Return to Fordhamton

By John Barber

All Tim Rose wanted was to get back to the final night of the Bank’s training course at Oates Hall. He had been sent out on a straight forward initiative test. Then one disaster followed another. He was arrested as the Fordhamton Flasher, rounded up along with a van load of vagrants and then taken into custody on suspicion of being an international terrorist. The last occasion as a result of being caught up with Melinda and is involved in a minor Bonnie and Clyde style crime wave. Each time he found himself being sent back to Fordhamton by various county police forces. Finally Judy Collins the local reporter took him home where he succumbed to a fever. The senior Fordhamton Town Councillors were unaware of his problems as they had plenty of their own, starting with Pie Sunday thrown into doubt with the reading of Arthur Brown’s will. His specific requests threatened to expose one affair and lay bare the strange sexual habits of seemingly normal people but none more so than those of the aged pensioner Arthur Brown himself. Tim Rose tried again to return to Oates Hall but it was closed owing to a highly contagious infection. It was assumed that Tim was the unsuspecting carrier and top secret search was instigated to find him. The police top brass sent for acting Inspector Miles Davis to sort out these problems sending shock waves through the police force itself and the residents of Fordhamton who had plenty to hide from him since the death of Alan Price. Finally Tim Rose’s search for home, the investigation by Davis and the finalising of Arthur Brown’s come together in a weird but very wonderful conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Barber
• Release date: Jun 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466180765

John Barber

John Barber was born in London at the height of the UK Post War baby boom. The Education Act of 1944 saw great changes in the way the nation was taught; the main one being that all children stayed at school until the age of 15 (later increased to 16). For the first time working class children were able to reach higher levels of academic study and the opportunity to gain further educational qualifications at University.This explosion in education brought forth a new aspirational middle class; others remained true to their working class roots. The author belongs somewhere between the two. Many of the author’s main characters have their genesis in this educational revolution. Their dialogue though idiosyncratic can normally be understood but like all working class speech it is liberally sprinkled with strange boyhood phrases and a passing nod to cockney rhyming slang.John Barber’s novels are set in fictional English towns where sexual intrigue and political in-fighting is rife beneath a pleasant, small town veneer of respectability.They fall within the cozy, traditional British detective sections of mystery fiction.He has been writing professionally since 1996 when he began to contribute articles to magazines on social and local history. His first published book in 2002 was a non-fiction work entitled The Camden Town Murder which investigated a famous murder mystery of 1907 and names the killer. This is still available in softback and as an ebook, although not available from SmashwordsJohn Barber had careers in Advertising, International Banking and the Wine Industry before becoming Town Centre Manager in his home town of Hertford. He is now retired and lives with his wife and two cats on an island in the middle of Hertford and spends his time between local community projects and writing further novels.

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Return to Fordhamton

By John Barber

Copyright 2011 John Barber, revised 2021

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is the second part of the Fordhamton Trilogy. In ‘A Little Local Affair’ (available free) Alan Price is killed in a car crash. Nothing is quite the same anymore. A by-election has to be called for election to the Town Council, the Football Club is close to extinction and Price’s Tools is closed down. Affairs both romantic and in business spring up all over town leading to fraud, arson, and petty vandalism. All of which is explained in the following pages which takes up the story.

Chapter 1 – ‘I am the King of Hell Fire and I bring you ……..!’

I don’t know why you just don’t divorce me and marry Val instead.

Peter hid behind the morning paper and said nothing. The cup of coffee remained in limbo between table and lip.

I saw Tom Masters the other day. He said the same thing. Eve carried on making toast.

You and Val see so much of each other people will start to think you’re having an affair.

People can think what they like.

Oh they can; and all because of some ridiculous clause in Alan Price’s will.

The pregnant moment between secrecy and discovery seemed to last forever; but it passed and Peter drank his coffee.

Peter Noone was dressed and ready for work. His short, jet black hair was neatly brushed and he had closely shaved his fresh boyish looking face. People thought of him as in his early thirties but in reality he was approaching forty. He ran a small printing company on the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate.

He was still as attractive to Eve as ever he was. Her blond hair hung loose and even without make-up Peter still saw the young girl he had fallen in love with some twenty years earlier.

Eve kept the books for Noone Printing as well as a few other small companies on the Industrial Estate and offices in the town above the retail units.

And when might I be seeing you again?

Peter knew it was best to ride out the early morning criticism. What would Eve do if she found out about his affair with Val Masters? She had suspected nothing over the last year; believing as did all their friends that Val and himself had been thrown together in the company of Mayor Michael Jackson by a whim of the now long departed Alan Price.

As it is sometimes the Grim Reaper comes knocking at the most inopportune moments and with the departure of Joan Regan and the retirement of Arthur Brown, Val Masters and Peter Noone found themselves as the longest serving Fordhamton Town councillors and by default the guardians of that strange clause in Alan Price’s will.

Alan Price had an inflated view of his place in the town and had made funds available in his will for the establishment of a memorial to reflect his core values; Harmony, Industry and Co-operation. A view not universally shared but three councillors who were the longest serving at the time of his death were to be trustees of that fund.

The affair had started on the evening of the Emergency Town Council Meeting that had decided that despite all their misgivings an election had to be called with the death of Councillor Alan Price. Canvassing for the selected candidates during the election that followed and their subsequent appointment as replacement trustees of Arthur Brown’s will had given them plenty of excuses to be together.

They had put that time to good use; each had explained to their circle of friends what a pain in the backside it was to find a suitable presentation to which they could award a design brief, get it constructed and for District Council Planning Department and Highways to agree on a site on which to build it. The bureaucratic machine is a large, ponderous dinosaur that walks slowly and surely to an uncertain end. On the surface of this slough of despond Val and Peter glided like day old chicks.

With thoughts of an evening in the company of Val following a hastily reconvened meeting with the design team at Mungo Jerry University Peter settled back in to that happy state of early morning dreaming.

You did hear me? repeated Eve, standing over him.

Yes. Peter replied. About nine or so I should think. I’ll bring a curry back. Chinese?

Bring what you like. I’ll eat out with a couple of mates at Dave’s Place.

Fine.

You are going to work I assume?

Peter looked up at his wife. Going in late. I’ve a meeting with Keith Emerson at ten.

What’s that about?

I’ve no idea. He’s asked the three of us to come to his office to discuss Arthur Brown.

What have you got to do with him? There was no doubting the disdain Eve felt for the late councillor.

I really don’t know. Something to do with his estate.

He hasn’t left you his collection of pipes? It was the first sign that Eve’s early morning blues were lifting.

Hope not. I’m sure they buried him with a pouch of Santana Shag. There was a definite whiff of him around the town after the funeral.

You’re having me on.

I’m serious. You could smell him and that foul tobacco of his weeks after he had been cremated.

Eve smiled. She could rarely be angry with her husband for long. She always believed that his relationship with Val Masters was no more than a working one; for how could anyone get up to anything untoward when in the company of Michael Jackson.

Didn’t Keith say anything?

You know Keith. He’s a lovely bloke but a bit morose. And so professional. He’s been wonderful over this whole memorial thing. As long as that old pipe smoking git hasn’t done an Alan Price on us. Even Michael had to admit that he had a stupid smile on his face ever since he resigned from the council over the Joan Regan affair.

Has anyone heard from her?

Living with her sister in Milton Keynes last time I heard.

And let’s hope she stays there.

From Hull, Hell and Joan Regan Good Lord Deliver Us.

You have to wonder what drove her to it. I mean, I know she confessed and the trial was a bit of a waste of time what with no real evidence but what made her admit to those things?

Peter recalled the paint spraying and the physical assault on Michael Jackson. She turned out to be a bit barmy I suppose; but arson, a bit over the top, even for her.

Breakfast at the Noones settled into domesticity once more.

Keith Emerson, junior partner at Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Solicitors parked his car at the rear of Ray Charles’ newsagents. He walked past the shop window and caught the backward glance of a worried, middle aged man with balding crown. It was himself.

It had been a funny twelve months. Marion Walker had paid off all Alan Price’s debts and he had been able to wind up the estate. Almost. All that remained was to ensure that twenty five thousand pounds still sitting in an interest bearing trustee account with CCS was paid over to a well-deserved artist, or group.

Well that’s what everyone expected. Until Peter Noone suggested that the term ‘memorial’ could be interpreted in so many ways; it needn’t be a statue, it could be a plaque or an annual music award to the most outstanding student, or even a rose garden. Sometimes he thought Peter was just being obstructive by suggesting alternatives. Then Val Masters would agree with him and they’d go off in a huddle with the Head of the Arts Faculty at Mungo Jerry University and the project would end up back at the beginning. And the Mayor was not much better; anyone would think that none of them wanted to complete the project, that they all enjoyed having meetings about meetings.

Then he caught sight of Melanie Charles behind the till, shaking bags of loose coins into their own compartments. Until Grace Slick’s fashion show he hardly gave Melanie a second thought. He had always been a leg man but it was hard to shut out the images of her large breasts barely controlled by the slenderest lace bra.

He would have stopped altogether and stared though the plate glass window but he was approached by a young man in a severely distressed tracksuit, battleship grey trainers and who smelled of decaying animals. The stranger appeared not to be aware of his effect on others and smiled.

Excuse me, is there a Bank in this town?

It seemed a very odd request from a person so obviously down on his luck. No, sorry.

Not one? The stranger went from one extreme of his vocal range to another. I thought there was a branch of CCS here.

There was until a few months ago. No, more than that. The year’s flown by. There used to be a branch of the Hues Corporation but they sold up; well not so much sold up as swallowed up by CCS. Then they deserted us and many other small towns. It’s called Dave’s Place now.

Dave’s Place? bellowed the most incredulous stranger in town.

Well it’s not actually called Dave’s Place. But it’s run by a Dave, so that’s what we call it.

So where is the nearest Bank?

That’ll be in Rutherford.

Where’s that?

Up the T-Junction there, turn left.

I haven’t got a car.

The bus comes at about thirteen minutes past the hour. About every other hour. Unless its Saturday, or market day.

Is it?

No.

I haven’t got any money either, offered the stranger.

Sorry, apologised Keith weakly who did not wish to be intimidated by a strange beggar in town and left the man outside of the newsagents.

He carried on along the High Street for about fifty yards until he reached his offices. Emerson, Lake and Palmer was situated in a two storey town house with large windows, a small front garden and a large one to the rear. Although his name appeared as the first one it was his father Michael Emerson who had started the legal practice with two other partners.

Keith sat down in his office with a cup of tea and a plate of chocolate digestives. Sandy Denny his secretary hovered around his desk for a moment longer than she would normally have done. Like any good secretary she recognised the times at which employers needed to talk.

Keith was glad of that. He had developed a slight nervous stammer in his voice and a hesitation in his movement when Sandy was about so that she would stay just a few seconds more. It meant that she took just a little longer to turn and walk away on those beautiful legs.

Do you believe in Fate?

Pre-determination? No, I do not. Otherwise they’d be no point to living at all would there? Why do you ask?

About a year ago I sat here with Michael Jackson and Les Crane; and Patrick Shelton was here as well; and had to explain that although they’d both been left a substantial sum in Alan Price’s will for a Memorial Project and the Football Club respectively they were unlikely to receive it.

Actually you didn’t.

No you’re right. I remember Patrick pushing them out of this office before anyone had a chance to explain.

You wasn’t going to explain though. You’re a coward.

True. It was no good denying it. The problem was that Alan Price had so many debts and projects secured against his properties that it was unlikely that there would be any money left over for individual bequests.

You’re not looking for a philosophical debate are you; what has Fate got to do with it?

Not Fate so much. More déjà vu. Here we are expecting the Mayor once again and Peter Noone and Val Masters and I’m about to tell them almost the same thing.

Will you?

Do I have a choice? Technically I needn’t say anything but they’ll find out eventually.

Well I think you should, stated a very positive Sandy Denny. In fact the Mayor and Councillor Noone are downstairs now.

There was an audible groan from Keith. Sandy turned on her heels; momentarily lifting his gloom.

There were the sounds of animated conversation between two male voices that stopped outside of the half open door. Keith waved the two men in who recommenced their dialogue.

It wasn’t so much the state of the man but the strange smell.

The first to speak was the Mayor, Michael Jackson, a large man in his late fifties, well dressed in the Fordhamton Cricket Club blazer and grey trousers, fingernails always meticulously manicured and as suspected by many in town toenails as well. In fact the very essence of a small town dignitary.

Naturally as he always explained himself, he was a member of the Conservative Party. His co-trustees were members of the Labour Party. That was not so bad as they could have been members of any one of the many minority groups that always sprang up when elections were called, and none were due for quite a while.

Smelled faintly of a dead animal, agreed Peter Noone, the smaller of the two. The trimmed black hair marked him out as a much younger man that his companion although the age difference was no more than fifteen years.

That’s what I thought. I hope you told him to get the first bus out.

He told me he had no money.

Well, he would wouldn’t he. Some of these people are professional spongers; they live in another town in a respectable three bedroom house and dress up, or down really to play the part of a distressed beggar in another town like ours. I’ve read that some of them actually work as debt collectors. They stink so bad that people are glad to pay up and get them off the doorstep. And out of sight of the neighbours.

I’ll bear that in mind.

We have to keep this town clean Peter. I thought we got rid of the bad smell when Arthur Brown died.

The name of the recently deceased pipe smoking senior councillor renowned for his love of the foul smelling and equally strangely named Santana Shag tobacco brought Keith Emerson out of his reveries.

Morning gentlemen. Please, sit down. Keith gestured to the two chairs arranged in front of his desk. Behind him were large full length windows which gave clients a reassuring view of the well maintained lawn and flower beds to the rear of the property. He poured them both a coffee.

I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here this morning.

I am a busy man Keith. This memorial is taking up more of my time than I imagined.

When the bequest was first announced the Mayor had seen it as a perfect way of raising his profile especially as the other trustees, the two senior councillors at the time being Joan Regan and Arthur Brown had made it quite clear that they had no intention of becoming involved in anything that had its genesis in the mind of Alan Price.

The nightmare of interpreting Alan Price’s wishes had become a reality but Michael had found that his blustering and public frustration at trying to resolve a situation that the other two trustees seemed happy to foster, was winning him quite a bit of support in the town.

At first he appeared to have lost the support of the local party following their crash at the by-election, but it was being restored slowly as everyone realised that only he was attempting to clear up a situation left by the dead benefactor. In fact the more that Peter Noone and Val Masters found reasons to procrastinate that oozed out in to the wider community the more support he got. In fact he saw no reason not to let them carry on with their prevarication much to the annoyance of Keith Emerson who believed he was getting no help from any quarter; and political enemies were slowly becoming a joint force for reaction.

Eve was saying as much to me over breakfast Keith. We really ought to finalise a design as soon as possible. Keith thought that sounded very plausible and was about to speak again when he was interrupted by Peter.

I think we ought to wait for Val don’t you?

Almost as he said it Sandy ushered Val into the room. She pulled up another chair and placed it close to Peter’s. They exchanged a modest hello and neither Michael nor Keith read anything into it.

Valerie was slim, in her mid-thirties with fine clothes and light brown flyaway hair that flowed around her cheeks. Her clothes, hairstyle and the jewelry on her ears and fingers smacked of style. She could never be described as overdressed more well-dressed. She was a lecturer in Modern History at Mungo Jerry.

Sorry I’m late. Had a problem on the way.

Nothing serious? asked Peter.

No, I was turning down into the High Street and saw someone that looked just like the man we’ve been told to look out for. The description fitted him perfectly, even the grey tracksuit.

I saw him too, said Peter.

Me too, added the Mayor. Absolutely stunk. I was saying as much to Peter just before you arrived.

Dead rodent, agreed Peter.

Exactly, asserted Michael.

You saw him as well? asked Val.

Large as life, ranted Michael

You’ve no idea who he is have you? Val spoke very slowly. He’s the dirty little toerag that’s been exposing himself over the local parks.

Not the flasher? Oh my God, cried Peter. I spoke to him. Asked me for money. I really didn’t realise who he was.

At least I knew what to do, said Val. I rang the police. Where was he heading?

He told me he needed a Bank, said Peter sheepishly. So I put him on the road to Rutherford.

Well they should find him then.

The smell should give him away. Hope they cut his balls off. Michael was extremely forthright.

That’s if they find him.

The local response rate is not that good Val. Peter involuntarily placed his hand on Val’s knee out of Michael’s gaze. It drew a look of amazement from Keith who had remained silent throughout the conversation. But Peter had withdrawn his hand almost as quickly and was unaware that he had been spotted by Keith.

Anyway ….. , interrupted Keith. Can we get down to business? The unusually loud tone in his voice brought the three councillors to heel.

What is it this time Keith? demanded Michael.

Arthur Brown’s will.

He hasn’t left me his pipe has he? Michael was serious but Val and Peter laughed.

No Michael, nothing like that. In fact none of you here is a beneficiary. You are here to help me carry out his last wishes.

Not another bloody memorial?

No Michael. Nothing like that. Will you let me explain? Without interruption?

The three councillors already unwillingly brought together as trustees of Alan Price’s will sat back in their chairs with cups of coffee and allowed Keith to speak.

Arthur had approached me about his will some years ago but after the Joan Regan affair and his resignation from the Town Council he made an appointment again and changed the details accordingly.

"He left a very specific request that nothing inside the house was to be touched until certain conditions had been observed and that his funeral would not disturb the house either. Obviously this could have been difficult depending on circumstances of his death but as he died of a massive heart attack whilst playing bowls at the inter-county championships that solved the first problem.

A little while ago he gave me three sealed envelopes and a list of instructions which were simple and uncomplicated. Basically there are some business interests that have to be dealt with separately and he left a private but healthy cash account which is to be divided equally between three individual beneficiaries; they are to be advised of their bequest by the same trustees as described in Alan Price’s will.

So why should the old bugger want that?

I have no idea Michael. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Neither do I know the contents of these envelopes, only the names and addresses and the person who is to deliver them.

Well, you’ve really got our interest now Keith. Val looked at Peter. Carry on. I can’t wait to see who gets to inherit his Santana Shag.

There are three envelopes with a name and address and instructions, each very much the same as the others. I can tell you that the beneficiaries are his cleaner, his nurse and the leader of a pensioner support group. That’s how he explained his bequest.

Nothing unusual in that, said Michael. Why does he need us to deliver them?

I am just his solicitor. As you have begun Michael I can hand you your envelope. The beneficiary is his cleaner, Mary Wilson.

Keith handed Michael a standard white sealed envelope addressed to Mary Wilson, with instructions that it was to be opened only in the presence of herself and Michael, and the contents to be read aloud to him and she was to agree to the conditions enclosed.

What’s the bugger up to?

I’m just carrying out his wishes Michael. Here are two more envelopes which I am to give to you Peter and you Val. You are jointly responsible for these; you are both to deliver them.

Why? asked Val.

I don’t know, replied Keith recalling the affectionate hand on her knee. That’s what I’ve been asked to do.

Val looked down at the typing. Jean Terrell of the Terrell Nursing Agency. What’s that about?

You know Arthur had a lot of minor medical complaints; a repaired hernia, back problems, arthritis, old age stuff. He employed a private nursing agency. And as you can see Michael he employed a cleaner to do the things he wasn’t able to do himself.

And this support group?

He went there every month. That’s it. The full extent of Arthur Brown’s connections to the outside world. His neighbours thought he also had a sister, but there was no family mentioned by him either alive or in his will, so there you have it.

So why the last Friday of the month? asked Val.

That’s when they meet.

Why so specific that both Val and I go to see this Diana Ross?

I don’t know. All I am to tell you is that they are invited to Arthur’s house at a time determined by myself which I am to agree with you and is part of their own bequest conditions.

And have you decided when that will be?

The last Friday is tomorrow so a week later. We meet at Arthur’s house a week tomorrow.

That reminds me Keith. I knew there was something else I had to tell you.

Yes Val.

What’s that yellow planning sticker doing on his front gate?

Ah yes, said Keith