Sins of the Father Read online

  “Very happy,” I said.

  “Great.” Faye picked up a bundle of letters, for posting. As she walked to the office door, she said, “Don’t go picking your nose or scratching your arse, because I’ve installed a camera up there too.”

  I followed her gaze to the smoke alarm, fitted to the ceiling. Then, with Big Sister looking on, I got down to business and replied to some genuine emails.

  Chapter Three

  After sorting through my emails – like letterbox mail, most of it went into the bin – I typed a report for a client. My report centred on a cheating wife, a middle-aged woman embroiled in an affair. As I typed the report, I reflected that it’s sad how marriages fall apart. I would never cheat on Alan, because of my love for him and because of respect. As Faye pointed out, one of the greatest gifts one person could offer another is the gift of respect.

  I was concentrating on the report when a silhouette appeared on the frosted glass of the office door, a male silhouette. The man knocked on the door and I said, “Enter.”

  To my astonishment and mild delight, my father walked into the office.

  Of medium build and around five foot ten tall, my father had short, dark hair, hair blessed with a natural wave; his hair was considerably darker than his sideboards, which were grey and wide. His eyes were blue and friendly, while his face contained a number of light scars. Also, his cheeks were heavily pock-marked, possibly the result of a childhood illness. Gawain Morgan was my father, yet I hardly knew him. For thirty-three years, he’d been a stranger to me and although we’d met on a regular basis over the past year, he remained a mystery.

  I eased myself away from my desk then stood to greet him. “Hello...what are you doing here?”

  Gawain shuffled his feet, somewhat nervously, grimaced then ran a finger under his shirt collar. Despite the warm weather, he wore a dark blue suit, light blue shirt and navy tie. Normally, he wore casual clothing and to judge from his general demeanour I sensed that he’d dressed for the occasion, for this meeting in my office.

  Gawain stood beside my client’s chair and said, “I waited until your colleague went out. I didn’t want to embarrass you. She didn’t see me, honest.”

  “You don’t embarrass me,” I said, irritated by his comment.

  I waved a hand towards my client’s chair and Gawain sat down. Meanwhile, I perched on the edge of my desk.

  Although he was my father, I found it difficult to regard him as ‘Dad’. He was Gawain to me, which suggested a void, an emotional distance between us.

  “I want to wish you good luck for the wedding,” he said somewhat sheepishly.

  “Thank you,” I smiled.

  Gawain nodded. He glanced around my office and we lapsed into an awkward silence.

  Eventually, I said, “I wasn’t sure whether to invite you, or not. I mean, only Alan knows about you, that you’re my father.”

  “Best keep it that way,” Gawain said. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “You don’t embarrass me.” I stood and paced the length of my office, several times. I was becoming angry, with what, I didn’t know; maybe with the years of neglect, with the years of wondering about my father and his identity, whether he was dead or alive. He was alive, I told myself, and I should be grateful for that fact. It was time to move on, to leave the past behind. I made an instant decision. “Okay,” I said, “you are invited. I’ll tell everyone that you are my father. It’s ridiculous that we have to keep our relationship a secret.”

  “Are you sure?” Gawain asked, his tone edged with concern. “I don’t want to upset you, or your business.”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  He grinned, offered me a genuine, warm smile. Then he sat back in my client’s chair and appeared to relax for the first time.

  After I’d smoothed the back of my skirt and plonked my posterior on my chair, he said, “I’m not only here about the wedding. I’m here on business as well; I want to hire you.”

  “You can’t hire me,” I said, the smile on my face morphing into a frown. “I mean, I can’t take money from you.”

  “Hear me out, please.” Gawain leaned forward and loosened his tie. He undid a shirt button to reveal an angry rash on his neck, possibly eczema. He felt an urge to scratch that rash. However, he resisted. Instead, he rubbed the inflammation gently with the back of his hand. “You know all about my past,” he said, “about my misdeeds, my criminal record, my chequered career.”

  “You were into robberies, at the sharp end and organizing them, I know that. You went inside when I was born, I know that too. But you haven’t done anything I’d be deeply ashamed of, have you?”

  He shook his head then offered a smile of reassurance. The smile revealed yellow teeth, a legacy of years spent smoking. During one of our conversations, he’d confessed to his nicotine habit, then insisted that he hadn’t touched a cigarette for nearly twenty years. So an ex-nicotine addict, absolved of that sin.

  “You know the worst of it,” he said, “just about.” Leaning back, he continued, “When I was into the robberies, I had a little gang, like you do when you’re a kid. Frankie Quinn was in my gang. We used to call him the Mighty Quinn, for obvious reasons. Anyway, Frankie was in my gang, a good blagger in his day. When I went straight, Frankie kept his hand in, you know what I mean, petty stuff mainly. The filth would pick him up from time to time, and he’d endure a spell in the cooler. Anyway, they released Frankie a week or so ago, but the word is he’s been fingered again and he’s looking at a long stretch. He’s about my age, mid-sixties, so a long stretch inside would kill him. The word is, he’s looking to cut a deal, spill the beans, provide evidence. Apparently, he’s a bit of an archivist, kept my old plans and notes; heaven knows why, maybe for insurance, maybe he’s a hoarder. But the fact is, he has the dirt on me and he’s looking to offer that dirt for his freedom. There are coppers on the force who are desperate to nail me. And if I go inside, at my age, it would kill me. I couldn’t face it, Princess; I’d top myself.”

  I leaned forward, placed my elbows on my desk, eased my chin against my hands. I frowned then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Frankie’s crawled into the long grass. I want you to track him down. When you’ve tracked him down, I want you to tell me so that I can have a word with him.”

  “A word?” I asked, arching my left eyebrow.

  “I’m not looking to do a number on him, I promise,” Gawain said, sensing my suspicion. “I’m not looking to do anything that would get you in trouble. I just want a word, that’s all.”

  “What would you say to him?” I asked.

  “I’ve got his picture, with some of the lads in the pub.”

  Ignoring my question, Gawain delved into his inside jacket pocket. He produced a photograph, creased with folded edges, and offered it to me. The photograph, maybe ten years old, depicted four middle-aged men, all grinning, all slightly inebriated. Despite the picture’s age, I recognized Gawain instantly, therefore there was a good chance I’d recognize Frankie Quinn.

  “I just want to set the record straight,” Gawain explained, “remind him of better days, of the times I pulled his neck out of the noose, appeal to his better nature.”

  Gawain pointed at the photograph, at a man standing to my father’s right, with an arm around his neck. It seemed fair to assume that that man was Frankie Quinn.

  “Frankie’s not a bad man,” Gawain said. “Okay, he’s crooked, but he must be feeling the heat if he’s going to turn grass. After all, he’s had the opportunity, but never done it before.”

  I took hold of, and studied, the photograph. Over the past seven years, searching for missing persons had become a staple task for my agency. I’d located many people, though a handful had eluded me. I could look for, and possibly find, Frankie Quinn. But would that increase Gawain’s troubles? Would my actions place my career and myself at risk? He was my father, after all, and although I had my doubts, I concluded that I had to trust him; I had
to respond to his cry for help.

  Gawain shuffled forward. He perched on the edge of my client’s chair. In earnest tones, he said, “I know you don’t owe me, Princess; in fact, I owe you. I’ve been a bad father, I know that. But give me a chance, give me a break and I will repay you, not only with money, but with love and my time, I promise.”

  Tears threatened to well up in my eyes, so I blinked and asked, “Where should I start?”

  “A mutual friend, another gang member, Stan Livingstone.” Gawain pointed at Stan, who was standing to my father’s left; the fourth man in the photograph remained a mystery to me but, for now, I let that pass. “That’s Stan there, the fella with the cheesy grin. Stan’s straight now, runs an ice-cream business at Barry Island.”

  Gawain smiled at me. He had a charismatic, winning smile. If he ordered his troops to go over the top, they’d obey him; what’s more, he wouldn’t sit back; he’d lead them into action.

  “You’re a charmer, Princess, a real charmer; Stan will take one look at you and he’ll talk with you. Any man in his right mind would find time to talk with you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. But we play by my rules.”

  Gawain sat back. He clenched his fists in unobtrusive fashion then exuded a long sigh of relief. “Whatever you say, Princess, whatever you say; you’re the boss.”

  Chapter Four

  Later that afternoon, I travelled ten miles south, to Barry Island. Blessed with golden sands and an elegant promenade, Barry took its name from St Baruc who drowned while travelling from nearby Flat Holm. Indeed, the coast could be treacherous at times because it boasted the world’s second highest tidal range, forty-nine feet, bettered only by the Bay of Fundy in Canada.

  The sights, sounds and smells of Barry Island –the naked torsos lying on the sand behind windbreaks, the squawking seagulls, the aroma of fish and chips – reminded me of my childhood. At my mother’s insistence, we’d embark on our annual pilgrimage to Barry Island. And my mother would prepare as though it were a pilgrimage, stuffing her bags with food and sundry supplies. We dragged most of those supplies back home with us, along with sunburn, candyfloss stains and sand in our shoes. The annual trek was an effort for my mother, but she did it for me. On balance, my mother had a negative impact on my childhood. Furthermore, she was aware of that, and it saddened her; it made her consume more alcohol, which exacerbated the problem. If only we could turn back time and apply our accumulated knowledge to the past.

  I strolled along the promenade, swaying slightly as a bee buzzed towards one of the many floral baskets. The bee disappeared from sight, just as an ice-cream van came into view. The ice-cream van was decorated with rainbow swirls, with pictures of ice creams and lollypops, and with the legend, Sunshine Stan the Ice-Cream Man. Mr Livingstone, I presumed.

  As a harassed mother handed ice creams to her three moaning children, I stepped forward and asked, “Mr Livingstone?”

  He raised an inquisitive eyebrow then replied cautiously, “Depends; who wants to know?”

  “Sam. I’m a friend of Gawain Morgan.”

  “‘Madman’ Morgan?” His eyebrow twitched again while his frown intensified.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “A close friend?”

  I smiled a secret smile. “You could almost say we’re kin.”

  “Okay, dearie,” Stan Livingstone said after lapsing into deep thought. He acknowledged another customer then wiped his hands on a tea towel. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be with you.”

  While I waited for Stan, I leaned against a handrail and admired the view. In the foreground, children built sandcastles on the beach, played cricket, splashed and shrieked their way through the gentle waves, while in the background, the sea shimmered as it stretched towards the islands of Flat Holm and Steep Holm, and further still to Somerset.

  I was still admiring the view when Stan approached, carrying two ice creams, two Ninety-Nines, loaded with thick chocolate flakes.

  “Here you are, dearie, compliments of the management.”

  Stan gave his ice cream a lick, then handed the other Ninety-Nine to me. As I nibbled my flake, I studied him. In his early sixties, and of medium height, he struck me as an economy sized Friar Tuck. He had a deeply tanned pate circled with a grey corona, playful blue eyes and a rotund face, a face blessed with a cheerful smile. He wore a Hawaiian shirt, open to the navel, and baggy shorts. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck while a chunky gold bracelet adorned his left wrist.

  Stan’s nose twitched. He frowned, turned to me and said, “Shit, you smell nice.”

  I grimaced, my face hidden behind my ice cream. “Er,” I said, “forgive me, Stan, but I don’t think those words necessarily go well together in the same sentence.”

  He gave his ice cream a thoughtful lick then nodded slowly. “True,” he conceded. “Okay,” he smiled, “you smell nice.”

  “Thank you,” I bowed, accepting the compliment.

  “I like a lady who wears classy perfume,” Stan said while placing a foot on the rail. He was wearing flip-flops, salmon pink, which clashed violently with his Hawaiian shirt. Come to think of it, everything clashed violently with his Hawaiian shirt.

  “The perfume was a gift, from my fiancé,” I explained.

  “A classy fella.”

  I nodded. “He is.”

  “And you’re a classy bit of skirt, if you don’t mind me saying so; you can tell a lot from a lady’s perfume, and her jewellery.”

  I glanced at my engagement ring, soon to be accompanied by a wedding band. “You like jewellery?” I asked.

  Stan grinned, revealed a wicked side to his nature. “Too much, that’s my trouble. I suppose Gawain told you all about my past.”

  I nodded then said, “Tell me about Gawain.”

  “What do you want to know?” Stan asked.

  “What was he like in his youth?”

  Stan paused. He licked his ice cream. Then he ran a casual eye over a teenage girl, who was bouncing on a trampoline. “Gawain was a smart fella, upstairs and in his appearance. A bit of a babe magnet, in a roughhouse sort of way. He was a good draughtsman; by that, I mean he was good at planning and organizing robberies. He was tough too. If you got on the wrong side of ‘Madman’ Morgan, he’d deck you, no questions asked. A good boxer as a teenager. Could have gone all the way, but lacked the discipline; had no time for rules and regulations, for authority.”

  The girl jumped off the trampoline and ran to greet her friends. Stan watched her go, though there was nothing lecherous about his gaze, just the look of a man who’d spent too much time alone, with his own thoughts. He turned to me and said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Gawain hired me. I’m an enquiry agent. I like to get a feel for my clients.”

  He nodded, decisively, accepting my word. Then with a grin, he bit the bottom from his ice-cream cone. After licking ice cream from his lips, he said, “I bet you’re wondering about my name.”

  “Stanley Livingstone.”

  “Yeah, you’ve twigged it,” he laughed. “My parents had a sense of humour.” Then he frowned, worried, in case I’d missed the joke. “You’ve heard of Stanley and Livingstone?”

  “I read about them,” I said, “when I was younger.”

  “I like reading, me,” Stan said. “But only on holiday.”

  “Do you get away often?” I asked.

  “Now and then.” His ice cream threatened to drip from the hole he’d made in the cone on to his Hawaiian shirt. So he tilted the cone and his neck, to preserve his shirt, and to enjoy his tasty comestible. “Just returned from the Costa del Sol,” he said. “Hence the tan.”

  I smiled, “I thought you picked that up in Barry.”

  “Leave it out,” he scoffed, his belly wobbling with laughter. “Though, when the sun’s out, it’s paradise.”

  Stan turned the consumption of a Ninety-Nine into an art form as he tilted the cone slightly to the left, then to the right, licked the top, then
the bottom, all without spilling a drop of ice cream. Meanwhile, I made my way down, through the flake, to the ice cream to the cone – Ms Conventional.

  “Yeah,” Stan continued, “me and my bit of skirt just enjoyed a fortnight in sunny Spain.”

  “You’re not married?” I asked.

  “Divorced. Three kids. Grown up now.” He shrugged, philosophically, a gesture of weary acceptance from a habitual criminal. “In and out of prison doesn’t do a lot for a marriage.” He pulled his flake from the ice cream and savoured the chocolate. “I guess Gawain hired you to ask me about Frankie.”

  I nodded. “Have you seen Frankie recently?”

  “He’s in the long grass.”

  Again, I nodded. “Gawain is worried that Frankie might finger him.”

  Stan pursed his lips in pensive fashion. Absorbed in his thoughts, he allowed a drop of ice cream to splash on to the ground. “Frankie might finger me too, come to that,” he frowned.

  “Any idea where he is?”

  Stan shrugged. He bit his flake then replied through a mouthful of chocolate, “Like I told Gawain, I ain’t seen him.”

  “Has anyone seen him lately?”

  The girl returned to the trampoline, this time with two boyfriends. Bouncing away, she sought to impress her friends with her aerobic and athletic skills. Meanwhile, Stan turned away and gazed out to sea. Maybe the sunlight, shimmering on the water, captivated his thoughts, or maybe those thoughts centred on his first robbery, the moment when he’d wandered into the dark alley of criminality. From the rueful expression on his face, I would have placed money on the latter.

  “I could give you a name,” he said, his voice low, conspiratorial.

  “Go on then,” I said.

  He hesitated, looked away, stared down at the ground.

  “Whisper it,” I said, “if you like.”

  “Not sure I want to,” he said, his gaze fixed on his flip-flops.