Morton found a parking space beside theSedlescombe Post Office and stepped out onto a tidy, triangular village green,wearing dark shorts, white t-shirt and sunglasses. He drew in a deepbreath, laced with the scent of freshly cut grass, and took in the picturepostcard surroundings that he had viewed online: white, weather-boarded andSussex peg-tiled houses surrounded an award-winning village green, upon whichwas housed a handsome, now redundant pump. At the top of the graduallysloping main road was a pub, The Queen’s Head and a three-star hotel, TheBrickwall, outside of which sat a gaggle of lazy geese. Thequintessential, quaint and sleepy English village. Was it this perfectduring James Coldrick’s childhood, he wondered? Or was it all just awafer-thin veneer?
One buildingstood out from the rest – St George’s Nursing Home, formerly the children’shome. The parish website, with its carefully chosen images of thebuilding, conflicted with the horrific piece of architecture in front ofhim. Morton crossed the deserted main street to get a better look at themonstrous edifice. It was a huge, gothic-style building with fairytaleturrets and crenellated parapet walls. A simple wooden name-plaque raisedhigh on two stakes proclaimed the name ‘St George’s Nursing Home’. Below,in smaller letters were the words ‘Formerly St George’s Children’s Home,erected with the generosity of Sir Frederick and Lady Windsor-Sackville ofCharingsby’.
It took Mortona few moments of staring at the name Windsor-Sackville to recall itsfamiliarity to him: it was the name of the current, widely ridiculed Secretaryof State for Defence. With a surname like that, he had to be related tothe founders of St George's.
Morton’s eyesmoved from the plaque back to the building. This was the place whereJames Coldrick had spent many of his younger years. He wondered what hadgone on behind the huge oak door that needed to remain secret all theseyears. Did it really warrant Peter Coldrick’s death, covered up asa suicide, the removal of the 1944 admissions register for St George'sChildren’s Home and the theft of his laptop?
A thoughtstruck him. What if St George’s had kept a record of the archivestransferred to Lewes? It was a long shot. A very long shot butworth a try.
Morton headedup the stone path and felt a cold shudder pass over him. He wasn’t abeliever in auras, ghosts or ghouls but the building had some intrinsicnegativity hanging over it. Some unseen darkness. Maybe he was justbeing paranoid.
He pulled openthe heavy door and entered an immaculately clean, white-washed lobby, filledwith a copious quantity of pungent white lilies, their stench trapped in thearid lobby. Not really the kind of flowers that Morton felt wereappropriate for the entrance hall of a nursing home. A bit too funerealfor his liking.
He openedanother door that led into an air-conditioned reception area adorned with yetmore perfumed flowers. It occurred to him then that maybe these werefuneral flowers. He was pleased to see a mauve-rinsed ladysingle-finger-typing at a computer like a timid hen, pecking for grain. She couldn’t possibly be the eloquent KC Fellows that he’d spoken to. Sheraised a hand with ridged veins and liver spots to her temple. Mortonguessed her to be the wrong side of seventy. He might have mistaken herfor a resident but for her white coat.
‘Be with you inone second, love.’
Morton noddedand looked around the high-ceilinged room. He could just catch a glimpseof a large open room where a group of idle residents sat chatting, sleeping andreading. It was difficult to picture how the building would have lookedin James Coldrick’s time here.
‘Right, how canI help you, love?’ she asked, her Mancunian accent revealing her to be Linda,with whom he had spoken yesterday.
‘Hi, I spoke toyou yesterday about the records dating back to when this place was a children’shome,’ Morton said, offering his best smile.
‘Oh yes, didyou try the archives?’
‘Yes, I did butunfortunately the file I wanted has gone adrift.’
‘Oh dear,’ shesaid, a large frown set on her forehead. ‘Not sure what else you can do then,love. As I said to you on the phone, we’ve not got anything here at all.’
‘You said youwere here when the records were transferred?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I was justwondering if the archives gave you any kind of receipt or anything which saidexactly what they took?’ Morton asked, hopefully.
Linda screwedher wrinkly face. ‘It’s possible but I can’t remember back that far,love. I wouldn’t even know where to lay my hands on something like thatif we did keep it. Have you got a fax?’
Morton nodded.
‘I tell you whatI’ll do, give me your fax number and I’ll have a dig around and see what I canfind. How’s that sound?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got folders and filingcabinets full of old junk upstairs.’
‘Perfect,’Morton answered, scribbling down his fax number on a proffered piece of scrappaper, which he was sure Linda would lose within half an hour. ‘Thanksvery much, I appreciate it,’ he added, hoping that a bit of sincerity mightencourage her to go rummaging. Morton thanked her again and left StGeorge's.
With so much ofMorton’s work involving being shut in confined spaces with little or no naturallight, he took a great deal of pleasure in being outdoors and greatlyappreciated the hot sun warming the nape of his neck. He trundled throughthe archaic village, nodding respectfully to a gaggle of old ladies on theirway to the post office, consciously absorbing the detail of the village. He scanned the village, dismissing houses or street furniture erected since theforties. He began to feel and understand the place in which JamesColdrick was raised.
With sweatbeginning to bead on his forehead, Morton walked from the village centre up along, straight road with a gradual incline towards the parish church. Theroad, unimaginatively named The Street, was dotted with expensive,substantial homes with high fences and security gates. Of some luxurioushouses Morton could only catch a glimpse through gaps in the dense shrubberyand carefully maintained
