The Returned Dead. Rafe Kronos
After a few seconds he seemed to gather up his strength and started speaking again. “Of course, some of the old house has changed but it’s still the place I was remembering, it’s still my old house, the Rankin house. The new owner has re-painted the outside woodwork and put a different light over the porch but it’s definitely the same place. Well, seeing the house gave me a bit more confidence that I wasn’t going mad.” He sighed, “But somehow the possibility was still there. I didn’t know what to do. Then I realised that if my business had been sold to this Beasley outfit, it must have been because I’d gone away or retired -- or died.” His voice stumbled over the last word. “And I eventually realised that if any of those things had happened then there would be a record of it somewhere.”
At least he’d reasoned logically – or he was pretending he had.
“So I decided to see what I could find. The public library was the obvious place to start digging. I went there and asked if I could look at their old newspaper files. I began working back from just before the date when I woke up and found Debby sitting by my hospital bed. It took a while but eventually I found a half-page advert put in by Beasley and Co. announcing they’d taken over my old business. That proved the business used to be called Rankin Motors – so I had remembered that correctly. That was another reassurance. Then I found this,” he pointed to the clipping on my desk. “It came from a few months before the announcement of the take-over by Beasleys. I was flicking through the pages and I found it. I found my own bloody death notice. How would you like to find that, eh, Mr Dawson? How would you feel if that happened to you?”
I ignored the question. “So how did you get it?” It wasn’t hard to guess but I wanted to hear it from him.
“Nobody was watching so I tore out that part of the page. I needed it; you must understand that. That’s me in the photo; you can see it is, there I am with my name and everything. I had to have it because it proved I wasn’t imagining all this. OK, I admit I stole it – but I desperately needed something to prove I wasn’t going mad. I needed something that showed I was Rankin. Do you understand?”
I wasn’t going to report him for damaging library property so I dipped my head in agreement.
We each sat in silence, thinking our own thoughts. Eventually he sighed and said, “OK, so that’s where I am now. That’s the basic story, however strange it seems -- and I admit it must sound strange. I’m here because I need your help. I want to hire you to find out what’s been happening to me. I want you to investigate for me. I suppose that what I really mean is that I want you to investigate me, the Jack Rankin me, and find out what has happened to me. I just want to know what’s been happening; I must know. So, will you do it? Please say you will. I’ll pay well, I really will, money’s not a problem.”
Money might not be a problem but there was an obvious problem: the whole thing was unbelievable. Despite that I was willing to take the job so I sat there and said nothing, waiting for him to persuade me to work for him. Like every client, I needed him to be fully committed to my investigations.
I needed his full commitment because I knew that once I started digging I might unearth things he might not want brought to light – it often turns out like that. That’s when the client decides that employing you is a bad idea. The next thing you find out is he won’t pay your bill. I didn’t want that, especially not now.
“Well, will you do it for me? Will you investigate?” he repeated.
“Well, if I take your case – if -- you must understand I’ll need your full backing. That means you must be ready to accept whatever I do as I investigate and accept whatever I find. There’s no saying what I might uncover; it might turn out to be very painful for you. Think about it. Are you willing to accept that? I need to be quite sure before we go any further.”
He leaned forward, eager to convince me. “I understand all that and I assure you I’ve already thought about it. I still want you to go ahead. That’s why I am here. I thought I’d just made that clear.”
“And I have to warn you I’m expensive. My fees are high.”
He gave a little shrug, “Money? No problem, I can afford it. But I have to get this settled, it’s tearing me apart. I really must know what’s happened to me; I’m willing to pay almost anything for that.”
“Are you absolutely sure? Absolutely sure you want me to go poking around in your life? I’ll need to ask you a mass of questions and you may find some of them embarrassing, even offensive. Just think: my inquiries could blow up in your face. You tell me you’re married, you’re rich and, of course, there’s seems to be good evidence that you’re dead, or one of you is. Are you really sure you want me to dig into everything? The whole thing’s…” I was tempted to say totally unbelievable but I settled for “very complicated. Are you absolutely sure you want me to find out more? Why not leave it alone? Why not just stick with your Baxendale life? It sounds like a pretty good life to me. After all, that’s where you are now and, as you say, Rankin’s dead, officially dead and gone. Why not leave it alone? Why not leave Rankin dead and concentrate on your Baxendale life?”
I found I was holding my breath as I waited for his answer.
“No, I can’t, that’s impossible, quite impossible. Now that I’ve remembered I’m Rankin I must have certainty. I must, I just want it settled. I really do.”
“You’re absolutely sure? Once I start there can be no going back. You’re ready to accept that? You really are?”
“Yes, I am. Yes, definitely.”
It was exactly what I wanted to hear.
“Right, Mr Baxendale, then let me tell you my terms. My fees are £1,500 a day and in addition you meet all relevant expenses incurred by me and my staff. I’ll work seven days a week on your case and you’ll get an itemised bill every week. I’ll send it to your home or wherever you want or you can collect it from here if you prefer. I’ll also submit a written report every seven days in the same way or, if you have a secure system, I can send it to you by email. If I discover anything significant I’ll let you know immediately by phone. I’ll give you my mobile phone number and you can reach me at any time, day or night. Is all that acceptable?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” He seemed genuinely grateful.
“Right, I have copies of my standard contract here and if you are quite certain you agree with what I’ve just said, you can sign a copy for each of us before you go. I will need half a day to tidy up a few things I’m currently handling and then I’ll begin working for you full time on an exclusive basis. I’ll also be supported by other members of my team. Are you quite sure you are happy with that arrangement?”
He sat very still for several seconds and then he reached down beside his chair and picked up his briefcase. For a moment I thought he was going to walk out but instead he opened it. He took out a bulky brown envelope. He stood up, stepped forward and held the envelope upside down over my desk. I watched as the contents cascaded out with a gentle swishing sound.
Now I knew why his bag had been so heavy.
“There’s fifteen thousand in fifties and hundreds,” he said. “That should get you started. Let me know when you need more.”
I glimpsed a grin twitch across his face.
“I thought you might somehow prefer it in notes. After all I am -- I was -- in the motor trade. Now bring me the bloody contract and I’ll sign it.”
CHAPTER THREE
We signed two copies of the contract after I’d insert his name: Roderick Baxendale for this purpose. That name seemed best to me especially since R. Baxendale had just shown that he was happy to hand over a big bag of money. I doubted if the dead Jack Rankin could do that.