Chapter 12

Ted

Sitting at the bench table outside the pub, Theodore ‘Ted’ Latimer, struck a Swan Vesta, lit his pipe, took several large puffs to get things going and drained the last of his glass.

He looked up as the door to the pub was kicked open and watched his new police acquaintance, carrying two pints, negotiate the exit. “That’s for you, Ted,” Thurstan said, as he placed one on the table and sat next to him.

The older man examined the glowing bowl of his pipe then, satisfied, thought about what he’d been told in the detective’s introduction.

His reply was slow and considered: “You see, in them days, son, Lennie was just strange to most people. He didn’t mix well with the kids of his own age, but the younger ones didn’t seem to notice and enjoyed a game of football with him. They hadn’t learned to discriminate at that point. He loved playing football, which only made him seem stranger to many.” Thurstan looked at him quizzically.

Latimer smiled. “Big rugby town, St Helens. He had no interest in that game; too violent for him.” He took another puff and blew out the smoke with satisfaction. “No, some would pick on him whilst others, realising it wasn’t his fault, would try to protect him, but they were few and far between. For the most part, he was just ignored. I suppose nowadays, he’d be described as being on the autism spectrum but, back then, he didn’t fit the standard idea of someone who was autistic. The papers and television portrayed it as people who could hardly communicate and tended to dribble, neither of which fitted Lennie very well.”

He sat quietly, in contemplation, and blew an aromatic cloud in the air. “He was an intelligent lad, Lennie, in his own way; as good as most at Maths and English and he liked history, especially World War Two. It was the spies, you see. He loved anything about spies. He used to have this little notebook diary thing. He took it everywhere. I suppose I’m to blame, teaching them all about the Special Operations Executive and their networks in occupied Europe. Well, after that, he seemed to get right into it. He’d read any spy book he could get his hands on. He’d often forget to take them back to the library and ran up quite a few fines. His mum couldn’t always afford to pay, so I’d help out, now and then. I sometimes wish I hadn’t: it only served to encourage him.”

He carefully took a few sips from his glass, as if reviewing the consistency of the flavour, then smiled contentment and said, “So, what’s your interest in Lennie, after all this time? You said something about cold cases but how does he fit into all that? They decided he was guilty. No one ever seemed to consider he might not have been or, if he was, that someone else helped him. I never thought he was guilty for a second though. He didn’t have it in him.”

Thurstan put his pint back on the table. “Like I said, I’ve been sent here to deal with some old cases and Leonard’s was just one which landed on my desk. I read through it and felt I should find out more. Some things didn’t feel quite right to me.”

“Oh, I see,” was the economical reply. Sat there in the sun, for several minutes they absorbed the warmth and wondered where to go next before Thurstan ventured, “Tell me about the interview you went to, when he was first arrested.”

“What’s there to tell? They asked him questions and he avoided telling them all he knew. That’s the impression I got from him. ‘Where did you get the coat?’ ‘A man gave it me.’ ‘Who was he?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘What did he look like?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Did you go in the house?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did you stab him?’ ‘I didn’t stab anyone.’ You must have listened to it, surely?”

Thurstan nodded. “Yes, I did. There was a break in it. What did you and Leonard discuss when the officers left the room?”

Ted was silent for a few moments before replying, “I knew things weren’t right. I knew he was playing some kind of game, and I said as much. Do you want to know what he said? ‘It’s alright Mr Latimer, I’m going to be OK, I was told so. It’s all part of the plan. I’m not allowed to say anymore, not even to you. If I do, everyone will know who I am.’ Well, I simply said virtually everyone already knew who he was to which he just replied, ‘No, you don’t understand. Everyone will know who I really am, what I am’.”

He paused, staring at his pipe. “Well, I’m afraid I got a little bit angry with him then and told him to stop lying and to tell the truth. I even said, and I remember it to this day, ‘Do you think you’re some sort of spy, Lennie? Stop living in a fantasy world, boy. Think of your mother!’ He just looked at me, almost pleadingly, and said, ‘I’m not allowed to say’. The detectives came back in then and, almost as if he just remembered to say it, he simply replied, “No comment” to every question they asked after that. When they took him out, he turned and said, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong’ and gave me a little smile. I couldn’t even muster one to give him back because I was so angry with him. But I was angry with myself as well, you know? I’d known he had this fascination and I’d allowed him, possibly even encouraged him somehow, to play his spy games.”

The DCI played with his beer and then took a mouthful. He thought for a moment then said, “You went and visited him a couple of times in Risley.”

Ted looked surprised. “How do you know?”

Thurstan smiled. “I’m very thorough. I checked their old records. What happened?”

The old man re-lit his pipe then replied, “The first time, he wouldn’t tell me much. He simply said someone was going to look after him, but he wasn’t allowed to say who. The second time, he’d changed. He wasn’t anywhere near as confident and told me he didn’t like it there. Do you know what he told me? He said there were boys in there who’d killed people and they smoked. Then he said he wanted to go home. It almost broke my heart, I can tell you. I cried on the way out.” Holding his glass, he stared at the contents.

“Well, I’d promised I’d go back the next week, but I couldn’t make it. I had to cancel. I honestly couldn’t make it. My late wife was very sick. He hung himself the next day.”

Thurstan had looked at Ted as the voice had begun to tremble and now saw the moisture in the old man’s eyes tumble out and run down his cheeks. He went to the pocket containing the clean handkerchief he’d learned to always carry but Ted had already produced his own large blue check one. Wiping his eyes, he murmured, “I’m sorry, lad.”

Not knowing what else to do, Thurstan offered to buy two more pints, but Ted resisted, saying, “I’ve got to go and empty my bladder anyway, son, and I’ll not have anyone think I can’t buy them a drink. Guinness, I think you said. Why don’t you try something else? They do the best Mild in St Helens here.”

Knowing it would be much cheaper than Guinness, Thurstan replied, “Do you know what? I think I will. I’ll have a pint of what you’re drinking, Ted.”