At that momentthe train conductor blew his whistle and the train doors emitted theirhigh-pitched warning to announce that they were about to close.
‘I should havethe results by tomorrow,’ Dr Baumgartner just managed to say, before the doorsabruptly smacked together in front of his face. And then he wasgone. Back to Birmingham. Back to the headquarters of the ForensicScience Service.
With the rearend of the train almost faded from sight, Morton pulled out his mobile. Sixteen missed calls and two text messages. Not bad for a few hours insilent mode. Four were from Dr Baumgartner in unsurprising regularthree-minute intervals preceding their scheduled meeting. One was fromJeremy and the rest were from Juliette. He dialled her mobile as he beganhis epic journey back towards the Mini.
‘Where the hellhave you been?’ Juliette greeted congenially.
‘Sorry, phonebattery died,’ Morton lied, though why he didn’t just tell the truth, he wasn’ttoo sure. He vaguely thought that the truth was too complicated and hedidn’t know who might be listening. Anyhow, it was a stupid mistaketrying to pull the wool over Juliette’s eyes.
‘Liar. Your phone wouldn’t have even rung if your battery was dead.’ Oh yeah,Morton thought, forgetting whom he was talking to. She sounded like shewas speaking from a dungeon.
‘Where areyou?’ he asked.
‘Don’t changethe subject. Where have you been?’
‘I’ll tell youwhen you get home. Where are you?’
‘I should be ina primary school with Roger giving a ‘Stranger Danger’ talk, but I told him I didn’tfeel well and I had paperwork to catch up on so now I’m in the basementsearching through a stack of bloody microfiches for anything on your aunty ormum or whoever she is to you now. PNC came back with nothing but then itwouldn’t because of how long ago the crime was committed.’
‘How likely isit that you’ll come up with something?’
‘Not. Idon’t have the criminal’s name, date of birth, et cetera which would make thetask a bit easier. Besides which, these records are regularly weeded forData Protection.’
‘Well, thanksfor trying.’
‘See youlater.’
Morton hit thered button on his phone with a cynical intuition that Juliette wasn’t going tolocate any records pertaining to his Aunty Margaret’s rape. He just had ahunch that his biological father had escaped justice and was freely roaming thestreets. He remembered that Jeremy had tried to call him so he phoned hismobile.
‘Bad news, I’mafraid,’ Jeremy began and Morton immediately feared the worst for hisfather. ‘I’m going back to Cyprus tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’Morton said, feeling suddenly bereft of his newly-acquired relationship.
‘Now that Dad’son the mend there’s no justification for the compassionate leave. Lookslike his care is over to you and Juliette now.’
‘Hmm,’ Mortonanswered pensively. He doubted that it would be the last he’d hear ofhim, though. He’d overheard some of the blokes at the party talking aboutvideos they’d uploaded to Facebook whilst in Afghanistan, so he doubtedcommunication could be any more stunted in Cyprus.
Two hours later, a near-empty bottle ofred wine had helped to distil Morton’s erratic thoughts. The house wassilent but for the muted ticking from the grandfather clock in thehallway. He was sitting in his father’s lounge, staring at a familyportrait that had hung over the fireplace since it had been taken. Hecouldn’t recall if the photo was taken for any particular birthday oranniversary but he remembered that he and Jeremy were told of their mother’scancer days later. Possibly even the next day. He’d never reallyconnected the two ideas before but now, looking up at himself as afourteen-year-old boy with a grinning Jeremy - minus his top front teeth – satbeside him and their parents standing stoically behind them, he wondered if thepicture had been taken as a desperate final snapshot of their dissolvingnuclear family unit. Proof that they’d existed. Proof that couldnever be tarnished by insidious underlying family secrets. Say cheese! It was an image that should, under normal circumstances, be found amidst theyellowing pages of a photo album, not hanging proudly on the wall: Morton on aday trip to Hastings with his aunt, uncle and cousin. Uncle Peter, AuntyMaureen and cousin Jeremy. He felt sure that he could cope with theirbizarre family foibles if it’d been like that.
Morton’s mobilesuddenly sounded loudly from his pocket. ‘Hello,’ he answered, hopingthat the voice on the other end was calling with good news.
‘Morton?’Professor Geoffrey Daniels asked in a gruff, baritone voice.
‘Yup,speaking.’
‘Have youchecked your emails yet?’
‘No, not today,why’s that then?’
‘I’ve foundMarlene Koldrich’s birth certificate and have emailed you a translation.’
‘Oh, brilliant,that’s fantastic,’ Morton answered, wondering what the email could contain thatrequired a follow-up phone call. He moved into the kitchen and switchedon his laptop.
‘It’s fairlyrun-of-the-mill stuff,’ he quantified, instantly deflating Morton’sexpectations of a grand discovery. ‘The usual name of parents andaddress.’
‘Okay,’ Mortonsaid, hearing in the Professor’s intonation that there was a caveatlooming. ‘I’m just looking at my emails now.’
There was apregnant pause as he clicked on his emails and, at the top of the email inbox,found the tantalising gold unopened envelope beside the name GeoffreyDaniels. He opened the message and read the brief contents: Morton,still on trail, but found this which you might be interested in. Regards,Geoffrey. Below his email was a translation of Marlene’s birthcertificate.
Marlene, the daughter of Eberhard andGaelle Koldrich, born 18 November1913, Markgrafenstrasse 5, Berlin
‘Eberhard and Gaelle Koldrich,’ Mortonsaid, more for his own benefit than the Professor’s.
‘Yes, which iswhy I’m calling. Eberhard Koldrich – ever heard of him?’
Morton said thename repeatedly in his mind: definitely no entries in his brain under thatname. ‘No, should I have heard of him then?’
‘Depends onyour knowledge of World War Two; I understood from Gerald Baumgartner that youwere a first class student.’
‘Apparentlynot.’
The Professordropped his oblique indictment and continued. ‘Eberhard Koldrich was ahigh-ranking member of the Nationalsozialistische DeutscheArbeiterpartei. One of his main wartime tasks was the conversion ofinfluential British aristocrats who might be sympathetic to a peace treaty withGermany, effectively allowing the Nazis free rein in occupied Europe.’
‘Kind oflike the Duke of Hamilton meeting Rudolf Hess in 1941?’ Morton said, if only toprove that he did actually have some depth of historical knowledge.
‘Something likethat, yes, only more discreet and more organised. I've done a lot ofresearch into him and his group over the
