others.’
‘Someone told me he might have worked overseas for a time.’
‘That’s possible but I don’t even know if he’s married or where he lives. All I can say is he’s utterly committed to finding that missing child.’
‘Fingers crossed for him, then. The other thing I wanted to ask… there was a journalist knocking about that day. I thought I knew his face.’
‘That’d be Francis McCall, does features for the colour supplements and researches television programmes.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember. I wouldn’t have thought this type of story was up his street.’
‘Neither would I but it turns out he knows the sister of the dead woman.’
‘Does he, by jove. I wonder how that will affect what he writes.’
‘McCall’s in no-one’s pocket. He’ll just go where the evidence leads.’
They parted after coffee and shook hands in the street.
‘Have a think about things,’ Inglis said. ‘Then let’s meet again. What’s your club?’
‘I don’t belong to one.’
‘Really? I could propose you for mine, if you wished.’
Hoare thanked him for lunch then disappeared into the crowds pushing towards The Strand. But as soon as he could, he slipped into a shop doorway and looked back towards Rules. For reasons which eluded him, Hoare was intrigued to know what Inglis would do next. And there he was - talking to the birthmark man who’d watched them across the restaurant.
A cab pulled up and they were driven off together. Hoare went back to Rules and found the waiter who had served him and Inglis.
‘I forgot to tip you,’ he said. ‘So rude. Forgive me.’
He slipped a ten-pound note in the waiter’s apron pocket. Then he asked him for the name of whoever had paid the bill at the table where the ginger-haired man had sat. The waiter winked and checked the credit card receipts in the till.
‘It was a Mr Gillespie, Raymond Gillespie.’
‘What’s his company called?’
‘It’s a trade union, actually – the Association of Federated Trades.’
‘Is he a regular at Rules?’
‘No, not that regular but I’ve seen him here before.’
‘On his own, like today?’
‘No, with the gentleman at your table.’
So an ambitious Conservative MP knew a trade union official. It was no big deal yet something about what he’d just witnessed didn’t quite add up.
Seventeen
Lexie could only applaud the duty clergyman’s acting skills at Etta’s funeral. With barely a script and no rehearsal, his performance suggested genuine warmth for the stranger in the box.
Etta’s three mourners heard she was the best of mothers, the most dutiful of sisters and that her tragic passing would cause sorrow to friend and neighbour alike. Lexie, McCall and Hoare could tell a different story. Each had seen inside the paragon’s bedroom.
Lexie rejected the religious music offered by the vicar and chose a tape of The Lark Ascending instead. For her, this was the ultimate evocation of lost innocence.
As children, Lexie and Etta never understood why their mother wept whenever this was came on the wireless.
A button was pressed and the coffin moved forward. The first virtuosic notes of a violin rose ever higher between the bare brick walls of the crematorium as the lark sang Etta out of this world and all its temporal ills.
*
The birth of Etta had coincided with the Queen’s coronation. Streets nearby were hung with Union Jacks and patriotic red, white and blue bunting. People bought televisions on hire purchase and invited neighbours in to watch the young Princess Elizabeth take the throne of England and all its dominions.
But Lexie sensed something interesting happening at home, too. A district nurse arrived on a bicycle. Mum was still in bed which was unusual. She began screaming and Lexie thought murder was being done. Then the nurse came down looking for clean towels and caught her listening at the stair door.
‘Away off and play or you’ll get what’s for when your Dad comes
‘Someone told me he might have worked overseas for a time.’
‘That’s possible but I don’t even know if he’s married or where he lives. All I can say is he’s utterly committed to finding that missing child.’
‘Fingers crossed for him, then. The other thing I wanted to ask… there was a journalist knocking about that day. I thought I knew his face.’
‘That’d be Francis McCall, does features for the colour supplements and researches television programmes.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember. I wouldn’t have thought this type of story was up his street.’
‘Neither would I but it turns out he knows the sister of the dead woman.’
‘Does he, by jove. I wonder how that will affect what he writes.’
‘McCall’s in no-one’s pocket. He’ll just go where the evidence leads.’
They parted after coffee and shook hands in the street.
‘Have a think about things,’ Inglis said. ‘Then let’s meet again. What’s your club?’
‘I don’t belong to one.’
‘Really? I could propose you for mine, if you wished.’
Hoare thanked him for lunch then disappeared into the crowds pushing towards The Strand. But as soon as he could, he slipped into a shop doorway and looked back towards Rules. For reasons which eluded him, Hoare was intrigued to know what Inglis would do next. And there he was - talking to the birthmark man who’d watched them across the restaurant.
A cab pulled up and they were driven off together. Hoare went back to Rules and found the waiter who had served him and Inglis.
‘I forgot to tip you,’ he said. ‘So rude. Forgive me.’
He slipped a ten-pound note in the waiter’s apron pocket. Then he asked him for the name of whoever had paid the bill at the table where the ginger-haired man had sat. The waiter winked and checked the credit card receipts in the till.
‘It was a Mr Gillespie, Raymond Gillespie.’
‘What’s his company called?’
‘It’s a trade union, actually – the Association of Federated Trades.’
‘Is he a regular at Rules?’
‘No, not that regular but I’ve seen him here before.’
‘On his own, like today?’
‘No, with the gentleman at your table.’
So an ambitious Conservative MP knew a trade union official. It was no big deal yet something about what he’d just witnessed didn’t quite add up.
Seventeen
Lexie could only applaud the duty clergyman’s acting skills at Etta’s funeral. With barely a script and no rehearsal, his performance suggested genuine warmth for the stranger in the box.
Etta’s three mourners heard she was the best of mothers, the most dutiful of sisters and that her tragic passing would cause sorrow to friend and neighbour alike. Lexie, McCall and Hoare could tell a different story. Each had seen inside the paragon’s bedroom.
Lexie rejected the religious music offered by the vicar and chose a tape of The Lark Ascending instead. For her, this was the ultimate evocation of lost innocence.
As children, Lexie and Etta never understood why their mother wept whenever this was came on the wireless.
A button was pressed and the coffin moved forward. The first virtuosic notes of a violin rose ever higher between the bare brick walls of the crematorium as the lark sang Etta out of this world and all its temporal ills.
*
The birth of Etta had coincided with the Queen’s coronation. Streets nearby were hung with Union Jacks and patriotic red, white and blue bunting. People bought televisions on hire purchase and invited neighbours in to watch the young Princess Elizabeth take the throne of England and all its dominions.
But Lexie sensed something interesting happening at home, too. A district nurse arrived on a bicycle. Mum was still in bed which was unusual. She began screaming and Lexie thought murder was being done. Then the nurse came down looking for clean towels and caught her listening at the stair door.
‘Away off and play or you’ll get what’s for when your Dad comes
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