Farley's Bend

By John Standingford

This is the sequel to Bobby Shafter, with the same central characters. But while Bobby Shafter is a love story, flavoured with affectionate observations of English habits and attitudes in the 1950s, this is a murder mystery. It starts with a grim discovery at the side of the road. An accident? That’s what Sergeant Laker thinks, but Bobby – now Robert, respected pillar of the community – disagrees. His wife Elizabeth reluctantly concedes that he’s right.
Eager to help, Robert and Elizabeth invite Inspector Jenkins and WPC Burrell ("Call me Virginia") to set up an operations room in their library, and even to occupy two of their bedrooms. For Robert this is an opportunity in more ways than one.
Elizabeth's mother walks out on her French lover and turns up penniless on the Shafters' doorstep. She soon makes friends and opens the door to a side of their sleepy Yorkshire village that Robert and Elizabeth had never suspected. How could they not have known that a coven met in Dibbocks Wood every full moon? Or that the ruins of Framby Abbey retained a fabled hoard of treasure, as well as memories of an ancient wrong?
As the field of suspects widens Robert and Elizabeth are in covert competition with the police to break the case. The path to the truth winds through a maze of treasure-hunting, witchcraft, adultery, blackmail, prejudice, superstition and unforgiven grievances.
The ending is guaranteed to surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Standingford
• Release date: Oct 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005684457

John Standingford

John was born in London, grew up on Merseyside and now lives in Adelaide, Australia. This is his wife Mary's home town, but they met and married in Bangladesh in the year of the first moon-landing. They now have two grown-up sons and two grandsons.John's life has been spent mainly as an itinerant economist, working in most countries in the Asia-Pacific region and most of the former Soviet republics.Now he is fulfilling a lifelong ambition to be a creative writer. His first work was The Eeks Trilogy, which uses speculative fiction to explore questions about Humanity's essential nature and likely future. All three books are now available in a single volume entitles Goldiloxians. His next book was HM4MEN - a light-hearted manual on household management for men.He has completed a fourth novel called Bobby Shafter, set in 1950s Britain, which was published conventionally by Elephant House Press and is now available (for a sixth of the price) as an e-book. John's latest book is Farley's Bend, the sequel to Bobby Shafter, set three years later.

Book preview

Prologue

This book is a sequel. If you have read ‘Bobby Shafter’ you can safely skip the prologue. If you haven’t, perhaps you would like to buy it now. No? Then let me introduce you to its central characters: Mr and Mrs Shafter, landowners and pillars of the community in the Yorkshire village of Framby.

Elizabeth Morley and Bobby Shafter met as they boarded a train in London. Elizabeth was going to Yorkshire to claim a substantial inheritance; Bobby was fleeing people on both sides of the law. To their mutual advantage Bobby moved in with Elizabeth to help her make her late Aunt Hyacinth’s big old house habitable.

By chance Elizabeth found out that Bobby was wanted by the police, but chose to protect him. In turn Bobby took on the roles of handyman, house-painter, footman, chauffeur and cider-maker. But he was not entirely free of his shady past and associates.

What had been a convenient alliance became a friendship, but differences of class and education made it unlikely to progress to anything more. This began to change when they stumbled on the old schoolroom in the attic and Elizabeth took on the persona of Mrs Chasen, the cane-wielding governess whom she remembered from childhood. It started as a game but turned into a rigorous campaign to plug the gaps in Bobby’s education and social graces.

After discovering from gossips that Bobby was flirting with a girl in the village, Elizabeth added another persona to the household: Betsy the maid, who not only shared Bobby’s household duties but also his bed.

Eventually Elizabeth decided it was time to enlarge the household further by conjuring another clone. Enter Robert Shafter Esquire, sophisticated man of mystery, worthy of her hand in marriage.

That was three years ago. Bobby, Betsy and Mrs Chasen still live in the servants’ quarters upstairs, to be called into service by Robert and Elizabeth when convenient.

Chapter 1

Poor Barry

Elizabeth looked up from her notebook. Why are we slowing down, Robert?

Coming up to Farley’s Bend. Don’t want to go home with a dented Daimler, do we? Robert applied the brakes as they went into the sharp bend – then slammed them on hard. Who the hell...?

A man was standing in the road, wide-eyed, flailing his arms.

That looks like Tom Rawlings, said Elizabeth. As the car came to a halt she threw open her door and started to get out.

Careful, said Robert, it could be some nutter!

No, it’s Tom, I know it is. Tom! What’s the matter? She ran to the distraught figure.

Oh, Elizabeth, thank heavens it’s you!

It was indeed the Reverend Tom Rawlings. He stopped flailing and stood limply.

Something terrible has happened, he said, pointing into the trees on the outside of the bend.

Elizabeth looked and gasped. Oh my God! Is he alright?

She turned and beckoned to Robert, who pulled in to the side of the road and ran towards them, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. All three walked towards the motorcycle lying on its side and the leathered figure sprawled beside it.

I did some first aid training, said Elizabeth as she knelt beside the figure and felt the pulse. She held one wrist and then the other, waiting a full tense minute before saying, I think he’s dead. Any idea who...?

No, said Tom. I only just arrived and found him like that, face-down.

We should probably leave him as he is until the police get here, said Elizabeth. They’ll have to... do things.

It’s Barry Hobb, said Robert quietly. At least, that’s his bike. It’s the only TR6 around here. And he put that yellow sticker on it, like a lightning flash. It’s his bike.

Tom knelt and turned the corpse’s head towards the Daimler’s lights. In their glare there was no doubt. It was Barry Hobb, one of the three youths that Robert had fought and humiliated outside the White Knight when he was still known as Bobby.

Poor Barry, said Tom, shaking his head and making the sign of the cross. He must have taken the bend too fast.

In a hasty conference it was agreed that Robert would drive the short distance to the village and alert the police. Elizabeth and Tom would stay at the scene of the accident.

* * *

As Robert’s tail-lights receded Elizabeth turned to Tom Rawlings and said, Did you know Barry?

Slightly. The Hobbs were never church-goers, but his poor mother did approach me soon after I came to Framby and persuaded me to take Barry into the Youth Group. He was about fourteen then, and already going off the rails.

Did the Youth Group do him any good?

None at all. I did my best but eventually I had to ask him to leave.

Why?

He was having a bad influence on some of the younger boys. And his behaviour towards the girls wasn’t always... gentlemanly. His mother begged me to keep him but I had a responsibility to the others.

Of course you did. What about his father? Didn’t he try to pull Barry into line?

Gone. The war, you know.

Oh. Killed?

"No, nothing like that. He was posted to Catterick and took a fancy to a girl who worked in the NAAFI (Note). Nobody knows where he is now."

That’s hard. Hard on Mrs Hobb and hard on Barry. A boy needs a male role model. Elizabeth was quoting something she’d read. That’s what you were trying to be in the Youth Group, I suppose.

Tom didn’t seem to be listening. The last time Mrs Hobb spoke to me about Barry would have been at your wedding, he said.

Elizabeth always felt awkward about turning down Tom’s proposal and then tying the knot with Robert so soon afterwards, with Tom officiating. Tom had remained single and Elizabeth sometimes wondered if she had underestimated his feelings for her. Wanting to change the subject she looked around and said, Where’s your car, Tom?

Over there. I drove it off the road in case it caused another accident.

Elizabeth saw Tom’s Morris Minor half-hidden among the trees. Tom always joked that it was clerical grey, not black. It’s a good thing you spotted him, she said, making conversation.

I was driving slowly, said Tom. I’m on this road quite often and I know how dangerous Farley’s Bend can be.

They chatted for a while about the church drama society, but it’s hard to make small talk next to a corpse.

* * *

To Elizabeth it seemed much longer than twenty-five minutes, but that’s all the time it took for Robert to return with a uniformed Sergeant Laker sitting beside him. Constable Dibden’s got the keys to the patrol car, the sergeant had explained after Robert roused him from his bed, so I’ll have to prevail on your kindness, Mr Shafter, to convey me to the accident scene.

From his excessive formality, the skewness of his tie and the toppling of his helmet when he tried to get into the car with it on, Robert speculated that Don Laker had spent the evening at the White Knight.

Once at the scene Sergeant Laker walked with purposeful dignity to where Barry and his bike lay. Has anything been disturbed? he asked.

No, said Tom. I turned his head to the side to identify him, that’s all.

Sergeant Laker nodded, knelt beside the body and shone the torch on its face. That’s Barry Hobb, no doubt about it, he said. And from the dent in his head and the blood I think we can conclude that he hit his head on a tree. He looked up at the three other faces. Nothing very complicated here.

Is it usual for someone to come off a bike like that? said Robert.

How d’you mean?

Well, I’ve ridden bikes and I’ve fallen off a few times. When you’re in trouble you hold on, trying to get control. You don’t fall off. Know what I mean?

I suppose he was thrown off at the moment of impact, said the sergeant a little impatiently.

But the bike’s not damaged, said Robert.

Everyone looked at the bike, which was lying on its side with not a dent or a scratch to be seen. The front wheel was partly buried in a bush. Sergeant Laker shone his torch on it and satisfied himself that the wheel was intact.

And the light’s not on, added Robert.

Broken in the crash, I expect, said Elizabeth, becoming embarrassed by her husband’s persistence.

The glass isn’t broken, said Robert, pointing, and the switch is off. He pointed again.

Sergeant Laker shone his torch and confirmed it. Riding without lights, he muttered, that’s an offence.

Alternatively, said Tom, he crashed before it got dark. We don’t know how long he’d been lying here before I found him.

That’s true, said the sergeant.

But I felt for his pulse and he was quite warm, said Elizabeth.

His leathers would have kept him warm, countered Tom.

Look at his watch, suggested Robert. Maybe the crash stopped it.

Sergeant Laker obliged and shook his head. Still going, he said, raising himself up into a standing position. Anyway, the pathologist will estimate the time of death. I rang the hospital from home. The ambulance should be here soon and the duty pathologist will examine the body as soon as it’s delivered.

The word jarred on Elizabeth. Delivery is for a baby. What about photographs? she asked. In films they always take photographs.

It’s not a crime scene, said Sergeant Laker.

It might be, said Robert. What if it was a hit-and-run?

That could explain why he fell off, said Elizabeth.

Sergeant Laker sighed and said, It could be a hit-and-run, I suppose, but I don’t have a camera with me.

We do, said Robert, heading for the Daimler. I put a new film in yesterday, he added, looking at Elizabeth. We keep one in the car for when we’re out and about... wildlife pictures, that sort of thing. he glanced at Elizabeth again.

Flash? asked Sergeant Laker.

Of course.

Robert took several shots of the body and the bike from different angles, including some close-ups. Then he photographed the front of the Daimler. Just in case anyone thinks we knocked him off his bike, he said. Now for your car, Tom.

What? Why mine?

Well, for all we know you might have knocked him off just before we got here. Best to get proof before you’ve had a chance to get a touch-up.

He’s got a point, Reverend, said Sergeant Laker.

Where is it? Ah, over there. Robert strode to where Tom had cautiously parked his car, with Tom hurrying after him.

* * *

Constable Dibden’ll come and get the bike tomorrow, said Sergeant Laker as they watched the ambulance disappear down the road. Now for the worst part: telling Mrs Hobb.

I’ll come with you, sergeant, said Tom in his vicarly voice. It’s my duty to comfort the bereaved, whether they’re of my flock or not, and you’ll need a lift back to the village anyway.

Elizabeth and Robert watched them go.

I’m exhausted, said Elizabeth. Let’s go straight to bed.

In a minute. I want to take a few more photos.

"More photos?"

A couple more of the bike and a few of the road.

Why?

I want one of the light switch, and I want you to take one of the side that’s underneath while I lift it up. Then I want shots of the road and the trees.

Again, why?

Something’s wrong. I don’t buy it. No marks on the bike, none to speak of. No marks on the road. No marks on any of the trees, not that we’ve seen anyway. And the headlight’s off. Not broken. Off.

But as Tom said, he could have crashed hours before when it was still light.

Hmm. There’s a fair amount of traffic on this road during the day. Someone would’ve seen him. It’s not like he was head-first in a bush or anything.

What are you saying, Robert?

How can 200 pounds of metal, going pretty fast, crash into a tree and the only damage is a dirty great dent in the rider’s head?

So what’s your answer?

If I had a suspicious nature I’d say someone topped him, then made it look like a sausage.

Sausage...?

Sausage and mash, crash. (Note)

Elizabeth noticed that Robert’s voice had lost some of its refinement as he became more excited. She wanted to calm him down and find a reason why his suspicion was absurd, but she couldn’t think of one. Lamely she said, Let’s sleep on it tonight. If you still feel the same way in the morning we’ll go and see Don Laker first thing and tell him about it. Okay?

Okay. After I’ve taken these photos.

* * *

On the way home Elizabeth said, Are you going to give that film to the police?

"I told Don I’d develop it myself tonight. Quicker than taking it to a chemist (Note). He looked at Elizabeth and chuckled. Don’t worry though. It really is a new film. Nothing on it that might give Don a heart attack!"

I’m very glad to hear it.

Robert had gone to evening classes in Hamling Bridge to learn the art of photography, which included setting up one’s own darkroom. One day, after picnicking in Dibbocks Wood, Robert persuaded Elizabeth to pose in the guise of a dryad. When she saw the pictures he took she started to share his enthusiasm for wildlife photography.

Unless, said Robert after a pause, you’d like to use up the last couple of exposures now, before I...?

I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s No.

Understood, Miss Pritibotham.

It’s pronounced ‘Prim’ as you very well know, Scrumpy!

Neither Robert nor Elizabeth could have told you when these pet names started nudging their way into their private conversations. It generally happened when they wanted to lighten the mood or soften a criticism. (Note)

Chapter 2

Evidence

Wake up!

Robert was walking through a long tunnel that was getting narrower and narrower. He had to stoop and then crawl on hands and knees, but he knew he had to keep going forward.

Wake up, Robert! Elizabeth shook his shoulder roughly.

Huh? What’s the matter?

The helmet!

What? Half of his consciousness was still crawling and now there was light at the end of the tunnel, the bright blinding light of a reading lamp. He’d had only three hours sleep since hanging up the last of the prints to dry.

The helmet! I never saw Barry on his bike without his helmet. It had those yellow flash stickers on it, like on the bike. He was always wearing it, so why didn’t he have it on yesterday?

What’s the time?

It’s nearly 5. We’ve got to go back to Farley’s Bend and look for the helmet.

Robert was like lightning. In other words, he took the path of least resistance. Right now that meant doing what Elizabeth wanted. He heaved his feet onto the floor and toed around for his slippers.

* * *

Dawn was breaking when they got to Farley’s Bend. They parked the car well off the road and used torches instead of its headlamps. They searched close to the bike, shining their torch beams under, around and between the bushes and trees. They even shone them upwards into the low-hanging branches.

It couldn’t have ended up on the other side of the road, could it? said Elizabeth.

No harm in looking.

They both crossed the road and resumed their search. Within a minute Elizabeth called out, Aha!

What?

What’s that? Look. Under that bush.

It certainly looked like a black helmet. Robert picked up a long stick and used it as a hook. Ta-daa! He held the helmet up on the end of the stick like the head of a defeated foe.

Well, said Elizabeth after a thorough examination, there’s no sign of any damage. No dent, no scratches, and the straps and buckle are like new. And it’s definitely Barry’s helmet. She pointed to the distinctive yellow flashes.

So how did it get under a bush on the other side of the road?

Suppose he forgot to fasten the chinstrap. Could it have flown off when he lost control?

Hard to imagine.

Maybe it’s cause and effect the other way round. The helmet came off, that distracted him, and that’s why he lost control.

Hmm, it’s a long way from the road. He started pacing. "It’d take a hell of a wind to blow it that far."

We shouldn’t disturb the evidence, said Elizabeth, recalling the detective stories she’d read.

We’ve done that already, haven’t we? said Robert.

We could put it back where we found it and just tell Don where it is.

What if someone else finds it and takes it before the police get here?

The murderer, you mean.

So you agree with me now.

I… I agree it’s a possibility, said Elizabeth.

How about this. We take the helmet, only touching the strap in case there are fingerprints…

Oh gosh, I never thought about fingerprints. We’ve both touched it.

Not much. I’ve been holding it on the stick.

Elizabeth still looked worried.

Anyway, Robert went on, I reckon we give it to Don, but you make a sketch to show exactly where we found it.

Elizabeth’s worried face brightened and she went quickly to the car to get her notebook from the glove box.

* * *

It was mid-morning when Elizabeth and Robert got to the police station with a full set of photographs.

Good timing, said Sergeant Laker. I just got the pathologist’s report.

Gosh, that was quick, said Elizabeth.

Well, he ’phoned me with the gist of it. The written report’ll come in the post of course.

What does he say?

The main thing’s the time of death: between nine and eleven. What time did you get to the scene?

Soon after eleven, said Robert. Maybe ten past. I got you there before midnight, didn’t I?

Sergeant Laker consulted his notebook. That’s right. 11.48.

And the cause of death? asked Elizabeth.

Sergeant Laker consulted his notebook again and read out loud: Blow to the head ... fractured skull ... massive haemorrhaging... well, we know all that, don’t we?

But what caused the blow to the head?

Well, the circumstances would suggest a high-speed collision with a solid object such as a tree, of course... Oh, excuse me.

He was interrupted by the buzz of his intercom.

What is it, constable? … Well, I’m busy just at the moment … Oh, in that case...

At that moment the office door swung open and a short man in police uniform strode into the room. Sergeant Laker stood up, saluted and said, Good morning, Inspector Jenkins. I’ve been expecting you of course, but... well, not quite so soon.

Morning, sergeant. I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I’m anxious to start working myself into the new job as soon as possible. He looked at Elizabeth and Robert. Are you interrogating suspects, or are these people complainants?

Neither, sir. They’re witnesses.

Sergeant Laker made the introductions.

Good day to you, said the inspector, extending his hand to Robert. I’ve just been posted to North Yorkshire and I’m on a familiarisation tour of the police stations within my jurisdiction.

Mr and Mrs Shafter are pillars of our community, sir, very public-spirited.

Then I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Successful police work depends on cooperation from the public, especially people like yourselves who occupy positions of leadership and esteem.

Robert was already mimicking Inspector Jenkins’ Welsh accent in his mind. He spoke with an attractive cadence, almost musical, in spite of his formal delivery. He seemed to be making a speech all the time. Robert wondered if he spoke to his wife like that when they were in bed.

In fact, continued Sergeant Laker, they’ve come forward with valuable information concerning a fatal road accident that occurred last night.

"Presumed road accident," put in Robert. Elizabeth kicked him gently.

Why do you say that, Mr Shafter? Is there some doubt? Did you observe the incident in question?

Mr and Mrs Shafter were the second and third persons to arrive at the scene, said Sergeant Laker quickly, and Mr Shafter drove immediately to my home to notify me. He’s quite rightly pointing out that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

Sergeant Laker looked hard at Robert, hoping to silence him. Robert smiled back at him.

So they were the second and third persons, said the inspector. Who was the first?

The local vicar, Reverend Rawlings, said Sergeant Laker. He waited while the inspector wrote that down and then began describing the facts of the case. But first Robert and then Elizabeth joined in to explain the inconsistencies that made them think there was more to it. The inspector turned his chair towards the pair and listened intently. Sergeant Laker sighed. He had hoped to close the file on Barry Hobb’s death quickly and have a week’s fishing with his brother.

An hour later Sergeant Laker’s desk was strewn with Robert’s photographs; a car had been despatched to Hamling Bridge to bring the pathologist’s report; and a list of Barry’s habits, haunts and known associates was taped to the wall. Every so often Inspector Jenkins would jump up and add to it. Robert watched with interest, comparing him favourably to some of the police officers he had encountered in his younger days, before he became a pillar of the community.

The sergeant made a half-hearted attempt to redefine Barry’s demise as a road accident, but his boss had the bit between his teeth. There are too many things that don’t add up, he said. Not least the lack of damage to the motorcycle. And what about the young man’s protective clothing? The photos don’t show any signs of abrasion or tearing, such as might be expected in the kind of accident that this appears to be. The pathologist made no mention of alcohol in the young man’s blood?

Er, not over the ’phone, sir, no.

You didn’t ask?

No, sir.

Well, we’ll see his full report soon enough.

Like Robert, Elizabeth was fascinated by Inspector Jenkins’ way of speaking. As a novelist she struggled to write natural-sounding dialogue, but as she listened to the inspector she was thinking, A shorthand typist could turn it into a police report without changing a thing. You can even hear the punctuation!

The inspector was now leaning towards his subordinate and saying, Just think what a feather it will be in your cap, sergeant, if we crack the first murder ever to occur in Framby! A feather in your cap too, thought Sergeant Laker. Er, it will be the first, won’t it? added the inspector. Nobody could think of another one.

* * *

Sergeant Laker liked a pie and a pint at lunchtime, but today a plate of sandwiches was delivered from the White Knight, allowing them to work without a break.

When only crumbs remained Inspector Jenkins made an announcement: It’s clear to me that we have a possible homicide here. But I’d need more evidence before handing the case over to the Homicide Squad. However, sergeant, I have no doubt that your resources are fully deployed for routine policing duties and it would be unreasonable to ask you to take on this investigation with your present manpower. Sergeant Laker’s hopes of a fishing holiday resurfaced. So, went on the inspector, turning on his heel as though to address his backbenchers, I have decided to postpone my familiarisation tour and take charge of this case personally.

That sounds very sensible, sir. You’ll have all the resources you need at headquarters.

That’s true, sergeant. But I’ve always believed in working close to the ground, if you take my meaning. Grassroots policing. I shall establish an operations room here. Can you allocate a room for my exclusive use? I’ll need one rather larger than your office, a good-sized table, telephone, camera of course, although I can probably get one from headquarters, and a blackboard would be useful...

Sergeant Laker’s spirits, buoyed up so little time before, sank again. Well, I don’t think we’ve any spare space at all... he said before being interrupted by Elizabeth.

We have, she said. You can use our library.

In your private residence, you mean? asked Inspector Jenkins.

Oh yes, she said brightly, no trouble at all. And we’ve got a spare bedroom too.

That would be somewhat irregular, said Inspector Jenkins. There would be highly sensitive material in the operations room, not to mention confidential interviews, telephone calls and the like.

You’d have the key of course, and we wouldn’t dream of coming in uninvited – would we, Robert?

Absolutely not, said Robert, trying to remember where he’d seen a spare key to the library and whether there were locks on the windows.

After some further discussion everything was agreed. On the day after next, Monday, Inspector Jenkins would move his person and his place of work to Bartholomew House. In the meantime Sergeant Laker would arrange for a dedicated telephone line. The inspector would bring his own car and driver.

There was a shine in the inspector’s eyes as he addressed the room, small though it was, Motive, means and opportunity. That’s what it takes to build a case. But none of it is worth a tinker’s curse without good, solid evidence. So we’ll do this by the book. We’ll follow procedures and we’ll follow every lead. If there’s a murderer to be found, by God we’ll find him; and we’ll convict him too!

* * *

We had a Welsh Methodist preacher round our way when I was a kid, said Robert as they got back in the car. He spoke just like Inspector Jenkins.

The Welsh have a way with words as well as music.

"Not just the words themselves, though. The way he says things like ‘observe’ and ‘worth’. It’s almost like he’s tasting the word. ‘We’ll crack the first murder to occur in Framby’. Know what I mean?"

Elizabeth laughed. I do know what you mean. Master the Welsh accent, Robert, and if the drama group puts on ‘Under Milk Wood’ you can audition for any part you like!

Milk Wood? Robert made a mental note to tell Bobby to ask Mrs Chasen about it. As he pulled away from the police station he said, Smart move, offering our library as an operations room.

Oh, before we go home, can we drop in on Mrs Hobb?

Won’t Inspector Jenkins be upset if we barge ahead before he comes back?

Just to offer our condolences, not interrogate her!

Oh. Right. Just behind the church, isn’t it?

Yes. It’s the cottage with a blue gate. As Robert turned the car around Elizabeth added, And what did you mean by ‘smart move’?

Well, we’re not going to leave this to the police, are we? Taffy’s a smart bloke as coppers go, but if he’s going to ‘do this by the book’ and ‘follow procedures’ the murderer’s going to die of old age.

Elizabeth stifled a laugh said in as serious a voice as she could manage, We shall assist the police with their inquiries, but Inspector Jenkins is in charge. Agreed? She decided not to challenge Robert’s use of ‘Taffy’ and ‘copper’.

Robert saluted. Right you are, Chief Inspector Pritibotham! His pronunciation this time required no correction, and his emphasis of ‘Chief’ was so slight that italics are unnecessary.

* * *

Martha Hobb was red-eyed when she answered the door. Robert let Elizabeth do the talking while he looked around the living room. He noticed the framed photographs on the mantelpiece. Barry was in all of them. Unfailingly his hair was disordered and he was smiling in a natural, unposed way. The thought occurred to Robert that he’d probably have got on with Barry pretty well if they’d met as children, not as adversaries in a pub.