The Unburied Past (24 page)

And to add to all that there were Barry's nightmares, which had grown more rather than less frequent over the years. Sometimes she wondered if that hidden part of his memory was using them to force itself to his attention, a fear that had rocketed when, last week, she'd returned home unexpectedly from a shopping trip to find him with his head on the kitchen table, sobbing uncontrollably.

Over to her left, the town hall clock gave its whirring cough and launched into its full peal, followed by two sonorous chimes. Two o'clock! She'd an appointment in fifteen minutes! Once more burying what could not be faced, Vivien hurried back to the office.

That afternoon, Adam and Kirsty drove out to the Glendale Industrial Estate to see for themselves the factory that had suddenly assumed importance in their investigation. But a high wall surrounded the site, and all they could glimpse through the tall iron gates was a multi-storey office block and a few sheds.

‘What were you saying about a wasted journey?' Kirsty murmured, but Adam, who'd been surveying the surrounding area, shook his head.

‘No, I've seen all that I need to.'

She turned to look at him in surprise. ‘Is this by any chance reconnaissance for your wooden horse?'

‘It is indeed.'

‘Don't tell me you're planning a raid?'

He laughed. ‘Hardly! Patience, little sister. All will be revealed.'

‘I hope it's not going to take the whole evening, this plot of yours?'

‘Hell, no. I'll be back in time for dinner.'

‘Well, I suppose that's something,' she said.

At five thirty, when the iron gates opened and the work force began to stream through them, Adam was back again, leaning against a bollard on the opposite pavement. The younger members, joking and pushing each other playfully, he ignored, biding his time, but he straightened when the older men appeared, walking more slowly, patting their pockets for a pipe or cigarettes. Two in particular fitted the profile he was looking for, both nearing retirement, deep in conversation – conversation that was surely destined not to end with a parting at the factory gates.

Unobtrusively he fell into step behind them, playing his hunch that they'd be making for the pub down the road and breathing a sigh of relief when they turned in its doorway. He followed them, thankful that, unwilling to abandon their discussion for more general chat, they'd taken their glasses to the only vacant table. Having acquired a glass of his own, Adam walked over.

‘Mind if I join you?' he asked. ‘This is the only free seat, and I've been on my feet all day.'

They nodded a little reluctantly and continued talking in low voices – something about the new Works Manager and the changes he was introducing.

‘Sorry to butt in,' Adam said, ‘but you work at Ferrises, don't you?'

They turned to him, annoyed at being interrupted but prepared to be civil to a stranger. ‘Aye, that's right.'

‘No worries about
your
jobs, then! I hear the firm's going from strength to strength.'

The bald man weighed him up. ‘Yank, are you?'

‘British, actually, but I grew up in Canada.'

‘So what brings you to our neck o'woods?' asked the other. ‘Industrial estates don't usually figure on tourist maps.'

‘I'm interested in the architecture,' Adam improvised smoothly. ‘Not that I could see much, over that high wall of yours! It must be a great place to work, though, with all that job security. Family owned, isn't it?'

‘Aye.'

The words ‘blood' and ‘stone' came into Adam's mind. Seeing their glasses were empty, he stood. ‘Let me get you a refill. Same again?'

They hesitated, glanced at each other, then nodded, and he shouldered his way to the bar. Somehow he must get them to open up; perhaps this round would loosen their tongues.

‘Name's Adam,' he volunteered, putting their drinks down on the table.

The bald man extended a hand. ‘Joe,' he offered. ‘And this 'ere's Bill.'

Adam nodded at each in turn and took a long draught of beer for much-needed Dutch courage. ‘Another reason I'm interested in Ferrises,' he began conversationally, ‘is that my family comes from these parts, and my dad used to know someone who worked there. Guy called Tony Vine. Is he still around?'

He hadn't the proverbial pin to hand, but was willing to bet that its dropping would have resounded like a gun shot. Innocently, he looked from one startled face to the other.

‘Be in his late fifties by now, I guess,' he added into the growing silence. ‘Do you know him?'

Joe cleared his throat. ‘We knew Mr Vine, aye.'

‘Knew?'

‘He died, mate. Years ago.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.'

He waited expectantly, and sure enough Bill added in explanation, ‘Drowned, like. In one o'local lakes.'

‘Dad will be sorry to hear that. They lost touch when we emigrated in the eighties.'

Joe took a drink and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘'T'were in eighties it happened,' he said. ‘Missing for weeks afore he were found. Firm were in a bad way then, and there were some as thought he'd done hisself in.'

‘That's too bad. Quite a bright guy, I gather?'

‘Aye, bright enough. It's thanks to him as firm pulled itself back from t'brink.'

Geronoimo! ‘How was that, then?'

‘Invented a new machine, didn't he?' Bill said. ‘Leastways, modified an existing one that turned production on its head. Too bad he didn't live long enough to reap benefits.'

‘So it wasn't in use when he died?'

‘No. Rumour has it governor found it in his garden shed. Any road, patent was applied for and we never looked back.'

Adam caught a quick warning frown from Joe, and pounced. ‘In his shed? You mean he wasn't working on it at the factory?'

‘Seems not.' They were avoiding each other's eyes.

‘But surely he'd have had everything to hand there?'

Bill shrugged. Apparently they'd said as much as they were prepared to, but they'd given him plenty to think about.

He finished his drink. ‘I'm sure he'd have been glad to know he helped save the firm. Thanks for letting me join you; I won't impose any longer. Good to meet you both.'

‘Ta for t'drinks,' Joe said.

‘You're welcome.' And with a vague smile at them both, Adam made his way out of the pub.

‘So it was more a question of the horse's mouth than the wooden horse,' Kirsty commented.

She and Adam were sitting over dinner at the George.

‘Yes, but you do see what it means?'

‘No, what?'

‘That Vine didn't want the owners to know what he was up. That's the only explanation for his developing it at home.'

‘But why?'

‘I'm not well-versed in business contracts, but it seems likely that anything invented by one of its employees during working hours would legally be owned by the firm.'

‘So?'

‘So he worked on it in his own time because he wanted to hang on to the ownership.'

‘Why would he want to do that?'

‘God, Kirsty,
I
don't know! I'm just thinking aloud. I can't help feeling it's significant, though.'

‘But he died, so the firm got it anyway.'

‘Exactly.'

‘Well, that's hard luck on him, but I can't see how it affects us.'

‘Nor can I at the moment.' He topped up their wine glasses. ‘I tell you one thing, though; I wish to hell we'd known about this before we saw Mrs Ferris. We'd have had a much better idea of what to ask her.'

‘I doubt if it would have been much help; she seemed pretty vague about his work.'

‘She might at least have known why he spent half the night working in the garden shed.'

They were silent for a while, busy with their own thoughts. Then Kirsty said, ‘We have three days left. What else can we do?'

‘Go to the police,' Adam replied promptly.

She looked startled. ‘Really? You think they'll see us?'

‘I'm damn sure they will. I'll phone in the morning and make an appointment. It'll be interesting to say the least to hear their take on the affair, and I also want to check if they knew Vine disappeared the same day.'

‘There's probably no connection,' Kirsty pointed out.

‘Nevertheless, they should be made aware of it if they're not already. And our turning up will show we're not giving up on this, cold case or not. With luck, it might give them a nudge.'

Detective Inspector Fleming was in his thirties, tall and slim, with keen blue eyes. He came to greet them with outstretched hand. ‘Miss Marriott and Mr Carstairs? I believe you'd like to discuss one of our less successful investigations.' He ushered them into an interview room. ‘The Penthwaite murders of 'eighty-six?'

‘That's right,' Adam confirmed smoothly. ‘The murder of our parents.'

The detective looked startled. ‘Oh? I'm sorry – the names aren't the same and I didn't …'

‘We were adopted by different sides of the family.' How many times had he said that in the last few weeks?

‘I see.' Fleming put a folder on the table. ‘Well, I've dug out the files and familiarized myself with the enquiry.' He looked up suddenly. ‘God, were you the children in the house?'

They nodded.

‘A lucky escape, by all accounts.' He shuffled through some papers. ‘I have transcripts here of all the interviews conducted at the time – we weren't digitalized then – including the original phone call reporting discovery of the bodies, statements from people in the village and house-to-house enquiries. There are also details of extensive searches for the missing camera – charity shops, pawn brokers, car boot sales, you name it – conducted over a wide radius. As to the scene of crime, SOCO spent several days going over it, but apart from the shoe prints very few traces were found.'

‘Traces?' Kirsty broke in.

‘Of the perpetrators. Hairs, fibres and so on.'

Adam's face lit up. ‘You have their DNA?'

Fleming shook his head. ‘Unfortunately that facility wasn't available at the time.'

‘But if you had a suspect now,' he persisted, ‘you could extract DNA from these fibres and compare them?'

‘Yes, indeed. A number of old cases have been solved by that means.'

‘Where were these traces?'

‘All in the main downstairs room. It had been raining the previous day and as I said there were two sets of muddy shoe prints, neither of which were Mr Franklyn's. All the males in the village had their footwear examined, but no match was found.'

Kirsty glanced at Adam, expecting him to bring up the subject of Vine, but he was still weighing the possibility of a DNA match. She said, ‘A man was reported missing at the same time. Is that mentioned in the file?'

Fleming looked surprised. ‘A missing person? Connected with this case?'

‘That's what we're wondering. He disappeared that Sunday after fishing on Lake Belvedere, but his body wasn't recovered for some weeks, so its significance mightn't have been picked up.'

‘A different team would have dealt with mispers,' Fleming replied, ‘but “significance?” I can't see that it's relevant.'

‘We feel everything unusual that happened that day is worth examining,' Adam said.

Fleming frowned. ‘Who was this man?'

‘Tony Vine,' Kirsty supplied. ‘He worked for Ferris Engineering, and he'd just invented a machine that made their fortune for them.'

‘And according to his wife,' Adam added, ‘who, incidentally, is now Mrs Dean Ferris, there was a mysterious phone call that day, and she inadvertently let slip where he was.'

Fleming's frown deepened. ‘What kind of phone call?'

‘Someone asking for her husband, wanting to know when he was due back.' He held up a hand. ‘All right, it doesn't sound suspicious in itself, but the caller refused to give a name, said he'd phone back but never did.'

‘In my experience,' Fleming said drily, ‘that frequently happens. However, I'll look into it, though if, as you say, his body was later found and there were no suspicious circumstances, the case would have been closed. And I still fail to see any link with your parents' deaths.'

‘The lake's not far from Penthwaite,' Adam said. ‘You must at least admit it's a coincidence. How often do two murders and a disappearance take place on the same day in such a small area?'

‘As I say, we'll look into it,' Fleming answered smoothly, collecting his papers and returning them to the folder. ‘Thank you for bringing it to our attention, and please accept our sympathy on the loss of your parents. It's extremely unfortunate that no one has so far been apprehended.'

There was little else they could do. Furthermore, the weather had turned wet and windy, not conducive to trudging round covering ground, both physical and metaphorical, that they'd already been over.

By Friday morning they were more than ready to pack their bags and set off for home. The change in the weather made motorway driving both tiring and depressing as spray from passing lorries repeatedly spattered their windscreen, added to which both were aware of anticlimax. They'd travelled to the Lakes hopeful of finding some hitherto unrecognized clue to their parents' murders, but that had not happened and, despite odd flashes of hope, they'd achieved nothing.

Nonetheless, Adam realized to his surprise that despite the disappointment, he'd felt happier during this last week than he could ever remember being. Was it, he wondered in a rare moment of self-analysis, because he'd spent it in the company of someone who, despite their long separation, was closer to him than anyone else on earth?

He felt a burst of affection for this newly found sister, and when he dropped her off outside her house, surprised them both by bending to kiss her cheek.