Touching the Wire (27 page)

‘You can’t be too careful
with your health.’

‘It’s probably nothing.’
This conversation wasn’t going as she’d hoped. The café bustle brought back
memories of ham, with figs and myrtle, and the lovemaking that had followed.
She’d ruined everything.  

‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Adam put down his empty cup. ‘Finished? Now for the moment of truth.’

Charlotte walked by Adam’s side, staring
determinedly ahead. The case that housed the three carvings was empty. Forewarned
by a phone call, Dr Chapman had removed them to what, on Monday, would be
Adam’s office. She put the Flames of Hope and Death on the desk alongside the
others.

‘Now to test my theory.’
Adam studied the Flames of Hell. ‘If I’m right about the candles forming part
of a number eight, this one could be one half.’ He turned it sideways. ‘And
this could be the other.’ He moved the Flames of Death to sit alongside the
Flames of Hell, bitten sides together, and picked up the carved candles. He
placed one in the centre of each circle and traced the crossing, looping route
around and between them with his finger. ‘There, a figure of eight.’

‘It certainly looks more
like an eight than before.’

He pushed the carvings that
formed the eight to his right-hand side to make more room. ‘That’s because we
had the wrong carvings together. The other one.’ He found the Flames of Hope.
‘Is probably part of a
three.
’

‘We need the opposite side,
which would be… this one.’

Adam rotated the Duxford Wolf,
the largest of the carvings, to face them and pushed it next to the Flames of
Hope leaving a small gap.

‘The gap makes a perfect
three.’ She was convinced at last. She picked up the carving shaped like a
wolf’s claw that had come from Mason and Hargreaves. ‘And this fits here.’

‘A five… this is working.’
He moved the two groups around, swapping their positions, and made the final
connection. ‘Eight, two, three, five. We’ve done it, Charlotte.’

For the first time since
they were separated the carvings could be seen as Grandpa had intended. The
effect was electrifying, a perfect whole: a wolf leapt through flames of death
and destruction, flames of pain and hope, hiding and revealing a hidden truth…
the number, not of the beast but what?

Adam had to be right. The
only thing likely to have a key
and
a number was a safety-deposit box.
‘We may have the key and the number. We still have to find the box.’

The drive back to
Brockenhurst was subdued. Adam’s search of the archives for a letter, sent with
the carving to Duxford, had unearthed the usual instruction in Grandpa’s hand
and gave no clue to what the key opened.

She slumped onto the sofa
next to Adam. ‘Now what?’

‘Are you sure the solicitors
don’t have any other letters?’

‘The letter they had said
Grandpa left full instructions… They did a thorough search. Nothing.’

‘And none of the letters
gave any indication of the existence of a box belonging to the key?’

‘Apart from Rabbi Cohen
mentioning a promise, they only contained the same instruction. Return the
carving after ninety-nine years.’

Adam frowned. ‘But we didn’t
see that letter… The rabbi mentioned the key to a truth… Do you still have his
phone number?’

‘Yes. Would you speak to
him, Adam? His English is limited and my German is non-existent.’

She found the number in her
handbag and left Adam to his call. The display case at Duxford had looked great
with all five carvings in their correct order, and Adam’s boss had been
delighted they’d left them there, but the coffee table was bleak without her link
to Grandpa. She still had the cardboard carton from Mason and Hargreaves, and
she’d never found time to read the newspaper wrapping. She went upstairs and
reached under the bed. 1978… just before her fifth birthday. What had been
going on in Grandpa’s life then?

The shoe factory advertised
for closers, finishers and last-makers. The house next-door-but-one was for
sale for what seemed like a ridiculously low price. She turned the page and
read the births, marriages and deaths.  Mobbs, Toseland, Goodman, Baker,
Sharman,
Gotch
: familiar Kettering names recalled her
childhood in the backstreet terrace. She shook the page to smooth out the
crease so she could read on, and an envelope dropped to the floor.
Whomever
it may concern, Harris, Harris and Mason. To be opened in 2077
.

Adam’s voice penetrated her
daze. ‘No luck with the Rabbi, Charlotte. Sorry.’

She ran, her feet barely
touching the stairs. ‘Adam, I’ve found it… I remember now, Frank Mason wondered
if the instructions were inside the cardboard carton.’ Her fingers shook too
much to open the envelope. She gave it to Adam, who slit it with his
pocketknife and handed it back.

‘This is finally it,
Charlotte.’

Her voice shook. ‘
To whom
it may concern. The five carvings together, arranged in the correct order, make
the number of a safety-deposit box deposited at the National Provincial Bank,
24 Mosley Street, Newcastle. In order that the box is not opened before the
allotted time, the five carvings must, therefore, be in your possession, and
ninety-nine years should have elapsed since the instruction of July 1978. The
key to open the said deposit box will be found inside the carving returned to
you from the Jewish synagogue in Kaiserstrasse, Trier, Germany. The deposit box
contains items that must be brought to the attention of the appropriate
authorities. It is my wish and instruction that the truth be now known.
Sincerely yours, William Walter Blundell
.’

‘The deposit box is in
Newcastle?’

She pointed a finger at the
writing. ‘Appropriate authorities… I don’t like the sound of that, Adam.’

‘You don’t have to involve
anyone you don’t want to, Charlotte. For all we know the bank won’t release it
anyway, even if the branch is still there.’

She looked up quickly. ‘What
do you mean?’

‘Aren’t they NatWest now?’

‘It’s only a change of name.
And I have permission from Frank Mason. They’ll take notice of that, surely?’

‘The only way to find out is
to go and see. Did Walt have relations in Newcastle?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘We could be there tonight,
stay over, and do a raid on the bank in the morning.’

‘But…’

 ‘Where’s your sense of
adventure Charlotte? Come on. Throw a toothbrush and a pair of knickers in a
bag.’

He took her hand and
familiar excitement coursed through her. ‘Okay, but can we grab a few hours sleep
and make an early start in the morning? We can be there before the banks
close.’

‘I’ll drive this time. You
can navigate.’

She didn’t want to sleep;
she wanted another night of love before she let him go forever, or their one
night in Trier was all she’d ever have of him. In his arms, his lips exploring
her, she clung to him struggling to hold back the sobs that wracked her body.
When he finally entered her, she threw herself into their lovemaking with a
reckless need born of desperation.

***

Charlotte studied the map. If the Fates
intended to help them they were taking their time. Lorries and cars blocked the
road ahead, and a sign where the road curved mocked them with the order that
they restrict their speed to forty miles per hour.

Adam inched the car forward
and stopped. ‘The chance would be a fine thing.’

Mosley Street was across the
Tyne, and Newcastle city centre looked like the web of a spider on speed. The
road dropped steeply to the Tyne Bridge; they passed between massive iron stanchions
and emerged among buildings on the opposite bank.

It was nothing like the
bleak northern city she’d imagined; where were the rows of blackened, terraced
back-to-backs, and polluted water? Modern buildings bordered a clean river. The
streets were wide, and the Georgian architecture tall and perfectly
proportioned.

‘Which way?’

She got to grips with the
map and pointed.

Adam signalled. He was in
the wrong lane, but a man in a battered pick-up wound down his window and waved
him on, grinning. The lights changed against them.

‘We want the third exit…
should be Mosley Street.’ The lights went green. ‘There, that one… Go left at
the next set of traffic lights. There’s a car park.’

They booked a room in a
nearby hotel and Adam flung their bags on the bed. ‘We have nearly two hours
before the banks close.’

She longed to sink onto the
bed and sleep. She’d lain awake for hours after Adam had dozed off, watching
him in the moonlight from the window, imprinting his shape, his smell, the feel
of him onto her memory.

He took her hand as they
walked along Mosley Street. ‘Looks like even numbers are on the other side.’
They crossed the road and walked back the way they’d come.

Adam stopped outside an
impressive three-storey building with a classic dressed-stone facade. ‘This has
to be it.’

 ‘Geordie Eats?’ Arched
casements and little pointed porticos over the first-floor windows seemed
incongruous. ‘A bar and restaurant…’

‘Where’s the bank?’

‘Someone will know and I’d
kill for a cup of tea.’

The waiter was Chinese, and
understood little English: he pointed to an empty table. Adam ordered. ‘I guess
accounts and safety deposits would have been transferred to the nearest NatWest
branch.’

‘Wherever that is.’

Adam finished his tea and
went in search of an English speaker. He returned with a grin. ‘There’s a
branch at the top of Grey Street. Come on.’

 Georgian buildings
swept gently upwards; a huge four-storey edifice dominated a corner ahead of
them. The door stood open in welcome.

‘Ready?’

She squeezed his hand, her
palm sweating. ‘Ready.’ 

A woman looked up from a
computer screen. ‘Can I help you, pet… madam?’

She fingered the brass key
that hung from a fine chain around her neck. ‘I’d like to speak to someone
about a safety-deposit box.’

‘Do you have an account with
us?’

‘No. The deposit box was my
grandfather’s.’

The woman beckoned a young
man in a dark suit, and spoke to him briefly. He smiled. ‘Please, come this
way.’ He showed them to a side room. ‘I’m Carl Jennings. How can I help?’

‘I believe my grandfather, Walter
Blundell, deposited a box with your Mosley Street branch, perhaps more than
thirty years ago. I wondered if you knew where it would be held today.’

‘It depends where it was
transferred when the branch closed. Customers would have been given options.’
Mr Jennings tapped his computer screen. ‘We have nothing under Blundell in safe
custody.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Do you have the number?’

‘Eight, two, three, five.’

He entered the number and
scrolled down, frowning. ‘There
is
a box with that number but the name I
have isn’t Blundell.’

She frowned. ‘But it has to
be.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Can you double check? There
may a letter or an instruction of some kind.’ Her heart hovered in her throat.
Surely they couldn’t hit a brick wall now.

‘Of course. I won’t be a
moment.’

Her heart was doing
back-flips.  Adam’s grip tightened on her hand. 

Mr Jennings returned
carrying a large brown envelope bearing the number eight, two, three,
five
. He took out a smaller, opened envelope and several
pieces of paper.  ‘We do have an instruction but it’s pretty odd.’ He
gestured at the sheets of paper, and put the envelope on the desk. ‘The box was
deposited with our Mosley Street branch almost seventy years ago, in February
1945 in fact, with an instruction to break it open if it wasn’t collected after
fifty years.’

Her heart landed in a heap.
‘You mean it’s already been opened?’

‘No. There’s more. Another
letter was sent to us in 1978 by a Mr Albert Carr, who signed the original
instruction when the box was deposited.’

Adam scratched an eyebrow.
‘Who’s Albert Carr?’

She shrugged. ‘Never heard
of him.’

‘It instructs us to allow
the box to remain unopened until we are contacted by a firm of solicitors
acting for Mr
William
Blundell, to whom Mr Carr transfers title of the
box.’

Her heart did a triple
somersault. ‘That’s my grandfather, William Walter Blundell.’ She touched her
throat. ‘I have the key.’

‘I see.  There’s also a
superseding instruction to break open the box on New Year’s Eve 2077, should no
contact be received from Mr Blundell’s solicitors. How do
you
come to
have the key?’

‘It’s a long story. Mason
and Hargreaves would have received the key and the number of the box in 2077
had things gone according to Albert Carr’s original plan.’

‘Mason and Hargreaves?’ Mr Jennings
still looked doubtful. ‘I can’t release it to you, I’m afraid. Our instructions
are to give it to a representative of Harris, Harris and Mason.’

She pulled her envelope of papers
and photographs from her bag. They were dog-eared and creased. ‘This is a
letter from Frank Mason, of Mason and Hargreaves, formally Harris, Harris and
Mason. Grandpa bequeathed everything to Gran. This is Gran’s letter giving me
permission to act for her. ’