The Returned Dead. Rafe Kronos

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СКАЧАТЬ come to him first. I pocketed the card he offered me, drove away and parked in a lay-by. I needed to absorb the severe shock I had just received.

      Against all my expectations Prentice had immediately identified the photo of the man who’d hired us as Jack Rankin. His unhesitating identification supported our client’s impossible story. I still couldn’t see how our man could be the dead Rankin but on Geoff Prentice’s evidence he was. And if he really was Rankin then had someone turned him into Baxendale? If so, how?

      When I set out from the office I’d thought I would destroy Baxendale’s story as soon as I started digging. It hadn’t happened. Kate’s findings about the doctor and Prentice’s identification of the man in the photo were doing exactly the opposite. I had a growing feeling that things were going wrong.

      Since nothing was making sense there was only one way forward: I would check another part of Baxendale/Rankin’s story. I turned the car and headed for what our client claimed had been his old home.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      Stanmore Avenue, at the heart of one of Chester’s posher and wealthier suburbs, was a wide tree-lined road that gave out an unmistakeable air of quiet prosperity. I could almost smell the money and the sort of security that the money provided.

      I’d looked the place up on Google Streetview before leaving the office and had seen that all the houses were large, detached and surrounded by substantial gardens. I’d even spotted something that might be the sycamore tree growing in front of number sixteen, the house our client claimed had been his home.

      I drove slowly past the house and there it was: a large sycamore bang in the centre of the front lawn, just as he’d described it. Could this be another sign that there was some truth in his story? The possibility increased my unease.

      I drove on to the end of the road, turned round, drove back and parked in front of the house. Only strangers would need to park in the road because all the houses had broad drives and double or triple garages. Rankin must have been doing well with his business if he had lived here.

      The whole road had an odd atmosphere; it was as if it had stayed the same while the rest of the world had moved on. All the houses looked almost unchanged from when they were built in the nineteen twenties. I half-expected to see nannies pushing high old-fashioned black prams along the pavement and front doors being answered by maids in aprons and caps. A few parts of Chester are like that: their unique selling point is that they make people feel they are living in earlier and much safer times.

      The white painted wooden gates to the old Rankin house were open and I crunched my way up the well gravelled drive. I wondered what the place was worth and who had got all the money from the sale of it and Rankin Motors. If Rankin was an only child and his wife Felicity had predeceased him, who got the loot? No doubt Kate would be checking if he’d left a will.

      Just as Baxendale had said, the front door and window frames had been recently re-painted and there was a new light fitting above the door. You couldn’t get this sort of detail from Google Earth or Streetview so either he had been here recently as he claimed, or he had someone helping him. I made a mental note to think about that later.

      I rang the door bell. It was answered by a plump elderly woman who peered at me through thick glasses with elaborate pink and blue fly-away frames. They sat on her face like a pair of exotic butterflies that had mistaken her head for a flower.

      “Yes?” she said rather uncertainly, “yes?”

      It was time to go into story telling mode. “Mrs Rankin?” I asked brightly.

      Her uncertainty wavered, “No, my name’s Hargreaves.”

      I made myself look puzzled then hurried to my pitch my lies. “I’m sorry but I thought Mr Jack Rankin lived here.” I gave her my best smile. “I should explain: my wife is a distant relative of his. One of her Canadian cousins has been doing research on the family’s history. He asked me to look up Jack Rankin if ever I was in the area so I could check some details in the family tree.” I put out my hand and she took it, “My name’s Derek Mason.”

      I’ve found giving people your name, or apparently giving it, makes them more inclined to trust you. I sometimes worry about my fluency as a liar but I know it is far too late to undo all my years of making up stories.

      The light of understanding crept over her face. “Well, this used to be the Rankins’ house but they no longer live her.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’m very sorry Mr Mason, but I have to give you some bad news. Both the Rankins are dead.” She did look sorry too; she seemed a decent sort of person.

      “Oh dear,” I made myself look upset. “When did it happen? Did you know them?”

      “No, they both died a while before we moved to this area; that was about seven years ago. The estate agents told us the house was being sold on behalf of the executors. That’s all I know about the Rankins. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

      I remained silent as if I was unsure what I should do next. Then I thanked her and walked back to my car.

      My level of worry was rising fast: I’d still found nothing to prove our client had lied to me. His story couldn’t be true, I told myself, it just couldn’t. Well, the next thing to do was to check on the disappearing the doctor. I started the car and drove towards the surgery.

      When I pushed open the Medical Centre’s door the stern faced woman behind the reception counter looked up and gave me an icy stare.

      “Yes, can I help you?” She made it sound as if this was extremely unlikely and I must grasp that before I said anything.

      I sighed inwardly; this was not promising. She was a sadly familiar type: the Fascist Ruler doing temp work as a medical receptionist. She had just made it clear her role in life was to subjugate to her will each and every patient.

      I know only one certain way to deal with her sort of bully: assume a place higher up the pecking order and peck down hard.

      “I’m sure you can, I’m sure you can,” I said with the sort of confidence that bullets would bounce off. I moved closer to take control of the space around her and show I was her superior.

      “I am Dr. Pope-Hennessy,” (I’ve learned posh names always help with people obsessed with their own status.) “I am trying to trace an old acquaintance, Willie Whitehead. We knew each other at the University of Edinburgh; we were class mates. He told me he worked here, though I didn’t see his name on the list of doctors outside.”

      The cold rigidity of her face softened like butter in a microwave and her lips parted in submission.

      “Oh, doctor, I’m sorry, he is no longer with us.”

      “Not with us? You mean he’s dead, woman?” I found myself sounding like Dr Cameron from the old TV series, all Scottish accent and pre-Second World War attitude. For a moment I wondered if the ‘woman’ was going too far but I saw with relief that she accepted it; to her it must have seemed a normal part of a male doctor’s superiority.

      “No, no. No, I mean he no longer works here; he’s left the practice.”

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