‘Sorry?’ Mortonsaid, before he realised to what she was referring, but it was too late to stopher.
‘The toilet,’she enunciated, ‘it’s downstairs, first door on the right.’
‘I don’t needthe toilet –’
‘Then would youkindly stop wiggling about in front of me,’ she said, finally condescending tolook up at him. She placed her glasses down and stared at Morton. He guessed that was his cue to talk.
‘Is Max here?’
‘Mr Fairbrotheris not available at the moment. What is the nature of your enquiry?’ sheasked.
‘Confidential,’Morton said with a caustic smile, ‘could you call him, please? It’simportant.’
Miss Latimersat rigid, contemplating his request. Finally, she picked up thephone. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Fairbrother. I’ve got somebodyhere to see you. He says it’s important.’ She covered themouthpiece. ‘Who are you?’ Morton knew she was feigning ignorance butplayed along regardless.
‘The forensicgenealogist, Morton Farrier,’ he said dryly. Miss Latimer scowled.
‘MrFarrier. Right.’ She set down the phone and began tapping at thecomputer. Moments later in strolled Max Fairbrother wearing a brownleather bomber jacket and light blue jeans. He was either going for theyoung and trendy look or the Biggles look. Either way, he lookedridiculous.
‘Morning,Morton. Back so soon?’ he said cheerily.
Morton smiled,unsure of how to tackle him. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out thefax from St George's and approached the front desk, where Max stood behind MissLatimer.
‘Max, do youremember I was looking for the 1944 admissions register for St George’s lastweek?’
Max’s browfurrowed for a moment. ‘Oh yes, I do. It was missing on transfer,wasn’t it? Or something?’ Or something was aboutright. Morton nodded and thought that Max was acting the part verywell. If he hadn’t seen the signature for himself he might have believedhim. Maybe he should have been an actor rather than an archivist.
‘Well, a funnything happened. I contacted St George’s and luckily they had an inventoryof what was removed on the…’ Morton looked down at the faxed account,Max’s name just out of sight. ‘…first of December 1987.’
Miss Latimerset down her glasses, intrigued by the exchange taking place between the twomen. Max’s cheeks had flushed crimson.
‘Apparently,’Morton continued, his eyes boring into Max, ‘everything was removed,including the 1944 admission register.’
‘Pass that tome,’ Miss Latimer instructed, thrusting out her hand.
Max divedacross and snatched the paper. ‘It’s okay, Deidre, I’ll deal with it.’
Morton lookedat Miss Latimer’s disgruntled face. Deidre. He never had herdown as a Deidre. She was an Agatha or an Eileen or aCamilla. Deirdre Latimer, the spinster archivist.
‘Do you fancygoing out for a coffee, Morton?’ Max asked, his face continuing to burn. ‘Nero’s okay for you? I find coffee places are all much of a muchnessthese days,’ Max quipped cheerfully.
‘Sure,’ Mortonanswered tersely, riled by Max’s blasé attitude. He was desperate for acaffeine injection, and to get away from Deidre was probably the best solutionfor everyone. Particularly for Biggles and a confession that could costhim his job.
Morton took a table in the back corner ofthe coffee shop, which he was grateful to find largely deserted. Hedidn’t trust anybody at the moment, least of all the man heading towards himwith a tray of coffees and two muffins. Max had actually bought him amuffin? Morton found it vaguely disturbing, as if they were old chumson an annual get-together.
‘I got ablueberry and a double-chocolate – take your pick,’ Max said brightly. Morton reluctantly took the blueberry muffin – well, he was hungry afterall. Max sat back in the leather armchair, crossed his legs at the anklesand took a bite from his muffin. His nonchalance irritated the hell outof Morton.
‘Who told youto remove all the old records from St George's to the archives, Max?’ Mortonsaid, barely able to contain his fury.
Max cleared histhroat and blew out his cheeks, his lips vibrating together. ‘County. They’d been asking us to archive all sorts of records for a longtime, from schools, the local authority, hospitals, parish councils but wesimply didn’t have the resources to achieve it all quickly enough. StGeorge’s was just one of many.’
Morton wasperplexed. ‘But then? Why 1987? What was the urgency? Those records had sat there untouched for years.’
‘I haven’t thefoggiest,’ Max said, shaking his head and steepling his fingers. ‘Let’sjust say that I was persuaded by someone to make St George’s apriority.’
‘So it wassomeone in County who told you to pull the admissions register?’
‘No, at leastnot that I’m aware of.’
‘Who was itthen?’
Maxshrugged. ‘Not the nicest acquaintance I’ve ever met.’
‘Do you knowhis name?’ Morton pushed.
Max’s browfurrowed. ‘If memory serves me correctly, it was a man called WilliamDunk.’
‘Why did hewant the records?’
‘I don’t know,Morton.’
‘Did he wantany others?’
Max shook hishead. ‘That was it.’
‘Do you knowwhat happened to the records once he’d taken them?’
‘I imagine thatwhatever they contained needed destroying – why else go to such extremelengths? Lots of people would love to get their hands on originaldocuments which show their family – sometimes touching and holding somethingone's great, great grandfather once held or signed is the closest one can everget to them – but nobody would do what Dunk did for that reason.’
Morton’sinstincts agreed with what Max had said about the records likely having beendestroyed. He glared across at Max, wondering what had made someone withsuch a passion for preserving the past want to blatantly sabotage it. ‘Why did you do it? Money?’
Max shifteduncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, I didn’t get a choice in the matter,’he answered, his voice trailing off, as if encouraging Morton to jump in with amoral condemnation. Morton preferred to stay quiet and give Max all therope he needed to hang himself. Max continued, ‘First of all he showed upat the archives and I told him to bugger off, to put it mildly, then the nextday he showed up at my house brandishing a weapon. So, I handed the fileover. After that I never saw him again.’
‘Why wouldsomeone be so desperate to remove an admissions register?’ Morton saidrhetorically. ‘Seems a bit extreme.’
Max metMorton’s hard stare. ‘I’ve asked myself the same questions over the years,but I still have no idea.’
Mortonconsidered the scenario carefully. As an historian, if he had been put inMax’s position the first thing that he would
