‘Sergeant Johnson’s getting married soon,’ says Nelson suddenly.
Judy glares at him. She knows what he’s doing, of course. Softening a potentially hostile witness with some personal details, the human touch, trying to empathise (a word Nelson usually hates). It’s probably a good move but it doesn’t stop Judy wishing Nelson would fall into a fiery hell-hole and be tortured by sadistic demons.
The witness, though, is definitely softened. ‘Are you?’ Joyce turns to Judy with what appears to be genuine interest. ‘When?’
‘In May. At St Joseph’s.’
‘The Catholic church?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ says Joyce, ‘but my husband didn’t hold with it so I became a Unitarian.’
‘Was Hugh a Catholic?’ asks Nelson.
‘Yes,’ says Joyce. ‘Dad used to say he was quite religious as a boy but I never remember him going to church.’
‘Have you got any pictures of your dad and Hugh?’ asks Nelson cosily. He tries to smile apologetically at Judy. She ignores him.
In a drawer, far below the fat satin wedding books, Joyce has a brown envelope containing some sepia photographs. Two boys, both wearing glasses, gaze up at them. The elder is in school uniform, the younger in a white suit with sash.
‘First Communion?’ asks Judy.
Joyce shrugs. ‘I suppose so. Here’s Hugh in RAF uniform. He couldn’t fly planes because of his eyes but he did navigation, I think.’
The same intense, short-sighted stare. The same slightly stiff pose. Hugh Anselm was one of those men who don’t look quite right in uniform. He seems nervous, unsmiling, hands clenched at his sides. He must have joined the RAF after the Home Guard, thinks Judy.
‘What did your uncle do after the war?’ asks Nelson.
‘Went to university. The only person in the family to go. Dad always said that Hugh was the clever one.’
‘And after university?’
‘I’m not sure. He did lots of jobs. He was a teacher, worked in a bank, even ran his own restaurant for a while. As I say, we weren’t exactly close.’
‘What’s this picture?’ asks Judy, pulling out a photo of a group of men standing proudly beside a boat. Hugh is older here but the glasses and the anxious expression are the same.
‘Oh that must be the lifeboat. He was a keen lifeboatman.’
‘At Broughton Sea’s End?’ asks Nelson.
‘I suppose so.’
‘There isn’t a lifeboat any more, is there? I think someone told me that they can’t use the ramp these days.’
Joyce Reynolds shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s a weird out-of-the-way place, Broughton. When they were little we used to take the children on the beach there sometimes but I haven’t been for years. Uncle Hugh didn’t like the beach at Broughton. He said it had an unwholesome atmosphere. That was the way he used to talk.’
Nelson examines the photograph. ‘Did your uncle ever talk about Jack Hastings?’ he asks. ‘Or his father, Buster?’
‘Is he the man who lives in the big house on the cliff? The one that’s meant to be falling into the sea? No, I can’t remember Uncle Hugh ever mentioning him.’
‘Buster Hastings was the captain of the Home Guard.’
‘Hugh didn’t talk about the war. He was a bit of a communist, if you want the truth. It was one reason why we didn’t see so much of him. My husband doesn’t stand for that sort of thing.’
Like Catholicism, thinks Judy. Mr Reynolds’ prejudices are clearly wide ranging.
‘Mr Anselm had a fascinating life,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t write a book.’
‘Oh, he was always writing,’ says Joyce. ‘I’ve got a pile of the stuff somewhere.’ And she disappears, returning with a bulging cardboard box which she puts into Nelson’s arms.
Nelson looks inside. The box is full of files, exercise books and letters. He opens a book at random. 5 thJanuary 1963, he reads. I’m no longer entirely convinced about Kennedy. The words are small and neat, written in a thin italic hand. He finds a blurred copy of a letter to Nestlé complaining about their business practices in the Third World. Yours sincerely, Hugh P. Anselm.
‘What did the P stand for?’ he asks.
‘The what? Oh, in Uncle Hugh’s name? Patrick, I believe.’
‘Can I borrow these?’ he asks, indicating the box of papers.
‘Keep them,’ says Joyce carelessly. ‘I haven’t got the time for reading.’
Nor, it seems, has Maria. Archie Whitcliffe’s favourite carer looks rather bewildered as she shows them the list of books left to her in the old man’s will.
‘It was very kind of him but’ – she spreads her arms out wide – ‘I’m afraid my English isn’t good enough. And these, they sound difficult. ‘
Maria doesn’t have the actual books yet (or the money also left to her) but the solicitors have forwarded a list of titles.
They are sitting in Maria’s cramped Norwich bedsit. The place is scrupulously tidy but extremely bare – just a double bed, a table and two chairs. She must share the bed with her little boy, thinks Judy. The only evidence of the child is a plastic box of toys and a teddy bear on the bed. Maria’s bedside table is an old black trunk on which are displayed pictures of a smiling elderly couple and a large statue of the Virgin Mary. No television, no radio. How does she entertain the kid? wonders Judy. With the toys neatly stacked away in the box? With the statue of the universal mother? Maria says that Archie gave her money to buy him toys. What did she buy?
‘Books,’ is the surprising answer. Maria opens the trunk and brings out pristine editions of Winnie-the-Pooh, Peter Rabbit and Babar the elephant.
‘We read them at night,’ says Maria. ‘I want him to have a proper start in life. George is very smart, very good at reading.’
‘Did Archie leave you all his books?’ asks Judy. She imagines the old man and the pretty young mother sitting together, talking about Agatha Christie and Babar and the future mapped out for the surprisingly named George. Maybe Archie wanted George to have his library.
‘No,’ says Maria, looking worried again. ‘Just a few.’
‘Particular favourites?’
‘No. I never heard of most of them.’
‘Why do you think he left them to you?’ asks Judy.
‘I don’t know. I used to buy books for him, from charity shops. Maybe this is to say thank you.’
Shrugging, she hands Judy the list. Nelson reads over her shoulder.
The Third Truth by Kurt Aust
Love Lies Bleeding by Edmund Crispin
Evil Under the Sun by Agatha Christie
The Fourth Assassin by Omar Yussef
One Step Behind by Henning Mankell
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sherlock Holmes
Sea Change by Robert B. Parker
Lost Light by Michael Connelly
‘And these titles don’t mean anything to you?’ asks Nelson. He only recognises one of the books, the Agatha Christie. He thinks he’s seen it on telly. Oh, and The Hound of the Baskervilles. He knew a dog handler once with a German Shepherd called Baskerville.
‘No,’ says Maria, her eyes filling. ‘It was kind of him though. He was always very kind.’
It was kind, thinks Nelson as they descend the gloomy staircase, smelling of cabbage and worse. But more money would have been more useful. Enough to buy a proper bed for the boy and maybe a TV. Well, perhaps they’re first editions and will be worth millions. Maria deserves a break. The exorbitant fees at Greenfields obviously don’t go towards the carers’ wages.