Chapter 8
Alex MacKenzie was not a happy man. As a trained geophysicist, logging the details of the Turkish earthquake should have been fairly straightforward but the more he looked at the seismograph trace on the table in front of him, the more puzzled he became; the results of his calculations just did not match the chart.
"George," he called across to a colleague, tinkering with some instrument in the corner of the room who, at the sound of his name, looked up. "Have you seen anything like this?"
George Murray put down the instrument and sauntered across the laboratory, to where Mackenzie was sitting. "What's up?"
His expression of idle curiosity turned to a frown of puzzlement as he surveyed the errant data. Absent-mindedly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his favourite pipe, which he proceeded to fill from a battered leather pouch.
"'S funny," He muttered, "I've seen something like it before, but I'm damned if I can remember where."
Tamping the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe, he continued to gaze at the chart. Some long-distant memory was nagging. If only he could remember…
Pipe clenched between his teeth, he started to pat his jacket pockets, looking for matches. Finding one at last, he struck it. At the moment the match flared into life, a faraway look overcame him as the long-buried memory surfaced.
The faraway look disappeared as, yelping, he dropped the match that, forgotten, had burned down to his fingers.
"Call the old man. Tell him there's something funny going on"
Where are you going?"
"To do some digging" With that, he left the room and headed for the archives.
As the door closed, MacKenzie picked up the telephone receiver.
The shop was a small business in a nondescript part of town. It stood at the lower end of a small parade of shops, at the foot of one of the two hills that straddled the market town. The sound of children playing drifted down from the Primary school, halfway up the hill
A bell jangled as Freeman opened the door.
"Good Morning, sir." Mr Cheeseman, the proprietor was a jovial man who prided himself on his craftsmanship. He'd built the business up from nothing and if not prosperous, made a comfortable living framing pictures. His wife, Judith, handled the side of the business that dealt with needlecraft, supplying anything from silks, tapestry wools and needles to work stands, hoops and lights. A small section in the back covered other handicrafts such as candle making and marquetry. It wasn't the busiest shop in the world but it had a small, regular clientele.
Freeman pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from under his arm and offered it to the man. "My Brother-in-Law had an accident. Is there anything you can do?" asked Freeman.
"Let's see." Replied Cheeseman, unwrapping the parcel. "Hmm…"
"Just one thing," added Freeman. "There can be no signs that anything has ever happened to it. His wife would kill him…"
Cheeseman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. To be honest, you'd be better off replacing the frame but that will be more expensive.
"No problem," replied Freeman "Just so long as his wife doesn't find out."
Cheeseman tapped the side of his nose and chuckled. "Leave it to me, sir".
Freeman reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. From it he drew out a crisp new banknote and a business card that he laid on the counter. "You can contact me on this number"
"Very good sir"
The bell jangled once more as the door closed behind Freeman.
Cheeseman picked up the note and studied it carefully. Holding it up to the light, he could make out the watermark in the linen of the note. It seemed genuine enough.
Whoever this customer was, he was generous. The banknote easily covered the costs of replacing the frame. He made a brief note in his ledger, put the note into the cash box then carefully tucked the photograph away until the evening when he would start work.
A skin had formed on the still surface of the long-forgotten coffee. Fairfax' notepad was covered; Ford being a reporter meant that he had a very good eye for detail and was also an effective communicator. He looked up; "Well, I think that covers everything about last night's events. All I need now is a little background"
"Background?"
"About yourself. Flight Lieutenant Waterman tells me that you served in the RAF but you resigned. Since I like to know the sort of man I'm dealing with, I tried to get hold of your personnel file from the archives at Innsworth. The file seems to be missing"
"Missing?"
"Oh, I dare say some fool clerk has misfiled it somewhere but, you can see, I just need to tie up a few ends
Ford sighed; this was a part of his life he'd tried to put behind him. He reached into his pocket and winced.
The bandage restricted his freedom of movement, but after a moment, Ford was able to withdraw a battered leather wallet from his pocket. He rifled through the contents, finally removing a slightly dog-eared card that he passed to Fairfax. Fairfax recognised it at once as a military ID card, of a type that had only recently been phased out. He passed it back to Ford who stiffly returned it to his wallet.
"It seems you're on the level, Mr Ford. Ford's report wouldn't now end up in 'File 13'; the green-painted Government-issue wastebasket, tucked under the desk.
Wincing, Ford returned the wallet to his pocket.
"How's the hand?"
"Hurts like blazes."
"Waterman told me he fixed you up. Perhaps we ought to let the M.O. take a look at it." Fairfax opened the door. "And whilst we're walking, perhaps you'd care to tell me why you decided to give up a perfectly good career."
Ford drained the last of the cold coffee from his cup, grimaced and stood. Fairfax leading the way, both men left the room.