THIRTY-ONE

Not having booked sleeping berths in advance, Harry and Barry were banished to the seated coach on the train. Chip-chase's response to this hardship was to stock up with enough tins of lager to ensure oblivion, failing genuine slumber, for at least part of the journey. Harry was manoeuvred into paying for them, despite having already been obliged to buy both their tickets, Chipchase pleading an unspecified difficulty with his credit card.

In the circumstances, Harry felt drinking his fair share was a point of principle. The predictable result was a raddled, hung-over arrival in London the following morning. Breakfast at Euston station after the indignity of washing and shaving in the underground loo failed to redeem their start to the day. Nor did a Tube journey at the fag end of the rush hour fill their hearts with glee.

They emerged at Stockwell into a muggy, drizzly morning and headed towards Brixton, navigating by an A-Z bought at Euston. Their destination, Colsham House, was one of several drably similar blocks of flats in an area that prompted various chunterings by Chipchase suggestive of a lack of enthusiasm for the concept of a multiracial Britain.

'Can you see any other white faces around here, Harry?' he muttered as they waited at a pelican crossing with a group of local residents. "Cos I can't. Not a single one.'

'Now you know how Coker felt all the time.'

'Yeah. Foreign.'

'We're from a foreign country, Barry. Didn't you know? It's called the past.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Colsham House boasted a ramshackle but evidently functioning entryphone system. Harry pressed the button for number 112 and braced himself for a tortuous, static-fuzzed conversation with Mrs Nixon. But the only response was the decisive buzz of the door release. They went in and made for the lift.

The door of flat 112 was a short step along an open landing on the fifth floor. Somewhat to their surprise, it stood ajar, in readiness for their arrival.

'Hello?' Harry called as he stepped cautiously into the flat, Chipchase lagging even more cautiously behind.

Empty white spaces met Harry's gaze. More accurately, empty primrose-yellow spaces, accompanied by the distinctive smell of fresh paint. 'You're early for once, Chris,' came a lilting, female voice. Then a bustling, sturdily built young woman in blue jeans and a red T-shirt emerged into the passage from an adjoining room. A mass of dreadlocked hair framed her broad, smiling face. But her smile was fading fast. 'Shit,' she said. 'Who are you guys?'

'We're, er… looking for Mrs Nixon,' Harry replied. 'Mrs … Leroy Nixon.'

'My mom?'

'Well, I suppose…'

'Who are you?' The woman frowned and placed her hands on her hips. 'What do you want with Mom?'

'We used to, er…'

'We were friends of your father, luv,' said Chipchase. 'Leroy. Well, Coker to us, but—'

'It was a long time ago,' Harry cut in.

The frown lifted slightly. 'You mean… you're some more of Dad's RAF buddies?'

'Yes,' said Harry with some relief. 'That's right.'

'How do you mean?' asked Chipchase. 'Some more?'

'If you're part of the group that guy in Aberdeen wrote to Mom about a few months back, you must know she isn't here.'

'Must we?' Harry suspected his expression answered the question succinctly enough.

'You're friends of Gilbert Tancred, aren't you?'

'Tancred? Yes. We are.'

'Oh yeah,' said Chipchase, determined, it seemed, to over-egg the pudding. 'Tapper and us are like that.' He raised his hand, second finger folded around index finger to confirm undying if wholly fictitious amity.

'So, you surely know he paid for the trip.'

'What trip would that be?' asked Harry, as nonchalantly as he could contrive.

'Mom's cruise to the Caribbean. Her first chance to see Antigua again in more than forty years. It was really kind of him. With her fear of flying, she thought she'd never set foot on the island again. We're redecorating the flat while she's—'

'When's she due back?'

'Not for another six weeks.'

'Thanks to… Gilbert?'

'Yeah. That's right. It's all down to him. Didn't he tell you?'

'No. He didn't breathe a word.'

'Just like the bloke.' Chipchase grinned broadly. 'Good deeds discreetly done are Tapper's speciality. Isn't that so, Harry?'

'Absolutely. Yes. Hides his light under a bushel.'

'Gold bar for a heart.'

'One of the best.'

'They just don't make them like him any more.'

'More's the pity.'

'They broke the mould after—'

'Will you two cut it out?' The young woman had folded her arms. Her brow was sceptically furrowed. 'Anyone would think he had some sinister motive, the way you're going on.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Joyce — as it transpired Nixon's daughter was called — offered them tea, which they accepted. The absent Chris rang while she was making it to report that, far from being early, he would actually be quite late. With a tranche of spare time suddenly wished upon her, she had no objection to sitting down in the kitchen and talking to Harry and Barry about her late father, her Antigua-bound mother… and the uncommonly generous Gilbert Tancred.

'I was only two when Dad died. I don't remember him at all. Mom never used to talk about him. What I know I got mostly from other people. Just mentioning him was seriously taboo when I was growing up. Mom's opened up a bit more about him these last few years, but not a whole lot. He was troubled, though. Even before they got married. That I do know. There were… demons inside his head. I think Mom hoped she could heal whatever was hurting him. But it was beyond her. He'd go off, apparently, for weeks at a time. Searching for something. But nobody ever knew what. Then, one day, Mom heard he'd been drowned. Lost overboard from a ferry off the coast of Scotland.'

'Where was the ferry going?' asked Harry.

'I don't know. Nobody ever said. Is it important?'

'Probably not.'

'The letter from your friend Johnny Dangerfield was forwarded from the house where they used to live in Lewisham. Mom wrote back and explained Dad had passed away. Then your other friend Gilbert Tancred showed up, asking how it had happened. I didn't like him at first. He comes across as seriously up himself. But when he offered to pay for this cruise for Mom… She was so thrilled there was no way we could turn him down. I had a postcard from her only a couple of days ago. From Bermuda. She's having the time of her life.'

'That's good to know.'

'Honestly, it's the best thing that's ever happened to her.'

'I'm sure it is.'

'So, why do you both still look as if you suspect Gilbert is … up to something?'

'It's our twisted personalities, luv,' said Chipchase. 'He's put us to shame and we're finding the idea hard to get used to. That's the pitiful truth. Maybe we should force ourselves to call in on Tapper and congratulate him for what he's done for your mother. What d'you reckon, Harry?'

'Well nigh essential, I'd say.'

'That's it, then. We'll do it.'

'So you'll be seeing him soon, will you?' asked Joyce.

Harry exchanged a glance with Chipchase before replying. 'I should think so.'

'Then, can you tell him how much Mom's enjoying the cruise?'

'No problem.'

'And pass on my thanks, will you?'

'Oh, we'll be sure to.'

—«»—«»—«»—

'Does anyone know where your father went on his wanderings, Joyce?' Harry asked as they were leaving.

'No. Except that last time. And even then… not really.'

'When were the riots here, d'you know?'

'The Brixton riots?'

'Yes.'

'The year I was born. 1981. Why?'

'Because Leroy was in Scotland that year as well, luv,' said Chipchase. 'It's probably where he always gravitated to.'

'Why did he go there?'

'We don't know.'

'But we intend to find out,' Harry added. 'You could say we have to.'