Michael Robotham - Suspect

Having finished the first batch I collect another six boxes of microfiche from the librarian. The newspapers around Christmas have more pages and take longer to search. As I finish November 1988 my anxiety grows. What if it's not here? I can feel knots in my shoulder blades from leaning forward. My eyes ache.

The film rolls onto a new day. I find the death notices. For several seconds I carry on down the page before realizing what I've seen. I go back. There it is! I press my finger on the name as though frightened it might vanish.

Lenny A. Morgan, aged 55, died on Saturday December 10 from burns received in an explosion at the Carnegie Engineering Works. Mr. Morgan, a popular bus conductor at the Green Lane Depot in Stanley, was a former merchant seaman and a prominent union delegate. He is survived by his sisters, Ruth and Louise, and sons Dafyyd, 19, and Robert, 8. A service will be conducted at 1 p.m. Tuesday at St. James' Church in Stanley. The family requests that memorial tributes take the form of contributions to the Socialist Worker's Party.

I go back through papers for the week before. An accident like this must have been reported. I find the news story at the bottom of page five. The headline reads: WORKER DIES IN DEPOT BLAST.

A Liverpool bus conductor has died after an explosion at the Carnegie Engineering Works on Saturday afternoon. Lenny Morgan, 55, suffered burns to 80 percent of his body when welding equipment ignited gas fumes. The blast and fire severely damaged the workshop, destroying two buses.

Mr. Morgan was taken to Rathbone Hospital where he died on Saturday evening without regaining consciousness. The Liverpool coroner has begun an investigation into what caused the explosion.

Friends and workmates paid tribute to Mr. Morgan yesterday describing him as extremely popular with the traveling public, who enjoyed his eccentricities. "Lenny used to dress in a Santa hat and serenade the passengers with carols at Christmas," said supervisor Bert McMullen.

At three o'clock I rewind the microfilm, pack it into boxes and thank the librarian for her help. She doesn't ask me if I found what I wanted. She's too busy trying to repair the spine of a bound volume that someone has dropped.

Despite looking through another two months of newspapers, I found no further references to the accident. There must have been an inquest. As I ride down in the lift I flick through my notes. What am I looking for? Some link to Catherine. I don't know where she grew up, but her grandfather certainly worked in Liverpool. My instincts tell me that she and Bobby met in care-either at a children's home, or at a psych hospital.

Bobby didn't mention having a brother. Considering that Bridget was only twenty-one when she had Bobby, Dafyyd was either adopted or more likely Lenny had an earlier marriage that produced a son.

Lenny had two sisters but I only have the maiden name, which makes it harder to find them. Even if they didn't marry, how many Morgans are likely to be in the Liverpool phone book? I don't want to have to go there.

Pushing through the revolving door, I'm so lost in thought I go around twice before finding the outside. Taking the steps carefully, I fix my bearings and head toward Lime Street Station.

I hate to admit it, but I'm enjoying this: the search. I'm motivated. I have a mission. Last-minute shoppers fill the footpaths and queue for buses. I'm tempted to find the number 96 and see where it takes me. Lucky dips are for people who like surprises. Instead I hail a cab and ask for the Green Lane Bus Depot.

A mechanic holds a carburetor in one blackened hand and gives me directions with the other. The pub is called the Tramway Hotel and Bert McMullen is usually at the bar.

"How will I recognize him?"

The mechanic chuckles and turns back to the engine, leaning inside the bowels of a bus.

I find the Tramway easily enough. Someone has scrawled graffiti on the blackboard outside: A beer means never having to say, "I'm thirsty." Pushing through the door, I enter a dimly lit room, with stained floors and bare wooden furniture. Red bulbs above the bar give the place a pink tinge like a Wild West bordello. Black-and-white photographs of trams and antique buses decorate the walls, alongside posters for "live" music.

I take my time and count eight people, including a handful of teenagers playing pool in the back alcove, near the toilets. I stand in front of the beer taps, waiting to be served by a barman who can't be bothered to look up from The Racing Post.

Bert McMullen is at the far end of the bar. His crumpled tweed jacket is patched at the elbows and adorned by various badges and pins, all related to buses. In one hand he holds a cigarette and in the other an empty pint glass. He turns the glass in his fingers, as if reading some hidden inscription etched into the side.

Bert growls at me. "Who you gawpin' at?" His thick mustache appears to sprout directly from his nose and droplets of foam and beer are clinging to the ends of the gray-and-black hairs.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare." I offer to buy him another pint. He half turns and examines me. His eyes, like watery glass eggs, stop at my shoes. "How much did them shoes cost?"

"I don't remember."

"Gimme an estimate."

I shrug. "A hundred pounds."

He shakes his head in disgust. "I wouldn't pick 'em up with two shitty sticks. You couldn't walk more 'an twenty mile in them things before they fall apart." He's still staring at my shoes. He waves the barman over. "Hey Phil, get a load of these shoes."

Phil leans over the bar and peers at my feet. "What d'you call them?"

"Loafers," I answer self-consciously.

"Gerraway!" Both men look at each other in disbelief. "Why would you want to wear a shoe called a loafer?" says Bert. "You got more bum than brains."

"They're Italian," I say, as if that makes a difference.

"Italian! What's wrong with English shoes?"

"Nothing."

Bert presses his face close to mine. I can smell baked beans. "I reckon anyone who wears shoes like that hasn't done a proper day's work in his life. You got to wear boots, kid, with a steel cap in the toe and some grip on the bottom. Them shoes of yours wouldn't last a week in a real job."

"Unless of course he works behind a desk," says the barman.

Bert looks at me warily. "Are you one of the overcoat gang?"

"What's that?"

"Never get your coat off."

"I work hard enough."

"Do you vote Labour?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"Are you a Hail Mary?"

"Agnostic."

"Ag-fucking-what?"

"Agnostic."

"Jesus wept! OK, this is your last chance. Do you support the mighty Liverpool?" He crosses himself.

"No."

He sighs in disgust. "Get off home, yer mam's got custard waiting."

I look between the two of them. That's the problem with Scousers. You can never tell whether they're joking or being serious until they put a glass in your face.

Bert winks at the barman. "He can buy me a drink, but he can't fiddle ass around. 'E's got five minutes before he can bugger off."

Phil grins at me. His ears are laden with silver rings and dangling pendants.

The pub has tables arranged along the walls, leaving a dance floor in the center. The teenagers are still playing pool. The only girl among them looks underage and is dressed in tight jeans and a singlet top, revealing her bare midriff. The boys are trying to impress her but her boyfriend is easy to spot. Bulked up by weight training he looks like an abscess about to explode.

Bert is watching the bubbles rise to the head of his Guinness. Minutes pass. I feel myself getting smaller and smaller. Finally he raises the glass to his lips and his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows.