Retrieving his car from behind a small factory unit backing on to the canal, and thanking the gods of motorists that he had not been clamped, he headed for Colindale.
Twenty
Marcus had responded to Naomi’s call with such alacrity that by ten o’clock she was in his car and heading for the first person on their list. He was curious about Alec’s absence.
‘He never intended to stay more than a few days,’ Naomi reminded Marcus, somewhat reluctant to go into details about Alec’s trip, particularly as she didn’t have a great deal of information herself anyway. ‘There were things he had to go back and see to.’
Marcus seemed satisfied for the present. He was, Naomi thought, in good spirits today, describing the scenery and speculating as to the relevance of those of Rupert’s sources they were going to meet.
‘It may have nothing at all to do with this man Kinnear,’ Naomi reminded him, ‘and remember, Marcus, our story is that we’re simply interested in completing Rupert’s book for him.’
‘Oh yes, quite so. We’re here, our first address.’
Mr and Mrs Parry, Naomi recalled from Rupert’s notes, had contacted the oral history unit at the local university regarding a story told by Mrs Parry’s uncle. Marcus had phoned ahead that morning and recited their cover story and found himself with an immediate invitation.
Naomi’s heart sank. She could guess what this was going to be like. They might be getting in easily enough but she wondered how long it would take to escape.
Two hours fifteen minutes was the answer. By this time Naomi knew every last detail of Uncle Wally’s treasure rumoured to be buried in the orchard … or was it the garden …?
Tea, cake, enthusiastic fussing of Napoleon once permission had been granted. Condolences that that nice man had died so suddenly, listened for hours, he did.
Naomi, rather sourly, wondered if he’d had any choice.
‘Well, that went well,’ Marcus said after they’d finally made their escape.
‘You think?’
‘Well, yes.’ He sounded rather put out.
Naomi sighed. ‘Sorry Marcus, I’m thinking like a police officer. Ask the relevant questions and get out on to the next job. I suppose there was never really time for the social niceties.’ Thank goodness, she added silently.
‘No, I suppose not.’ He brightened. ‘It’s the vicar next. The Reverend Fullerton. Rupert consulted him regarding the parish records.’
Naomi groaned inwardly. She had hoped to have worked through their half of the list by mid afternoon. At this rate, two hours plus per consultation, it was going to take till the end of the month.
Harry and Patrick were not having much luck. The first three names on their list had been out. The second two insisted that they had told Marcus all they could and they really couldn’t be bothered with it all again. Didn’t he take notes? The next was an elderly lady called Mrs Thorpe who lived alone if you didn’t count the African Grey parrot that harassed them from the second she allowed them to come through the front door.
‘Of course I remember Mr Friedman,’ she said. ‘What a charming man. I had such a nice time with him. He was with me all afternoon one week and then he came back the next. It was so nice; one gets so few visitors, you know.’ She turned to look quizzically at Patrick, taking in the baggy jeans, long-sleeved surfing shirt and the canvas record bag he carried slung across his body. She drew in a deep and rather hesitant breath, as though teenage boys were a novelty she wasn’t sure she included in the category of pleasant visitors. She turned back to his father. ‘He took a lot of notes and even recorded some things I told him. It was very exciting. Please sit down. Do.’
They sat. The parrot came and stood on the back of Patrick’s chair. It squawked loudly and dived a beak into his unruly hair.
‘Ow!’ Patrick protested.
Mrs Thorpe turned and frowned in his direction. She said nothing to the parrot. ‘Now how can I help you?’
Harry launched into the story of how they wanted to finish Rupert’s book. Mrs Thorpe nodded and smiled. ‘Oh, how nice.’
The parrot started on Patrick’s ears. He hunched his shoulders and sat forward trying to get out of its way.
Mrs Thorpe looked back in his direction. ‘Oh, don’t slouch, dear. I do think it’s such a shame the way young people slouch, don’t you?’
‘Um …’ said Harry glancing absently at his son.
‘It’s the parrot,’ Patrick protested.
Mrs Thorpe clucked her tongue at him. ‘No, dear,’ she said firmly. ‘My parrot doesn’t slouch.’ She focussed attention back on Harry. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘where were we?’
The parrot switched tack and hopped down on to the arm of Patrick’s chair, out of sight, he noticed, of its owner. Once there it began a concerted attack on his sleeve, pulling viciously at the cuff and sinking its beak through the fabric and right into Patrick’s arm.
Patrick yelped again.
‘My dear –’ Mrs Thorpe stared sternly at him through rimless spectacles – ‘perhaps if you are determined to torment my parrot, you ought to go and wait outside.’
Stung by injustice but more than happy to escape, Patrick fled. Outside he examined his torn sleeve and the damaged flesh beneath. The beak had drawn blood. He wondered what nasty diseases you could catch from parrots and whether you might risk going to jail should you wring its neck.
There was a patch of overgrown grass in front of the cottage and Patrick sat down with his back to the wall wishing he’d brought his MP3 player. Instead, from the inside pocket of his record bag he pulled the journal that he had been reading after breakfast and hidden in there when Marcus arrived to collect Naomi.
He wasn’t sure why he should be worried about Marcus seeing it – he had made a point of taking the other two journals to his room that morning. Patrick wasn’t sure, either, what made him so uncomfortable around Rupert’s business partner but something did.
The journal he had brought with him was the second one of the three. The first they had skimmed briefly and the third read in more detail the night before. It contained several references that appeared to relate to Sam Kinnear, but never by name and nothing that added to the sense of what they already knew. The second journal had remained untouched until today.
Patrick had begun to plough through the accounts of cinema visits and restaurants and buying trips detailed in the journal. He flicked back to the page he had been reading that morning. On the face of it there was no reason for Rupert to have concealed these books or, for that matter, the laptop. An initial examination of the laptop last night had revealed the text of his new book, some saved emails and a favourites list of internet sites that were fascinating for the variety of sites he visited if nothing else. Patrick was eager to get back to the task.
He found his place in the journal. Rupert was writing about a film he’d watched the night before and the entry was for June 14th 2004. Rupert liked his films and he wrote short reviews on them. Many of the films seemed to be art house or foreign language films that Patrick had either never heard of or never seen, but this one was familiar: Memento, a film Patrick had watched with Naomi. It had been a fascinating story, Patrick remembered. A man who had lost his memory was slowly trying to piece together who he was. The film ended with a twist and Patrick had liked that. He’d enjoyed The Usual Suspects for the same reason, that twist in the tail, and had watched it several times over, noting the clues by which he could have worked it out.
Patrick looked up from the book and stared out across the road and into the field beyond. There was something … something now nagging at the back of his mind. Something about the way the journals were written? He wasn’t sure. Patrick shook his head. It would all come together, he thought. It usually did but he had learnt that such flashes of intuition could not be forced.