effect.
Charles, tall, with dark curly hair that tended to flop on to his forehead, his handsome face bleak, was bundled up to the ears in a padded jacket to protect him from the biting wind, so that his wiry physique was well disguised. He unlocked his prototype hybrid car, the Streak, scraped the snow off his windscreen, and drove slowly out of the Wren car park.
His mother answered the telephone in Bridport.
'Tough news, I'm afraid, Mum,' he said. 'We've just had a meeting, and it seems that Wren is bankrupt. So I'm unemployed, as of now in fact. Do you still want to come for the weekend? I'd be glad of your company, obviously, and the weather forecast is reasonable. How is Dad? Fit to drive?'
Detective Sergeant Amanda Davenport had spent a difficult day trying to talk down a junkie high on crack from a tower block parapet. Eventually successful but emotionally drained, when she finally got home she had, gritting her teeth, gone for her daily run around the park.
Amanda was tall, fit, and kept herself in good trim. She could have been thought beautiful, but her expression, serious to the point of forbidding, made her look more impressive than attractive. A complicated history had brought her into the Sussex police force, where degrees in Psychology, Psychotherapy, a Diploma in Counselling and reasonable command of four European languages made her highly valued but, according to the official letter she had received that morning, still not promotable. Her mobile shrilled, and she scowled as she saw the caller's number.
'I'm feeding the kids, Dave.'
Detective Inspector Dave Watson was her immediate boss, and knew how upset and disappointed she was. He had received a copy of her latest rejection letter before she did, in fact.
'Sorry about the glass ceiling, Amanda, and disturbing you at home, but we've got a nasty little job to do which won't wait, apparently. Can I pick you up in ten minutes? Uniforms and hats, I'm afraid. I'll brief you in the car.'
Charles had installed a steel beam in the roof of his garage workshop, on which he had hung a chain block lifting system, with which he had already removed the offending set of lead acid batteries. The chain block was not all that easy to use, and very noisy, but it was at least cheap, he thought, as he rattled away at the operating chain, and good exercise too. The chain block rattled again as the weight of the new battery set was taken, and Charles had just reconnected the electronics and power cables when he heard a thunderous banging on his front door.
'Whoever it is must have been pressing the bell while I was making such a racket,' he mused, as he went to open his front door.
He was therefore surprised and rather alarmed to see two uniformed police officers outside the door. He opened the door, and looked expectantly at his visitors.
'I'm Detective Inspector David Watson,' the older of the two said, presenting his warrant card. 'And this is Detective Sergeant Amanda Davenport. May we come in?'
'Well, unless I'm being arrested for drug dealing, this is almost certainly bad news. Yes, by all means, come in.'
'It is bad news, I'm afraid,' said Watson, after sitting heavily down. 'Please do sit down yourself? You are Mr Charles John?' Charles nodded silently.
'We've had a fax from Chichester police, saying that a Ford Mondeo, registered to Mr. and Mrs. Philip John, registered number W5293UJL, was being driven on the A35 this evening. There was a completely unforecast heavy rain shower, downpour actually, and at approximately 18.45 hours the car went out of control and crashed into a tree. Both occupants were killed instantly. You're listed as their next of kin, you see.'
A chill ran up Charles spine. 'Who was driving?' He asked tonelessly.
'It says here that Mrs. John was driving.'
'But look here, it was dry in Bridport, according to my Mum, and it's still dry here?'
There was a long silence.
'According to the Met Office a high moisture content unstable air mass developed. As a result there was a sudden downpour, completely unpredicted and quite localised. D'you remember that fellow, Fish was it, who said there definitely wasn't going to be a hurricane, and then there was? And while your mother was unsighted, probably struggling with the wipers, she ran onto a stretch of road covered in farmers' muck, which the rain had turned into a skating rink. End of story, I'm afraid,' said Watson.
'Sorry. Stupid thing to say. The car is a complete write off, and has been taken for forensic examination. Your parents have been taken to a big national funeral director company that works closely with the police in Bridport, although they confirm that they also have an office here in Shoreham. However, we shall need you to go down to Bridport anyway for identification purposes, and you will I am sure need to spend some time down there going through papers, wills and so on. I can't tell you how sorry we are to be the bearers of such bad tidings.'
'I'm trained in bereavement counselling,' said Amanda, speaking for the first time. Tall, slender and serious, she wore her fair hair scraped back into an old-fashioned bun.
'Now look,' he said. 'Who is the designated driver between you two?'
'Might it be helpful if I were to talk to your wife, because this is obviously going to be a terrible shock to her as well?'
'Well,' said Charles. 'My wife is actually at the moment driving north as fast as she can to stay with her parents in Harrogate. Heard the news about Wren on her car radio, and didn't even wait until I got home. Not, I'm afraid, a marriage made in heaven.
Sergeant Davenport pulled the keys to the police car out of her uniform pocket.
'Second question,' said Charles. 'What happens now? Are you off shift, or are you both going to work on into the small hours?'
'No,' said Watson. 'In answer to your question, Amanda's going to take me home to my wife after this. It's our last job of the day.'
'Well,' Charles said. 'Sergeant, can I suggest that you go out and switch off the blue flashing lights, because there are probably so many twitching lace curtains in this little suburban street that they'll be talking about it for weeks? And, Inspector, if you will join me in a Scotch and soda to help me take all this in, I would be very grateful.'
'I'd be honoured,' said Watson. 'And since I am technically off duty as of this minute, and I'm on my way home, I'll be most happy to keep you company.'
Sergeant Davenport came back in, and Charles said, rather shakily. 'Provided you'll confirm that you'll be driving him straight back home, I'm going to persuade Inspector Watson here to join me in a little Scotch. For you I have some very nice orange juice in the fridge that I squeezed this morning. Would you like some?'
'Freshly squeezed orange juice sounds fine,' she nodded, her expression still severe.
'I hope a drop of Scotch will help me,' said Charles. 'A bit, anyway. I loved them both very dearly, you know, not only poor old lush Dad. He was passed over for promotion so many times, because they found his practical talents too valuable to risk him in management. Can you believe that? And they were coming up here this evening to comfort me!'
He went into the kitchen and returned with a brimming glass of juice, which he ceremoniously offered to Amanda.
'Thanks,' she said shortly, her face still impassive. 'I can't tell you how awful this sort of thing is.'
'Look,' Charles said. 'I can't keep calling you by your ranks. So your name is Dave?'
'Yes,' said the big man. 'And this is Amanda.'
'Universally called Amanda, I must emphasize,' she said, still impassive. 'This juice is good. Thank you.'
Charles, feeling perhaps for the first time the full awfulness of the situation pressing down on him, walked, distraught, to the sideboard, and pulled out his bottle of Cardhu single malt whisky.
'This is my favourite,' he said. 'I hope you like it.'
They sat for a while, Charles feeling increasingly appalled and forlorn. Eventually they ran out of things to say, and the two police officers stood up in an uncomfortable silence.
'Well,' said Watson. 'We'd best be off, I suppose. Can't say how sorry I am…' He moved towards the door, looking almost as sad as Charles.
As the police officers were leaving Amanda called after the older man. Her partner came back into the hallway.
'Dave,' she said. 'As you've pointed out, Mr John has to go down to Bridport for identification purposes anyway, but then he'll also have to check through his parents' home, go through papers, talk with lawyers, arrange the funeral, and so on. All of it very stressful stuff. And I think you know that I have an ancient great aunt in a retirement home in Bridport, and I've been promising to visit her for weeks anyway. Would it make sense for me to go down there too, and then, if Mr John has problems, I might be able to help?'
'Good idea, I think,' said Dave Watson. 'You're highly trained and very capable, and he's not looking too good, after all. Sorry about that, Mr John. A double whammy, I think you could say, for anyone. The Cardhu was lovely, but no more tonight, if I may recommend? Amanda, civvies, I think?'
'I'll call you tomorrow, Mr John. May I call you Charles?' said Amanda, still not smiling, and when he nodded silently she closed the door quietly behind her.
2 Bridport first visit
The next morning, feeling awful, he trudged around the local park for a couple of miles, muttering and haranguing himself, drawing worried looks from an early dog walker. He tried to pull himself together before calling Sergeant Davenport.
'It's Charles John, still on for today?' he asked. His voice sounded strange to him, croaky and agonised.
'Of course,' she said. 'Look, I realise that this is the absolute worst moment for you. I'll make a Thermos of coffee and a few sandwiches and I'll stand over you while you get something into you. Not Scotch though,' she said warningly.
'Bottle's empty,' he said wretchedly. There was a pause. 'Well,' he said. 'I have to get down to Bridport to confirm identity. I'm not looking forward to that at all, although, as DI Dave said, the funeral directors will apparently do their best to 'tidy the bodies up', and then I'll need to connect with my parents' lawyers. And you have your great aunt to visit. Can I give you a lift? It seems silly to travel separately?'
'Sounds sensible,' she said. 'I'll walk round when I've made the coffee and sandwiches. I'll certainly be there when you do the identification, by the way. All of this is very stressful, and I understand that. I'll just throw some things into an overnight bag. Give me half an hour?'
'My parents' flat has a very comfortable spare room, if we need to stay overnight.' He paused. 'Two horrible things at once,' he said. 'Wren, and now this, all on the same day. I'll be very grateful for your help. I need to get through this somehow, and I don't think I'm at my best. Worst, actually, if you want to know the truth. I'm a bit worried about luggage space, though. I know what a typical woman means by an "overnight bag", and my car's not very huge, after all.'
He looked at his watch. 'About half an hour, you said? I'll be waiting for you. I'll get my car out of the garage.'
'OK,' she said. 'I'll be there as soon as I can. In fact, if you'd like to walk round you can have coffee and something to eat while I pack. 14 Felgate Street, it's not far. My husband has taken my children to school, and Mrs. Dave is going to look after them if I'm away overnight. Don't rush though. You do sound shaky.'
He had munched his sandwiches and had several cups of strong coffee in her house before he felt able to walk back to where he had parked the Streak outside his garage.
Her long blonde hair, released from its uniform bun, cascaded over her shoulders, and she wore jeans and a crisp white shirt. 'So what is this?' she said.
'It's Streak, my new prototype hybrid car,' he said. '100 mpg, and 100 mph, here to help to save the planet, I hope.' He stopped, tongue tied after a few moments taking in the dramatic difference in her appearance. 'I am an inventor, after all.'
'But how do I get in?' she said. 'It's very small, and stop goggling like a goldfish. Haven't you seen a woman before? And perhaps more importantly, are you OK to drive?'
He stammered an apology. 'Yes, I think so. But you look so different!' Her expression remained severe. He used the remote control in his pocket, and the Streak silently opened up to become a full four-seater. When they had settled in and clipped into the Streak's four point safety belts, he drove gingerly off down the hill towards the main road.
'It's very quiet?' she said.
'Electrics only at this stage,' he said. 'Obviously, if we need a burst of acceleration, or come to a steep hill, the diesel generator will eventually cut in. Look,' he said, 'I'll overtake this nasty smelly truck, and you'll see what I mean.' He put his foot down to surge past the truck, and she gasped in amazement at the power of the little car.
'We couldn't have done that safely in the cop car,' she said.
'No way, and they're all souped up a bit, as you must know? Everyone denies it, of course.' Behind them the muffled hum of the diesel generator cut in as the batteries were recharged.
'Clever,' she said.
'99.8 mpg so far,' he said. 'Better on the motorway, of course.'
'Bridport here we come,' she said. 'As you can see I've got my sandals on, in case we get a chance to walk on the beach, but to be frank, at least for today I think we'll keep you away from the water. You look as though you might not be at all safe yet. And tell me if you don't feel well, and I'll drive. It looks easy enough, from what I can see.'
'You're right,' he said wretchedly. 'I'm just about OK to drive, but I can't get it out of my head that it was really all my fault. They could so easily have stayed at home in the warm and dry last night, and I could equally easily have driven down there today and taken them out to lunch. So it's my fault, you see, and I don't think I shall ever be able to forgive myself, or even think about it, without screaming inside with the guilt and pain of it all.'
'I can understand that it feels like that now,' Amanda said slowly. 'But remember they could have died anywhere, at any time. It could have happened on the way to the shops, or anywhere. I can't say for sure, of course, but I think, and I hope, that your present agony will fade over time. They would both want you to live and find happiness, and knowing that they both loved you is a wonderful thing. Rare, too,' she said sadly.
She put her hand gently on his arm for a few brief moments. 'Having two loving parents is in my experience extremely rare, and that knowledge will give you some strength, I promise.'
As they ran into Bridport an hour or so later, Amanda could sense that Charles was getting uptight.
'Look,' she said. 'This identification business is going to be stressful, but only for a few horrible minutes. Seconds probably. These people know how relatives feel, and they're sensitive to that. And I'll be with you, OK?'
He looked across at her gratefully. 'I'm very glad to have you with me,' he said. 'I'd find this incredibly hard by myself. Couldn't do it, frankly. Not today, anyway.'
They pulled into the little car park in front of the funeral directors' office, and he switched off the Streak.
'I feel so very stupid and thoughtless that I could be taking them out to lunch. Now, well, it has to be done. Let's go in.'
The reception area of the undertaker's office was cool, understated and shaded by Venetian blinds on all the windows. The receptionist welcomed them, checked Charles' passport and Amanda's warrant card, and asked them to sit down on a comfortable sofa. After a few minutes a tall thin and rather serious looking man, entirely dressed in black, came into the reception.
'Mr John?' Charles nodded assent. 'And this is my bereavement counsellor, DS Davenport.'
The man looked across to his receptionist silently, who confirmed their identifications.
'Do please,' said the funeral director, introducing himself as Mark Williams. 'Come with me. We know that these occasions are, and must be, very difficult and stressful, so we always do what we can to keep the identification procedure as brief as we possibly can.'
He led them through a heavy timber panelled door out of the reception, and they found themselves in a long and rather chilly room lined on both sides with what looked like the sort of safety deposit boxes you might find in a bank, although rather larger. A young man wearing green medical overalls and an elasticised plastic hair covering came across to them. The director consulted his printed sheet and said, 'Mr and Mrs John, please, in 521 and 522.'
The young man said nothing, quietly opened the door to 522 and pulled out the coffin on its rollers. The director briefly raised the coffin lid and Charles looked in, tears streaming down his face. He nodded his assent, and the lid was carefully closed. They followed the same procedure for 521, and Charles sadly confirmed his identification of his deceased father.
'Thank you,' said the director, and they went back into the welcome warmth of the reception area. 'If you could sign this form confirming the two identifications,' he said. 'That completes the formalities for today. We shall of course be happy to help you with the funeral arrangements should you so desire.'
'I have to go up to their flat. I have an appointment with my parents' solicitor, Paul Popplewell. I think I have a rough idea where Popplewell and Popplewell are, and Amanda needs to visit her great-aunt in the Bay View Retirement Home,' said Charles.
'Both very easy,' said Mark Williams. 'You go out of our front door and turn right, and a little way down the hill, if you look up to the left, you will see a rather steep and narrow road. Not too long, and I'm afraid I can't remember its name. Anyway, at the top is the Bay View Retirement Home. About five to ten minutes, no more. But then if you, Mr John, were to carry on down the hill to the sea front and turn left, you will find Popplewell and Popplewell on the left, another ten minutes I would suggest. Not much more, anyway.'
'One of the things to decide,' said Charles. 'Apart of course from the funeral date, is burial or cremation?'
The tall man frowned. 'Of course,' he said. 'The local authority is very keen on cremation, because they are worried about running out of plots. I think that, very understandably, when people have been struck down by cancer for example, both the deceased and their relatives have a perfectly reasonable desire to kill off the cancerous cells. Revenge, do you see? So cremation may well be right for them.'
He thought for a few moments. 'On the other hand,' he said. 'In cases of just old people, like my own parents, both of whom died a few years ago, and car crashes like your own recent loss, I'm not so sure. What happened to my parents was that my father, who was 85 or 86, 86 I think, had been being looked after by my mother, who was already well into her 80s.'
'I don't know how to describe this properly,' he said. 'But it was as though she had an internal elastic band which was progressively being stretched and stretched as my father gradually faded away. Then, when he died, it was as if she just let the tension go. And five weeks later, she passed away herself.'
After a few minutes lost in thought he said. 'Anyway, we have a lovely burial ground on the slopes of the hill above Bridport, and I bought two plots and sadly laid them to rest side by side.'
'When you return from your session with Paul, if you like,' said the funeral director. 'Or if there isn't time, perhaps the next time you come down, I'll take you up there so that you can see what I mean. I know it sounds silly, but I bought a wooden bench, and every so often I go up there, do a bit of weeding and tidying up the flowers, and then I sit there, look out over the bay, and remember them. I suppose I'm meant to be religious in my job, but I'm sorry to say that I'm not. Not particularly, anyway. However, sitting there, looking out over the bay, I do feel a connection. Spiritual or not, I don't know, but I always come away feeling better, you know?'
'What do you think?' said Charles, looking across at Amanda. 'I mean that sounds excellent to me, but you're the one with the qualifications.'
'I think it's good,' she said. 'I mean, a box of ashes to scatter and so on, is all very well, but it's not all that permanent, is it? Will you take us up the hill, probably next week, Mr Williams?'
'Certainly,' the tall man said. 'Of course the burial option, with headstones and so on, must always cost more than cremation, if that is a consideration?'
'I don't think so,' said Charles slowly. 'You only lose your parents once, after all. Paul Popplewell and I are going to look through whatever we can find in the way of wills, certificates and so on, and we will then know more, probably by later this week. Will you prepare a set of rough estimates, costs for the alternatives?'
The tall man bowed slightly. 'We have a standard checklist which our receptionist will give you. It is rather long, I'm afraid, but we have found that it covers all the important points. We know P and P, as we call them for short, very well, and will do everything we can to make things work out as satisfactorily as possible.'
After some handshakes, and with Mark's formidable looking checklist, they left the undertaker's office and turned right.
'Nice man,' said Charles.
'I liked him,' said Amanda. 'Sensitive, and thoughtful,' she said. 'By the way, this looks like my turn.'
'May I make not one but two suggestions?' he said.
'Yes of course,' she said.
'Across the road,' he said. 'Is a flower shop, and next door is a wine merchant. I mean anyone would love to have you visit of course, but with a nice pot of azaleas for example and a little bottle of sweet sherry, you should find your great aunt even happier to see you. And a little bottle of house plant fertilizer?'
'You do seem to be a rather nice man,' she said, still impassively. 'And those are very nice ideas.'
'Let's go,' he said, and in the florist's shop they found a lovely pink azalea.
'Plenty of buds,' said the florist. 'Keep it watered, not too much, and give it a little houseplant fertilizer, again not too much, just a few drops every couple of weeks, and that's going to be a very happy plant.'
'Might you have a nice porcelain pot?' asked Charles. 'I certainly do,' she said, and they chose a charming porcelain pot with a matching porcelain undertray.
'Can you gift wrap it for us?' asked Charles. 'It is to cheer up a very old lady at the Bay View Retirement Home.'
'Of course I can,' said the florist. 'But it will take me a few minutes?'
'No problem,' said Charles. 'We're going next door for a little bottle of something, and then we'll come back for the azalea. How much is that?' he asked, taking out his wallet.
'She's my great auntie,' said Amanda fiercely. 'It was my idea,' he said loftily, settling the bill. 'And it's a small thank you for you for being here.'
Next door they found a nice little half bottle of Oloroso sherry, and again, there was an argument over the cost.
'It was my idea,' he said again. 'And look, do you realise what a state I would have been in, here, now, without you? It's a just a very small thank you, that's all. Not enough by any means, but a start, anyway. And deep down I still feel that I am just a total waste of space.'
Back on the other side of the road, he said. 'Can I carry these things up for you? And do I get to meet the old lady?'
'I don't think so,' she said. 'Not today anyway. I'll explain to her that I'm working with this rather fragile but basically OK man who's recently lost his parents, and that we'll be back down here next week, and then you'll almost certainly be invited. She's always called my husband, 'that tosser', after all.'
'I'll have another little bottle of Oloroso in my pocket. If she likes it of course,' Charles said.
'She is 79, after all,' she said.
'Well, what a way to go,' he said. '79 is a fair old age. Carrying for you? No?'
'In the force we are required to keep physically fit,' she said. 'As well as maintaining our firearms qualifications up to date. Although I have no current plans to shoot anyone. Not today, anyway. But, if she gives me that basilisk stare again and says, “Who are you?” once more, I might be tempted. Go on,' she said. 'Go and find your solicitor. Sounds a bit like a prostitute, doesn't it?'
'The two oldest professions, I believe,' he said. 'Call me when you're ready, and if I'm through first I'll call you. Here's the address, and, we have lunch to organize too. You can leave your bag in the Streak for now.'
Amanda strode off up the hill towards the Bay View Retirement Home, and Charles watched, hoping that she might at least turn round and wave, but she didn't, and after a minute or so he shrugged his shoulders and walked off down the hill towards the coast road. He realised that he still had never, not even once, seen her smile.
He was only a few minutes late for his appointment with his parents' lawyers, and after confirming his identity to the receptionist she invited him to sit down. After a brief wait a short and rather stout man hurried out of a side door.
'Mr John, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, and I was very sad to hear of your recent tragic loss. Paul Popplewell,' he said holding out his hand. 'Shall we walk?' said Paul. 'It's not far.'
'Well,' said Charles. 'My new little prototype hybrid is in the undertaker's car park, and I do like to keep it reasonably near, so that I can keep an eye on it. It is the only one in the world yet, after all. So if you'd like a ride, we could walk that far and drive the rest of the way?'
Paul was most impressed with the Streak, which sat there in the undertaker's car park, low and sleek in its polished aluminium skin. 'A hybrid?' he asked.
'Four wheel drive, with powerful little electric motors in the wheels, so no transmission or drive shafts,' said Charles. 'There's a small diesel electric generator in the boot which can recharge the batteries, but I mainly use regenerative braking, which puts the energy usually thrown away as heat by the brakes back into the battery pack as electricity. And if you've been doing a lot of low speed urban driving you can plug it into a wall socket overnight, so that you can always start fully charged in the morning. We don't usually need it, and anyway they're now fully charged. The idea is to achieve 100 mph and 100 mpg. The Double Century.'
'Marvellous,' said Paul. 'My only worry is that both my doctor and my wife tell me that I am too fat. Well I am too fat, of course, so how can I get in?'
'Before too long I hope to be able to say 'Streak, open, both sides,' said Charles. 'But for the moment I still have to use this remote control.' The solicitor looked on in amazement as the little car silently turned into a much taller four-seater, and the doors swung open.
The Streak lowered them down to their very comfortable but almost supine position, and they set off up the hill.
'It's very quiet too,' said Paul.
'Batteries only,' said Charles. 'Although, like more or less everywhere in Bridport, that road's very steep. So we'll probably find the genset cutting in before too long.'
Sure enough, a minute or so later there was a quiet purring sound from behind them.
'Amazing,' said Paul. 'Anyway, we're here now. It's that big block on the left. You can pull in anywhere.'
'I've been here a couple of times,' said Charles. 'But mainly my parents came east. The fact that my mother had nothing but contempt for my wife was a problem, of course. She was right too, as I have slowly and probably rather stupidly come to realise.'
They walked up the steps towards the lobby of the smart apartment block, and Charles felt in his pocket for the keys.
'I have keys to the front door and to the actual apartment, but not for the garage,' he said.
Just then there was a buzz from the entry system, and the big glass door swung open. They walked in, and there, behind the reception desk was a huge black man.
'I knowed it was you, Mr Charlie, because you looks exactly like your Dad,' he said. 'Bad news, bad news. I just heard, and they was such lovely peoples. My name Barbados,' he said, coming round from behind his desk and taking Charles' hands surprisingly gently in his great paws.
'Thank you, Barbados,' said Charles. 'Isn't that a rather unusual name?'
'Well,' said the big black man. 'My Mom and Dad they came from Trinidad, and they hated dat place, and then they had we identical twin boys, so they called me Barbados. They was going to call my brother St Kitts, but every body think that a really terrible idea. OK, they say, what about St Lucia?' Worse, even worser, say our pastor. So he got called Nevis, which he don't mind. He here in Bridport also, maybe you get to meet him. He own Bridport Fish. Best fish and chips for miles around.'
'That sounds good,' said Charles. 'May we go up?'
'Of course, of course,' said Barbados. 'You got a key?'
'I do,' said Charles. 'But I don't have a key to the garage.'
'No problem,' cried Barbados. 'When you wants to go down dere, I take you down the back stairs and let you in. Just come down when you ready? And call me on the house phone if you want any thing?'
They walked up the single flight of stairs to the first floor, Charles saying nothing, a sad expression on his face. Letting them both in with his key, Charles was distressed to see the remains of dinner for two, half full wine glasses and so on, still on thedining table.
'She must have roused out my old man immediately after I phoned,' he said. 'Typical of my Mum. And after just a few short miles, she ran into this stupid un-forecast downpour. God I feel so shitty and selfish.'
Paul was instantly supportive.
'Sit down there and I'll pour you a stiff drink,' he said. 'I'll put all this stuff in the dishwasher. Kitchen?'
Charles pointed at a door at the end of the big room.
'Drinks cupboard?' Charles collapsed into a sofa and pointed wearily behind him.
'Scotch, soda?'
'Both, please,' said Charles, his eyes closing as he leaned back.
Paul poured out Charles' drink, added a splash of soda, and carefully set the glass down within Charles' reach. He then placed the bottle, soda siphon and an empty glass at the other end of the table before quietly getting down to clearing away the dining table. Finally, he wiped the glass top and gave it a polish with a dry cloth.
'You're very good,' said Charles, taking a sip of his drink.
'Too many children and a working wife,' said Paul cheerfully. 'Now you stay there, and I'll investigate the contents of that formidable looking bureau over there. I know what we're looking for, and I'll make notes as I go along.'
He checked over the contents of the bureau cubbyholes and drawers quickly and efficiently, making careful notes as he went.
'Any safes, secret compartments that you know about?' he asked.
'None, so far as I know,' said Charles.
'Right,' said Paul, coming over to sit by Charles on the big sofa. 'We'll have to make checks and searches, of course, but so far as I can see at the moment there is a mixture of good news and less good news. All subject to search and confirmation, as I say.'
Charles poured out a drink for Paul, who gave it a splash of soda.
'I found some modest life assurance policies, but no pension certificates, that sort of thing?' He looked questioningly at Charles over the rim of his glass.
'I don't know anything about the life assurance side of things, but I know that Dad worked for so many companies in his career, all of them in a fairly lowly capacity. Never for very long, though, because in those turbulent post war years, a company only stayed away from its roots, say in Birmingham, until it could work out a way to get back. And you had to be promoted to a certain level to be admitted to the superannuation scheme, which never happened. Quite highly paid, he was, but never promoted on to the staff.'
'OK', said Paul. 'We'll make some searches anyway. The next thing, subject to confirmation as I say, is that I couldn't find any indication of any mortgage or loan on the property. If that's true, then if you decide to sell, there'll be nothing to pay off before you can receive the proceeds. We'll advise you as to the most tax efficient way of doing that. Given that it must be one of the very few apartments in Bridport with this wonderful view and a garage, what do you think it might be worth?'
Paul steepled his fingers and thought for a few moments. 'I'll get you a small range of professional valuations from people we know and trust, of course, but I should have thought probably somewhere between a minimum of £350,000 and say £450,000. Possibly even £500,000 for the right buyer.'
Charles whistled and then he refreshed their drinks. 'Any more less than good news?' he asked.
'Not at all,' said Paul. 'Your parents' car was fully comprehensively insured with a highly reputable national company, and I know the local people well. I am convinced that they will pay out the residual value in full, which might be up to £11,000, because their car was quite new. I'm going to copy these documents and call in on them this afternoon. Oh, and the bank statements in there suggest that there is a further £9,000 in the local branch of Barclays, in a combination of current and high interest accounts. It looks as though there may well be some ISAs, as well.'
'That's my Mum,' said Charles. 'Much better at that sort of thing than my old man.'
'Their will makes you sole beneficiary, and our first task must be to obtain the Grant of Probate,' said Paul. 'Because then we shall be able to obtain access to all of this information in a proper and irrefutable way. I shall set all that in motion this afternoon.'
He looked at his watch. 'I really must be getting on quite soon,' he said. 'There is so much to do, and if as you say your marriage was a bit rocky, we must think about your wife?'
'Not so much rocky as on the rocks,' said Charles. 'Divorce, actually, was the logical next step. When she heard about the demise of Wren on her car radio, having spent the night God knows where with God knows who, she raced home, packed a bag and drove off hell for leather to her parents in Yorkshire, without even waiting for me to get home.'
'Sounds pretty terminal to me,' said Paul. 'Look, I think I should rapidly draft out some divorce papers, get you to sign, and I'll arrange to have them served on her while she's still in Yorkshire. Then we can leave it to the divorce lawyers to sort it all out. Much less messy, in my opinion.'
'Well, before you go,' said Charles. 'I also think that we should have at least a quick look at the garage. There may well be only a few spanners and a tyre pump, but have you time?'
Paul looked at his watch again. 'Well, for the sake of completeness,' he said. 'Let's go.'
Back in the lobby Barbados greeted them warmly. 'Everything hokay up dere?' he inquired.
'Good,' said Charles. 'Some good news, some possibly not so good, but until Paul here completes his searches we can't be sure. Can you let us into the garage for a few minutes?'
'I certainly can,' said Barbados. 'Follow me.'
He led them down the dark stairwell and round a corner to a heavy door to which, in addition to the usual internal lock, an impressive looking padlock had been fitted.
'You Dad put this damn great thing on,' said Barbados, wrestling with his big bunch of keys. 'And dere probably only a few spanners and a tyre pump in dere, like any garage.'
The heavy door swung open, and the big black man left them to it.
'I not allowed to leave my desk for more than a few minutes, or I in trouble big time,' he said.
Charles went into the gloom of the basement garage, and behind him Paul found a light switch and gave them some illumination.
'He was quite right,' said Charles resignedly. 'There are only the proverbial spanners and a tyre pump here.'
Behind him, Paul coughed, rather loudly, and Charles turned round. Wordlessly, Paul pointed to the back three walls of the garage, which were entirely lined with wine racks, floor to ceiling, virtually all full. Paul carefully pulled out a couple of bottles at random and inspected the labels.
'No plonk here,' he said. 'All very good wine.'
'This, of course, having no pension, was his pension,' said Charles slowly.
Paul was rapidly counting across the top of the racking, and then down the side.
'Maybe rather more than 10,000 bottles,' he said. 'And every one worth not less than say £10, maybe £15. I'll get you a valuation, probably at least two, wine prices being so volatile. But I shall definitely have to introduce you to a taxation specialist I know.'
'I know that he went to a lot of wine auctions, picked out bin ends and so on, but this is amazing,' said Charles.
'Look at the right hand corner,' said Paul. 'That must all be champagne, probably at least 200 bottles.'
He pulled out a couple of bottles, looked at the labels, frowned, put them back, and pulled out another couple.
'It looks as if they are all Pol Roger,' he said.
'Winston Churchill's favourite,' said Charles. 'Churchill was always his hero. He drove up to London and went to the State funeral, you know?'
'Not less than £30 a bottle, anyway, so that's at least £6,000 just for the fizz,' said Paul. 'I'll get you at least two formal counts and valuations.'
'There's a very professional man just opposite the street leading up to the Bay View,' said Charles. 'Just below the florists, actually, do you know him?'.
'That's Matt Smith,' said Paul. 'He'd be one of my first choices. But with wine values these days being both subjective and volatile, I'll still get you at least two opinions. Now I really must rush, but we'll stay closely in touch.
'I know that we don't yet have a Grant of Probate,' said Charles. 'But might it be acceptable to take these two bottles of Pol Roger up to the apartment and put them in the refrigerator?'f
The solicitor thought for a moment, and then smiled. 'I don't think that could possibly be a problem,' he said. They closed the heavy door, and went back up the stairs to the lobby.
'We've slammed the door shut, Barbados,' said Charles. 'But you'll have to secure the padlock yourself.'
'Leave dat to me, Mr Charles,' said the big black man. 'Anything interesting down dere?'
'Well, you were perfectly right about the spanners and the tyre pump,' said Charles. 'But there's some other interesting stuff too. So don't let anyone in there unless vouched for by me or Mr Popplewell here, under any circumstances, OK?'
'Hokay boss,' said Barbados. 'It be like Fort Knox.'
Paul rushed out, calling, 'Think about funeral arrangements, invitations and so on. You don't have much time. Keys?'
'Not here yet, Mr P,' said Barbados. 'When dey arrives I'll send 'em down by taxi.' Paul rushed out and ran down the steps.
Just then, Amanda arrived, rosy cheeked from jogging up the steep hill.
'Who was that little fat man hurtling down the stairs at high speed?' she asked. 'Your lawyer?'
'Good man, I think,' said Charles. 'Active brain, for sure. You should have seen him counting.'
'So what's the news?' she asked.
'Come upstairs and I'll tell you,' he said. 'There appears to be good news, and some not so good news. And then we'll have lunch.'
Back in the apartment, he pulled out a pair of champagne flutes and placed them on the table.
'Should have put these in the freezer,' he muttered. 'Do you mind?' he asked anxiously.
She shrugged, still stony faced. 'At home, finding a pair of reasonably similar glasses at all is the challenge, let alone thinking about frostiness. I'm dying of thirst here, you realise? And I also have to say that if you don't feed me soon I shall have to start eating you. We are carnivores, you know?'
Charles went into the kitchen, and came back with the coldest bottle of Pol Roger and a champagne stopper. Silently, he stripped off the foil capsule and began to unwind the wires, his thumb keeping the cork firmly in place.
'You do keep a girl waiting, you know?' she said. He looked across at her. Still no hint of a smile.
Saying nothing, he carefully twisted the cork out, holding the bottle at an acute angle over his glass, until with a quiet hiss the cork came out and the champagne spilled into his glass.
'It's a bottle of Dad's pride and joy,' he said. 'Pol Roger, and he taught me how to open it properly. His hero, Winston Churchill, virtually never drank anything else, you know. Dad went to his funeral. Cried all day.'
He filled her glass half full, topped up his own glass, and they touched glasses. They sipped, and she said, still impassive, 'Delicious. Now, do I get to hear about the good news and the not so good news? This is very lovely, but we have to eat too, you know? Your forearms look as though they have plenty of meat on them.'
'Barbados?' he said on the house phone. 'Did I hear you say that your brother owned Bridport Fish? Could he provide a tasty quick lunch? This hungry woman is threatening to eat me.'
'Certainly he can, best fish and chips in Bridport, like I say. You go out the front door, turn right, turn right again at the corner, and you see him in the distance.'
Barbados was right. Nevis was charming, their lunch was delicious, and afterwards, as they strolled back to the flat, he told her about the lack of anything in the way of pensions. She looked grave, but he added that, looking like better news was the fact that there were some life assurance policies and that there didn't seem to be any mortgage or loan on the flat. Not too bad also was a modest cash balance at the bank, and that the insurance company were almost certain to pay out the full value of the car. Back in his parents' flat, after thanking Barbados, he topped up their glasses.
'You're keeping the best till last, aren't you?' she accused him.
'Well, none of it is good, ' he said slowly. 'And I'd give it all up in an instant if I could have them back. But I can't.'
He told her of their exploration of the garage, and of the discovery of his father's wine cellar.
'10,000 bottles,' she said, amazed. 'And all good stuff?'
'Paul estimates around £10 to £15 a bottle, with this lovely Pol Roger, of which apparently I have around 200 bottles, at £25 to £30, depending on the vintage. You remember the wine merchant who sold us the Oloroso? He's going to give me the first count and valuation, although, as Paul says in his lawyerish way, given the subjectivity and volatility of the wine market, he would recommend at least one further valuation. And then some of it can go to auction, although,' he said, breathing in the aroma of his wine. 'I'll probably keep a certain amount back for personal use.'
'I don't want to sound mercenary,' she said.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'Sally is the world expert on that.'
'Well all right then,' she said. 'What does all this add up to, more or less?'
'Searches to be done of course,' he said. 'Flat and wine to be independently valued, but somewhere over half a million, Paul thinks.'
'Well,' she said slowly. 'You lost your job and your parents, which is two devastating blows on the same day, but you can easily get another job. And it must be better to have some cash in your pocket at a time like this? Tell me some more about this rather unsatisfactory marriage of yours?'
'It makes me angry even to think about it. I'm sorry, but I was so pathetic. I had a whole string of more or less unsatisfactory relationships with all sorts of girls, women, I should say, and had more or less come to the conclusion that you just made the best of a bad job. I even made out a sort of table, you know, a kind of League Table of the women I knew, with so many points for looks, so many for intelligence, and so on. There was even a column for relative wealth. Isn't that repulsive?'
He paused, looking ashamed.
'Anyway, to cut a long story short I met this pretty girl, Sally, at a party, married her, and everything seemed all right at first. Unfortunately, she must have had a League Table too, with cash getting more points than anything else. Her father is a lawyer, after all. When times were hard she first became wayward, and began stopping out all night, because I hadn't kept my side of the bargain you see, and eventually it all went up the Swanee. Ironically, just as things were about to turn good for me, work wise. Until Wren went bust, anyway.'
'So how will all this work out so far as Sally is concerned,' she asked. 'Don't answer if you think I'm out of line, obviously.'
He thought for a moment or two. 'We discussed it a bit before Paul left,' he said. 'I told him frankly that, as a marriage, having been pretty hopeless for years, it was now literally on the rocks. Divorce time. No future in flogging a dead horse, after all.'
'So what did he suggest?' she asked.
'He said that he could draw up divorce papers at once, "Irreconcilable differences," and so on. I told him the house in Shoreham was mine and fully paid for, and he seemed to think that was good. I'll probably offer to give her the house and furniture, and hopefully make a clean break. No children, thankfully.'
'Isn't all that just more stress and worry for you?' she asked.
He smiled rather wanly. 'Better to get it over and done with, I think,' he said. 'Concentrates the mind, all this stuff, you know. Perhaps now you can at least begin to appreciate just how much I value your help and support?'
'But what about some supper?' she asked. 'We've been talking for hours, and it's getting dark already.'
Charles picked up the house phone again. 'Barbados,' he said. 'I have a great affection for Lebanese food, and Amanda is hungry again. Can Bridport provide?'
Barbados's deep brown voice was reassuring.
'Not only provide, but the best, and close,' he said. 'You gonna meet my good Lebanese friend Mohammed. I know he sound like Muslim? You know, no school for girls, and if they do get taught the Taliban shoot the teacher? No, no, he a Christian from the Bekaa Valley. Maronite I think, or Copt maybe, and his Dad make fabulous wine up dere. You go out the front door, turn right, right again at the corner, you see Bridport Fish in the distance ahead of you. Look left and cross the road, you see 'Palace of Beirut'. I call Mohammed and tell him you coming. Half an hour? When?'
'Half an hour? By then I should probably look like something left over by a shoal of hungry Piranha fish,' said Charles. 'Tell him we'll be there in less than ten minutes if I survive,' he said. 'Could he put some hummus and that sort of thing on the table, to take the edge off her appetite? This starving woman looks as though she has sharp teeth!'
Amanda smiled a rather wintry smile, and his heart surged with hope. This was the very first smile he had seen on that beautiful face.
The Palace of Beirut was unassuming from the outside, but warm and cosy within. Mohammed, tall, thin and dark, welcomed them gravely.
'My very good friend Barbados called me,' he said. 'You like our Lebanese food?'
'And wine,' said Charles. 'Your family comes from the Bekaa Valley, I think?' he said. 'Wonderful soil and climate, but enemies everywhere, I should have thought?'
'The Mussulmen think wine is the invention of the Devil, but my ancestors were making wine in the Valley centuries, probably thousands of years, before anyone had even thought of Islam. My father is there still, limping a bit from a Kalashnikov round in his leg. Your so beautiful lady, she likes our hummus, I believe?' he said.
Amanda had, while they had been talking, been steadily wolfing down the Hummus and pitta bread.
'Powerful metabolism she has, needs feeding every two hours apparently. Please bring us some more Hummus, and perhaps some Labneh, Moutabal and Tabouleh. And is Falafel with that special sauce possible?' asked Charles. 'Also please, a bottle of your Father's best red? And will you bring a third glass, and join us when you have time? I know so little about the Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley?' Mohammed bowed and withdrew.
'I do not have an unusual metabolism,' she hissed angrily. 'I just like to eat from time to time.'
'I've noticed,' he said. 'Well, I am sure that everything here will be excellent, so you won't starve.'
A uniformed waiter brought them a tray of little dishes and some fresh hot pitta bread.
'Falafel a few minutes, sir,' he said. 'And Master is selecting best wine for you, downstairs. I will bring three glasses, as you say.'
Amanda was peering at the unfamiliar starters suspiciously.
'Try them,' Charles advised. 'They're all delicious, but you might find one you prefer above all.'
Mohammed padded silently towards them, reverently carrying a bottle with an unusual purple and gold label and an empty decanter.
'Is very old, so may have sediment in bottom. My father, he call it sentiment. Wrong, of course, but a nice idea.'
He applied himself with great care to the extraction of the cork, sniffed it cautiously, and nodded with approval.
'Is still alive, praise be,' he said. With infinite care, he began to decant the wine, watching a candle on the far side to show up any sentiment. The little waiter arrived with their Falafel, a small bowl of sauce, and three wine glasses. Two were standard sized, but the third was much smaller. Charles raised his eyebrows interrogatively. Mohammed smiled.
'Will be enough for me,' he said. 'I know this wine well. Also remember, I probably be working here till two, maybe three am.'
'The colour is magnificent,' said Charles. 'Such a dark red, almost black in some lights.'
'My father he is good winemaker, maybe the best. Tell me what you think?'
Charles sniffed and took a small sip, rolling the wine appreciatively around his mouth.
'Perfect,' he said. 'Delightful. If only my Dad, my late Dad, had some of this in his garage,' he said. 'You heard about the car crash?'
'Barbados he tell me. Everybody very sad for you. But he did have some! Not quite like this, but close. Every time I got a consignment, I included a case or a couple of cases for him. Over the years he must have bought at least ten, maybe twelve cases. All drunk by now, most probably, of course.'
'I don't think so,' Charles said. 'A few bottles perhaps, for celebrations, but now that I come to think of it, I noticed a fair number of bottles with your father's very distinctive purple and gold label in Dad's garage. He was treating it as his pension, I think.'
'You unlucky, of course, losing your parents,' said Mohammed. 'Terrible thing, but you luckyif you have some of my father's wine. It taste lovely, but can also be good investment. Worth a small fortune in case quantities. More even, at retail. Expensive, it has to be, because we have to take small quantities in maybe pickup truck, across the badlands from the Valley, pay bribes, maybe lose all, also truck, then we have to bribe man with little boat to take it to Limassol, Cyprus. There we rent warehouse for storage until we have enough for a cargo. When it gets here we have to bottle, good local man, expensive, but good. I have to go now, please enjoy your dinner. If you ever want to sell, I give you very best price. Here is the menu for you to choose main courses.'
'What do you think, Amanda?' he asked. 'Good Lord. You've eaten all the Falafel!'
She could not speak for a minute or so, her mouth full of Falafel. When at last she could speak, she said.
'Lovely Falafel, lovely. How can it be that in all my life until now I have never eaten Falafel?'
'It's called a sheltered life,' he said. 'And there are more lovely things to come, so leave some space. But I was actually asking for your thoughts on this magnificent wine?'
She looked moderately contrite, and took a sip from her glass.
'I was never able to develop much of a taste for wine, ' she said slowly. 'Never had the budget for it. You know, supermarket plonk for £2.99 a bottle on a Saturday night?'
'Been there, done that, never got a tee-shirt,' he said. 'You know we inventors normally never have much money. But when Dad came to visit he always brought a couple of bottles of something really nice. Now then, let's choose our main courses and I'll get you some more Falafel.' He looked across at their waiter, who came hurrying over at once.
'This wine is so complex,' she said, taking another sip. 'Glorious, in fact. Did I hear you say that you may well have another 10,000 bottles or so in your Dad's garage? More or less the same?'
'Different vintages and winemakers, probably, but all likely to be pretty good. Think of it as another small gesture of appreciation and thanks for you helping me through all this, even if I'm not worth it.'
'Of course you're worth it,' she said, and she gave him another small and rather wintry smile, as if it was a new and experimental experience for her. 'You're gradually going to be able to come to terms with it all, I promise you. But of course, it will take time. And we're trained to be observant under all circumstances,' she said seriously. 'So look, here come our main courses, and more Falafel!'
After the meal, they strolled back to his parents' flat without speaking. He tried to put his arm round her shoulders, but she pushed him away, politely, but very definitely.
'You have made me realise that life can still go on, and I can't tell you how much I value all you've done for me in such a short time,' he said. 'Are you still hungry? I mean I'm sure Nevis could fix you up with a double portion of haddock, ditto of chips, ditto of mushy peas?'
She said nothing apart from punching him fiercely in the ribs with a free hand.
'Shall I take that as a no then?' he gasped.
They had to let themselves in, Barbados having gone home. In the flat she looked at him silently, a worried frown on her face.
'You said there was a spare room?' she asked.
'Yes, just down the corridor,' he said. 'It's got its own bathroom.'
'That sounds good,' she said. 'We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow.'
'OK,' said Charles. 'Let's get our heads down.'
The sun streaming into the room awakened him. Amanda, demurely wrapped in a big fluffy robe, was sitting on the end of the bed.
'Come on,' she said. 'Coffee, breakfast, and let's get on the road.'
He made the coffee while Amanda whipped up some very good scrambled eggs. They ate quietly, looking across at each other from time to time.
'Who knows what the future holds,' he said. 'Bath or Shower?'
'If things were different, a nice long bath would be lovely,' she said. 'As it's a long drive ahead of us, a quick shower and tooth brushing is probably best?'
A few minutes later, they had called to say their goodbyes to Mark and Paul and thanked Barbados, and were in the Streak, cruising down the hill out of Bridport....
In this month, and for most of the year, a whole series of significant events would occur in each of these very different countries.
Charles John, in Shoreham, near Brighton, was feeling terrible. An aerodynamicist and wing designer, he had only been at Wren Light Aircraft for about six months, but he had found the little aircraft company a really enjoyable place to work. And now Wren was bankrupt, and Charles was unemployed.
Bill Jones, the boss of Wren, had called all his staff into the canteen on that cold January afternoon and told them, very sadly, that they were all unemployed, with immediate effect.
Charles, tall, with dark curly hair that tended to flop on to his forehead, his handsome face bleak, was bundled up to the ears in a padded jacket to protect him from the biting wind, so that his wiry physique was well disguised. He unlocked his prototype hybrid car, the Streak, scraped the snow off his windscreen, and drove slowly out of the Wren car park.
His mother answered the telephone in Bridport.
'Tough news, I'm afraid, Mum,' he said. 'We've just had a meeting, and it seems that Wren is bankrupt. So I'm unemployed, as of now in fact. Do you still want to come for the weekend? I'd be glad of your company, obviously, and the weather forecast is reasonable. How is Dad? Fit to drive?'
Detective Sergeant Amanda Davenport had spent a difficult day trying to talk down a junkie high on crack from a tower block parapet. Eventually successful but emotionally drained, when she finally got home she had, gritting her teeth, gone for her daily run around the park.
Amanda was tall, fit, and kept herself in good trim. She could have been thought beautiful, but her expression, serious to the point of forbidding, made her look more impressive than attractive. A complicated history had brought her into the Sussex police force, where degrees in Psychology, Psychotherapy, a Diploma in Counselling and reasonable command of four European languages made her highly valued but, according to the official letter she had received that morning, still not promotable. Her mobile shrilled, and she scowled as she saw the caller's number.
'I'm feeding the kids, Dave.'
Detective Inspector Dave Watson was her immediate boss, and knew how upset and disappointed she was. He had received a copy of her latest rejection letter before she did, in fact.
'Sorry about the glass ceiling, Amanda, and disturbing you at home, but we've got a nasty little job to do which won't wait, apparently. Can I pick you up in ten minutes? Uniforms and hats, I'm afraid. I'll brief you in the car.'
Charles had installed a steel beam in the roof of his garage workshop, on which he had hung a chain block lifting system, with which he had already removed the offending set of lead acid batteries. The chain block was not all that easy to use, and very noisy, but it was at least cheap, he thought, as he rattled away at the operating chain, and good exercise too. The chain block rattled again as the weight of the new battery set was taken, and Charles had just reconnected the electronics and power cables when he heard a thunderous banging on his front door.
'Whoever it is must have been pressing the bell while I was making such a racket,' he mused, as he went to open his front door.
He was therefore surprised and rather alarmed to see two uniformed police officers outside the door. He opened the door, and looked expectantly at his visitors.
'I'm Detective Inspector David Watson,' the older of the two said, presenting his warrant card. 'And this is Detective Sergeant Amanda Davenport. May we come in?'
'Well, unless I'm being arrested for drug dealing, this is almost certainly bad news. Yes, by all means, come in.'
'It is bad news, I'm afraid,' said Watson, after sitting heavily down. 'Please do sit down yourself? You are Mr Charles John?' Charles nodded silently.
'We've had a fax from Chichester police, saying that a Ford Mondeo, registered to Mr. and Mrs. Philip John, registered number W5293UJL, was being driven on the A35 this evening. There was a completely unforecast heavy rain shower, downpour actually, and at approximately 18.45 hours the car went out of control and crashed into a tree. Both occupants were killed instantly. You're listed as their next of kin, you see.'
A chill ran up Charles spine. 'Who was driving?' He asked tonelessly.
'It says here that Mrs. John was driving.'
'But look here, it was dry in Bridport, according to my Mum, and it's still dry here?'
There was a long silence.
'According to the Met Office a high moisture content unstable air mass developed. As a result there was a sudden downpour, completely unpredicted and quite localised. D'you remember that fellow, Fish was it, who said there definitely wasn't going to be a hurricane, and then there was? And while your mother was unsighted, probably struggling with the wipers, she ran onto a stretch of road covered in farmers' muck, which the rain had turned into a skating rink. End of story, I'm afraid,' said Watson.
'Sorry. Stupid thing to say. The car is a complete write off, and has been taken for forensic examination. Your parents have been taken to a big national funeral director company that works closely with the police in Bridport, although they confirm that they also have an office here in Shoreham. However, we shall need you to go down to Bridport anyway for identification purposes, and you will I am sure need to spend some time down there going through papers, wills and so on. I can't tell you how sorry we are to be the bearers of such bad tidings.'
'I'm trained in bereavement counselling,' said Amanda, speaking for the first time. Tall, slender and serious, she wore her fair hair scraped back into an old-fashioned bun.
'Now look,' he said. 'Who is the designated driver between you two?'
'Might it be helpful if I were to talk to your wife, because this is obviously going to be a terrible shock to her as well?'
'Well,' said Charles. 'My wife is actually at the moment driving north as fast as she can to stay with her parents in Harrogate. Heard the news about Wren on her car radio, and didn't even wait until I got home. Not, I'm afraid, a marriage made in heaven.
Sergeant Davenport pulled the keys to the police car out of her uniform pocket.
'Second question,' said Charles. 'What happens now? Are you off shift, or are you both going to work on into the small hours?'
'No,' said Watson. 'In answer to your question, Amanda's going to take me home to my wife after this. It's our last job of the day.'
'Well,' Charles said. 'Sergeant, can I suggest that you go out and switch off the blue flashing lights, because there are probably so many twitching lace curtains in this little suburban street that they'll be talking about it for weeks? And, Inspector, if you will join me in a Scotch and soda to help me take all this in, I would be very grateful.'
'I'd be honoured,' said Watson. 'And since I am technically off duty as of this minute, and I'm on my way home, I'll be most happy to keep you company.'
Sergeant Davenport came back in, and Charles said, rather shakily. 'Provided you'll confirm that you'll be driving him straight back home, I'm going to persuade Inspector Watson here to join me in a little Scotch. For you I have some very nice orange juice in the fridge that I squeezed this morning. Would you like some?'
'Freshly squeezed orange juice sounds fine,' she nodded, her expression still severe.
'I hope a drop of Scotch will help me,' said Charles. 'A bit, anyway. I loved them both very dearly, you know, not only poor old lush Dad. He was passed over for promotion so many times, because they found his practical talents too valuable to risk him in management. Can you believe that? And they were coming up here this evening to comfort me!'
He went into the kitchen and returned with a brimming glass of juice, which he ceremoniously offered to Amanda.
'Thanks,' she said shortly, her face still impassive. 'I can't tell you how awful this sort of thing is.'
'Look,' Charles said. 'I can't keep calling you by your ranks. So your name is Dave?'
'Yes,' said the big man. 'And this is Amanda.'
'Universally called Amanda, I must emphasize,' she said, still impassive. 'This juice is good. Thank you.'
Charles, feeling perhaps for the first time the full awfulness of the situation pressing down on him, walked, distraught, to the sideboard, and pulled out his bottle of Cardhu single malt whisky.
'This is my favourite,' he said. 'I hope you like it.'
They sat for a while, Charles feeling increasingly appalled and forlorn. Eventually they ran out of things to say, and the two police officers stood up in an uncomfortable silence.
'Well,' said Watson. 'We'd best be off, I suppose. Can't say how sorry I am…' He moved towards the door, looking almost as sad as Charles.
As the police officers were leaving Amanda called after the older man. Her partner came back into the hallway.
'Dave,' she said. 'As you've pointed out, Mr John has to go down to Bridport for identification purposes anyway, but then he'll also have to check through his parents' home, go through papers, talk with lawyers, arrange the funeral, and so on. All of it very stressful stuff. And I think you know that I have an ancient great aunt in a retirement home in Bridport, and I've been promising to visit her for weeks anyway. Would it make sense for me to go down there too, and then, if Mr John has problems, I might be able to help?'
'Good idea, I think,' said Dave Watson. 'You're highly trained and very capable, and he's not looking too good, after all. Sorry about that, Mr John. A double whammy, I think you could say, for anyone. The Cardhu was lovely, but no more tonight, if I may recommend? Amanda, civvies, I think?'
'I'll call you tomorrow, Mr John. May I call you Charles?' said Amanda, still not smiling, and when he nodded silently she closed the door quietly behind her.
2 Bridport first visit
The next morning, feeling awful, he trudged around the local park for a couple of miles, muttering and haranguing himself, drawing worried looks from an early dog walker. He tried to pull himself together before calling Sergeant Davenport.
'It's Charles John, still on for today?' he asked. His voice sounded strange to him, croaky and agonised.
'Of course,' she said. 'Look, I realise that this is the absolute worst moment for you. I'll make a Thermos of coffee and a few sandwiches and I'll stand over you while you get something into you. Not Scotch though,' she said warningly.
'Bottle's empty,' he said wretchedly. There was a pause. 'Well,' he said. 'I have to get down to Bridport to confirm identity. I'm not looking forward to that at all, although, as DI Dave said, the funeral directors will apparently do their best to 'tidy the bodies up', and then I'll need to connect with my parents' lawyers. And you have your great aunt to visit. Can I give you a lift? It seems silly to travel separately?'
'Sounds sensible,' she said. 'I'll walk round when I've made the coffee and sandwiches. I'll certainly be there when you do the identification, by the way. All of this is very stressful, and I understand that. I'll just throw some things into an overnight bag. Give me half an hour?'
'My parents' flat has a very comfortable spare room, if we need to stay overnight.' He paused. 'Two horrible things at once,' he said. 'Wren, and now this, all on the same day. I'll be very grateful for your help. I need to get through this somehow, and I don't think I'm at my best. Worst, actually, if you want to know the truth. I'm a bit worried about luggage space, though. I know what a typical woman means by an "overnight bag", and my car's not very huge, after all.'
He looked at his watch. 'About half an hour, you said? I'll be waiting for you. I'll get my car out of the garage.'
'OK,' she said. 'I'll be there as soon as I can. In fact, if you'd like to walk round you can have coffee and something to eat while I pack. 14 Felgate Street, it's not far. My husband has taken my children to school, and Mrs. Dave is going to look after them if I'm away overnight. Don't rush though. You do sound shaky.'
He had munched his sandwiches and had several cups of strong coffee in her house before he felt able to walk back to where he had parked the Streak outside his garage.
Her long blonde hair, released from its uniform bun, cascaded over her shoulders, and she wore jeans and a crisp white shirt. 'So what is this?' she said.
'It's Streak, my new prototype hybrid car,' he said. '100 mpg, and 100 mph, here to help to save the planet, I hope.' He stopped, tongue tied after a few moments taking in the dramatic difference in her appearance. 'I am an inventor, after all.'
'But how do I get in?' she said. 'It's very small, and stop goggling like a goldfish. Haven't you seen a woman before? And perhaps more importantly, are you OK to drive?'
He stammered an apology. 'Yes, I think so. But you look so different!' Her expression remained severe. He used the remote control in his pocket, and the Streak silently opened up to become a full four-seater. When they had settled in and clipped into the Streak's four point safety belts, he drove gingerly off down the hill towards the main road.
'It's very quiet?' she said.
'Electrics only at this stage,' he said. 'Obviously, if we need a burst of acceleration, or come to a steep hill, the diesel generator will eventually cut in. Look,' he said, 'I'll overtake this nasty smelly truck, and you'll see what I mean.' He put his foot down to surge past the truck, and she gasped in amazement at the power of the little car.
'We couldn't have done that safely in the cop car,' she said.
'No way, and they're all souped up a bit, as you must know? Everyone denies it, of course.' Behind them the muffled hum of the diesel generator cut in as the batteries were recharged.
'Clever,' she said.
'99.8 mpg so far,' he said. 'Better on the motorway, of course.'
'Bridport here we come,' she said. 'As you can see I've got my sandals on, in case we get a chance to walk on the beach, but to be frank, at least for today I think we'll keep you away from the water. You look as though you might not be at all safe yet. And tell me if you don't feel well, and I'll drive. It looks easy enough, from what I can see.'
'You're right,' he said wretchedly. 'I'm just about OK to drive, but I can't get it out of my head that it was really all my fault. They could so easily have stayed at home in the warm and dry last night, and I could equally easily have driven down there today and taken them out to lunch. So it's my fault, you see, and I don't think I shall ever be able to forgive myself, or even think about it, without screaming inside with the guilt and pain of it all.'
'I can understand that it feels like that now,' Amanda said slowly. 'But remember they could have died anywhere, at any time. It could have happened on the way to the shops, or anywhere. I can't say for sure, of course, but I think, and I hope, that your present agony will fade over time. They would both want you to live and find happiness, and knowing that they both loved you is a wonderful thing. Rare, too,' she said sadly.
She put her hand gently on his arm for a few brief moments. 'Having two loving parents is in my experience extremely rare, and that knowledge will give you some strength, I promise.'
As they ran into Bridport an hour or so later, Amanda could sense that Charles was getting uptight.
'Look,' she said. 'This identification business is going to be stressful, but only for a few horrible minutes. Seconds probably. These people know how relatives feel, and they're sensitive to that. And I'll be with you, OK?'
He looked across at her gratefully. 'I'm very glad to have you with me,' he said. 'I'd find this incredibly hard by myself. Couldn't do it, frankly. Not today, anyway.'
They pulled into the little car park in front of the funeral directors' office, and he switched off the Streak.
'I feel so very stupid and thoughtless that I could be taking them out to lunch. Now, well, it has to be done. Let's go in.'
The reception area of the undertaker's office was cool, understated and shaded by Venetian blinds on all the windows. The receptionist welcomed them, checked Charles' passport and Amanda's warrant card, and asked them to sit down on a comfortable sofa. After a few minutes a tall thin and rather serious looking man, entirely dressed in black, came into the reception.
'Mr John?' Charles nodded assent. 'And this is my bereavement counsellor, DS Davenport.'
The man looked across to his receptionist silently, who confirmed their identifications.
'Do please,' said the funeral director, introducing himself as Mark Williams. 'Come with me. We know that these occasions are, and must be, very difficult and stressful, so we always do what we can to keep the identification procedure as brief as we possibly can.'
He led them through a heavy timber panelled door out of the reception, and they found themselves in a long and rather chilly room lined on both sides with what looked like the sort of safety deposit boxes you might find in a bank, although rather larger. A young man wearing green medical overalls and an elasticised plastic hair covering came across to them. The director consulted his printed sheet and said, 'Mr and Mrs John, please, in 521 and 522.'
The young man said nothing, quietly opened the door to 522 and pulled out the coffin on its rollers. The director briefly raised the coffin lid and Charles looked in, tears streaming down his face. He nodded his assent, and the lid was carefully closed. They followed the same procedure for 521, and Charles sadly confirmed his identification of his deceased father.
'Thank you,' said the director, and they went back into the welcome warmth of the reception area. 'If you could sign this form confirming the two identifications,' he said. 'That completes the formalities for today. We shall of course be happy to help you with the funeral arrangements should you so desire.'
'I have to go up to their flat. I have an appointment with my parents' solicitor, Paul Popplewell. I think I have a rough idea where Popplewell and Popplewell are, and Amanda needs to visit her great-aunt in the Bay View Retirement Home,' said Charles.
'Both very easy,' said Mark Williams. 'You go out of our front door and turn right, and a little way down the hill, if you look up to the left, you will see a rather steep and narrow road. Not too long, and I'm afraid I can't remember its name. Anyway, at the top is the Bay View Retirement Home. About five to ten minutes, no more. But then if you, Mr John, were to carry on down the hill to the sea front and turn left, you will find Popplewell and Popplewell on the left, another ten minutes I would suggest. Not much more, anyway.'
'One of the things to decide,' said Charles. 'Apart of course from the funeral date, is burial or cremation?'
The tall man frowned. 'Of course,' he said. 'The local authority is very keen on cremation, because they are worried about running out of plots. I think that, very understandably, when people have been struck down by cancer for example, both the deceased and their relatives have a perfectly reasonable desire to kill off the cancerous cells. Revenge, do you see? So cremation may well be right for them.'
He thought for a few moments. 'On the other hand,' he said. 'In cases of just old people, like my own parents, both of whom died a few years ago, and car crashes like your own recent loss, I'm not so sure. What happened to my parents was that my father, who was 85 or 86, 86 I think, had been being looked after by my mother, who was already well into her 80s.'
'I don't know how to describe this properly,' he said. 'But it was as though she had an internal elastic band which was progressively being stretched and stretched as my father gradually faded away. Then, when he died, it was as if she just let the tension go. And five weeks later, she passed away herself.'
After a few minutes lost in thought he said. 'Anyway, we have a lovely burial ground on the slopes of the hill above Bridport, and I bought two plots and sadly laid them to rest side by side.'
'When you return from your session with Paul, if you like,' said the funeral director. 'Or if there isn't time, perhaps the next time you come down, I'll take you up there so that you can see what I mean. I know it sounds silly, but I bought a wooden bench, and every so often I go up there, do a bit of weeding and tidying up the flowers, and then I sit there, look out over the bay, and remember them. I suppose I'm meant to be religious in my job, but I'm sorry to say that I'm not. Not particularly, anyway. However, sitting there, looking out over the bay, I do feel a connection. Spiritual or not, I don't know, but I always come away feeling better, you know?'
'What do you think?' said Charles, looking across at Amanda. 'I mean that sounds excellent to me, but you're the one with the qualifications.'
'I think it's good,' she said. 'I mean, a box of ashes to scatter and so on, is all very well, but it's not all that permanent, is it? Will you take us up the hill, probably next week, Mr Williams?'
'Certainly,' the tall man said. 'Of course the burial option, with headstones and so on, must always cost more than cremation, if that is a consideration?'
'I don't think so,' said Charles slowly. 'You only lose your parents once, after all. Paul Popplewell and I are going to look through whatever we can find in the way of wills, certificates and so on, and we will then know more, probably by later this week. Will you prepare a set of rough estimates, costs for the alternatives?'
The tall man bowed slightly. 'We have a standard checklist which our receptionist will give you. It is rather long, I'm afraid, but we have found that it covers all the important points. We know P and P, as we call them for short, very well, and will do everything we can to make things work out as satisfactorily as possible.'
After some handshakes, and with Mark's formidable looking checklist, they left the undertaker's office and turned right.
'Nice man,' said Charles.
'I liked him,' said Amanda. 'Sensitive, and thoughtful,' she said. 'By the way, this looks like my turn.'
'May I make not one but two suggestions?' he said.
'Yes of course,' she said.
'Across the road,' he said. 'Is a flower shop, and next door is a wine merchant. I mean anyone would love to have you visit of course, but with a nice pot of azaleas for example and a little bottle of sweet sherry, you should find your great aunt even happier to see you. And a little bottle of house plant fertilizer?'
'You do seem to be a rather nice man,' she said, still impassively. 'And those are very nice ideas.'
'Let's go,' he said, and in the florist's shop they found a lovely pink azalea.
'Plenty of buds,' said the florist. 'Keep it watered, not too much, and give it a little houseplant fertilizer, again not too much, just a few drops every couple of weeks, and that's going to be a very happy plant.'
'Might you have a nice porcelain pot?' asked Charles. 'I certainly do,' she said, and they chose a charming porcelain pot with a matching porcelain undertray.
'Can you gift wrap it for us?' asked Charles. 'It is to cheer up a very old lady at the Bay View Retirement Home.'
'Of course I can,' said the florist. 'But it will take me a few minutes?'
'No problem,' said Charles. 'We're going next door for a little bottle of something, and then we'll come back for the azalea. How much is that?' he asked, taking out his wallet.
'She's my great auntie,' said Amanda fiercely. 'It was my idea,' he said loftily, settling the bill. 'And it's a small thank you for you for being here.'
Next door they found a nice little half bottle of Oloroso sherry, and again, there was an argument over the cost.
'It was my idea,' he said again. 'And look, do you realise what a state I would have been in, here, now, without you? It's a just a very small thank you, that's all. Not enough by any means, but a start, anyway. And deep down I still feel that I am just a total waste of space.'
Back on the other side of the road, he said. 'Can I carry these things up for you? And do I get to meet the old lady?'
'I don't think so,' she said. 'Not today anyway. I'll explain to her that I'm working with this rather fragile but basically OK man who's recently lost his parents, and that we'll be back down here next week, and then you'll almost certainly be invited. She's always called my husband, 'that tosser', after all.'
'I'll have another little bottle of Oloroso in my pocket. If she likes it of course,' Charles said.
'She is 79, after all,' she said.
'Well, what a way to go,' he said. '79 is a fair old age. Carrying for you? No?'
'In the force we are required to keep physically fit,' she said. 'As well as maintaining our firearms qualifications up to date. Although I have no current plans to shoot anyone. Not today, anyway. But, if she gives me that basilisk stare again and says, “Who are you?” once more, I might be tempted. Go on,' she said. 'Go and find your solicitor. Sounds a bit like a prostitute, doesn't it?'
'The two oldest professions, I believe,' he said. 'Call me when you're ready, and if I'm through first I'll call you. Here's the address, and, we have lunch to organize too. You can leave your bag in the Streak for now.'
Amanda strode off up the hill towards the Bay View Retirement Home, and Charles watched, hoping that she might at least turn round and wave, but she didn't, and after a minute or so he shrugged his shoulders and walked off down the hill towards the coast road. He realised that he still had never, not even once, seen her smile.
He was only a few minutes late for his appointment with his parents' lawyers, and after confirming his identity to the receptionist she invited him to sit down. After a brief wait a short and rather stout man hurried out of a side door.
'Mr John, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, and I was very sad to hear of your recent tragic loss. Paul Popplewell,' he said holding out his hand. 'Shall we walk?' said Paul. 'It's not far.'
'Well,' said Charles. 'My new little prototype hybrid is in the undertaker's car park, and I do like to keep it reasonably near, so that I can keep an eye on it. It is the only one in the world yet, after all. So if you'd like a ride, we could walk that far and drive the rest of the way?'
Paul was most impressed with the Streak, which sat there in the undertaker's car park, low and sleek in its polished aluminium skin. 'A hybrid?' he asked.
'Four wheel drive, with powerful little electric motors in the wheels, so no transmission or drive shafts,' said Charles. 'There's a small diesel electric generator in the boot which can recharge the batteries, but I mainly use regenerative braking, which puts the energy usually thrown away as heat by the brakes back into the battery pack as electricity. And if you've been doing a lot of low speed urban driving you can plug it into a wall socket overnight, so that you can always start fully charged in the morning. We don't usually need it, and anyway they're now fully charged. The idea is to achieve 100 mph and 100 mpg. The Double Century.'
'Marvellous,' said Paul. 'My only worry is that both my doctor and my wife tell me that I am too fat. Well I am too fat, of course, so how can I get in?'
'Before too long I hope to be able to say 'Streak, open, both sides,' said Charles. 'But for the moment I still have to use this remote control.' The solicitor looked on in amazement as the little car silently turned into a much taller four-seater, and the doors swung open.
The Streak lowered them down to their very comfortable but almost supine position, and they set off up the hill.
'It's very quiet too,' said Paul.
'Batteries only,' said Charles. 'Although, like more or less everywhere in Bridport, that road's very steep. So we'll probably find the genset cutting in before too long.'
Sure enough, a minute or so later there was a quiet purring sound from behind them.
'Amazing,' said Paul. 'Anyway, we're here now. It's that big block on the left. You can pull in anywhere.'
'I've been here a couple of times,' said Charles. 'But mainly my parents came east. The fact that my mother had nothing but contempt for my wife was a problem, of course. She was right too, as I have slowly and probably rather stupidly come to realise.'
They walked up the steps towards the lobby of the smart apartment block, and Charles felt in his pocket for the keys.
'I have keys to the front door and to the actual apartment, but not for the garage,' he said.
Just then there was a buzz from the entry system, and the big glass door swung open. They walked in, and there, behind the reception desk was a huge black man.
'I knowed it was you, Mr Charlie, because you looks exactly like your Dad,' he said. 'Bad news, bad news. I just heard, and they was such lovely peoples. My name Barbados,' he said, coming round from behind his desk and taking Charles' hands surprisingly gently in his great paws.
'Thank you, Barbados,' said Charles. 'Isn't that a rather unusual name?'
'Well,' said the big black man. 'My Mom and Dad they came from Trinidad, and they hated dat place, and then they had we identical twin boys, so they called me Barbados. They was going to call my brother St Kitts, but every body think that a really terrible idea. OK, they say, what about St Lucia?' Worse, even worser, say our pastor. So he got called Nevis, which he don't mind. He here in Bridport also, maybe you get to meet him. He own Bridport Fish. Best fish and chips for miles around.'
'That sounds good,' said Charles. 'May we go up?'
'Of course, of course,' said Barbados. 'You got a key?'
'I do,' said Charles. 'But I don't have a key to the garage.'
'No problem,' cried Barbados. 'When you wants to go down dere, I take you down the back stairs and let you in. Just come down when you ready? And call me on the house phone if you want any thing?'
They walked up the single flight of stairs to the first floor, Charles saying nothing, a sad expression on his face. Letting them both in with his key, Charles was distressed to see the remains of dinner for two, half full wine glasses and so on, still on thedining table.
'She must have roused out my old man immediately after I phoned,' he said. 'Typical of my Mum. And after just a few short miles, she ran into this stupid un-forecast downpour. God I feel so shitty and selfish.'
Paul was instantly supportive.
'Sit down there and I'll pour you a stiff drink,' he said. 'I'll put all this stuff in the dishwasher. Kitchen?'
Charles pointed at a door at the end of the big room.
'Drinks cupboard?' Charles collapsed into a sofa and pointed wearily behind him.
'Scotch, soda?'
'Both, please,' said Charles, his eyes closing as he leaned back.
Paul poured out Charles' drink, added a splash of soda, and carefully set the glass down within Charles' reach. He then placed the bottle, soda siphon and an empty glass at the other end of the table before quietly getting down to clearing away the dining table. Finally, he wiped the glass top and gave it a polish with a dry cloth.
'You're very good,' said Charles, taking a sip of his drink.
'Too many children and a working wife,' said Paul cheerfully. 'Now you stay there, and I'll investigate the contents of that formidable looking bureau over there. I know what we're looking for, and I'll make notes as I go along.'
He checked over the contents of the bureau cubbyholes and drawers quickly and efficiently, making careful notes as he went.
'Any safes, secret compartments that you know about?' he asked.
'None, so far as I know,' said Charles.
'Right,' said Paul, coming over to sit by Charles on the big sofa. 'We'll have to make checks and searches, of course, but so far as I can see at the moment there is a mixture of good news and less good news. All subject to search and confirmation, as I say.'
Charles poured out a drink for Paul, who gave it a splash of soda.
'I found some modest life assurance policies, but no pension certificates, that sort of thing?' He looked questioningly at Charles over the rim of his glass.
'I don't know anything about the life assurance side of things, but I know that Dad worked for so many companies in his career, all of them in a fairly lowly capacity. Never for very long, though, because in those turbulent post war years, a company only stayed away from its roots, say in Birmingham, until it could work out a way to get back. And you had to be promoted to a certain level to be admitted to the superannuation scheme, which never happened. Quite highly paid, he was, but never promoted on to the staff.'
'OK', said Paul. 'We'll make some searches anyway. The next thing, subject to confirmation as I say, is that I couldn't find any indication of any mortgage or loan on the property. If that's true, then if you decide to sell, there'll be nothing to pay off before you can receive the proceeds. We'll advise you as to the most tax efficient way of doing that. Given that it must be one of the very few apartments in Bridport with this wonderful view and a garage, what do you think it might be worth?'
Paul steepled his fingers and thought for a few moments. 'I'll get you a small range of professional valuations from people we know and trust, of course, but I should have thought probably somewhere between a minimum of £350,000 and say £450,000. Possibly even £500,000 for the right buyer.'
Charles whistled and then he refreshed their drinks. 'Any more less than good news?' he asked.
'Not at all,' said Paul. 'Your parents' car was fully comprehensively insured with a highly reputable national company, and I know the local people well. I am convinced that they will pay out the residual value in full, which might be up to £11,000, because their car was quite new. I'm going to copy these documents and call in on them this afternoon. Oh, and the bank statements in there suggest that there is a further £9,000 in the local branch of Barclays, in a combination of current and high interest accounts. It looks as though there may well be some ISAs, as well.'
'That's my Mum,' said Charles. 'Much better at that sort of thing than my old man.'
'Their will makes you sole beneficiary, and our first task must be to obtain the Grant of Probate,' said Paul. 'Because then we shall be able to obtain access to all of this information in a proper and irrefutable way. I shall set all that in motion this afternoon.'
He looked at his watch. 'I really must be getting on quite soon,' he said. 'There is so much to do, and if as you say your marriage was a bit rocky, we must think about your wife?'
'Not so much rocky as on the rocks,' said Charles. 'Divorce, actually, was the logical next step. When she heard about the demise of Wren on her car radio, having spent the night God knows where with God knows who, she raced home, packed a bag and drove off hell for leather to her parents in Yorkshire, without even waiting for me to get home.'
'Sounds pretty terminal to me,' said Paul. 'Look, I think I should rapidly draft out some divorce papers, get you to sign, and I'll arrange to have them served on her while she's still in Yorkshire. Then we can leave it to the divorce lawyers to sort it all out. Much less messy, in my opinion.'
'Well, before you go,' said Charles. 'I also think that we should have at least a quick look at the garage. There may well be only a few spanners and a tyre pump, but have you time?'
Paul looked at his watch again. 'Well, for the sake of completeness,' he said. 'Let's go.'
Back in the lobby Barbados greeted them warmly. 'Everything hokay up dere?' he inquired.
'Good,' said Charles. 'Some good news, some possibly not so good, but until Paul here completes his searches we can't be sure. Can you let us into the garage for a few minutes?'
'I certainly can,' said Barbados. 'Follow me.'
He led them down the dark stairwell and round a corner to a heavy door to which, in addition to the usual internal lock, an impressive looking padlock had been fitted.
'You Dad put this damn great thing on,' said Barbados, wrestling with his big bunch of keys. 'And dere probably only a few spanners and a tyre pump in dere, like any garage.'
The heavy door swung open, and the big black man left them to it.
'I not allowed to leave my desk for more than a few minutes, or I in trouble big time,' he said.
Charles went into the gloom of the basement garage, and behind him Paul found a light switch and gave them some illumination.
'He was quite right,' said Charles resignedly. 'There are only the proverbial spanners and a tyre pump here.'
Behind him, Paul coughed, rather loudly, and Charles turned round. Wordlessly, Paul pointed to the back three walls of the garage, which were entirely lined with wine racks, floor to ceiling, virtually all full. Paul carefully pulled out a couple of bottles at random and inspected the labels.
'No plonk here,' he said. 'All very good wine.'
'This, of course, having no pension, was his pension,' said Charles slowly.
Paul was rapidly counting across the top of the racking, and then down the side.
'Maybe rather more than 10,000 bottles,' he said. 'And every one worth not less than say £10, maybe £15. I'll get you a valuation, probably at least two, wine prices being so volatile. But I shall definitely have to introduce you to a taxation specialist I know.'
'I know that he went to a lot of wine auctions, picked out bin ends and so on, but this is amazing,' said Charles.
'Look at the right hand corner,' said Paul. 'That must all be champagne, probably at least 200 bottles.'
He pulled out a couple of bottles, looked at the labels, frowned, put them back, and pulled out another couple.
'It looks as if they are all Pol Roger,' he said.
'Winston Churchill's favourite,' said Charles. 'Churchill was always his hero. He drove up to London and went to the State funeral, you know?'
'Not less than £30 a bottle, anyway, so that's at least £6,000 just for the fizz,' said Paul. 'I'll get you at least two formal counts and valuations.'
'There's a very professional man just opposite the street leading up to the Bay View,' said Charles. 'Just below the florists, actually, do you know him?'.
'That's Matt Smith,' said Paul. 'He'd be one of my first choices. But with wine values these days being both subjective and volatile, I'll still get you at least two opinions. Now I really must rush, but we'll stay closely in touch.
'I know that we don't yet have a Grant of Probate,' said Charles. 'But might it be acceptable to take these two bottles of Pol Roger up to the apartment and put them in the refrigerator?'f
The solicitor thought for a moment, and then smiled. 'I don't think that could possibly be a problem,' he said. They closed the heavy door, and went back up the stairs to the lobby.
'We've slammed the door shut, Barbados,' said Charles. 'But you'll have to secure the padlock yourself.'
'Leave dat to me, Mr Charles,' said the big black man. 'Anything interesting down dere?'
'Well, you were perfectly right about the spanners and the tyre pump,' said Charles. 'But there's some other interesting stuff too. So don't let anyone in there unless vouched for by me or Mr Popplewell here, under any circumstances, OK?'
'Hokay boss,' said Barbados. 'It be like Fort Knox.'
Paul rushed out, calling, 'Think about funeral arrangements, invitations and so on. You don't have much time. Keys?'
'Not here yet, Mr P,' said Barbados. 'When dey arrives I'll send 'em down by taxi.' Paul rushed out and ran down the steps.
Just then, Amanda arrived, rosy cheeked from jogging up the steep hill.
'Who was that little fat man hurtling down the stairs at high speed?' she asked. 'Your lawyer?'
'Good man, I think,' said Charles. 'Active brain, for sure. You should have seen him counting.'
'So what's the news?' she asked.
'Come upstairs and I'll tell you,' he said. 'There appears to be good news, and some not so good news. And then we'll have lunch.'
Back in the apartment, he pulled out a pair of champagne flutes and placed them on the table.
'Should have put these in the freezer,' he muttered. 'Do you mind?' he asked anxiously.
She shrugged, still stony faced. 'At home, finding a pair of reasonably similar glasses at all is the challenge, let alone thinking about frostiness. I'm dying of thirst here, you realise? And I also have to say that if you don't feed me soon I shall have to start eating you. We are carnivores, you know?'
Charles went into the kitchen, and came back with the coldest bottle of Pol Roger and a champagne stopper. Silently, he stripped off the foil capsule and began to unwind the wires, his thumb keeping the cork firmly in place.
'You do keep a girl waiting, you know?' she said. He looked across at her. Still no hint of a smile.
Saying nothing, he carefully twisted the cork out, holding the bottle at an acute angle over his glass, until with a quiet hiss the cork came out and the champagne spilled into his glass.
'It's a bottle of Dad's pride and joy,' he said. 'Pol Roger, and he taught me how to open it properly. His hero, Winston Churchill, virtually never drank anything else, you know. Dad went to his funeral. Cried all day.'
He filled her glass half full, topped up his own glass, and they touched glasses. They sipped, and she said, still impassive, 'Delicious. Now, do I get to hear about the good news and the not so good news? This is very lovely, but we have to eat too, you know? Your forearms look as though they have plenty of meat on them.'
'Barbados?' he said on the house phone. 'Did I hear you say that your brother owned Bridport Fish? Could he provide a tasty quick lunch? This hungry woman is threatening to eat me.'
'Certainly he can, best fish and chips in Bridport, like I say. You go out the front door, turn right, turn right again at the corner, and you see him in the distance.'
Barbados was right. Nevis was charming, their lunch was delicious, and afterwards, as they strolled back to the flat, he told her about the lack of anything in the way of pensions. She looked grave, but he added that, looking like better news was the fact that there were some life assurance policies and that there didn't seem to be any mortgage or loan on the flat. Not too bad also was a modest cash balance at the bank, and that the insurance company were almost certain to pay out the full value of the car. Back in his parents' flat, after thanking Barbados, he topped up their glasses.
'You're keeping the best till last, aren't you?' she accused him.
'Well, none of it is good, ' he said slowly. 'And I'd give it all up in an instant if I could have them back. But I can't.'
He told her of their exploration of the garage, and of the discovery of his father's wine cellar.
'10,000 bottles,' she said, amazed. 'And all good stuff?'
'Paul estimates around £10 to £15 a bottle, with this lovely Pol Roger, of which apparently I have around 200 bottles, at £25 to £30, depending on the vintage. You remember the wine merchant who sold us the Oloroso? He's going to give me the first count and valuation, although, as Paul says in his lawyerish way, given the subjectivity and volatility of the wine market, he would recommend at least one further valuation. And then some of it can go to auction, although,' he said, breathing in the aroma of his wine. 'I'll probably keep a certain amount back for personal use.'
'I don't want to sound mercenary,' she said.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'Sally is the world expert on that.'
'Well all right then,' she said. 'What does all this add up to, more or less?'
'Searches to be done of course,' he said. 'Flat and wine to be independently valued, but somewhere over half a million, Paul thinks.'
'Well,' she said slowly. 'You lost your job and your parents, which is two devastating blows on the same day, but you can easily get another job. And it must be better to have some cash in your pocket at a time like this? Tell me some more about this rather unsatisfactory marriage of yours?'
'It makes me angry even to think about it. I'm sorry, but I was so pathetic. I had a whole string of more or less unsatisfactory relationships with all sorts of girls, women, I should say, and had more or less come to the conclusion that you just made the best of a bad job. I even made out a sort of table, you know, a kind of League Table of the women I knew, with so many points for looks, so many for intelligence, and so on. There was even a column for relative wealth. Isn't that repulsive?'
He paused, looking ashamed.
'Anyway, to cut a long story short I met this pretty girl, Sally, at a party, married her, and everything seemed all right at first. Unfortunately, she must have had a League Table too, with cash getting more points than anything else. Her father is a lawyer, after all. When times were hard she first became wayward, and began stopping out all night, because I hadn't kept my side of the bargain you see, and eventually it all went up the Swanee. Ironically, just as things were about to turn good for me, work wise. Until Wren went bust, anyway.'
'So how will all this work out so far as Sally is concerned,' she asked. 'Don't answer if you think I'm out of line, obviously.'
He thought for a moment or two. 'We discussed it a bit before Paul left,' he said. 'I told him frankly that, as a marriage, having been pretty hopeless for years, it was now literally on the rocks. Divorce time. No future in flogging a dead horse, after all.'
'So what did he suggest?' she asked.
'He said that he could draw up divorce papers at once, "Irreconcilable differences," and so on. I told him the house in Shoreham was mine and fully paid for, and he seemed to think that was good. I'll probably offer to give her the house and furniture, and hopefully make a clean break. No children, thankfully.'
'Isn't all that just more stress and worry for you?' she asked.
He smiled rather wanly. 'Better to get it over and done with, I think,' he said. 'Concentrates the mind, all this stuff, you know. Perhaps now you can at least begin to appreciate just how much I value your help and support?'
'But what about some supper?' she asked. 'We've been talking for hours, and it's getting dark already.'
Charles picked up the house phone again. 'Barbados,' he said. 'I have a great affection for Lebanese food, and Amanda is hungry again. Can Bridport provide?'
Barbados's deep brown voice was reassuring.
'Not only provide, but the best, and close,' he said. 'You gonna meet my good Lebanese friend Mohammed. I know he sound like Muslim? You know, no school for girls, and if they do get taught the Taliban shoot the teacher? No, no, he a Christian from the Bekaa Valley. Maronite I think, or Copt maybe, and his Dad make fabulous wine up dere. You go out the front door, turn right, right again at the corner, you see Bridport Fish in the distance ahead of you. Look left and cross the road, you see 'Palace of Beirut'. I call Mohammed and tell him you coming. Half an hour? When?'
'Half an hour? By then I should probably look like something left over by a shoal of hungry Piranha fish,' said Charles. 'Tell him we'll be there in less than ten minutes if I survive,' he said. 'Could he put some hummus and that sort of thing on the table, to take the edge off her appetite? This starving woman looks as though she has sharp teeth!'
Amanda smiled a rather wintry smile, and his heart surged with hope. This was the very first smile he had seen on that beautiful face.
The Palace of Beirut was unassuming from the outside, but warm and cosy within. Mohammed, tall, thin and dark, welcomed them gravely.
'My very good friend Barbados called me,' he said. 'You like our Lebanese food?'
'And wine,' said Charles. 'Your family comes from the Bekaa Valley, I think?' he said. 'Wonderful soil and climate, but enemies everywhere, I should have thought?'
'The Mussulmen think wine is the invention of the Devil, but my ancestors were making wine in the Valley centuries, probably thousands of years, before anyone had even thought of Islam. My father is there still, limping a bit from a Kalashnikov round in his leg. Your so beautiful lady, she likes our hummus, I believe?' he said.
Amanda had, while they had been talking, been steadily wolfing down the Hummus and pitta bread.
'Powerful metabolism she has, needs feeding every two hours apparently. Please bring us some more Hummus, and perhaps some Labneh, Moutabal and Tabouleh. And is Falafel with that special sauce possible?' asked Charles. 'Also please, a bottle of your Father's best red? And will you bring a third glass, and join us when you have time? I know so little about the Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley?' Mohammed bowed and withdrew.
'I do not have an unusual metabolism,' she hissed angrily. 'I just like to eat from time to time.'
'I've noticed,' he said. 'Well, I am sure that everything here will be excellent, so you won't starve.'
A uniformed waiter brought them a tray of little dishes and some fresh hot pitta bread.
'Falafel a few minutes, sir,' he said. 'And Master is selecting best wine for you, downstairs. I will bring three glasses, as you say.'
Amanda was peering at the unfamiliar starters suspiciously.
'Try them,' Charles advised. 'They're all delicious, but you might find one you prefer above all.'
Mohammed padded silently towards them, reverently carrying a bottle with an unusual purple and gold label and an empty decanter.
'Is very old, so may have sediment in bottom. My father, he call it sentiment. Wrong, of course, but a nice idea.'
He applied himself with great care to the extraction of the cork, sniffed it cautiously, and nodded with approval.
'Is still alive, praise be,' he said. With infinite care, he began to decant the wine, watching a candle on the far side to show up any sentiment. The little waiter arrived with their Falafel, a small bowl of sauce, and three wine glasses. Two were standard sized, but the third was much smaller. Charles raised his eyebrows interrogatively. Mohammed smiled.
'Will be enough for me,' he said. 'I know this wine well. Also remember, I probably be working here till two, maybe three am.'
'The colour is magnificent,' said Charles. 'Such a dark red, almost black in some lights.'
'My father he is good winemaker, maybe the best. Tell me what you think?'
Charles sniffed and took a small sip, rolling the wine appreciatively around his mouth.
'Perfect,' he said. 'Delightful. If only my Dad, my late Dad, had some of this in his garage,' he said. 'You heard about the car crash?'
'Barbados he tell me. Everybody very sad for you. But he did have some! Not quite like this, but close. Every time I got a consignment, I included a case or a couple of cases for him. Over the years he must have bought at least ten, maybe twelve cases. All drunk by now, most probably, of course.'
'I don't think so,' Charles said. 'A few bottles perhaps, for celebrations, but now that I come to think of it, I noticed a fair number of bottles with your father's very distinctive purple and gold label in Dad's garage. He was treating it as his pension, I think.'
'You unlucky, of course, losing your parents,' said Mohammed. 'Terrible thing, but you luckyif you have some of my father's wine. It taste lovely, but can also be good investment. Worth a small fortune in case quantities. More even, at retail. Expensive, it has to be, because we have to take small quantities in maybe pickup truck, across the badlands from the Valley, pay bribes, maybe lose all, also truck, then we have to bribe man with little boat to take it to Limassol, Cyprus. There we rent warehouse for storage until we have enough for a cargo. When it gets here we have to bottle, good local man, expensive, but good. I have to go now, please enjoy your dinner. If you ever want to sell, I give you very best price. Here is the menu for you to choose main courses.'
'What do you think, Amanda?' he asked. 'Good Lord. You've eaten all the Falafel!'
She could not speak for a minute or so, her mouth full of Falafel. When at last she could speak, she said.
'Lovely Falafel, lovely. How can it be that in all my life until now I have never eaten Falafel?'
'It's called a sheltered life,' he said. 'And there are more lovely things to come, so leave some space. But I was actually asking for your thoughts on this magnificent wine?'
She looked moderately contrite, and took a sip from her glass.
'I was never able to develop much of a taste for wine, ' she said slowly. 'Never had the budget for it. You know, supermarket plonk for £2.99 a bottle on a Saturday night?'
'Been there, done that, never got a tee-shirt,' he said. 'You know we inventors normally never have much money. But when Dad came to visit he always brought a couple of bottles of something really nice. Now then, let's choose our main courses and I'll get you some more Falafel.' He looked across at their waiter, who came hurrying over at once.
'This wine is so complex,' she said, taking another sip. 'Glorious, in fact. Did I hear you say that you may well have another 10,000 bottles or so in your Dad's garage? More or less the same?'
'Different vintages and winemakers, probably, but all likely to be pretty good. Think of it as another small gesture of appreciation and thanks for you helping me through all this, even if I'm not worth it.'
'Of course you're worth it,' she said, and she gave him another small and rather wintry smile, as if it was a new and experimental experience for her. 'You're gradually going to be able to come to terms with it all, I promise you. But of course, it will take time. And we're trained to be observant under all circumstances,' she said seriously. 'So look, here come our main courses, and more Falafel!'
After the meal, they strolled back to his parents' flat without speaking. He tried to put his arm round her shoulders, but she pushed him away, politely, but very definitely.
'You have made me realise that life can still go on, and I can't tell you how much I value all you've done for me in such a short time,' he said. 'Are you still hungry? I mean I'm sure Nevis could fix you up with a double portion of haddock, ditto of chips, ditto of mushy peas?'
She said nothing apart from punching him fiercely in the ribs with a free hand.
'Shall I take that as a no then?' he gasped.
They had to let themselves in, Barbados having gone home. In the flat she looked at him silently, a worried frown on her face.
'You said there was a spare room?' she asked.
'Yes, just down the corridor,' he said. 'It's got its own bathroom.'
'That sounds good,' she said. 'We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow.'
'OK,' said Charles. 'Let's get our heads down.'
The sun streaming into the room awakened him. Amanda, demurely wrapped in a big fluffy robe, was sitting on the end of the bed.
'Come on,' she said. 'Coffee, breakfast, and let's get on the road.'
He made the coffee while Amanda whipped up some very good scrambled eggs. They ate quietly, looking across at each other from time to time.
'Who knows what the future holds,' he said. 'Bath or Shower?'
'If things were different, a nice long bath would be lovely,' she said. 'As it's a long drive ahead of us, a quick shower and tooth brushing is probably best?'
A few minutes later, they had called to say their goodbyes to Mark and Paul and thanked Barbados, and were in the Streak, cruising down the hill out of Bridport....
