The concrete slabs that created a central walkway were uneven and strewn with broken glass. Nettles, bindweed and bramble thrived on either side, where once the plumpest tastiest tomatoes and cucumbers had grown.
Looking towards the other end of the greenhouse, she knew that someone had gotten here first.
The neat towers of stacked empty flowerpots of every conceivable size had been toppled and the concrete slab, above which they had been placed, lifted and discarded to one side.
The hole was empty.
Someone had found the documents although, judging by the complex web laced over the hole, not recently. Certainly not today.
She moved back inside the house and dialled 999. ‘Ambulance, please,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s my grandfather—he’s killed himself.’
Once she had placed the call, she sat calmly on the worn armchair—his armchair—and waited for the ambulance and police to arrive.
Of course he hadn’t killed himself, she knew that. He was surrounded by packets and packets of brand new Tesco paracetamol. He didn’t—couldn’t—shop in Tesco, it was on the other side of town and he was housebound. Besides, it was she who did his shopping every week.
She knew with certainty that they had come for him.
Just as he had warned her they might.
They might have gotten to her beloved grandpa, but they didn’t have the documents.
Chapter Two
2015
Morton Farrier was excited. Having just parked his Mini in Bouverie Place car park in Folkestone town centre, he was zipping down the high street, dodging and weaving past slow-moving pedestrian traffic. A stretch of warm sunny weather had magnetised a swarm of day-trippers and holidaymakers to the coastal town, as it had done since Victorian times. Morton, dressed in jeans and a light shirt, marched through the crowds with a smile on his face. For the first time in his career as a forensic genealogist, he had cleared his diary for two whole weeks in order to concentrate fully on his own family history.
He turned off the main thoroughfare and took a side street, where the crowds thinned, continuing on until a large red brick building came into view. It was a plain-looking edifice, which from a distance could have housed any number of businesses or services; only a small white sign, fixed to the wall, announcing Folkestone Library & History Resource Centre revealed its purpose. As he approached the main entrance, the glass doors parted and allowed him to enter. Once inside, he followed the signs up the stairs to a pair of Edwardian-era green double-doors. He stepped into a spacious rectangular room with wood-block flooring and, having never been to this particular repository, quickly surveyed the room. The walls were lined with the juxtaposing mixture of old and new genealogy and local history: old-fashioned wooden bookcases and cabinets interspersed with half-a-dozen computer terminals. In the right-hand corner a help desk was staffed by a young man with a shaved head and a disproportionately thick black beard, which he unconsciously twiddled around one finger. When Morton approached the desk, he flicked his head up and smiled broadly.
‘Good morning, sir. How can I help?’
‘Morning,’ Morton replied. ‘I’d like to see electoral registers for Folkestone in 1974, please.’
‘Okay,’ the man said, swinging his chair ninety degrees then leaping up dramatically. ‘They’re just here.’ He indicated to the nearest cabinet and pulled open the glass-fronted door.
On the shelf Morton could see a run of chronologically ordered volumes, each crudely bound with a cloth-taped spine, on which was handwritten Register of Electors and the relevant year.
The archivist ran his finger along the spines until he reached the register for 1974. ‘Here we are,’ he said, drawing it out and placing it into Morton’s hands.
‘Thank you.’ Morton carried the book to one of the empty tables in the centre of the room and sat down, clutching it in his hands. He stared at the volume for a few seconds, unable to bring himself to open it, as a fear of the contents gripped his insides. He was about to place a foot on the first step of a staircase that led into the unknown, but which might one day see him reunited with his biological father.
Seventeen years had lapsed since being told that he had been adopted when a baby. It was only last Christmas, however, that he had discovered the tiniest snippet of information pertaining to his biological father. He knew that his name was Jack and that he had originated from America—possibly the East Coast and that he had been studying for a degree in Archaeology. He had holidayed in Folkestone in early 1974, staying in a guesthouse next-door to where Morton’s biological mother had lived. That she had been a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl at the time had sparked the lie that had lasted more than forty years: that she had been raped. Her age and inability to provide for a child had prompted her older brother, Peter and his wife, Maureen to raise Morton as their own child. He had enjoyed and endured a tumultuous relationship with his adoptive parents, although, if he peeled back the complex layers of dejection and bitterness that had grown around him like a thick skin, Morton knew that they were fundamentally decent people and had done a good job raising him.
A sustained curious stare from the archivist was sufficient for Morton to pull open the electoral register. Headed Folkestone & Hythe Constituency, the page provided an index to the various boroughs contained within it. Morton scanned down until he spotted the index of streets for the Folkestone borough. Knowing that Aunty Margaret, his biological mother had been living at Canterbury Road in 1974 with her parents and brother, Morton searched for the correct constituency ward then thumbed through to the start of the road. Placing a finger carefully on
