The Family Remains(78)

I pull off the A road a few metres past the business centre and take a farm track as described to me by Cath Manwaring in the closing moments of our phone call. After a few minutes I see the shape of a van reveal itself to me over the top of a hedgerow and I know that I am there.

The camper van is painted black and gold and has a canopy attached, under which there is an armchair, a threadbare rug and a table piled with books. Also the remains of a lunch: an apple core, an empty crisp packet, some crumbs and a crumpled napkin.

I see movement behind the tiny letterbox windows at the back of the vehicle and step out of my car. The movement stops at the sound of my car door closing. I fold up my sunglasses and I walk towards the van. The side door is open so I call out: ‘Justin Ugley?’

It takes a long moment for him to appear and then when he does, I am taken somewhat aback by his appearance. Equally, I can see that he is very taken aback by my appearance as I strongly suspect that there are not very many men of colour to be seen in this corner of the world. Justin’s appearance is alarming because he is very dirty. Not dirty like a person who doesn’t wash, but dirty like someone who has been in dirt. His clothes, his face, his hair, his hands.

‘Hello?’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Ugley. I am DI Samuel Owusu. I work in the special crime division at Charing Cross, in London. I wondered if you had time to answer some questions?’

‘What about?’

He wipes his hands on a wet rag and I see tattoos reveal themselves. I notice pieces of jewellery on his face that catch the light, in his eyebrows, his nose, and in his ears. His hair is long and tied away from his face with a rag. He looks like a man from another time, another age. But even beneath the dirt and the hair and the piercings I can see that Cath Manwaring was correct. This is clearly the man in the photographs of Birdie’s band, the Original Version.

‘About a woman called Bridget Dunlop-Evers. Or Birdie. I believe that you were once in a relationship with her?’ I say.

‘How the hell do you know that? I mean, how did you find me? I don’t understand. I haven’t seen Birdie for, like, twenty years. Longer. What’s happened to her? Is she OK?’

‘No. I’m afraid not, Mr Ugley. She was reported missing by her family in 1996 and was never found. About two weeks ago her remains were found on the bank of the River Thames.’

I watch his face. He looks genuinely shocked. But whether that is because his former love is dead or because a crime he committed twenty-five years ago and thought he had got away with has come back to catch him out, I cannot tell.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

‘How did she—? I mean – what …?’

‘A blow to the head,’ I reply.

He flinches. ‘But you know, I mean, I haven’t seen Birdie for so long. The last time I saw her she was, well … alive. I don’t think I can really tell you anything. Or help you. Not really.’

‘I appreciate that, Justin. Of course. But it would be very helpful to talk to you about what you remember from the time you lived together in Chelsea.’

He nods, which confirms that my working theory is correct, that Birdie and Justin did move into the big house in Cheyne Walk back in the late eighties.

‘You want to talk … now?’

‘Yes. Please. If you’re not busy.’

‘I could do with a few minutes. If that’s OK. Just to wash up.’

‘Of course. I can wait here. Take your time.’

He emerges five minutes later in new clothes, a T-shirt and some jeans, and his hair has been brushed and tied back neatly. His face is interesting, with a hooked nose, and his eyes are very bright hazel and the saddest I have ever seen, and I have seen some very sad eyes. The tattoos on his hands run all the way up his arms and into the sleeves of his T-shirt. Many snakes and skulls and crosses.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. I have my water.’

He gestures towards a folding stool, and I sit on it.

‘I am going to make some notes, I hope that’s OK?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘So, please, tell me in your own words about how you found yourself living in this house on Cheyne Walk and what happened when you lived there. I believe there was a pop video filmed there?’

‘That’s correct. Back in ’88, I think. Bloody Birdie got a bloody cat and we got kicked out of our flat and that woman, Martina, offered us a room and I genuinely thought it was just going to be for a few days. But it ended up being for … God, ages. And it was really fucked up. Really, really fucked up.’

Here, I think, here it is. Here is what I’ve been waiting for.

‘In what way was it … messed up?’ I ask.

‘Oh, Christ. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Well, maybe you could just start at the beginning?’

And then this man with his metal face and scribbled arms and scarred legs and sad, sad eyes tells me about a spoiled family with untold wealth, bored to death inside a pretend castle on the banks of the Thames. And then the father, a lazy, indolent man with no redeeming features, becomes ill. A woman called Birdie who is living inside the pretend castle brings a healing man into the house in order to help the lazy man. And this healing man brings with him a wife and two children, and then there are ten people living in a house where once there had been four and slowly the healing man who had been brought into the house to treat the lazy man had taken everything from him: his wealth, his wife, his freedom, his dignity.