The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4)

the first surname, he slowly drew it down the list to the bottom of the page before continuing onto the next. When he reached the end of the page having drawn a blank, a sagging feeling began to grow in his stomach. What if this line of enquiry is over before it’s even begun? he thought. Tentatively and slowly, he turned the page and was relieved to see that Canterbury Road seemed to be a long one. He returned his finger to the page and continued his search. Close to the bottom he found what he was searching for: his family and the two adjacent neighbours, one of whom had been operating a guesthouse.

Dyche, Edward M.               161

Dyche, Irene L.                     161

Farrier, Alfred                       163

Farrier, Peter                         163

Farrier, Maureen                  163

Pollard, Brian                        165

Pollard, Elizabeth S.             165

 

There they were, his adoptive father, Peter and his adoptive mother, Maureen living with Morton’s grandfather, Alfred. For the briefest of moments Morton wondered why his biological mother, Margaret was not listed, then he remembered that being just sixteen years old, she was two years too young to be registered.

‘Where did you stay, Jack?’ Morton mumbled to himself, as he tapped the end of his pencil on the register. Either the Pollard family or the Dyche family were running a guesthouse at which his biological father came to stay. But which house? Morton wondered.

Having scribbled down the details, he closed the ledger and returned it to the cabinet. The shelving below formed a continuation of electoral registers up until the year 2001 along with an assortment of phone books from the 1980s onwards. Searching above the electoral registers, Morton found what he was looking for: Kelly’s Directory of Folkestone 1974. He pulled the brown A5-sized book from the shelf and returned to his seat. Flicking to the commercial section of the book, he worked his way through the alphabetised list of occupations and services on offer.

‘Guest houses,’ Morton said, his heart rate beginning to quicken. He found the name he was looking for from the long list in front of him:

 

Dyche, E. M. 161 Canterbury Rd

 

Morton grinned. His first tentative steps in locating his father had paid off; he now knew exactly where he had stayed. Having used a crude online conception calculator, Morton knew that his biological father had visited the guesthouse sometime between 2nd January and 10th January 1974. He had cleared the first hurdle, but he knew that the journey to finding his father would be a long and complicated one; it could very likely turn out to be the most difficult case of his career.

He returned the book to the shelf, packed up his things and headed out of the building. Outside, a thin wispy cloud had temporarily veiled the sun but without diminishing the heavy heat of the day. Perching his sunglasses on his nose, Morton strode away from the library back towards the main shopping arteries of the town, as he began to consider the next steps that he needed to take. He wanted to know more about Edward and Irene Dyche and their guesthouse. Two people could easily assist this line of enquiry. One was his Aunty Margaret, who last Christmas made it clear in no uncertain terms that she wanted nothing to do with his quest to find his father. That left one other person: his adoptive father.

On the corner of Rendezvous Street, in the midst of a flurry of pedestrians, Morton withdrew his mobile. He opened up his contacts and found his father’s phone number. His finger lingered over the dial button but something inside him prevented him from pressing it. He just couldn’t do it. Since suffering a heart attack two years ago, which had left his father flirting with the border between life and death, their strained relationship had improved somewhat. To ask his father now the questions that he needed answering could send them back to the days of shared apathy and mutual indifference. Pushing his phone back into his jeans’ pocket, Morton looked up and spotted a bustling café on the corner opposite. Painted peach with large arched windows, on which were etched the words Django’s Café & Petit Bistro, the building was surrounded by metallic silver chairs and tables. Only one table was empty and Morton, feeling a sudden urge for caffeine, hurried over towards it. As he took a seat, he remembered his promise to his fiancée, Juliette that he would cut down on the amount of coffee that he drank. ‘I’m going to make it one of your wedding vows,’ she had joked recently.

‘Now that would be a commitment,’ he had responded.

He picked up the laminated menu that was wedged between the salt and pepper pots and ran his eyes down the page.

‘What can I get you, love?’ a plump waitress with a sweaty brow asked, suddenly appearing from nowhere.

‘A toasted teacake, please.’

‘Okay. Anything to drink?’ she asked, pencil poised and ready.

Morton thought for a moment. ‘A small latte, please.’

‘Won’t be long,’ she replied, scuttling off inside.

A small latte: that was enough of a concession for now, Morton thought, as he looked around him at the people busily milling about. His eyes drifted back to the motley collection of customers sitting outside the café. Laughter from the adjacent table drew his attention. It was emanating from two men, one suited, smart and middle-aged, the other casual, older and smiling at something the other man had said. Snatches of their conversation drifted over to Morton and when he heard the younger man call the other ‘Dad’, he paid closer attention. Theirs was an ordinary relationship, where dips and breaks in conversation were normal and not uncomfortable, where any topic from trivial to profound could be raised, where their DNA was inextricably linked and could overcome any of life’s obstacles. Morton knew that, however much his relationship might improve