Emma Page - Mortal Remains

He gave his shoes an extra shine, put on his best dark suit, a spotless white shirt freshly laundered by himself. He pinned his campaign medals to his chest, his poppy on one lapel, the gold regimental badge he always wore, on the other. On his little finger the gold signet ring with his entwined initials that his wife had given him the day they were married; on his wrist the gold watch bought for him two years ago on his seventieth birthday, engraved on the back with name and date, a joint present from Gareth and Jill.

When he was ready he surveyed himself with satisfaction in the long mirror of his wardrobe, then he let himself out of the house and set off for the rallying-point at a briskly military pace.

Tom Mansell’s housekeeper had taken particular pains with today’s lunch. Only the family, Mansell had told her, but a very special occasion. It wasn’t till the coffee stage that Mansell rose to his feet with an air of ceremony.

‘Thirteen years ago today,’ he said, ‘I took control of Dobie and Mansell’s. I give you a toast.’ He lifted his coffee-cup. He allowed nothing stronger than coffee in his house, he had been raised in a strictly teetotal household. ‘To the next thirteen years!’ The others echoed the toast, raised their cups, smiling.

Mansell remained on his feet. ‘I give you another toast. To the new yard, in Wychford!’ He saw the quick movement of all three heads, the look of surprise on the face of Diane and Stuart. But not on Lester’s face. Lester’s expression showed satisfaction, confirmation of something already guessed. Smart lad, Mansell thought with approval, no flies on Lester. ‘We’ll be starting the ball rolling any day now.’ Mansell raised his cup again. ‘To the future!’

Before setting off to see Cyril Shearman Harry checked that all was ready for supper. Traffic was light and he reached the home shortly after three. Shearman was, as always, pleased to see him, they sat in the almost deserted lounge, talking over old times. At half past four several residents came down from their rooms for tea and cake, dispensed from a trolley by a member of staff.

Shearman nodded over in the direction of one of the residents, an old woman with a weatherbeaten face, a countrified look, making her uncertain way into the lounge, leaning on a stick. ‘That’s Mrs Vaile,’ Shearman told Harry. ‘She came here a few weeks back from one of the company’s other homes.’ There were a number of homes under the same management, scattered over a wide area; residents could move, within reason, between one home and another. Mrs Vaile had sold her own house in the summer and had gone initially to a company home by the sea.

‘She’s been a widow for some years,’ Shearman added. ‘Her husband served in the army during the war.’ He mentioned the name of Vaile’s regiment which had fought more than once alongside their own.

Harry was immediately interested, he would like a word with Mrs Vaile. Shearman took him over to where she sat alone, drinking tea. She was pleased to see them. Harry sat down beside her and began to chat in a friendly fashion. He asked about her late husband, told her he would be delighted to do anything he could for her, as the widow of a man who had been – more or less – an old comrade-in-arms.

Before long she was telling him the saga of the last few difficult years, how she had at last decided to sell her house and move into a home. As she talked Harry grew even more interested. He began to ask questions; she answered freely. A gleam appeared in his eye. His questions became more inquisitorial, the gleam in his eye brighter.

Over supper Jill inquired how her grandfather had found Cyril Shearman.

‘He’s in pretty good spirits,’ Harry told her. ‘He introduced me to a new resident, I had a long talk with her.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A very interesting talk.’

‘Oh?’ Jill said idly. ‘What was so interesting about it?’

Harry looked knowing. ‘That’s what Tom Mansell’s going to find out.’

‘Mansell?’ Jill echoed. ‘What has this old woman got to do with Tom Mansell?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘I’m going to tackle Mansell about it in the morning,’ he declared with relish. ‘I’ll sort him out properly this time.’

Jill laughed. ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t put the world to rights by now, you’ve been sorting folk out for long enough.’

He pushed his cup towards her for a refill. ‘I’d better make some fresh tea,’ she decided. ‘This isn’t too hot.’ She went along to the kitchen.

‘I’ve got Mansell well and truly by the tail this time,’ Harry couldn’t resist saying to Norman. ‘He’s not going to find it so easy to wriggle out of this one. I’ve had my suspicions once or twice before that there was something going on, a nice little band of brothers operating. I’ve a pretty good notion of the kind of tricks some of these johnnies get up to, given half a chance. But I could never get my teeth into anything solid.’ He thrust out his lips. ‘I’ve got hold of something good and solid this time and I’m not letting go.’

‘What is it you fancy you’re on to?’ Norman asked with interest.

Harry tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never you mind. I’m hardly likely to give you the details, you’re Mansell’s man.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Mansell still hasn’t given me the rise I’m entitled to. We’ll see how he likes what I’ve got to say tomorrow.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ Norman asked in amusement. ‘Some ploy to get your rise? You want to have a word with Lester Holroyd, he’ll see you right. That’s what you should have done in the first place instead of shouting the odds at Mansell. You could hardly expect him to take kindly to that. What boss would?’

Among Lester Holroyd’s varied responsibilities was the general oversight of the yard office, though its day-to-day running lay in the capable hands of a middle-aged woman who had worked for Mansell for a number of years; she had the help of two part-timers, young married women.

On Monday morning Lester reached the office earlier than usual. He had woken well before the alarm was due to ring, his head buzzing with ideas churned up by his father-in-law’s announcement at the end of Sunday lunch. He was sorting through the mail when Mansell drove into the yard with Stuart beside him. A minute or two later Mansell put his head round the office door.

‘I want to catch Norman before he goes off out.’ He broke off at the sound of an incoming vehicle and glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, that’s Norman now.’ He went off to where Norman was getting out of his van; Stuart followed. ‘I want a word with you,’ Mansell told Norman.

And I want a word with you, Norman answered in his mind.

‘You’re not on the carpet,’ Mansell assured him with a grin. ‘You’re going to like what I’ve got to say unless I’m very much mistaken.’

I very much doubt you’re going to like what I’ve got to say to you, Norman responded inside his head.

Mansell began to tell him about his plans for the new yard, the likelihood of a place in the new set-up for Norman, carrying some responsibility.

Over in the office Lester glanced out of the window and saw the trio standing by the van: Mansell smiling, talking, gesticulating; Norman looking pleased and stimulated, nodding his head; Stuart close by, not joining in but listening, observing.

As Lester watched he saw Harry Lingard’s little van drive into the yard. Harry got out but he didn’t go off about his duties, he remained where he was, his vehicle screening him from the other three. He stood looking intently across at them.

Lester went on watching. Mansell stopped talking, he clapped Norman on the arm in a gesture of friendly encouragement and turned to go. Norman’s pleased expression vanished. He began to talk rapidly, with a serious look. Mansell’s face changed. He stood arrested, half-turned away, frowning down at the ground; Stuart listened with keen interest.