Tobin was back on the phone the following morning as soon as he thought there would be someone awake to answer. He just heard the same two voicemails, but this time they both took messages. He left a message each for Teri and Heather Millin, and then dialled a third number. At ten past eight he got a response from that number in Nottingham. The gentle tones of Angela Norris answered and quickly gave him the answer he was seeking.
With the aid of Russell‘s tattered London road atlas they ascertained that Bernie Mitchell’s address, from Russell’s notes, and the address of the original Alan Harper, given by Angela, were within two streets of each other. They both thought it very likely that Jimmy’s address would also have been close by, families never wandered far in those tight communities.
Russell rushed Tobin to the station for the next available London train. By mid-morning he was on a tube train to south of the Thames, but then ran into difficulties finding a taxi to take him the last couple of miles. He ended up walking it, in the increasing heat of a bright summer day, regretting not taking Russell’s advice to take a cab from the mainline station.
By late morning he was standing on the corner of Bernie Mitchell’s street. The terraced houses on each side of the street were a continuous line of London brown brick, of the type found all over the city. Similarly, behind him, across the main road, was the other kind of housing found all over London; not nice, solid, brown brick houses but stained, red brick and concrete flats built around patches of threadbare, brown grass. He counted down the houses on his right, the odd numbers, until he saw Bernie’s house. It was in the middle of five very similar houses with clean, bright, white paintwork. Either way up and down the street the houses varied wildly in their décor. A few were in dire need of attention, a couple were completely boarded up; others were painted in the most unsympathetic colours, a lot of them primary.
He stood watching for ten minutes and observed nothing. Feeling conspicuous standing where he was he risked walking down the street. He crossed over and passed immediately in front of the house to minimize possible observation, he hoped. Two thirds of the way down on the opposite side there was a side street that he hadn’t seen before. The junction provided another good observation point. After a further ten minutes standing there he began to feel uncomfortable, kids on bikes were watching him. They should be at school! He plucked up courage and approached the house. He crossed over the street and walked round a car that had obviously never moved that year, the thick layer of grime on it matched the ‘D’ shape of dust on the road left by the road sweeper being forced to detour.
The Mitchell’s house in the middle of the five was nearly identical to its neighbours, similar net curtains, similar ornaments on show and identical front doors. There was no bell push so Tobin rapped on the knocker. His heart rate rose with the beat of the metal. He had rehearsed many opening lines coming up in the train. However, the one that he had found impossible to imagine was what to say if Bernie himself answered the door.
There was a sharp click and the door opened. Tobin caught his breath and spluttered; it wasn’t Bernie. But, the person standing there had to be his sister; she would have fitted in perfectly with the collection of photos on Russell’s desk the night before.
He regained his breath and cleared his throat.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m trying to trace a little bit of history.’ He tried his winning smile with the approach he and Russell had worked out the night before, and failed. ‘I’m trying to trace a Mrs Mitchell who lived here in the nineteen fifties and before. I was hoping, on a long shot, that she might still be alive, and still here.’ Russell had agreed that Bernie’s mother still being alive was quite possible. There had never been any mention of a father in any of Bernie’s life history.
‘Yeah? Why’s that then?’
‘I was hoping to find someone who might remember a young boy called Alan Harper.’
She shook her head, screwing up her nose which turned down the ends of her mouth further than they already were.
‘Oh! Well you’re probably too young!’ Flattery might work, although Tobin was unable to tell if she was Bernie’s older or younger sister.
‘Remember from when?’
‘Nineteen sixty?’
‘I was around then.’
‘Really? But you’re not Mrs Mitchell are you?’
‘No.’
‘Is that Mrs Mitchell still around?’
‘Oh, yeah. That’s my mum.’ Thank heavens! This was hard work!
‘And you are … ?
‘Her daughter!’
‘Er. Yes. I meant your name.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you Bernie’s sister, by any chance?’
‘Yeah! You know him?’
‘Er. Yes. We bumped into each other the other day.’
‘Come in,’ she instructed, closing the door behind him. Tobin followed her through to the back of the house into a neat, tidy, but dark room. Heavy drapes at the window were only half open and this side of the house never saw direct sunlight. A slight figure was sat in a large, winged arm chair.
‘Mum. This is a friend of Bernie’s.’
‘Eh? Really?’ As if she found it difficult to believe her son had friends. She straightened up in her chair and put down the magnifying glass she had been using to read the newspaper. Her hands shook with a slight tremor which she tried to hide by fidgeting. Thin grey hair was scraped back into a small bun on top of her head making her features more gaunt than they might have been, although there was a slight chubbiness in the cheeks. Her whole body, beneath a light summer frock, was thin and bony.
‘When did you meet him, then?’ She asked, suspiciously.
‘Quite recently. We bumped into each other in Northumberland.’ He couldn’t resist repeating the private joke..
‘Good God! What was he doing up there?’
‘On holiday I presumed,’ lied Tobin. ‘Anyway, one way and another, it turns out you may well know something about a young boy who was killed around here. His name was Alan Harper and he lived just a couple of streets away, I think.’ He paused and waited for her to respond. He couldn’t tell if she was thinking or waiting for him to continue. ‘I believe he was killed in a bus accident.’ This time there was a glimmer of memory. She looked at him hard. ‘Harper was it?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ He heard a noise from the front door and the daughter reappeared.
‘Mrs Craggs is here, I gotta go mum. Bye!’ She gathered up her bag and a cardigan and rushed out. As they heard the front door slam a perky little lady entered the room.
’Allo, Marie. Oh!’
‘It’s alright, he’s a friend of Bernie’s’. Well, that was more hopeful.
‘Hullo.’
‘This is Isabella, she’s my home help.’
‘Allo.’ Tobin could detect an accent. He presumed it was something Latin, with a name like Isabella. She was a cheerful little figure, in her early sixties, Tobin guessed. She carried a bag of shopping which she held up for Mrs Mitchell to see and went out to the kitchen.
‘Right. Alan Harper.’ She had Tobin’s immediate attention. The departure of her daughter had brought about a noticeable change. ‘Yes, we knew him. Bernie was chuntering on about him, too.’
‘Really?’ He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, feigning innocence.
She hitched herself upright in her chair and looked Tobin directly in the eye. She had a very prim, schoolmarm look. She smoothed the dress over her knees and shuffled her feet into her slippers.
‘What are you really after, Mr … .?’
‘My name is John Tobin. I live in Northumberland.’ He was unsure how to broach the subject. He took a deep breath and dived in. ‘When I met Bernie, … I think he was looking for someone.’
‘Oh! No!’ She cried.
Isabella’s face appeared around the door, looking accusingly at Tobin. The old woman saw her and indicated to Isabella
to sit next to her. She pointed at a chair for Tobin. He brought it closer and continued. ‘I think he’s looking for someone who is a close friend of mine, but who I know under a different name.’
‘He is looking for Jimmy.’ stated Isabella to the older woman. She nodded.
‘That would be James Charles Mitchell, his cousin?’
Another nod.
‘Well, I think he found him, or very nearly.’
Mrs Mitchell’s hand went up to her mouth, smothering a little gasp.
Isabella asked. ‘Are you … policeman?’
‘No. No. I’m just a friend trying to help someone out of trouble. Though the more I look the more I find.’ He leant forward, his elbows on his knees, hands almost touching Mrs Mitchell, and, using a kind-but-firm manner asked her directly, ‘Was Jimmy involved in that robbery?’
The old lady seemed to shrink before him. She swallowed and, summoning up considerable courage, said very quietly, ‘Yes.’
Isabella’s eyes widened as they flicked between the old lady and Tobin. She gasped and made a gun shape with her fingers and stabbed at the air with them. ‘He … ?’
‘No!’
‘Oh!’ She was greatly relieved, then she realized, ‘Bernie?’
‘No! It was those stupid brother-in-laws, Billy and Sid. How much do you know of this, young man?’
‘Quite a lot.’ He patted his shoulder bag and the file within it. ‘But, only from after the robbery, nothing from before.’
‘Has he been calling himself Alan Harper?’ She had just made the connection.
‘Yes. They were friends weren’t they?’
‘Oh! You couldn’t get a fag paper between those two boys. Jimmy broke his heart when his little friend died. He was never the same again. If he hadn’t been off sick that day he would’ve been there and all. ‘Course he wasn’t proper sick. His mother got too drunk the night before and couldn’t get up to take him to school. ‘Appened a lot that did.’ She sniffed her disapproval and looked away. ‘Now, that Mrs Harper, she was a gem. Worshipped that little lad, ‘specially after his dad was killed. That was tragic, right at the end of his overseas service. He was only a driver, you know? His truck went off the road in the dark and he was killed.’ She shook her head, telling the story more to Isabella than to Tobin. ‘Anyway, she sometimes got little Jimmy ready on those mornings, but that morning the door was locked and she couldn’t get in. And that was that!
‘Poor Jimmy never really got much of a chance. Never knew his father, if that was his father! Don’t think she knew for sure! Anyhow, he left early on, when Jimmy was a baby. Then, when the lad was fifteen or sixteen, she left! Went to America I think, no-one knows for certain. He used to stay here sometimes. It was Bernie what led him astray.’ Isabella’s head shot up in surprise. ‘Well, it’s the truth, I can’t deny it. He was a wild boy. He had no father to keep him in line, either. He left me when Bernie was just a month old. Ran off somewhere and never heard of again, as well. Well, not by me anyhow! Billy and Sid helped out a lot and we got by. They was tough times then, lot of poverty, not much work.’ She stopped again and took a hankie proffered by Isabella. She looked at Tobin; he gazed back, patiently waiting.
‘He worshipped his uncles; the wasters!’ There was venom in that voice, the thought of them obviously stirred deeply buried, bitter memories. She shuffled a little in her seat, sighed deeply, dabbed her eyes and continued. ‘They was always into something shady. Right through the war they was at it; never got called up. Used every trick they could; ‘reserved occupations’; ‘sickness’; ‘flat feet’, you name it! And, they got away with it and bragged about it. ‘Course, they was heroes in the eyes of them what think like that. So, Bernie would do anything for them and dragged Jimmy along with him. Well, if he did get away with their money, well, good luck to him, that’s what I say!’
‘Ooh! Marie!’ Isabella gripped the old lady’s arm.
‘Yes. Yes. Yes!’ She pulled away and looked at Tobin. ‘So, Bernie’s found him?’
‘I don’t know how, but, yes.’
‘I think I know.’
They both turned to look at Isabella. She bit her lip at the admission.
‘Well?’ demanded Mrs Mitchell.
‘We all go to pub, same pub. One day Bernie’s friend, he work at Kings Cross station cleaning trains, he come in with picture in magazine he find on train.’ Tobin’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘He not nice to Bernie and say he has brother who is better lookin’. Bernie very upset, he angry. He took picture and went away. Bang!’ She mimicked slamming a door.
Tobin took his photo of Alan from the folder in his bag and showed it to Isabella.
‘Ah. Si! That is it!’ She pointed at Alan. Tobin turned the photo to the older woman. She reached out and carefully took it from him and stared at it. Isabella began to cry and hurried from the room.
‘I don’t know what’ll happen if he meets him. I really don’t.’ She handed back the photo. ‘He’s thought of nothing else for forty years. At first he hated them all; Billy, Sidney, Jimmy, but then Billy went and then Sid, now there’s just … .’ Her hand went up to her mouth and tears finally appeared, rolling down her cheeks.
‘Where does Bernie work now?’
‘Up the West End for one of them casino places, he’s an assistant security manager. He works funny hours.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘See him or hear him? I don’t see much of him, he hardly speaks, but I hear him about the place. He leaves his money, he’s good that way, and sees her.’ Meaning Isabella, who came back in with a cup of tea, her eyes red and wet with tears. ‘He was home last night.’ She regained her composure, lifting her head with a little sniff, but the shaking hands betrayed the inner turmoil. ‘Where’s Jimmy gone? Do you know?.’
‘We think he’s possibly, probably, in France.’
‘Ho! Never liked them Froggies, this family!’
Tobin rose saying, ‘I’d better try and find him first, then.’
‘You be careful, very careful.’ There was genuine concern on the old lady’s face. ‘If you get in his way, he can be terrible, … you know?’ She found it difficult to talk of her own son in this way.
Tobin took her hand. ‘I’ll be careful.’ He, awkwardly, took out one of his cards, balanced it on the chair arm and wrote the Hastings phone number on the back. ‘That’s where I’m staying for a couple of days, if there is any … development. OK?’ Isabella took it and hid it behind the clock. He extracted his hand from the surprisingly strong grip of the old lady and gave her a reassuring smile as the tears continued to trickle down her cheeks. Isabella walked to the front door with him.
‘I never see her cry before.’ She said.
‘Goodbye.’ Said Tobin and stepped out into the bright sunshine. He turned and headed for the main road, deep in thought.
He was tired, footsore and depressed by the time he arrived back at the Hastings house. It had taken him more than an hour to find his way back from the Mitchell’s to the station, only to see his train leaving as he ran in. The hour and a quarter wait had been spent over an expensive pastry and coffee that had consumed the last of his cash. He was too tired to look for a cash dispenser and gave up the idea of phoning anyone when he saw the size of the queues at the credit card phones. He must buy a new battery for his mobile phone.
Tobin stumbled onto the train, slept almost all the way to Hastings and woke feeling irritable and even more depressed. He had imagined that when he finally discovered the real identity of Alan Harper, or perhaps he should call him Jimmy now, he would be flushed with success. It was, in fact, a huge anti-climax. He had lost interest and could only think of returning home and sorting out all the mess he had left behind him; his home; his work; the police; Teri!
With no money in his pocket he had to ask the taxi driver to divert via a cashpoint in town to get some m
oney to pay for the ride home.
He trudged wearily up the drive to the big house. The sight of it however cheered him up a bit and he was thinking of a drop of Russell’s favourite. They must have been watching out for him when they both appeared at the door.
‘Where have you been?’
‘There’s been all hell on the phone since you left, lad, you’d better come in quick!’
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