Loner
By jazz
- 643 reads
We tried for some time to get the door open.
It was quite stiff, the wooden surround had warped as well as the door,
how the police had got in those few days ago I never knew.
I turned to Hayley and said
'If I push with my shoulder you give it a kick'
She grinned and did as I asked.
I virtually fell into the flat, struggled to my feet and then tripped
over an empty box.
Hayley could not control herself and giggled.
'You don't see that in films do you?'
I tried to regain my composure and told her to start work.
It had only been a week since the police were called here. An elderly
man by the name of Grey had died of a heart attack. They rang me and I
immediately went through the housing section's files. We had some
information on Mr Wallace Grey, but it came to a dead end as far as any
family or relatives were concerned. He had none.
It is at this point that the City council turn to me and my section
(Hayley and a typist who is near retirement called Irene). We are the
unfortunates who then have to go through the council homes and flats
and see what we can find of their past lives, bits and pieces usually
to pass on to relatives. I do not remember all the cases I have been
called to, but that of Wallace Grey stands out, even now.
Hayley began first in the kitchen. Her father had run an antiques
business before retiring to the Costa Del Sol. Arthritis, he had said
to her, but it didn't stop him discovering golf and remarrying a
Spanish lady nearly half his age ( a mere three months after his wife
died). So in view of her background, she was a genius at noticing odd
lamps, bookcases and tracing them back. A week after she first joined
me she had her finest hour, tracing a necklace back to a barrister's
house in Chelsea where it had been stolen from only a month
before.
I began my work in the bedroom; under the bed was a battered old
packing case with a few photographs in it. I had hoped that these would
provide some clues but they were all of Rievaulx Abbey. Some letters
were there too, the stamps had been taken off and they were obviously
quite old. They gave some clues, being from Dublin and from a Father
Mulcahy, they mentioned about prayer weekends at a local retreat. I
noted the information and looked elsewhere.
As usual it was Hayley who found what we were after.
Stuffed underneath a broken teapot was a new envelope. Inside was an
old letter, the ink was fading badly and the paper was hard and crisp.
It was from an address in Belfast and while it was addressed to no one
in particular it said
'I am moving from this house soon, so we will have no contact. I will
not leave any forwarding information and of course you have no idea
where Maurice is. I won't speak to you again.'
We got back to the office that afternoon and traced the address. It
belonged to a Mrs Jean Haigh whose maiden name was Grey. The housing
office eventually managed to forward her new address to us and we
telephoned last thing that evening.
A quiet voice, barely above a whisper answered.
I explained who I was and where I was from, giving Mrs Haigh the chance
to phone back if she needed confirmation.
'No that's quite all right&;#8230; I think I know what you want
anyway?'
'You do?'
'It's about my father isn't it?
'Yes'
' Have nothing to do with him, nor has my brother&;#8230;not for a
long time'
Her voice began to falter and I forced myself to ask why
'I am sorry sir' She was very formal in here speech 'but you see twenty
years ago he committed a murder&;#8230;he strangled our mother, just
before Christmas'
I put the phone down.
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