Yet it hadnever arrived at East Sussex Archives.
Morton turnedto the last page to see the name of the person who had transferred thedocuments – maybe they still worked at the archives and could be held toaccount. Squiggled neatly at the bottom of the page he found theunambiguous signature of Max Fairbrother.
Morton’s pupilsdilated and his heart kicked into a new, heavier rhythm as he studied thesignature. There was no question about it; Max’s name was right there in frontof him. Morton remembered Max’s baffled face when he had enquired as tothe whereabouts of the document. That was the opportunity Max had to say,‘Oh, that register, yes I lost it. Just one of those things. I do apologise.’
‘I can’tbelieve it,’ Morton said, entering the lounge.
‘Can’t believewhat?’ Juliette asked.
‘Max bloodyFairbrother. He’s only the one who took the file admissions file from StGeorge’s that I wanted to see.’
‘Max who?’
‘MaxFairbrother,’ Morton ranted, ‘he works at the archives.’ Juliette lookedperplexed. ‘Max,’ Morton repeated, as if that would help. Itdidn’t, but his thoughts had run too far away to bother with explanations so hejust said, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ instead.
The car miraculously started first time,as if aware that its life hung in the balance and it should start to make aneffort. But Morton had made up his mind and drove directly to the BMWgarage.
He pulled intothe customer parking bay tucked behind the shiny glass building, which Mortonpresumed was a deliberate way to separate the vehicular wheat from thechaff. He stepped out into the relentless heat and headed towards aracing-green Mini Cooper SD that had caught his eye when he had previouslydriven past. He cupped his hands over the driver’s window and gazedlongingly inside. Long no longer, Mr Farrier.
‘She’s abeautiful car, this one,’ said a keen youth, fresh out of salesman school, whohad appeared from the heavens and startled Morton. He was sporting anill-fitting suit and an eager eye. ‘Hundred and forty miles per hour topspeed, hundred and seventy-five HP nominal power, nought to sixty-two in fivepoint six seconds, automatic aircon, sports seats, chrome interior, navigationsystem, hi-fi loud speakers, rain sensor, bi-xenon lights, the list goes on:beautiful!’
Morton didn’tknow what bi-xenon lights were or whether one hundred and seventy-five HPnominal power was a good thing or not. It sounded impressive, though, hehad to admit.
‘Would you liketo take her for a test drive, sir?’
‘No. Thank you, though,’ Morton said, watching the salesman’s smile turn upside downas he realised he’d made another wasted journey from the confines of theair-conditioned showroom.
‘I’ll takeit. What will you give me for my old Mondeo over there?’ Mortonasked, quickly regretting the use of such a depreciative adjective.
The manintroduced himself as Paul and extended a hot hand towards him. He rubbedhis hands together. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir, I’ll see what I cando.’
Morton followedhim into the glass-walled office and was quickly handed a polystyrene cup oftea by a lugubrious secretary while Paul went out to make an assessment of theMondeo. Morton wondered just how much training he had had to make such ajudgement. Probably a couple of days reading Auto Trader. Paul returned ten minutes later with the news that it was worth no more thanseven hundred and fifty pounds, but that he would give an extra five hundredquid as a ‘good-will gesture’, leaving Morton with a mere seventeenthousand-pound balance to pay. A drop in the ocean for a rich forensicgenealogist like him. Morton knew that he was being fleeced, butcontinued regardless. He stripped the Mondeo of the scratched case-lessCDs, handful of loose change and outdated road map; an hour and a half later hewas sitting in the plush virgin leather interior, speeding from the garagewithout so much as a cursory glance back at his old car, festering in theshadows of the showroom.
Morton grinnedas he tore along the country lanes, zipping in and out of traffic like he was aFormula One driver. He swung into a parking space in the car parkadjoining East Sussex Archives and marched confidently into the ice-coldoffice, riding on the fresh burst of energy supplied by the thousands of poundssitting in his bank account.
Quiet Brian,the slim taciturn man who appeared sporadically and without routine at thearchives was on duty in the lobby. He was either exceptionally shy or, morelikely, Morton thought, had had his personality frozen out of him by MissLatimer.
Quiet Brianhanded Morton the adherence to the rules form, which he duly signed and handedback. Morton glanced over to the shelf on which he had placed hisbusiness cards and, sure enough, they had all gone. It was a bit of astretch of the imagination to think that they had been snapped upenthusiastically by the general public in three days. Miss Latimer had tohave discarded them.
Morton bound upthe stairs clutching the fax from Linda, his heart beginning to race as hepulled open the search room door and ventured inside the wintry room. Hehad no idea exactly how he was going to broach the subject with Max. Maybe he should just come right out with it in a loud, bold voice, as if hewere in court. I put it to you, Max Fairbrother that on the first ofDecember 1987 you wilfully removed the 1944 admissions register from StGeorge’s Nursing Home and kept it for your own personal gain…
Miss Latimerwas sitting at the research desk, holding her glasses millimetres above thebridge of her nose as she studied a document on the desk in front of her. Morton knew that he had entered her peripheral vision and that she wasdeliberately ignoring him. He shuffled lightly on his heels to try andattract her attention and he wondered if he should cough politely.
‘It’sdownstairs, first door on the
