Patrick, now watching Harry, saw his father’s shoulders stiffen. Harry could not abide bad manners or slights on people not in a position to defend themselves.
‘I’m sure Mr Friedman worked very hard at his business,’ he said.
‘And he should have learned to mind his own, too.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Harry challenged. ‘Look, I’m quite happy not to talk to you, but your name was on the list of contacts Rupert Friedman made. Perhaps someone else here was Mr Friedman’s informant?’
‘There is no one else here,’ the man growled. ‘Now get yourself off my property.’
Patrick held his breath, sure that his father was about to challenge the assertion and draw attention to the boy. He didn’t think that would be beneficial. Impulsively, he felt in his bag and managed to tear a scrap of paper from his notebook and grab the stub of the pencil. Hoping the older man wouldn’t see, he scribbled his mobile number on the piece of paper.
The boy was watching him and took a further step back as though afraid Patrick might approach. Patrick glanced back to where the two men faced off then looked at the boy. He crushed the paper in his hand and dropped it into a clump of grass in front of the barn. The boy was watching him. His gaze fell for a mere instant, then met Patrick’s once more.
‘We’re going,’ Harry was saying. ‘And don’t worry, we won’t be back.’
Stiff backed he marched to the car. Patrick followed swiftly. A glance in the wing mirror confirmed that the boy had slipped away, though the man still watched as if making certain they did not change their minds. Patrick wondered if the boy would retrieve the number. He worried that the man had seen.
‘Thoroughly unpleasant fellow,’
Harry at his most pompous made Patrick smile. ‘Back to Fallowfields?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Oh yes. I’m starved.’
‘Did you know,’ Patrick asked, ‘that round here starved used to mean freezing cold as well as hungry?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘It was in Rupert’s notes.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m certainly not cold. It’s a wonder you can stand it in those long sleeves.’
Patrick grinned. He hardly ever uncovered his arms. ‘I just feel naked with that much flesh exposed,’ he said, ‘and, yes, I know that’s weird.’
‘Happy with weird,’ Harry told him contentedly. ‘Perfectly happy with your kind of weird.’
Naomi and Marcus arrived back at Fallowfields just after Patrick and Harry.
Harry had checked the locks and taken a tour round the gardens. ‘No sign of anyone having been here,’ he reported.
‘No, well I expect they’ve reached the conclusion there’s nothing here,’ Marcus complained. ‘At least, not that I’m aware of?’
The question was clearly a leading one and for a moment Patrick thought his dad would give a direct answer. Marcus had still not been told about the laptop or the journals. As Harry opened his mouth to respond, Patrick caught his father’s eye and shook his head.
‘No, nothing useful as yet,’ Harry said. ‘And I can’t say that this morning was very helpful either. Nothing but a wild parrot chase, if you ask me. Come along through, Marcus, we’ll all have a bite to eat before you have to rush off back to the shop.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Marcus sounded faintly put out by the inference that he would have to leave. ‘Well, thank you. Lunch would be welcome, yes.’
Harry led the way into the kitchen, Marcus following on behind. Naomi turned her head. ‘Patrick?’
‘Here.’
‘Ah. Parrot chase?’
‘A woman called Mrs Thorpe and an African Grey,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.’
‘In a minute? Oh,’ she said catching on. ‘Something neutral to talk about over lunch, you mean.’
‘I might do.’
Naomi laughed softly. ‘Which means we’ve got something better to discuss when Marcus is safely gone?’
Patrick squeezed her hand in acknowledgement as Marcus himself stuck his head around the door, clearly wondering what was delaying them.
‘Patrick was just telling me about his encounter with a mad woman and a parrot,’ Naomi said.
‘Mad parrot, too,’ Patrick added.
Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, that’s going to be nothing,’ he said. ‘Not compared to our vicar and uncle what’s-his-name’s treasure buried in the orchard. You know,’ he continued, ushering them into the kitchen, ‘I really don’t understand how Rupert could do all this, listening for hours to other people’s boring little stories, I mean.’
‘Well,’ Naomi said, ‘I think he must have had a certain gift, Marcus. Patrick’s been reading some of his work to me and I’d guess that by the time the stories made their way into one of his books they’d have been Rupertized.’
‘Rupertized!’ Marcus laughed. ‘I like that,’ he said softly and for the first time Patrick looked at him and saw something to like. ‘Yes,’ Marcus went on, ‘I think perhaps Rupe Rupertized his entire little world, and I have to say I think it was a better place for it.’
Twenty-One
Alec had spent a frustrating and tiring afternoon at Colindale, searching the archives for mentions of Kinnear. He had come away with a more complete picture of the man. Kinnear’s career had escalated through the early eighties and he had graduated from committing general mayhem at the behest of others to setting up on his own account.
He’d committed three armed robberies in quick succession, all banks, always with a three-man team. It had been impatience that proved his downfall. Three robberies in as many weeks, and in the same geographical area, had put the banks on high alert. One of Kinnear’s associates had been killed and another wounded during the arrest. Unfortunately, there had been another death. A member of the security team, a man called Fred Ritchie. The news reports called him a ‘have a go hero’, but it was far from clear exactly what he had done. Neither could Alec find a definitive account of who had shot him. Some reports blamed Kinnear, others his dead associate, and yet another suggested he had been caught in the crossfire between the police and the bank robbers.
But it was a name mentioned only once that caught Alec’s eye and which chilled him to the core. A witness to the shooting: a man called Rupert Friedman.
Alec had searched for records of the court case, but found little of use. The trial was only reported in any depth because of the death of Fred Ritchie and by then, almost two years on in the spring of 1982, interest had waned. War in the Falklands knocked just about everything else out of the news and the trial of a couple of armed robbers counted for very little.
Alec returned to his car and made a few calls. The reports had also mentioned the name of the officer in charge of the investigation. It took a little while, and a few favours, but within the hour he had discovered that the officer in charge of the investigation, DS Billy Pierce, had long since retired.
‘I can’t give out his number,’ Alec’s informant, a friend of one of Alec’s acquaintances in the Met, told him, ‘but I can call Bill, see if he’s willing to talk to you.’
Alec agreed and sat back to wait, fighting weariness and wishing he could just drive to a nice hotel and go to sleep.
It was Billy Pierce who called him back. He sounded curious and, Alec thought, slightly wary, but by six fifteen he was knocking on the ex-policeman’s door.
Billy Pierce was greying and almost bald, but he moved with the agility and deliberateness of a much younger man. Alec was tall, but Pierce had a couple of inches on him. His handshake was firm and the grey eyes direct and curious as he invited Alec to come inside.
‘The wife’s away visiting the grandkids,’ he said. ‘Come on through. I’ll make us some tea.’ He led Alec into the kitchen at the rear of the house and indicated he should sit down at the table. ‘We can go into the living room, if you’d rather.’