Oddly, it seemed that Danny blamed Rupert. Rupert, Danny sensed, though he did not put it into words, was the straw that broke the proverbial camel. Rupert had, somehow, showed Sharon Fielding just what she was missing out on; clarified and made solid that vague discontent and provided the impetus for action.

Patrick wondered if Rupert’d had any inkling of that.

Had anyone else come asking questions about Rupert? Patrick had asked.

Danny had thought about it and then nodded slowly. A man Danny estimated to be in his thirties, thin and with dark hair, had come asking if they’d seen him. It was a few days before he died, Danny thought, though he wasn’t certain. He’d only overheard a part of the conversation between the man and his dad, but it seemed to be something about the man wanting to buy Rupert’s car but not being able to get hold of him.

‘He wanted to know when he’d be in,’ Danny said. ‘As if we’d know! Dad told him that. Like we ever see him.’

His dad hadn’t always been so angry, Danny had said in his father’s defence, but the farm was unprofitable and the bills were mounting and his mam was nagging about chucking it all in. After all, she’d argued, the farm was from her family, not his dad’s, so why was it so important to him.

Danny didn’t know the answer to that one. He’d have been happy to move closer to his school and what friends he had in town. Patrick got the impression he’d have been glad to have moved anywhere away from his dad.

That was what troubled him the most, Patrick realized. The sense of abandonment. It was almost preferable that his mother might be dead and unable to get in touch than it was to think she might simply have chosen not to.

Unable to sleep, Patrick sat up again and propped his pillows comfortably against the headboard. He had a pad and pen on the bedside table and the first of the three journals. He’d already found four letters and two numbers in this one the night before, but was no closer to figuring out what they might mean. He began work again, picking up from where he’d left off, focussing his mind on something that he might just possibly be able to solve, unlike the Danny problem which, Patrick knew, he probably could not.

Light crept above the horizon and greyed the darkness outside his window. Patrick worked on, finally falling back to sleep with the journal in his hand and the notepad tumbling from his bed as the sun rose up above the garden wall.

Twenty-Four

Alec arrived just before midday. He sounded exhausted and distressed, Naomi thought. Harry had let him in and she hurried through to join them in the hall. His hug of greeting was more like the clasp of someone drowning and, although he tried to sound cheerful and was obviously happy to see her, she could almost feel him pulling her down into the depth of his weariness.

‘Coffee,’ he pleaded. ‘Strong please.’

Naomi laughed uneasily and led him through to the kitchen where Harry was busying himself with the newly acquired coffee maker Naomi had bought when she’d been out with Marcus.

‘I hope I’ve got the hang of this thing,’ he said. Satisfied he’d set the process in motion, he told them he was going to rouse his son and left them alone.

‘Are you OK?’ Naomi asked anxiously.

‘No. I need to sleep and I hurt like hell. I’d forgotten how lumpy my parents’ spare bed was. It’s no wonder they don’t have anyone to stay.’

Vaguely, Naomi wondered if the bed or absence of guests came first, rather like the chicken and the egg. She asked, ‘Were they able to tell you anything?’

‘Not a lot. Only that Rupert once got the sack for alleged insider trading, but that the money used to buy Fallowfields and the share in the shop was probably clean.’

‘Probably?’

‘Oh, not much doubt really. I’m just in pessimistic mode. Sorry.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘The locket we found, it belonged to my mother, by the way. She must have left it here when they and Rupert were still talking. Now she’s fretting because she’d already claimed for it on the insurance.’

Naomi laughed. ‘God, that must have been years ago.’

‘True, but you know Mum.’

‘And your London trip. Was it worth it?’

‘Worth it?’ Alec considered. ‘Let’s just say I discovered a great deal. Worth it … now, that’s another question.’

Harry arrived back and went to tend to the coffee, asked if Alec wanted food as he was about to get breakfast for Patrick.

‘Lunch, rather,’ he said.

‘Not like Patrick to sleep this late,’ Alec commented.

‘No, but I suspect he was up all night with those blasted journals. I found one of them lying on his bed when I went in.’

‘Oh? Did he turn up anything interesting?’

‘Well, I’ll let him explain that, but yes, I rather think he has.’ There was no mistaking the pride in Harry’s voice.

Gratefully, Alec took the mug that Harry proffered and sipped the sweet and scalding liquid. He glanced up as Patrick stumbled, bleary eyed and tousled haired, clutching three leather-bound books and a notebook.

‘Late night?’

The boy nodded. ‘Yeah. You?’

‘Better believe it.’ He sighed, knowing that he’d better make a start. ‘Well, since we’re all here …’ Slowly and somewhat reluctantly, Alec began to tell them what he knew.

‘Kinnear and two others robbed three banks back in 1980. The first two, they got away free and clear, but it looks as though they got greedy. Bank number three was only twelve days after the first and it all went badly wrong. The police arrived. Armed. One of Kinnear’s gang was shot dead and the other wounded and a security guard called Fred Ritchie was also shot dead.’

‘What was their MO?’ Naomi asked.

‘Wait for the security van to arrive with the day’s delivery. Wait until the guards entered the bank, then grab the nearest person to use as a hostage, threaten to shoot unless the security men handed over their delivery and staff dished out whatever they had in the tills. Double whammy. They’d take the hostage outside with them, car would drive up, hostage released, men were away. They were fast and slick and it was all over in a matter of minutes.’

‘So, two or three men inside the bank?’ Naomi asked.

‘Three. The driver was never caught. Kinnear fingered someone he said was called Sam Spade.’

Harry laughed. ‘Someone had a sense of humour,’ he said.

‘Why?’ Patrick asked.

‘Sam Spade was a fictional PI,’ Alec explained. ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing that Rupert would do.’

‘Rupert!’ Naomi was as shocked as he knew she would be.

‘Rupert,’ he confirmed. ‘It was never proved but …’

Slowly, he filled in the gaps, telling them what Billy Pierce had said and the assumptions they had both made.

‘But you don’t know for certain,’ Naomi objected.

‘Not for certain, no. But, Nomi, I’ve got to face facts here and all the facts point to this being so.’

‘And to Kinnear wanting his money back,’ Harry added.

‘Which explains, in part, what he was looking for.’

‘Surely,’ Harry objected, ‘he couldn’t possibly think that Rupert would keep the money here. How much would it have been anyway?’

‘About £25,000, they reckon.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a lot,’ Patrick said.

‘Remember this was back in 1980. That would have bought a substantial detached house round where we live and still left change. It’s about a quarter of a million, I’d say, in today’s money.’

‘Oh,’ Patrick said. ‘So, if he’d invested it, it would be worth a lot more now.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose it would. Kinnear probably assumed he’d taken it and spent the lot,’ Alec added. ‘I suspect he wanted a share of what Rupert still had. I went through the information the solicitor gave me last night and, from what my father told me about what their father left them and so on I can more or less account for everything there. I called the solicitor this morning and got the name of his stockbroker, called him and accounted for the figures I couldn’t match up last night and the references to the shares Harry found in the study. His broker said he’d talked about online trading but he didn’t know if Rupert struck out on his own or not. But, the fact is, without getting in a forensic accountant, I can’t see any trace of the money from the raids.’