The sun was just high enough to lift itself above the bonnet of the van and angled so as to spill onto my face there on my sleeping bag in the back, seep through the slit between my closed eyelids.
I awoke with a jolt, my hand reaching instinctively to lower back. My prolonged groan was ever more pained as I glanced at my watch: it hadn't even gone half past six.
I had little idea where I was exactly beyond a vague recollection of having seen exit signs for Brussels flash by in the night not long before utter exhaustion had got the better of me and I'd pulled into a service station. I wasn't even sure if I'd crossed over the border of not, whether I was already in Germany or still in Belgium. What kind of man, I thought as I gathered up sleeping bag and roll mat, doesn't even know what country it is he wakes up in? Come to that, what kind of man - one in of my age at least - wakes up in the back of a van?
That I was still in Belgium was confirmed by the map next to the entrance door of the restaurant area - the apex of the tu es ici arrow a finger-width from the border. Hobbling inside, I peered at breakfast options over the shoulders of still yawning lorry drivers. Since the greyish goo on toast Diane had presented me with the previous morning - scrambled eggs, I'd assumed - my nutritional intake had consisted only of a Mars bar.
Selecting a couple of Danish pastries, I found a quiet table over in the corner. Judging by the coffee rings and strewn brioche crumbs, I wasn't the first breakfaster of the day to lay my tray there. There was a newspaper too, a French language one, its back page up: Espagne 1 Oland 5. The World Cup in Brazil had started. As I sipped at my cappuccino, I recalled the sweepstakes we'd always used to have in the CID room. Almost always I'd pull some complete minnow out of the bag. Honduras or Slovenia or Jamaica, my tenner in practically blown before a ball was even kicked. No, I'd never had any luck with things like that. Never been much of a gambler.
But wasn't that what I was doing now, I wondered as I got back in the van and turned the ignition? Taking a gamble? Having a bit of a punt?
It would all probably just turn out to be a long and expensive detour.
Something to distract me, that was all.
*
By nine o'clock I'd reached the outskirts of Cologne; by twenty past, was pulling into a hotel in the modern part of the city centre. Unlike her British counterparts, the receptionist was blessed not only by a pleasant, easy smile but also by a full command of the English language. There were vacancies for that night, she informed me, but unfortunately I was too early. Overnight guests were still to check-out, the cleaning crew yet to finish their rounds. But yes, in the meantime, of course I could leave the van in the car park. Throwing her a 'danke scheon', and thus in those two words exhausting my entire knowledge of the German language, I grabbed a city centre map from the leaflet rack and headed out to the old town.
It was here, amongst the tight cluster of cobbled lanes off Urusulastrasse that I found what I was looking for. Noting down the name of the alley and nearby landmarks, I then took a stroll along banks of the Rhine, wound my way leisurely back to the hotel.
My room was reaaonably spacious, passably pleasant. On the third floor, it faced back the way I'd just come - the dark, twin-spired cathedral looming over the clutter of office blocks. I didn't spend much time admiring the view however, dozed through the afternoon and early evening. Waking, I caught a bit of the World Cup as I showered and got ready. At around ten, I finally headed out for a bite to eat. England v Italy - the big game Gordon Foster had mentioned the day before - kicked off at midnight Central European Time.
*
They were last heard of somewhere in Germany, he working as a brickie...
Ran 'em all the way out of the country in the end. All the way to Cologne. Spring of '82. From there, the trail runs cold...
The first were Sarah's words; the second, Marston's. But what did they mean exactly, those words? Not just the two abandoned sons, but the father too. The father's new partner. All four of them, missing.
It was a coincidence striking enough to have attracted the attention of Interpol, without a doubt. It would be highly unlikely that they hadn't sent an agent out into the field. Perhaps their timing hadn't been quite as opportune as mine however...
As I opened the door of the Red Lion pub, what I assumed to be a large proportion of the city's ex-pat community were gathered right there before me under the same roof. Most were white or red shirted, their replica shirts bearing the names of Lampard or Rooney or Gerrard across shoulder blades. A patriotic throng which, as I took my second or third step inside, bounced a deafening roar against the low, sweat-dripping ceiling. The game could have only just kicked off but already England had scored! Groans then followed, a few self-ironic laughs. I followed the replay on the big screen at the other end of the room: a long shot which had shivered the side netting, for half a second seemed like a contender for goal of the tournament. England World Cup campaigns are never quite so dreamlike.
The place was what might be expected of a English pub abroad. There was a dartsboard, a pool table, a cricket bat on the wall. This latter was centred amongst photographs of the Queen, John and Paul, Mick and Keith, Botham bashing the Aussies, Bobby Moore holding the Jules Rimet aloft. An England theme park but without any rollercoasters. Three deep at the bar.
Disappointingly, the clientele seemed mostly to be in their twenties or thirties. As I got in line at the bar I had a good look around, see if I could spot someone my own age or perhaps just a little younger. Over in the corner furthest away from the screen, there was a guy who looked to be in his mid-fifties sitting on a stool by himself. Upon finally getting served, I sauntered over, placed my pint on the window ledge next to his. There was a silent nod of acknowledgement at my presence.
"Suspect it'll be the same old rubbish as always," I commented during a quiet spell in the game a minute or two later. I turned my neck, glanced into his watery grey eyes. "Let's face it, we haven't been much good since the days of Charlton and Moore."
There was a grunted kind of agreement. "Never normally drink here," he replied. Then, shrugging: "World Cup time, need to be with your own though I suppose."
"First time for me. This particular bar I mean. Just passing through town."
Nodding, he returned his attention to the big screen. England had a young team out and, by the general murmurs of approval, they seemed to be having a decent go at the Italians. I wondered if Nuzzo had stayed up to watch; if at some point during the game he'd briefly wonder the same thing of me.
"That a Newcastle accent?" the man asked during the next lull in play.
I had grown wearyingly used to such comments. "No, Middlesbrough actually."
He smiled at me. "Near enough isn't it?"
Forty or so miles and a footballing rivalry dating back a hundred and twenty years. I let it go however: his own accent was West Country, and I very much doubted I'd be able to tell the difference between a Cornishman and someone from Devon.
"I've spent most of my adult life in Nottingham though," I added. "Raleigh bicycles, design team. On my way back from a trade fair in Dusseldorf as it happens."
The deceit was necessary; it is a general truth that people tend to be much less forthcoming with anyone they even vaguely connect with authority than with those they don't.
I'd hoped that one summarised life story, albeit invented, would lead to another. The guy merely nodded again however, kept his attention focused on the big screen. I waited for the next break in play - an Italian rolling pathetically on the ground in feigned agony after a nothing challenge - and offered my hand across.
"Jim, by the way."
"Bill," he returned.
"I had a friend once," I continued, my hand still grasped around his, not giving him the chance of returning his eyes to the screen. "An old work mate of mine from Raleigh. John Brown." This, I remembered Marston telling me, had been Duggan's last known alias.
I waited for a flicker of a response, but none was forthcoming. "He came out here to work on the building sites. Eighty-two it must have been. Had his partner with him. Christine."
Wrangling his hand from mine, Bill turned his attention back to the screen. "Asking the wrong guy mate. I came out here as a soldier. Checkpoint Charlie. For my sins, fell in love with a local girl. As a civilian came out west for work." He glanced across at me, grimaced. ''Eighty-seven mate. Only been here since eighty-seven."
No, I thought, taking my leave from him as soon as basic politeness would allow. There had never been any guarantees. None at all.
*
Fighting my way to the other end of the bar, I spotted another figure who might have been roughly the same age as myself. At the cost of several lost splashes of beer, I elbowed myself through to his side. Even in the dim pub lighting, the wrinkles were noticeable. If not sixty, then certainly getting on that way.
"They're having a crack at least," I commented.
A stocky man, his glance was upward turned. "Don't like it up 'em, these latinos."
And that was as much conversation as we were able to muster for the time being, England at that very moment succumbing to a slick training ground routine from a corner. No sooner had the groans and curses begun to die down a little than suddenly everybody was bouncing up and down, beer spraying everywhere, raised, triumphant arms silhouetted against the screen. Almost immediately, England had hit back with a well-worked goal of their own. It wasn't until the referee blew for half-time a few minutes later that the din of jubilation had died down enough for me to make myself heard again.
"Just passing through myself," I began, going on to regale my new friend with same cock and bull story I'd a little earlier fed Bill - an old work colleague of mine, last I'd heard of him he was laying bricks around those parts somewhere.
Geoff, I learned, the new chap's name. A cockney or Essex boy, something like that. Friendly enough though.
"Started off as a brickie myself," he informed me. "A whole ruddy army of us came out here. The German Economic Miracle they called it. Meanwhile, old England was going tits-up. Young lad like me didn't get a decent chance." He stretched his lips into an apologetic wince. "Can't help with this mate of yours though. Started off round Munich way on, came up here late-eighties."
I could feel my heart sink: hotel bill, hundreds of extra kilometres, all for nothing.
"Tell you who might know something though..." He raised himself on his tiptoes, twisted neck round a hundred and eighty degrees. "Reg. Reg Lumley." He grinned. "Been 'ere longer than the Rhine practically." Still on tiptoes, his eyes continued their sweep. "Now, where the bloody 'ell's the old sod got to?"
The toilet, as it happened, the man himself re-emerging shortly after the match had kicked off again.
"Bit of a queue," he apologised, once Geoff had introduced us. A lifetime spent on building sites was evident from the leathery, weatherbeaten skin, the thick, tightly muscled neck and arms. He was a little older than myself I judged: sixty-five perhaps.
"I keep telling them, if they want to make this pub truly, authentically English they need to get rid of that cubicle and put in one of those long ceramic troughs. In and out. No messing about."
His accent was vaguely Liverpudlian; St Helens I learned as we found some bar space to prop ourselves against. Like many, he hadn't intended staying in Germany long - a few months, a year at most, save up a bit of money - but the charms of the local femalekind had got in the way.
"Got a son, Bryan." There was a smile. "Made sure he had the most English of names. World Cup time, suppports Germany though. Can't say I blame him."
As if to emphasise the point, Italy promptly scored a second. Once the renewed bout of groans and curses had begun to subside, I fed him the gist of my re-elaborated life story.
"John Brown..." He nodded, recollecting. "Yea, I remember."
Bingo!
"Tall lad? Lanky?"
I had no idea of course, but nodded encouringly anyway.
"Nottingham Forest fan?"
Yes, that sounded about right.
"Yea, I remember him well. We had him laying bricks, first job they bumped me up to site foreman. It was obvious he'd never been anywhere near a building site before..." There was a pause as England swarmed dangerously around the Italian penalty area, a pained moan as the attack fizzled out into nothing. "Good worker though," he resumed. "Soon got the hang of things." He turned his eyes from the big screen for a moment, glanced at me. "'82 you say?" He nodded to himself. "That's right, yea. Around this time of year it would have been. I remember, the World Cup was on. Spain were the hosts that year." Once again, there was a pause as England launched another attack, spurned a decent chance of an equaliser. "I just remember he didn't show up for work one day. Or the next. No phone call, nothing. We even sent someone round to knock at his flat. Empty though." He glanced at me again. "The project we were working on was an entire residential zone. Guaranteed work for another eighteen months at least. Strange how he just upped and offed like that. Missus showing a bump too..."
A half-brother or sister. Lee Bracewell had partly shared blood out there somewhere. But yes, of course, it made perfect sense. His father had chosen to start a brand new life for himself, a second family included.
"I remember," Reg went on, "a week or so later we had a couple of polizei visit the site, talk to a few of the lads. Nothing much we could tell them though that I haven't just told you."
Thanking him profusely, I wandered off to find the first chap I'd spoken to, Bill.
Ex soldier, hadn't he said? Checkpoint Charlie...
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