The Last Glass: Stories of Truth and Surprise

By Geoffrey Carn

A man arrives in Dallas the day before the assassination of President Kennedy and is involved in events that would change history – what are his intentions on 22 November 1963 and afterwards…?
A policeman receives news that an old friend has died and begins to reminisce with his wife, both will be shocked at the result…
A young boy’s idyllic world is shattered by events in war-torn Greece…
A 16-year-old sneaks out to see his hero, the legendary guitarist Jimmy Parker, in concert and changes his life forever…
Stories that stretch from the beaches of Dunkirk to an Edwardian orphanage, stories of real people and historical events that would change the world. This collection of short stories unites the author’s passion for history, writing and playing with the possibilities of ‘what if’.
Carefully researched and with an eye for detail, some will surprise, some will shock – and all will entertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528967334

Geoffrey Carn

Geoffrey Carn was born in the northwest of England and spent most of his childhood in the Far East and Germany, moving with his father’s army postings. Having gained a history degree, he worked for local newspapers before qualifying as a registered nurse—a career he enjoyed for 30 years. Retiring as a nurse, he returned to his first love: writing, one shared with distant relative, James Joyce. After travelling extensively in Europe and the United States, Geoffrey now lives with his family on the edge of Saddleworth Moor.

Book preview

About the Author

Geoffrey Carn was born in the northwest of England and spent most of his childhood in the Far East and Germany, moving with his father’s army postings.

Having gained a history degree, he worked for local newspapers before qualifying as a registered nurse—a career he enjoyed for 30 years.

Retiring as a nurse, he returned to his first love: writing, one shared with distant relative, James Joyce.

After travelling extensively in Europe and the United States, Geoffrey now lives with his family on the edge of Saddleworth Moor.

Dedication

To my wife, Karen, for simply being who you were.

Copyright Information ©

Geoffrey Carn (2021)

The right of Geoffrey Carn to be identified as an author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products 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.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528933100 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528933117 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528967334 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25, Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

To Barbara Wilde and Graham Travis for listening and for their patience and advice.

The Last Glass

He sat alone in the dark, an old man tasting the familiar flavour of the whiskey and remembering. It was an old, single malt he had never opened until now. The news his wife had given him made it the right time, he sipped the whisky, thought about the memories it brought back and he cried. He was the last of them and he had been the best.

A shout from his wife, Olivia, brought him back to reality for a moment and he answered her reluctantly.

Yes, I’ll be up later, he said.

Are you all right? There was concern in her voice because she knew the news had shocked him.

I’m OK, just thinking, he replied.

He was thinking of a crime committed over 50 years ago when he had been a young man, keen and dedicated before the cynicism had kicked in. In truth, it had been a series of crimes and the link had been staring them in the face, but the connection was made too late. A discarded cigarette packet would be the key that would lead to success, an arrest and promotion.

On August 8th, 1963, George Ryan had been listening to the car radio on his way home following a nightshift when there was the report of a body found on the moor. He sighed, turned the car around, and headed back to the station. He arrived as the BBC news reported the robbery of a Royal Mail train during the night, later to be known as ‘the great train robbery’. After parking his new Vauxhall Victor, he walked across the car park and up the station steps, remembering to let his wife know he would be late home. A young police constable met him on the steps, Hey George, did you hear about the train robbery?

He nodded, Just heard it on the news.

The constable let out a long whistle, Two and a half million quid, I could do with a bit of that.

George smiled, Couldn’t we all?

It was quieter inside the station than he’d expected. It was a Thursday and he had assumed there would be some activity around the discovery of a body on the moor. He heard a telephone ring but ignored it and walked into his office. He found Ian Bailey, sitting at the desk with his feet resting on top of it and pushed them off.

If you’re going to do that, use your own desk, not mine, he said.

Ian’s feet thumped on the floor as he moved forward. I haven’t got a desk, he said.

George glanced at him and casually reached for a cigarette, I wonder why, he replied. Do you know anything about a body being found on the moor? I heard it on the news.

Ian shook his head dismissively and reached for a cigarette as George held out the packet, Don’t know anything about a body, he sat back and lit the cigarette.

Well, don’t you think you should find out? George said, You are the duty officer.

Ian stood up, stretched and headed for the door, Yes, Sarge, he said and walked casually out of the room.

Although August 8th was a hot summer’s day, George still felt an eerie chill on approaching the small ditch. There were four of them in his team, Ian Baily, Dave Gibbs and the new member of the team, Andy Beresford. While crossing the ditch, Dave miss-judged the gap and his foot sank knee deep into cold water. He swore and the other two laughed, they were silenced by Ryan. Let’s have a bit of respect, it’s not a school outing, he said. Andy and Ian looked abashed and apologies followed as they made their way across the spongy grass that grew on the peaty moorland soil.

The body was that of a young girl, George judged her to be 15 or 16 years old, and the back of her head had been smashed by a bloody stone which lay a few feet away. The girl’s blonde hair covered her face, so George squatted down beside her and brushed it away.

Pretty girl, Dave said as he joined him, and George grunted a non-committal reply. David Gibbs was the youngest of them, a detective constable with a bright future. He was one of the young generation, always talking about a pop group called The Beatles and a singer called Dylan. George had borrowed an LP record of his and listened to it, but the nasal drone of Dylan’s voice irritated him, and the songs were too long and complicated, so he had turned it off halfway through. Dave also exhibited another trait of the young and George reminded him of it as he watched him walk away with a familiar jibe by the older generation. You need to get yer ‘air cut darlin’, he said and received a rude hand gesture in reply.

In the days before computers, DNA, CCTV and a myriad of technical advances that aid modern police forces, it was often local knowledge that came to the aid of people like George Ryan, and so it proved in the case of the young girl found on the moor. The body of the girl had been taken to the local hospital, a quick search of the area had revealed nothing other than the bloody stone beside her and that the motive had probably been sexual. Ryan addressed the other members of his team as they gathered in his office.

Right, he began, First we have the body of a young girl left on the moor, second, it’s a fair bet to say she was murdered, either on the moor or somewhere else and taken there later. He was interrupted by Andy from his place near the door.

The preliminary report says death was caused by, he read from the paper he was holding, blunt force trauma to the rear of the skull. He looked up, bashed over the head, he added unnecessarily.

George took a deep breath, Thank you for the clarity Andy, he said and saw the man bristle at the shortening of his name. George continued, Third, we don’t know who she is, he pointed, Dave, Andy, check the missing persons files and see if a description matches. The young man nodded and left the room. Ian was lounging against the filing cabinet and sighed, I hope he does find a match, otherwise it’s the drag of door to door.

The girl’s name was Kathleen Heyse and she had been reported missing by her parents a week earlier. Andy and a WPC were dispatched to inform the worried family and George began work on finding the killer. While he sat at his desk, George smoked and ran through possible leads, Dave wandered into the office.

You got a minute, Sarge?

George nodded as the young detective sat opposite him, For you, he said, I might have two minutes, what’s up?

Dave spread a large map on the desk, it showed the area of the moor where the girl had been found. I’ve been checking the records of missing persons, Dave began, one thing George admired in the young detective was that he always went the extra mile. Another young girl was found on the moor about nine months ago, Dave continued.

George nodded, Yes, a fall from the rocks above the reservoir, a walker, I think she was.

But that’s the point, Dave said. I grew up around there, he shook his head. "No way up to those rocks from the road except