He looked back at the screen. At the bottom of the email Roy had left his home phone number. Morton didn’t want to hassle the guy, but the drive inside of him forced him to pick up his mobile and to dial.
‘Hello?’ a gravelly voice answered.
‘Hello,’ he said brightly. ‘It’s Morton Farrier, here. I’ve just got your email—thank you so much for taking the time to reply, I really appreciate it.’
‘Oh, you’re welcome—not much help, though. I will get Susan to get the boxes down at some stage—they’re a bit heavy for me, now.’
‘Yes, lovely,’ Morton said, not wanting to push the old man so that he rescinded his offer to help. ‘Look, I don’t want to pester you, but I’m truly desperate to find my dad. I’m a professional genealogist, so trying to find people is my job, but there really is no other way: you’re my last hope. Is there any way that I can come to you and help get the boxes down?’
There was a short silence from the other end of the line, then Roy cleared his throat. ‘What, all that way? You do realise that I live in Portsmouth, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Morton said, knowing that he faced a two-and-a-half-hour journey to look through a load of boxes which might contain nothing of relevance. But he had to try.
‘Well, you are keen. What about this Sunday afternoon?’ Roy offered, seeming to sense Morton’s urgency.
‘Perfect,’ Morton responded.
‘Anytime after lunch will be fine,’ Roy said cheerfully.
‘Thank you very much. I’ll see you then.’
Roy said goodbye and ended the call.
A surge of exhilaration flushed through him. He was one step closer to finding his biological father.
The study door was gently opened with Juliette’s foot. In her hands she carried a tray containing a glass of wine, a glass of water and a box of paracetamol. ‘Room service,’ she said, putting on a vague Eastern European accent. ‘Pizza come soon.’
‘Thank you,’ Morton said, watching as she set the tray down and comically backed out of the room. He chased the paracetamols and glass of water down with a large glug of wine, hoping that the combination of the two would soon start to counter the intense pounding in his head.
Turning to his computer, he began a general internet trawl for original lease and release indentures. Private companies, individuals, online auction sites and various record offices around the country housed erratic and patchy collections but, as Morton expected, none of them as far as he could tell pertained to the America Ground. If these documents existed, then they were not obviously in the public domain. Why was Kevin and whomever he worked for so certain that the original lease and release documents were still in existence? Morton wondered.
He felt a rise of panic when he considered that he had just three days left to find them. He resolved that on the morning of the third day he would tell Juliette everything and let the police take over. As he gazed at his computer screen, he wondered if it were possible to create another, better set of fake indentures. He was certain that he could fool Kevin but it would be whomever he passed them onto that really mattered. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain that the people behind it were Riccards-Maloney. It had to be them.
He returned to his computer and accessed the government-run Companies House website. The page loaded and Morton clicked ‘Find Company Information.’ In the search box, he entered Riccards-Maloney and, moments later a spreadsheet loaded with an alphabetised list of business. The name Riccards-Maloney was highlighted in yellow and Morton clicked the company number for more information. Beside a general summary of the company’s formation and tax status, was a hyperlink that said: Order information on this company. Morton clicked the link and was offered a chronologically ordered list of the company’s filing history. Secretary resigned. Registered office changed. Full accounts made up to 31/03/15. New director appointed. Declaration of assistance for shares acquisition. Morton could order any of it for £1 per record, but he couldn’t see the sense in just ordering anything. He scrolled down to the bottom to the company’s formation and settled on purchasing their incorporation documents.
Morton didn’t know what he was expecting to see when the PDF file downloaded to his computer, but what he read was of limited use, largely setting out the purpose and legalities of the new company. From skimming through the document, Morton learnt that Riccards-Maloney was established in 1980 by Terry Maloney and registered to an address in London. The company’s purchase of the America Ground estate from the Crown had occurred on the 1st March 1988.
Morton printed the file and stuck it to his study wall. He stood back and admired the array of photos, certificates and documents that he had acquired in his pursuit of the Lovekin Case. The edges were forming, but he still had large pieces of the puzzle to find, never mind fit.
‘Pizza for Mr Farrier,’ Juliette said in another attempt at an odd accent.
Morton pulled open the door and Juliette entered, balancing a bottle of wine on top of two pizza boxes. ‘Thank you. I would have come down,’ Morton said.
‘Picnic,’ Juliette shrugged, taking a seat on the floor and tugging open the first box. ‘So, how are you getting on?’
Morton joined her on the carpet and pulled out a slice of pepperoni pizza, not wanting to discuss the Lovekin Case with her. ‘Okay, I suppose. I heard back from Roy Dyche,’ he said enthusiastically, but read from Juliette’s blank expression that she had no clue what he was talking
