“Not Dad.
“You see it undermined that supremely confident belief in his own God-backed judgment which had been the mainstay of his being these many years. If he’d got this wrong, what else had he got wrong? It pulled away or at least seriously damaged one of the mainstays of his faith.
“Within a fortnight of recognizing he’d been conned, a fortnight during which by Angela’s account he worked like a man possessed, he went out on some errand of mercy one night and that was all that anyone saw of him till his body was pulled out of the Mazagon Docks a fortnight later. The fish had worked at it so much that cause of death could never be established. Suicide? I don’t like to think so. I want to believe he just took a risk too far and paid the price.
“All these memories rolled through my mind as I sat on that bus, and the violent jolt as the vehicle crashed to a halt at my stop took me by surprise and I almost dropped the package. As I stepped onto the pavement, despite the cool autumn air I was sweating.
“I had walked the route before while making my plans so I set off at a brisk pace towards my destination. Getting the package delivered without arousing suspicion was always going to be the hard part, but I’d worked out a method. It was not without risk, but apart from knocking at Uncle Harry’s door and handing it over to whoever answered, I couldn’t think of anything better.
“Now the end was near, I felt only relief. Like I say, at the time of Dad’s death I’d been a child, and was devastated like a child, and then had adapted like a child. Mother’s death had hit me harder. And when I learned from Angela that Uncle Harry’s chicanery had ultimately been the cause of both of them, I got very angry.
“But I was only eighteen and at eighteen you’re very angry at a lot of things. The main long term effect of learning the true facts was to finally make me dump the religious baggage I’d been dragging after me all my short life. I looked around and saw that the world was full of goodies and the only way to get your share was to go in hot pursuit. So that’s what I did, mainly in the sub-continent where I’d grown up, with occasional forays to Malaysia and the Antipodes.
“Then with youth well behind me and my fortieth birthday lumbering ever closer, I got the chance to come and work in England.
“Why not? After all I was English, that’s what my passport said. So back I came to this cold, damp, unwelcoming country. After six months I was beginning to think it was a mistake. I reached the dreaded fortieth in May and in this dreadful climate, it felt more like fifty. I had to get out, but my contract bound me here at least till Christmas. By the end of September I was feeling desperate. I looked back at my life and it seemed a wasted journey, and I looked forward and saw only a road to nowhere. Then one evening as I travelled back to my lonely apartment, I picked up a bookshop magazine that someone had left on the train.
“Now I’m not a reading man myself, and it was in a mood of cynical mockery that I glanced down a list of newsworthy forthcoming events in the literary calendar. Who the hell could really be interested in dinners to award prizes to novelists or the publication of a ghosted life of some idiot sportsman too thick to write his own biography?
“Then something leapt out at me.
“Notable Anniversaries
“On 31 October, the distinguished crime writer and well known figure on the London literary scene, Mr Harry Keating, best known as the creator of the famous series of books featuring Inspector Ghote of the Bombay Police, will be celebrating his eightieth birthday, to general rejoicing.
“Keating… Bombay… it couldn’t be coincidence. This had to be Uncle Harry!
“When I arrived at my station I popped into the bookshop.
“Quite a lot of his books were on the shelves. I bought a couple and took them back to my flat.
“I raced through them. The detailed knowledge of Bombay life and topography could only have come from a man who knew the city inside out. And when I looked at the author photo on the back cover of the book, I knew I was right.
“He had attempted to change his appearance by growing a rather fine bushy beard, but there was no disguising that splendid hook nose.
“Uncle Harry. The subtle serpent who had destroyed my family’s personal paradise.
“I thought of my dead parents. Then I thought of this man, approaching eighty, basking in the love of friends and family, acknowledging the applause of the world of literature. And suddenly it seemed to me that here was fate offering me a chance to do at least one meaningful act before I died! I told you that Dad used to believe God spoke directly to him. It must be in the genes. For the first time in my life I heard a voice speak in my head.
“Let him get to eighty. But make sure he gets no further!
“God? I didn’t think so. After all, I don’t believe in God. I refuse to believe in God!
“But as I approached Northumberland Place I found myself thinking, this is the real test, this is where things need to go absolutely smoothly or it’s all in vain. If the Almighty really reckons this is a good idea, then the next few minutes will be a stroll in the park.
“And a few minutes later, I knew I had the divine seal of approval.
“The post van which I’d watched for five mornings on the trot the previous week showed up within the usual fifteen minute range. And about five minutes before it turned into Northumberland Place, it parked in its usual spot outside a block of flats. The driver got out with an armful of letters and packages and went into the building. On previous evidence he would be in there a good five minutes, sometimes longer. Perhaps someone gave him a cup of tea, or something. I moved forward, checked there was no one watching me, opened the van door and leaned inside. There were several bags filled with mail. I pulled a couple of envelopes out of the nearest one. I was really on a divine providence roll, for they both bore Uncle Harry’s name and address! As I’d anticipated from all I’d read about him, the world was so overcome with joy at the great man’s eightieth birthday that his numerous gifts and greetings merited a separate bag.
“I dropped my packet into it, closed the door and went on my way.
“I thought of hanging around to listen for the bang, but there was no way of foretelling how long it would be before he opened his last present, and I didn’t want to be picked up on CCTV loitering in the area. So I came home and waited for the news to come over the airwaves. Famous writer killed by bomb on 80th birthday. That must make the headlines, surely?
“Instead after nearly three hours just as I was getting really impatient, the doorbell rang, I opened the door, and there you were holding up your ID, and I knew things had gone seriously wrong.
“But not so wrong, Detective Inspector Gospill, that you need to treat me as a terrorist! So why not get that out of the way, then perhaps you won’t need to sit here any longer waiting for this Commander Grisewood who seems to be such a very bad time-keeper.
“You could start off by telling me exactly what’s happened. And where did it all go wrong?”
After my arrest, I’d been brought to Scotland Yard and left sitting in an interview room for well over an hour with a blank faced constable for company.
Finally DI Gospill reappeared, the constable left, and I waited for the interview to start. When nothing happened, I asked him what the hold-up was. He said that we were waiting for his superior, Commander Grisewood, who was returning from a conference in the Midlands. I said surely there must be enough senior officers sitting around on their thumbs in Scotland Yard for one of them to deal with the matter. What was so special about this man Grisewood anyway?
And that was when he told me, in a tone of some irritation not totally aimed at me, that Commander Grisewood was in charge of the unit which dealt with terrorist acts by British nationals and that for reasons best known to himself he wanted to conduct my interview personally, to which end he had given strict orders that nothing was to be done until he arrived, which should have been half an hour ago.