~~~~~
As he sipped at his pint, Marston would go on to inform me how Bracewell's mini chain of boutiques had been cleared for reopening within a month of the firearms being discovered.
"He was careful to keep the two things separate - you know, his legal enterprises and those a little more... shall we say, nefarious? Different bank accounts, everything."
Unlike the usual way with these things, the shops hadn't simply been some money-laundering facade. They'd been there first, the firearms a recent, additional sideline; it had only been going on for six months or so, authorities believed. Bracewell had got hooked up with some dodgy Albanian type through his coke dealer, supply line via Scandinavia and the port of Hull.
Marston shook his head sadly. "Stupid sod had it all, everything most blokes can only dream of. Successful business, flash car. Studio flat, trophy wife. He wanted more though, didn't he? Wanted the city. Wanted bloomin' Nottingham."
The scourge of ambition. He wasn't the first man to make his own downfall this way, I reflected, nor would be the last.
Apart from state confiscation of one of Bracewell's various bank accounts, there was little the authorities could do. As his wife, executive control of the boutique chain had passed to Olivia.
"Anyone go down for it?" I asked.
"Old schoolmate of his out in Mapperley. Had a spare set of keys for the lock up, let potential clients in to have a look at the wares."
"And the guy who helped run the shops?" I tried to remember the name: "Locke?"
"Danny Loacke you mean." Loacke, yes: the recipient of Bracewell's last known telephone call, if I remembered rightly. "He was as surprised as anyone else they reckon," continued Marston. "Like I said, Bracewell kept the two worlds separate. When the shops reopened Olivia kept the guy on as general manager. Always was the brains of the operation they say. Bracewell had the money and the front but Loacke it was who chose the clothes, the look of the shops."
It made sense: successful entrepreneurs are often flanked by some kind of technical expert hovering there just outside the spotlight.
"Doing better than ever so I've heard. Opened another boutique just last month, that big shopping centre up near Sheffield." There was a smirk between gulps of lager. "The notoriety hasn't hurt much I don't suppose."
"So Olivia's still in the studio flat?" I surmised out loud.
There was a nod. "And still driving round in her missing husband's BMW."
"Been keeping tabs on her then?'
He gave a casual shrug of the shoulders. "When I get the chance. You know - slow news day, might have a drive past, park up nearby for a while."
Thus far he'd been more than forthcoming, but I now sensed a certain reluctance. He knew something he wasn't prepared to share, a little journalistic gem he was keeping all to himself.
"And?" I prompted.
"And nothing." His red-rimmed, hard-living eyes avoided mine.
Something; oh yes, the guy had an interesting little snippet alright.
Perhaps it was time to up the stakes a touch.
"The interview with Olivia," I began, "after we worked out that Lee had come back that night. I can remember it clearly. If I was pushed, almost word for word maybe..."
Now his eyes were on me - widened, taking the bait. A second or two, then they narrowed a little again, smile lines snaking out from their corners.
"Once a copper always a copper eh Jim. Christ you lot know how to drive a hard bargain." He shook his head, sighed in defeat. "Might be nothing to it, just that..." He leant forward, eyes twitching left and right, double-checking nobody could overhear. "Loake. Goes round there a lot. Before the baby was born. After."
"Business," I suggested. "What with the new shop, must be plenty of things to discuss."
Marston was nodding. "That's all there might be to it, absolutely. Just that one evening I see him roll up about nine. Still there when I call it a night round eleven. Get myself up early the next morning, drive back past around half seven. Loacke's car's still parked there outside - got one of those new version Mini Coopers. Red, the union jack on the top." He reclined back in his seat once more. "Like I say, there are certain things make you think."
I felt a little disappointed: there were any number of perfectly innocent explanations. And even if their relationship were something more than purely platonic, it was only of very limited interest to me personally.
I'd come to Nottingham not to rake up gossip but in the hope of finding something - I wasn't sure what exactly - which might help shed light on Lee Bracewell's possible whereabouts. A hope which had seemed remote as I'd turned left off the A1 the previous afternoon and was no less so now.
I upturned the last remaining dribble of orange juice into my mouth, gazed at Marston squarely. "What can you tell me about the Bracewells' father?"
Twin deltas of smile lines once more sprayed out from the corners of his eyes. "Never disappoint, you copper types. Just knew you were going to ask me that."
He clicked his fingers at the barman again; this time I accepted his offer of a refill. "Absent fathers," he mused as we waited for our drinks to arrive. "Have a habit of crawling out of the woodwork, don't they? First sniff of wealth. Success."
*
Over the next few minutes he was able to flesh out some of the details of the sad little tale Sarah had recounted the day before. The chap's name was Keith Duggan, locally born and bred. He'd married Joyce Bracewell aged twenty-one, become a father at twenty-two. At around the same time that Lee had been born four years later, he'd started an affair with a certain Christine Halloway, a married woman five years his junior. They'd rented accommodation at various addresses around the city for a couple of years before moving down to London. Again, records showed a series of short-lived tenancies in the north of the city. Though officially still married, Christine had reverted to her maiden name of Kershaw; Duggan had meanwhile gone a step further, changing his name by deed poll to John Brown.
"About as anonymous as a name gets," I commented. This plus all the changes of address: no, it didn't take Albert Einstein to understand why.
"He was a brute of a man by all accounts, Christine's husband. Ted Millwood his name, fifteen years older than her. Possessive, jealous. Used to slap her around."
"The sort who doesn't easily accept defeat."
Marston nodded grimly. "Ran 'em out of the country in the end. All the way to Cologne. Spring of '82. From there the trail runs cold."
"They were officially reported missing?"
"I believe so. They still had friends and family back home."
"And Millwood?"
"Died a few years ago. I don't think there were many at his funeral."
I followed Marston's gaze as it turned out of the window. It had stopped drizzling, I was glad to see. Above the buildings opposite, a weak, watery sun had somehow battled through the clouds.
"One thing I don't understand Jim," he said, turning back to me. "Why are you doing this? I mean, why the hell do you care so much? You're retired now. Shouldn't it be all sun and sangria?"
I smiled, shrugged my shoulders."Gets boring after a while." I thought then of Sarah, of the unrepaired bicycle in the backyard, the smell of marijuana from the elder daughter's bedroom. "I've got a daughter," I explained. "An ex-wife. I've got a family, and I know how it feels when that family gets torn apart."
Marston gazed at me for several seconds, seemed still not to really understand.
"I asked the editor if I could go out there for a few days. Germany. See if I could sniff anything out." Reaching into jacket pocket, he took out voice recorder, placed it onto the table between us. He'd done his part of the deal, answered my questions; time now to think about the day's copy. "Said no though. Said the expenses couldn't be justified. And you know what? If I'd been him I wouldn't have let me go either." Eyes meeting mine, his index finger reached for record button. "Ask me, he's dead Jim. Lee Bracewell. Couldn't handle the guilt. Likely as not, threw himself off a cliff somewhere."