Danny left the house with a curious feeling. He hadn’t registered it at first, but the thought now entered his head that his friend hadn’t seemed especially surprised at the revelation of the existence of the Super 8 footage. He thought more about the DVDs, but he wasn’t aware that Grant had been to see Suzie in Cape Town, although he suspected that he might do so as Suzie was no doubt on his contacts list. Danny was sure that Suzie would make contact if Grant had visited. At this point he remembered that he had a missed call from a Suzanne Barber, and he had completely forgotten that this was Suzie’s married name. He started ruminating about Ivan Youlen and began to wonder what Ivan might divulge to Grant. He felt a sudden urge to speak to the man and was pretty sure that Grant would have his number. However, he was reluctant to ask him so soon after their meeting and decided instead to call Justyn. They had kept in touch for the first twenty-five years since 1972, but they’d had little contact over the past fifteen or so. He was relieved to discover that Justyn’s mobile number hadn’t changed.
‘Hi, this is Justyn Silver. Please leave a message unless you are the Aga Khan, in which case tell me where I can reach you at your earliest convenience.’
‘Hello, Justyn, Danny Galvin here. Long time no speak. Could you call me back on this mobile number, please.’ He was surprised to receive a return call almost immediately.
‘Hey, Danny. How are you, man?’
‘I’m all right,’ replied Danny, trying to sound cool. ‘And you?’
‘Pretty stretched at present. Fully occupied with Russian oligarchs’ houses and the tai-pans of Hong Kong. Life is one long set of schemes. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘Can we meet?’
‘Sadly not this week or next, old chap. I’m off to Morocco tomorrow for a bit of R&R.’
‘Sounds good. Anywhere in particular?’ asked Danny, hiding his disappointment and trying to mask his bluntness with a bit of uncharacteristic charm.
‘Atlas Mountains, then a nice riad in Marrakesh.’
‘Great. Switching subjects, I don’t suppose you have a number for Ivan Youlen, do you?’
‘Are you having a laugh? Not you as well. I thought Grant was the only obsessive trying to roll back time.’
‘Well, I personally couldn’t give a monkey’s about the whole thing – and I think Grant should be committed to some sort of institution – but there is just one thing I need to ask Ivan.’
‘And there is one thing I need to ask God, but I don’t think I’ll get the opportunity either …’
‘Oh, come on. Ivan isn’t as big an ask as God,’ said Danny, missing the joke.
‘No, but he could be the devil,’ retorted Justyn, this time with a hint of feigned menace, ‘and he could be just as hard to contact, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Well, have you got his number or not?’
‘No,’ said Justyn matter-of-factly.
‘Well, I guess I’ll have to call the lunatic Grant.’
‘Probably, but tread carefully. He’s having a bit of local difficulty with the old lady.’
After Justyn had hung up Danny pondered this comment briefly. He had only just seen the couple together and had not detected any tension between them. In fact, he had thought them nauseatingly lovey-dovey.
Justyn was straight on the phone to Grant to alert him to a potential call from Desperate Dan, as he called him.
‘Thanks for the heads up,’ said Grant. ‘I can understand Danny getting involved now. He must be feeling the pressure. I keep thinking about one particular scene – his father having that heated conversation with Ivan Youlen outside the news-agent that last Sunday morning when the papers didn’t get delivered. And of course Paul told the runners on the beach that the police should interview Ivan.’
‘Sunday morning papers didn’t come,’ Justyn sang tunefully.
‘No! It was Wednesday morning papers didn’t come. Sunday morning was creeping like a nun. I’ve had this conversation with Brigit.’
‘How is she?’ Justyn inquired.
‘I think repairs are on the way.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes.’ Grant sounded distracted. Now that Danny had left he was keen to get back to viewing the DVD he had paused in order to take Justyn’s call. ‘I think I may need to go to Majorca.’
‘Why?’
‘To see Danny’s mother. I think she might just hold the key to the whole thing. In fact, in my mind she is now front and centre.’ At that moment he became transfixed by an image on the DVD. He was astounded to see that Henry had filmed the arrival of the police at the hotel on the Sunday lunchtime after Tom had been found staggering in the lane; he had even filmed them inside the Simpkins’ private accommodation. ‘Can I call you back later?’
‘Difficult, Grantie boy. I’m off to Morocco in the morning. I’ll get on the blower when I’m back in ten days’ time.’
‘Yes, fine. Great,’ replied Grant, now barely concentrating on their exchange as Justyn hung up. What had arrested his attention was spotting Hector Wallace talking privately first with Richard Hughes-Webb and then with Paul Galvin as the rest of the throng chatted away together. What the hell had been Henry’s vantage point? Then he worked it out; he must have been outside the ground-floor window in the car park. Grant could just make out a wooden window frame around the glass. Filming stopped abruptly as Henry’s last shot captured PC Stobart striding towards him.
Grant scrutinized the film, repeatedly searching for clues on the faces of Messrs Hughes-Webb and Galvin. Henry’s filming had been somewhat erratic at that point as a rather battered Ford Escort pulled up the drive and out jumped Ivan Youlen. ‘Sodding Ivan again,’ muttered Grant. He watched carefully as the man went into the hotel only to reappear shortly afterwards. Annoyingly there was no way of knowing the time lag between the two events. It was also impossible to tell what Hector was saying in his two private conversations or what effect these had on the other two men. He thought about Ivan and replayed his cameo appearance, which seemed both arresting and significant. What had Ivan been carrying in his pocket? Was it for someone?
Grant switched off the DVD to reflect on recent events. He resolved to continue being ruthless in pursuit of the truth – at least until he had uncovered what that might be. It was not ideal, but he knew he couldn’t go back to Brigit while he was so distracted. It simply wasn’t fair on her. He thought some more about the suspects from 1972. Ivan was ever-present in his mind, particularly now Grant knew that he had been caught on film at the hotel on the day of his uncle’s stroke. Paul Galvin remained a prime suspect. And why was his son Danny so keen to stop Grant in his tracks? Richard Hughes-Webb remained a wild card, more Grant’s hunch than anything else, but that private conversation with Hector Wallace increased suspicion. And now Alison Galvin had joined the ranks. He recalled her bright, inquisitive eyes, the only redeeming feature of her otherwise very plain appearance as she walked around wrapped in a Mary Quant coat. Could she have been the secret killer?
He retired to his bedroom. He was tired after the night before. His present mental state reminded him of the unsettling nights in Zennor – and who might have been responsible for those if it wasn’t D. Galvin Esquire? He fell into a deep sleep but was troubled by a vivid dream. This time his door wasn’t being bashed down; he was having a cup of coffee in a roadside café with Alison Galvin in a built-up resort west of Palma in Majorca. Her face had become lined and rutted with skin as ragged as the rocks around the nearby sea shore. She was puffing on a cigarette, fiddling constantly with the packet that rested on the copy of the Daily Mail she had bought that morning.
‘I am so sorry to bother you, Mrs Galvin,’ started Grant.
‘That’s all right, dear. I don’t get many visitors. Rory doesn’t welcome them.’ Rory was a large tattooed Glaswegian with a bald head and a crisp manner, and Grant couldn’t understand a word he said. He thought heard him say what a great party the UK was, but he soon realized what he was actually saying was what a great party UKIP was.
‘Do you remember the events from Cornwall and your last family holiday back in 1972?’
‘Oh yes, dear. I could never forget them.’ She smiled, and Grant remembered the strange way she screwed up her nose when she wanted to emphasize a point. ‘I mean, who could forget that murder? I always felt for poor Tom. He was only testing the poison, and he only took a little; he told me it would need a lot more to finish him off … Oh, I am saying too much …’
‘No, please go on. You’re not saying enough.’
At that moment, predictably, he woke up. He felt extremely frustrated and more determined than ever that his next move would be a trip to Majorca.