Stroking the Flame - 2. Something Old

Cycling through the frost-tinged streets of Croxburgh in the wee hours of Saturday morning, as I slow down and turn into Collingwood Road, I approach an old familiar location and wonder if the dread this morning relates to the chore I have ahead of me.

Number one, Station Lane, Croxburgh. Not somewhere I thought I would ever visit again.

This pretty but diminutive house belonged to the late Denny Harrison up until his brutal murder last February. Scene of the crime, too, it transpired, as the truth unfolded. But a call from Derek last Thursday evening and here I am cycling up to the front gate. Outside the house, its wheels up on the pavement, sits a scarlet Toyota Corolla. Denny’s cousin and sole beneficiary, Tania, has driven up from the south coast, picking up Derek along the way. I am helping them sort through Denny’s belongings and especially his more delicate personal items—as Derek put it—before she places the house on the market.

A traditional end of terrace Victorian two-up two-down, the exterior still holds the charm of an era gone by. Lemon painted brickwork and empty white window boxes gives the building an almost toylike quality. Overgrown bougainvilleas and hydrangeas, spiteful barbed-wire rose bushes and rampant nettles rising above the front fence have tainted the small but once pretty front garden. And Station Lane itself is not without charm, a narrow tree-lined cut-de-sac culminating at the station and the station’s small carpark. No doubt the house will be snapped up in a heartbeat. Trains run along a sunken embankment behind the houses on the other side of the lane from the house, but together with a regiment of ancient ash and beech trees on the railway sidings, the property is shielded from most train line noises. Even so, regular high speed trains can still be felt, rumbling through the ground and rattling plates on dressers or cutlery in drawers, something to which those living alongside railway lines often become immune.

When Derek called I did not hesitate to offer my help. Since the harrowing incident last February at Sir Jeremy Winterbourne’s estate—Derek’s partner is Hugh Winterbourne, Sir Jeremy’s son—communication between us has been minimal. His call is in part about us both making an effort to stay connected but also because I live closest to Denny’s old home. Once fairly tight friends from college, Derek and I lost touch again because, in helping the police out, I discovered photographs of Hugh at a gay ‘specialist’ nightclub, something he initially denied. After the whole ordeal played out, involving Constantine Morgan—Jeremy’s business partner—and Morgan’s henchman, Tomas Hand, Hugh had no choice but to tell everything he knew to the police, about a man he had come to view as a favourite uncle. Apparently, he also never forgave me for bringing Kit Hansen aka Carter Schwartz—a hired assassin—into our circle of friends, even though he must know by now that I was also taken in and suffered far worse than anyone. Derek says that Hugh is slowly coming around to this conclusion. Ah well, such is life. We cannot dictate human nature. Not that I am grumbling. With Ben Whitehead in my life, weekends are usually unexpected and overflowing.

While I chain up my bike, Derek and the woman emerge from the car. After brief introductions, Derek fumbles the keys in the front door, and a sudden pang of remorse hits me, reminded of the February night when Denny had done the same, the last time he had ever opened this door, and the last time I had seen him alive. Tania stands quietly by letting Derek take charge with the house keys. Not that she comes off as being reticent or incapable—quite the contrary. Turning up in her car, she is the one to haul out flat packed storage boxes, rubbish sacks and brown masking tape, as well as an assortment of protective wear and cleaning items. In her early fifties, apart from the same leanness of body as Denny, there is very little family resemblance. Straight salt and pepper hair tied back severely, once the deep shade of brown as her eyebrows, is completely different to the late Denny’s copper locks. According to Derek, the only thing they have in common is an interest in first edition books.

“Where did it happen?” she asks, from behind us, as we stand in line carrying our share of items, waiting to enter. Without turning we both know what she means. Where in the house was Denny murdered? I assume she is asking not out of morbid curiosity but because she wants to brace herself. In front of me, Derek finally manages to unlock the front door and pushes through a pile of post on the hall carpet. Nobody replies at first because to do so would seem indelicate, as though neighbours might be listening. As we finally enter the musty house and Derek heads for the living room, I falter, feeling a odd sense of encroachment, a sordid voyeurism at poking my nose into the remnants of a old friend’s life.

“In his bedroom,” I answer from just inside the door, because, due to my involvement, Ben had discussed the case with me on numerous occasions. And I am not sure why I feel the need to supplement my response, to jump to Denny’s defence, but I add. “Apparently he’d just opened a bottle of vintage brandy in the kitchen. Must have popped upstairs to get something and been taken by surprise.”

When I turn to allow her to pass me, I notice her grimacing while nodding pensively.

“Derek and I can tackle the upstairs rooms, if you like?” I offer.

“Would you mind?” she says, and I note a glint of relief mixed with gratitude. “I’ll do the living room and kitchen. To be honest, I’m rather looking forward to getting a peak at the bookcase.”

“In the living room,” I reply. “If we find any papers or other valuables, we can bring them down to the kitchen table and sort through them together.”

“Excellent,” she says, dropping flatpack boxes onto the dusty living room table. “First things first though. I’ll go put the electricity and the heating on. And then run some water. Don’t want the pipes freezing up.”

“Need a hand?”

“No. You gents head on up. I can deal with this.”

While Tina strides out into the hallway, to the cupboard under the stairs, Derek turns to me.

“Well played, old man. Also gives us a chance to bag up his collection of nasties and any other catastrophes we find. Not sure what poor Tania would make of it all.”

“I’m not so sure. She seems very capable. Does she bat for our team?”

“I never thought to ask.”

A few minutes later, Tania returns and tells us that everything has been sorted.

“Look chaps,” she says, appearing almost embarrassed at what she is about to say. “If there are any items of Denny’s that you would like to keep, please feel free to take them. Just let me know in advance. Anything else that you feel might be of worth anything, put them in boxes and we’ll take them to the local charity shop.”

At that, I look to Derek and decide to intervene.

“Tania,” I say, “Denny reputedly had some—ahh—somewhat saucy items. Gay magazine and videos. Derek and I thought maybe we’d box those up and take them to the incinerator at the local recycling centre.”

“Which is another reason why you volunteered to clear the bedroom for me?” she says, with a smirk. “Thanks chaps. Much appreciated.”

With that, we each grab flatpack boxes and plastic bags and head our separate ways.

Compact compared to mine, Denny’s bedroom is understandably dusty, musty, but otherwise immaculately tidy and well laid out. Beyond the foot of bed is beautiful antique wardrobe of oak, while the glass topped cupboard where Denny kept his toys and jewellery, stands to the left of the bed, opposite the curtained window. After unloading his items onto the duvet cover, Derek strides over, pulls open the curtains and hauls up the single sash window to let cold air into the room. While he scans the scene outside, I drop the items I am carrying on top of his, and then inspect the wardrobe. Camphor smells hit me, possibly from carefully hidden mothballs. Suits, jackets and shirts arranged from light to dark colours hang inside. Strange how I instantly focus in on the one missing, the stylish brown suit with orange specks, the one he had been wearing on the evening he died.

“Hugh has three suits tailored by Denny,” comes Derek’s voice, from behind me, as he reaches past me and pulls out a charcoal suit. “They’re beautifully made. He’s had them for years. Had to have the waist band of the trousers let out a couple of times, due to his ever-expanding circle of social influence.”

“Waistline?”

“Precisely.”

“You know, I think Vaughan might have one. In Navy.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. They’re a bit too formal for my liking. I prefer more lightweight material. Denny offered to make one for me a couple of times—would have cost a bloody fortune—but I managed to give him the brush off.”

Funny, Denny never asked me if I wanted one made. Maybe he knew I would decline, too. While I’m talking, Derek has pulled back the lapel on the right hand side of the jacket, to reveal the beautiful orange embroidery of a barn owl perched on the middle bar of the letter H.

“And this, my dear fellow, is how you know it’s one of Denny’s designs. Most tailors add a label with their name on the inside breast pocket or at the neck, but Denny often used special lining for his jackets and didn’t want them spoiled by ugly labels. Hence the embroidery.”

“What should we do with these? They’re no good to me.”

“Nor me. And definitely not Hugh. We’ll ask Tania, but I’m thinking this is something for the charity shop. There must be someone out there with Denny’s slight physique.”

Two hours into the clearance, and I notice the small hatch in the ceiling of the upstairs corridor. The attic. Before we decide whether or not to tackle that particular area, Tania calls to us from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ve put the kettle on. Let’s all sit down and have a break.”

When we get down and after having freshened up using hot water from the kitchen sink, we all sit down at the dining room table and assess how far we’ve got. Even as she sips her tea, Tania seems to be the kind of person who cannot sit still and continues to work while filling us in on what she knows about Denny.

“We were never close. Rarely saw each other as children, and practically never as adults,” she says, sorting through a box of official looking papers. For someone I have only recently met, I find her friendly and unusually lucid. “Only ever saw each other at the rare official family gathering which, with both Denny and I being only children and unmarried, usually meant a funeral. Denny’s parents lived their whole lives in Poole, near our grandparents. Until the age of thirty-eight, when I took the office management role in Bournemouth, I lived in Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland. On the Scottish border, other end of the country.”

Derek had already informed me that she now lives in Dorset, in a neighbouring town to him and Hugh. He also told me that Tania had voted for another party candidate in the local by-election, something Derek decided to keep from Hugh.

“You’ve already lost the accent,” I say.

“Mummy dearest,” she replied, looking to the heavens in the same way my sister Janine does. They would probably get on. “Worse kind of snob if the truth be told. Forced her little princess to take elocution lessons from the age of eight until sixteen. Said I’d never be taken seriously at university or stand the chance of landing myself a professional job or an educated husband if I had a Northumberland accent. Don’t worry, after a whiskey or six the true me comes tumbling out. Okay boys, back to work.”

For the next three hours, Derek and I work nonstop, including clearing the attic which is not as unpleasant a task as we had thought—a few boxes of old, discarded paintings, board games and old curtains. Finally, we attack Denny’s specialist collection which takes a lot longer because neither of us can resist flicking through and giggling over one sordid magazine or another—like a couple of schoolboys.

“Kinky old so-and-so, wasn’t he?” I say, flicking through a bondage magazine called Bound & Gagged.

“Colin, darling,” says Derek, raising his eyes to the heavens, while in the process of checking out the centre-spread of Watersports International, which apparently has nothing to do with scuba diving. “This is tame compared to what’s out there these days. You know, Hugh discovered this website where—”

“Save it. I don’t want to know.”

“Prude. Toss them and the videos into the large plastic holdall on the bed. Unless you want to keep any of them?”

“Thanks anyway, but I have the real thing at home.”

“Lucky bastard. How’s that going, by the way? With PC Hunk?”

“That’s DC Hunk to you. Don’t want to jinx anything, but things are incredible.”

“As I said, you are one lucky bastard, Colin McCann.”

What I want to reply is that I would not call being shot, drugged and almost drowned lucky, but the fact that Ben is in my life makes me stay my tongue.

“Once we’re done I’ll get Tania to stop by the recycling centre in town.”

“What should I do about his toy collection? I don’t suppose you—”

“Stop,” he says, pulling a face. “Just the thought of using someone else’s sex toys makes me want to gag.”

“And you call me a prude.”

“Why? Do you want them? Are you and PC—sorry DC Hunk—moving into the experimental phase?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then chuck them in the bloody holdall.”

I smirk at the cabinet with Denny’s playthings. Ben, in one of his more prudish moments, had called it ‘quite the collection’. On the second shelf down of a tasteful oak showcase with a glass top and drawer—the kind of thing found in jeweller’s shops—Denny has a neatly laid out array of dildos. In different colours, sizes, designs he also has cock rings, butt plugs, sex eggs and some things I have never seen before and could not even hazard a guess as to their usage. Only then does my foot trip on the rug placed by the bed, shifting the end up and revealing a mottled floor board. Is that Denny’s blood? Difficult to tell. It might simply be an old stain. But the thought of Carter Schwartz being in this bedroom sends a shiver through me.

Just at that moment, my phone beeps with a message.

Ben: On my way back. Thai takeaway and telly okay tonight?

Colin: Sounds great. I’m famished.

Ben: Great. Too tired for a workout?

Colin: Never. Sounds even better!

Just then, Tania pops her head into the room.

“Do either of you would want this old photo album of Denny’s?” she asks, holding aloft a thick leather bound album with a leather strap holding the overstuffed contents in place. “I have this and a box of old photos. Seems such a shame to toss them.”

“Would Hugh want it?” I ask Derek. Something surprising I learned during the investigation was that Denny and Hugh had been close right up until the end. Same club, old bean.

“He might. And if he were here, he’d probably say yes. But I know him, and while I don’t want to be disrespectful to the memory of Denny, I know it would eventually just be something else cluttering up a cupboard at home. Probably get thrown away next spring clean. Tell you what, don’t you think we all deserve a break? I’ll fetch the bottle of that fifteen year old malt I found in his kitchen cabinet and we can have a snifter while we take a peak at them. Before throwing them out. What do you think?”

I glance at my watch and notice the hour is already well into late afternoon. To be perfectly honest, I am ready to call it a day. We arrived just after nine and, apart from stopping for a quick sandwich and a pot of tea, we have barely stopped. Tania also seems tired although she is the first to speak.

“Not for me. I’m driving, remember? But if you boys want to indulge, go ahead. I’ll have the last of the tea. Just give me another half an hour to finish up in the front room.”

“Sounds good. And I’ll tell you what,” I add, something coming to me. “I’ll take the photos for Vaughan. Apart from Hugh, he was probably closer to Denny and Alfie than any of us. And he’s due back at Christmas.”

“Have you two worked things out?” asked Derek, after Tania has gone.

“Kind of. Life’s too short, and all that. He and Oscar are coming to our Christmas party. Ben’s promised to be on best behaviour. You and Hugh are still coming?”

“I am, Colin,” he says, looking away. “Hugh will if his schedule permits.”

Yes, I tell myself. Hugh has still not forgiven me. Ten minutes later we are piling boxes and bags by the front door, and ten minutes after that, we are sitting in the strangely bare and sad-looking shell which was once the front room. Derek has poured a coupe of generous measures of whiskey as I pull out a chair and join them at the table.

“How did you get on with the books, Tania. Any luck with the first editions?”

“About six, and in pretty good condition.”

“Really? But I thought the bookcase had at least twenty old books.”

“So did I. But most of those are replicas. Made to look like first editions. Nicely done, actually, but clearly not originals. Here, have a look.”

She hands me one of the old books—The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins—which, to my untrained eye, appears fashionably weathered. On the inside cover, the words ‘Forever yours, Tinty’ are written in beautiful penmanship.

“How do you know this fake?”

“Simple enough, actually. Although the simple cover matches the original, if you turn to the page showing the date of publication, you’ll see this was printed in nineteen sixty-three. According to my research, the book was first published in eighteen fifty-nine.”

“So it’s worthless?”

“No, not worthless. It’s nicely done, actually. Why don’t you keep it as a reminder of Denny,” she says, rising from the table, and placing her hand on a smaller pile of books. “But it’s nothing compared to these six first editions. Each of them will fetch around two grand, give or take.”

“Heavens. Twelve thousand pounds. Not bad for a day’s work.”

Tania gives me a world weary smile before heading into the kitchen.

“What was that all about?” I ask Derek.

“You weren’t to know. But we had an interesting meeting with Denny’s lawyer. Feel a bit sorry for Tania. She’s the sole beneficiary—for what it’s worth. Apparently the house is still mortgaged to the hilt, and even if they manage to get the asking price, after legal fees there’ll be little in the way of equity. Even then, whatever there is will need to be used to pay off various business loans. Denny used the house as collateral. Thank goodness she doesn’t inherit his debts.”

“On the shop?”

“That’s right. From what the accountant told us, Denny wasn’t far off filing for bankruptcy. Apart from his first editions and a couple of items of jewellery, he has no savings to speak of and nothing of real value.”

“But he said something about having investments.”

“Not according to his accountant. Unless he meant the first editions. Maybe he didn’t realise most of them were fake. Hard to believe though. But as far as investments are concerned, even the designer watches are fake, except for one. The rings and necklaces are largely costume pieces and practically worthless.”

Strange, I feel sure that Denny talked about investments he could call upon to retire. Maybe he had deluded himself into thinking he could sell the books. When Tania returns from the kitchen, she holds a box from the attic with paintings and the photo album in.

“Do you have a local charity shop here in Croxburgh, Colin?”

“We do. On the high street.”

“Can you be a love, and drop these off there? It’ll be too late now and I wanted to clear the house before we leave. There’s a box with Denny’s old suits in. And this with the paintings, ornaments, jewellery, and a couple of old photo albums of his. Derek and I can follow you in the car back to your place, to drop them off. In fact we should get going soon. It’s already getting dark outside.”

In the box of photos is an album entitled Alfie and Denny. Inside, there are loose newspaper cuttings combined with old polaroids carefully stuck in place.

“Oh, my goodness,” I exclaim, holding up a newspaper cutting, and pointing to one of the good looking characters in a society photograph. “I’m sure this is my uncle Dom. Looks like a meeting of celebrities. It would have been taken in the sixties. Yes, let me take this. It’ll give me something to do on the cold nights when Ben is out hunting criminals.”

Only as we are loading the car up with the last of the boxes, do I stand in the kitchen, wondering what scene had played out there between Carter Schwartz and Denny. Right then I also remember something and pull a postcard from my jacket pocket, just as Derek stops beside me.

“Derek. You read and speak a bit of Chinese, don’t you?”

“Putonghua, yes.”

“Can you tell me what this says?” I ask, handing him the item.

Derek takes the card which depicts a paraglider floating in the air above giant ice sculptures. The annotation along the bottom of the card is in both English and Chinese, and says the location is Harbin, Heilongjiang province, northeastern China. On the back, apart from my name and the school address, some Chinese hieroglyphs in beautiful calligraphy appear on the left hand side.

“Traditional Chinese. My forte’s simplified. But I do know what this means. It’s an old Chinese saying. Something along the lines of ‘when baffled in one direction, a resourceful man will not despair, but will find another path to his goal.’ Why? Who sent you this?”

I take back the card and sigh. Not difficult to guess.

“Oh, God, Colin. Not that American psychopath?”

“No idea. I hope not.”

“Have you shown this to Ben?”

“No. It was sent to me at school. It’s probably from one of the kids. And don’t say a word to anyone, especially not Ben. If it’s an old Chinese saying, as you say, then it probably is from one of the kids from autumn break, practicing their Chinese calligraphy.”

Funny but when I received it, I had an uneasy but immediate notion that the card was sent by Carter Schwartz. The thing is, what does it mean?