Chapter Nine

It was only a ten-minute walk through Woodhall Spa to McKay's house, although the risk of being soaked through by the thin yet persistent drizzle made driving there the better option. They parked up on a road that seemed entirely to consist of bungalows that might have been built any time from the sixties onwards. All well-kept, with neat front gardens and little in the way of litter in the gutters, so maybe the locals made a determined effort to preserve their environs.

Mr. McKay was waiting for them at the door and seemed genuinely pleased to meet them, an attitude Robin and his team didn't encounter that often. He shook their hands warmly before ushering them into the little living room where he sat them down on a firm yet comfortable settee. Robin had scanned the man's face—and some photographs on the mantelpiece of what must have been him in his younger days—for any resemblance to Mark Bircher, but all he could spot was a distinctive line to the shaggy eyebrows. A family trait or a case of seeing what he was seeking?

"You'll have to take me as you find me," McKay said, with a grin and a Scottish edge to his voice. "I try to keep things tidy, but since my wife, Dorothy, died, I'm not keeping up with the housework as I should."

"No need to worry, Mr. McKay," Robin said. "You can imagine some of the places we have to visit." He wouldn't judge any man of that generation in the same position and, anyway, there was no real evidence of slovenliness on view.

"Now, we'll have no calling me Mr. McKay. That sounds too much like the chap out of Porridge. I'm Tom. You'll be wanting a cup of coffee, I guess?"

"I'm going to decline the offer, if that's okay, because I've had so much coffee already today I might be flying back to Abbotston," Robin said.

"Hmphm." Tom nodded. "You'll not want to get the jitters. How about you, Constable? Dorothy would turn in her grave if I didn't look after my guests."

"A glass of water, please." Ashok's constrained expression suggested he felt he had to ask for something in order to be polite. "Would you like a hand?"

Tom waved the offer away. "Thanks, but I'm fine." He headed off in what must have been the direction of the kitchen.

"Do you think he was offended?" Ashok asked, voice low. "You never know with that generation."

There wasn't an opportunity to answer, because Tom reappeared with a glass of water and a steaming mug among other things on a heavily laden tray. In pride of place was a plate of shortbread; undoubtedly homemade, so either he was more efficient in the kitchen than he'd let on or he had a good supplier in the form of a WI market or similar. Given that Tom wasn't a bad-looking chap for his age—and going by those photographs he'd been a stunner when he was young—some local dab hand at cooking may have set their cap at him and was attempting to plight their troth with baked goods. Ashok clearly found the refreshments welcome, but he was still at the age of hollow legs. For good manners' sake, Robin took the smallest piece of shortbread to nibble at.

Tom, seated again and sipping from his enormous mug, said, "I was shocked to hear about Mark. I'd not met him in person, although we'd spoken over the phone. He seemed a nice lad, and it's such a shame about his wife dying so young. And then him being killed not knowing one way or the other about his granny. Such a shame all round."

"Do you think his gran was your sister Moira?" Robin asked. Interesting that their host had shown the most regret at Mark's murder of anyone they'd yet interviewed. Sorrow at an opportunity missed?

"I do. Based on the dates and what I've pieced together. I'd got all this planned to say to Mark, so I'll tell it to you, save it going to waste. That's the sort of thing a canny Scotsman would do." With a twinkle in his eye, Tom took another sip of coffee, maybe to fortify himself for the tale ahead. "Our family hails from Dundee. I know Mark liked his rugby, so it would have come as a shock to discover he had Scottish blood in him."

"It would give a different outlook on the Calcutta Cup." They should press on, before they were forced to discuss recent results in the fixture. "How did you end up here?"

"We came down because my father got relocated during the war—he was an air mechanic and a handy one with it, they say—so he was drafted into the team at what was a new airfield. He decided he wanted to settle in the area afterwards, because he preferred it to home, so we moved down, in instalments, as it were. My mother came in 1944 and found lodgings nearby. At Dogdyke."

That was another local place, one whose name had struck Robin when he'd been perusing a map. His grandfather had been fond of a song about disappearing train stations and Dogdyke had been one of those, so it had stuck in his mind. With a glance at Ashok to make sure he was getting everything noted, in amongst filling his face, Robin said, "You say you came down in instalments—I assume you and your sister stayed in Dundee when your mother moved?"

"Aye. We were with my grandparents. I was only a wain, born in 1940: a bit of an afterthought, you might say, as Moira was ten years older. If I tell you she was a six-month baby, I'll leave you to figure out the rest. Still, my parents were happy until death did them part, so they must have married for love."

"Six-month baby?" Ashok asked, clearly puzzled.

"I'll explain that to you later." Robin chuckled. "So that we've got all the details straight, when did you and your sister come down here?"

"Moira arrived in early 1945, because our mother had found her a good job, waitressing at a hotel, which was better than she could get at home. I followed her down south on around VJ Day so I could start school. We were a very content family." Tom took another drink of coffee and a piece of shortbread. "Now all the next bit is what I've pieced together, because nobody was going to let a wee lad know that his unmarried sister had gone away to have a baby. I was told Moira had gone off to get further experience by working at a big hotel in London—she'd always had ambitions to do well in her career—and because we'd grown used to being apart for stretches of time, I thought no more of it."

"This was 1948 and she'd gone off to have a baby and give it away for adoption?" Ashok asked.

"Aye. I don't know who the father was or where the baby was born because we only discussed the matter once, when I was a young man myself and her best friend Isabel decided I should know the truth. Moira admitted what had happened, said that it was a mistake any girl could make, especially if she found herself being taken advantage of. She said she never wanted to talk about it again because the little girl she'd had wasn't her little girl anymore. I think she was trying to keep herself from being hurt."

Robin nodded. So many echoes of, and possibilities for, his own history. Had his biological grandmother been in the same position, got pregnant by a man who wouldn't stand by her and had she felt the same about her son? "It's an intrusive question—you might call it bloody rude—but given that Moira was conceived out of wedlock, wouldn't your family have been sympathetic?"

"I'm sure they would. In fact, Isabel's pretty certain my mother offered to raise the child as her own. Not unknown in those days, families in which the youngest brother or sister was actually your niece or nephew. But Moira refused to take up that solution. She had a plan for her life, and while she could have left the baby in the care of my parents and got on with her career, I don't think she wanted that emotional draw. Or the feelings her child would have stirred in her every time she visited home. She'd got the chance of a place as a stewardess on the cruise ships, you see, and very successful she was at it. Isabel reckoned Moira could have had her choice of men from among the passengers—with offers of fur coats and all the rest—yet she turned them down. Didn't want to be beholden to a man if she didn't have to be, and that might have included raising his child. I hope Eleanor—that was what Mark said his mother was called—never knew any of this." Tom paused, sniffing back a tear. "I didn't even know the baby's name until he told me."

"Take your time," Robin said. "It can't be easy."

"It's thinking about what my sister was like in the prime of her life," Tom said at last. "You know, we're speaking about her as if she's dead, but she isn't. Although she might as well be. The Moira I knew is long gone."

"Dementia?" Ashok asked, just ahead of Robin. "It's a cruel disease."

"It is that. She went downhill quite rapidly, after a fall, which is often the way. She's well cared for, in a local home, but I rarely visit her nowadays. She doesn't know me and I can't connect with her, so I doubt it would be worthwhile either of you visiting. I think Alex still goes when he can, though."

"Alex?" Had Robin missed a name somewhere?

"Oh, I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on." Tom tapped his scalp. "Her son. Alex Hanley. In her midthirties, Moira met a chap called Douglas on the ships. He was a lovely man. Isabel—who always had a view on everything—said he was the only man who could tame Moira, although I suspect she was jealous that she'd not met him first. Douglas and Moira married and had Alex the year that England won the cup. We didn't have any children, me and Dorothy. Well, we had one, but he didn't survive and it's not quite the same with a nephew, is it?"

"I guess not." Robin had detected a hint that Tom and Alex didn't really get on that well. Douglas had been described as lovely, but not his son. Perhaps that was why Tom had been so keen to meet Mark—a younger member of the family with whom he could connect? "Can I take a moment to get the names straight? Moira's your sister, Eleanor was her daughter and Isabel's a family friend."

"Aye. Eleanor was Mark's mother and we're assuming she was my niece. Isabel ..." McKay snorted. "She's a busybody but her heart's in the right place."

Robin nodded. "Just as well Moira had a son afterwards, not another female name for me to juggle with. Can you give us a number for Alex, please? Mark might have been in contact with him."

"I can, although I don't think he could have been. As far as I know, Mark only had my details, and as you're aware, he wasn't yet certain we were related. He wanted us both to do a DNA comparison test, which he'd have paid for. I told him it wouldn't be necessary because I was pretty convinced he was my great-nephew by matching what I knew to what little he knew. He sent me a photo too, and he had quite an air of Moira about him. I'd have done the comparison for him, like a flash. Too late now, though, I suppose." Tom wiped his eye.

"You could do a comparison with Kevin if he's interested," Robin suggested.

Tom frowned. "Kevin?"

"Mark's brother." Hadn't he got a mention?

"Ah, I see. Mark said he had a brother, although he's apparently not that interested in the family history. If Mark told me what the chap was called, I've forgotten it. It's not only you who struggles with lots of new names." Tom rose. "I'll away and fetch my phone. Alex's number is on there."

A half uncle? Ashok mouthed at Robin, with what appeared to be an attempt at a meaningful look.

"In his fifties, from the year of birth. An ever-expanding family."

As Tom returned with a number for him to jot down, the constable asked, "Is Alex local?"

"He lives in Lincoln, so it's not too far for him to visit here, although I usually get his news when I chat to his wife on the phone. She calls every week." More evidence that Tom and his nephew weren't on the best of terms? "Only you won't catch either of them today because they've been off in their camper van this last fortnight and aren't due back for another week. The perks of working for yourself."

"Any idea where they've been touring?" Robin said nonchalantly, although he knew it would be a long shot to expect Tom not to recognise his growing interest in Moira's son and his whereabouts.

"There's a postcard on the mantelpiece." Tom pointed in its direction.

"I'll get it." Ashok leaped up to fetch the card. He held the thing writing downwards, clearly not wanting to intrude on private messages until offered the chance. "I think I recognise the place, although I can't put a name to it."

"Broadlands. Alex's wife Lucy is a huge fan of the royal family, so they've been ticking off some places on the Prince Philip trail. Isle of Wight for his grandparents' grave, then Broadlands for Mountbatten."

"He and the queen spent part of their honeymoon there too," Ashok said. "My mum has the same fascination with royalty, so she must have shown me pictures."

Tom nodded. "Lucy's dad was one of those who did protection duty for the royals, so it's a personal thing for her."

"I'll tell my mum and she'll be dead jealous." Ashok passed the postcard to Robin.

"May I read this, Tom?" he asked.

"Of course. Nothing to hide. They don't mention meeting Mark, though, if that's what you're seeking," Tom said with a shrug.

"You've seen right through me." The text of the card proved to be the usual stuff about the weather and places visited on the way south. Maybe Lucy had been the one to write it. "When did this arrive?"

"Yesterday morning."

Robin nodded. Most likely it had been sent earlier in the week, although knowing the postal service, that might have extended to the week previously. Of greater significance was the fact that Broadlands wasn't too far a drive from Kinechester and the surrounding towns. For all the jokes about murderous half brothers turning up on doorsteps trying to protect their mother's reputation, here was a half uncle almost on the doorstep at the time Mark Bircher had been killed.

Next step had to be to talk to Alex and his wife. Please God they were still in the local area and hadn't headed off to Cornwall.