1. Alfie’s Visitor

Windermere Cottage reverberated to the sound of the Hallelujah Chorus. Alfie jumped at the sudden noise of the doorbell. He had been on tenterhooks all day, unable to settle to anything, waiting for this visitor.

He had attempted to make some oatmeal and raisin biscuits, but while he was a more-than-decent cook, baking had never been his forte. The biscuits emerged brittle and charred. Even though he had opened the kitchen window, the odour of burnt biscuit followed him as he went to answer the door.

A middle-aged woman with a leather-bound folder in the crook of her arm, stood on the doorstep. She had mousy hair, unremarkable features, and wore a nondescript skirt and jacket. The sort of woman who would pass unnoticed in the street or supermarket. A distinct advantage for a private investigator, Alfie thought.

“Good afternoon. My name is Lorna Fielding,” she said. Her voice was as innocuous as the rest of her, with no strong regional accent. She held up an identity card for him to inspect. “I’m here to see Mr McAlister.”

“I’m Alfie McAlister,” he said. “Please, come in.”

For all he knew, she had shown him her bus pass. He had no idea what her identity card was supposed to look like, but he already knew she was appropriately licenced. And she came highly recommended by his best friend Oscar for her efficiency and discretion. Alfie wondered whether this information came from Oscar’s network of impeccable contacts, or whether Oscar himself had hired her.

He ushered her to the parlour and immediately felt the need to apologise.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit garish,” he said, gesturing towards the walls, with their psychedelic covering of pink, purple, black and white swirls. “The choice of my late aunt, who left me this cottage. The doorbell chimes are hers as well.”

“Clearly a lady who knew what she liked,” said Lorna Fielding.

Alfie grimaced. He was going to have to tell Lorna Fielding that the things Aunt Augusta liked included his father.

“Do sit down,” he said. “May I get you something? Tea? Coffee? Sorry about the smell of burning. I was making biscuits, but they didn’t quite work out.”

He expected she would dismiss him as a useless male.

But she said: “I think baking biscuits has a lot in common with avocados. You wait and wait for them to be just right, you turn your back for a second, and they’re completely ruined.”

Alfie laughed. “Thanks for your understanding. Speaking of avocados, my aunt also installed an avocado bathroom suite. I keep meaning to renovate the place, but I’m not sure I could bear the upheaval. Anyway, sorry, tea or coffee?”

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

She settled herself on the large black leather sofa, the folder on the seat beside her.

Alfie felt simultaneously hopeful and apprehensive as he set about making the tea in the kitchen. Lorna Fielding came highly recommended, and she might be able to help. But should he just have left things as they were, like the décor of Windermere Cottage?

He returned to the parlour with the tea, and his visitor looked with interest at the Scandinavian-style cups he set out.

“Your late aunt’s as well? She had good taste. These are collectors’ items now.”

Alfie poured the tea more carefully than usual, and resolved to treat the cups with more respect in future.

“One of my aunt’s friends always says a cup of tea is not complete without something to go with it,” he said. “In the absence of home-made biscuits, may I offer you some local fudge?”

“I really shouldn’t,” said Lorna Fielding, “but thank you, I will.” She took a piece from the proffered plate and bit into it.

“Mmm,” she said. “That’s fantastic. Do pass my compliments on to the confectioner.”

“You may be able to do that yourself,” said Alfie. “If you think you can take this forward, I’m planning to introduce you to her.”

Lorna Fielding retrieved a pen from her bag and opened the leather-bound folder to reveal a sheaf of lined paper.

“Many thanks to Mr de Linnet for recommending me, but I’m sure you’ll be approaching a number of us to see who suits you best,” she said. “As I mentioned in my email, this is just a preliminary discussion, obviously at no cost to you.”

When Alfie had run his start-up, he had relied on gut instinct when dealing with customers, rivals and his workforce. And the success of his approach was proven when he sold it for a sum that meant he would never again have to work for a living. He had liked Lorna Fielding immediately. He could see her undistinguished appearance was her work persona – he wondered whether she wore scarlet stilettos or leather jumpsuits on her days off. If Lorna Fielding was prepared to take on the job, it was hers. He didn’t want to waste any more time.

She sat there, pen poised, and since she wasn’t currently persuading onlookers that she was some inoffensive drudge, he could see the keen intelligence in her face.

“I said in my email that I was anxious to track down my father, Callum McAlister, but it may be quite complicated,” he said.

She nodded, and he was impressed that she wasn’t rushing to assure him that no investigation was beyond her.

“I never knew him – he left before I was born,” Alfie went on. “My mother didn’t speak about him, and after she died, I found she hadn’t kept anything of his, not even their marriage certificate. Sorry, should I have ordered a copy for you?”

“It’s all right, Mr McAlister, that’s not a problem.”

He stood up and fetched a folder of his own from the top of the bookcase. “I’ve got my own birth certificate here for you, which has his name on it, but that’s it. I’ve tried to do internet searches, but he doesn’t seem to have a digital footprint.”

“Do you know what age he is – if he is still alive?” she asked.

Alfie shook his head. “I really don’t know. Probably around seventy.”

“Not everyone in that generation is computer literate,” said Lorna Fielding. “And depending on what he did, there may be no reason for him to be recorded online. I see from your birth certificate that he was a production worker, which sounds like skilled manual work. I assume he’s now retired.”

Alfie had no idea where his father had worked and whether he was still working.

“I don’t know anyone who can give you up-to-date information,” he said. “But as far as the past is concerned, Liz and Marge might be able to help you – that’s Clarissa Hopkins and Margaret Redwood.”

Lorna Fielding made a note.

“Liz is the lady I suggested introducing you to, who makes the fudge here in Bunburry,” said Alfie. “They were my late aunt’s best friends.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “That’s all the information I have, details of my grandparents, my mother, Verity McAlister, and my aunt, Augusta Lytton. Nothing on the paternal side, I’m afraid.”

“That’s still very helpful. A good start,” she said.

He had no idea whether she meant it or if she was just being kind. He took a deep breath.

“There’s more you need to know. It’s not exactly an edifying story.”

She sat quietly, her head tilted slightly to the side, her expression encouraging.

“As I said, my Aunt Augusta left me this cottage. I scarcely remember her – I was born here, but I think of myself as a Londoner because my mother moved there with me when I was a baby. I only came to visit my grandparents during the summer holidays. Then my grandparents were killed in a car accident when I was quite young, and there was no reason to come back.”

There was also no reason to tell Lorna Fielding all of this. It wasn’t relevant to her investigation. He was stalling for time.

“I was surprised when I discovered Aunt Augusta had left me this cottage, since we had had no contact. But it suited me to move here from London for personal reasons.”

He could postpone the evil hour for a few more minutes by telling her he moved after the love of his life died, because he couldn’t bear to live in the home they had shared without her. But no, Vivian wasn’t a topic of conversation he needed to introduce.

He cleared his throat. “I told you my parents split up before I was born. I recently discovered why. My father and Aunt Augusta, my mother’s sister, were having an affair.”

At least Lorna Fielding had the tact not to write it down in her folder, he noted, even though it was surely an important point.

“Did your aunt and father subsequently live together?” she asked.

Alfie had never thought of that. Had his father lived here with Aunt Augusta, in Bunburry, while his mother lived with her parents on the other side of the village? It would have been a nightmare trying to avoid them – small wonder his mother moved to London.

“I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “The other person I thought might help is Edith Simmons, whose son owns the local pub. But I’m not sure how much anybody knows. Do you think there’s any hope of finding my father?”

She laid down her folder and said with a smile: “Every hope. There are no guarantees, but I’ve found people on much less information than you’ve given me.”

“So, you’ll take the job on?”

“I’d certainly be happy for you to consider...