Suspect (28 page)

The volumes are stored on metal racks, listed by month and year. The 1970s and 1980s are arranged in quarters for each year, with surnames in alphabetical order. If Bobby has told the truth about his age, I might only have four volumes to search.

The year should be 1980. I can find no entry for a Bobby Moran or Robert Moran. I start working through the years on either side, going as far back as 1974 and forward to 1984.

Growing frustrated I look at my notes. I wonder if Bobby could have changed the spel ing of his name or altered it entirely by deed pol . If so, I’m in trouble.

At the front information desk I ask to borrow a phone book. I can’t tel if I’m charming people with my smile or frightening them. The Parkinson’s mask is unpredictable.

Bobby lied about where he went to school, but perhaps he didn’t lie about the name. There are two St. Mary’s in Liverpool— only one of them is a junior school. I make a note of the number and find a quiet corner in the foyer to make the cal . The secretary has a Scouse accent and sounds like a character in a Ken Loach film.

“We’re closed for Christmas,” she says. “I shouldn’t even be here. I was just tidying up the office.”

I make up a story about a sick friend who wants to track down his old mates. I’m looking for yearbooks or class photographs from the mid-eighties. She thinks the library has a cupboard ful of that sort of thing. I should cal back in the New Year.

“It can’t wait that long. My friend is very sick. It’s Christmas.”

“I might be able to check,” she says sympathetical y. “What year are you looking for?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“How old is your friend.”

“Twenty-two.”

“What is his name?”

“I think his name might have been different back then. That’s why I need to see the photographs. I’l be able to recognize him.” She is suddenly less sure of me. Her suspicion increases when I suggest coming to the school. She wants to ask the headmistress. Better stil , I should put my request in writing and send it by post.

“I don’t have time. My friend…”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait! Please! Can you just look up a name for me? It’s Bobby Moran. He might have worn glasses. He would have started in about 1985.” She hesitates. After a long pause she suggests that I cal her back in twenty minutes.

I go in search of fresh air. Outside, at the entrance to an al ey, a man stands beside a blackened barrow. Every so often he yel s, “Roooooost chestnooooots,” making it sound as plaintive as a gul ’s cry. He hands me a brown paper bag and I sit on the steps, peeling the sooty skin from the warm chestnuts.

One of my fondest memories of Liverpool is the food. The fish and chips and Friday night curries. The jam roly-poly, bread and butter pudding, treacle sponge, bangers and mash… I also loved the odd assortment of people— Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Irish, African and Chinese— good workers, fiercely proud and not afraid to wear their hearts and wipe their noses on the same sleeve.

The school secretary is less circumspect this time. Her curiosity has been sparked. My search has become hers.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find any Bobby Moran. Are you sure that you don’t mean Bobby Morgan? He was here from 1985 to 1988. He left in third grade.”

“Why did he leave?”

“I’m not sure.” Her voice is uncertain. “I wasn’t here then. A family tragedy?” There is someone she can ask, she says. Another teacher. She takes the name of my hotel and promises to leave a message.

Back at the color-coded volumes I go through the names again. Why would Bobby change his surname by a single letter? Was he breaking with the past or trying to hide from it?

In the third volume I find an entry for Robert John Morgan. Born 24 September 1980 at Liverpool University Hospital. Mother: Bridget Elsie Morgan (née Aherne). Father: Leonard Albert Edward Morgan (merchant seaman).

I stil can’t be absolutely sure that it’s Bobby, but the chances are good. I fil out a pink application form to order a copy of his ful birth certificate. The clerical officer behind the glass screen has an aggressive chin and flared nostrils. He pushes the form back toward me. “You haven’t stated your reasons.”

“I’m tracing my family history.”

“What about your postal address?”

“I’l pick it up from here.”

Without ever looking up at me, he thumps the applications with a fist-sized stamp. “Come back in the New Year. We close from Monday for the holidays.”

“But I can’t wait that long.”

He shrugs. “We open until midday on Monday. You could try then.”

Ten minutes later I leave the exchange building with a receipt in my pocket. Three days. I can’t wait that long. In the time it takes me to cross the pavement I make a new plan.

The offices of
The Liverpool Echo
look like a mirrored Rubik’s cube. The foyer is ful of pensioners on a day tour. Each has a souvenir bag and a stick-on name tag.

A young receptionist is sitting on a high stool behind a dark wooden counter. She is smal and pale, with curry-colored eyes. To her left is a metal barrier with a swipe-card entry that separates us from the lifts.

“My name is Professor Joseph O’Loughlin and I was hoping to use your library.”

“I’m sorry but we don’t al ow public access to the newspaper library.” A large bunch of flowers is sitting on the counter beside her.

“They’re lovely,” I say.

“Not mine, I’m afraid. The fashion editor gets al the freebies.”

“I’m sure you get more than your share.”

She knows I’m flirting, but laughs anyway.

“What if I want to order a photograph?” I ask.

“You fil out one of these forms.”

“What if I don’t know the date, or the name of the photographer?”

She sighs. “You don’t real y want a photograph, do you?”

I shake my head. “I’m looking for a death notice.”

“How recently?”

“About fourteen years.”

She makes me wait while she cal s upstairs. Then she asks if I have anything official looking, like a security pass or business card. She slides it into a plastic wal et and pins it to my shirt.

“The librarian knows you’re coming. If anyone asks you what you’re doing, say you’re researching a story for the medical pages.” I take the lift to the fourth floor and fol ow the corridors. Occasional y I glimpse a large open-plan newsroom through the swing doors. I keep my head down and try to walk with a sense of purpose. Every so often my leg locks up and swings forward as though in a splint.

The librarian is in her sixties, with dyed hair and half-glasses that hang around her neck on a chain. She has a rubber thimble on her right thumb for turning pages. Her desk is surrounded by dozens of cacti.

She notices me looking. “We have to keep it too dry in here for anything else to grow,” she explains. “Any moisture wil damage the newsprint.” Long tables are strewn with newspapers. Someone is cutting out stories and placing them in neat piles. Another is reading each story and circling particular names or phrases. A third uses these references to sort the cuttings into files.

“We have bound volumes going back 150 years,” says the librarian. “The cuttings don’t last that long. Eventual y they fal apart along the edges and crumble into dust.”

“I thought everything would be on computer by now,” I say.

“Only for the past ten years. It’s too expensive to scan al the bound volumes. They’re being put onto microfilm.” She turns on a computer terminal and asks me what I need.

“I’m looking for a death notice published around 1988. Leonard Albert Edward Morgan…”

“Named after the old king.”

“I think he was a bus conductor. He might have lived or worked in a place cal ed Heyworth Street.”

“In Everton,” she says, flicking at a keyboard with two fingers. “Most of the local buses either start or finish at the Pier Head or Paradise Street.” I make a note of this on a pad. I concentrate on making the letters large and evenly spaced. It reminds me of being back in preschool— tracing huge letters on cheap paper with crayons that almost rested on your shoulder.

The librarian leads me through the maze of shelves that stretch from the wooden floor to the sprinklers on the ceiling. Eventual y we reach an old oak desk, scarred by cutting blades. A microfiche machine sits at the center. She flicks a switch and the motor begins to hum. Another switch turns on the bulb and a square of light appears on the screen.

She hands me six boxes of film covering January to June 1988. Threading the first film onto the spools she presses fast-forward, accelerating through the pages and knowing almost instinctively when to stop. She points to the public notices and I make a note of the page number, hoping it wil be roughly the same each day.

I trace my finger down the alphabetical listing looking for the letter
M
. Having satisfied myself there are no Morgans, I accelerate forward to the next day… and the next. The focus control is finicky and has to be constantly adjusted. At other times I have to pan back and forth to keep the newspaper columns on-screen.

Having finished the first batch I col ect another six boxes of microfiche from the librarian. The newspapers around Christmas have more pages and take longer to search. As I finish November 1988 my anxiety grows. What if it’s not here? I can feel knots in my shoulder blades from leaning forward. My eyes ache.

The film rol s onto a new day. I find the death notices. For several seconds I carry on down the page before realizing what I’ve seen. I go back. There it is! I press my finger on the name as though frightened it might vanish.

Lenny A. Morgan
, aged 55, died on Saturday December 10 from burns received in an explosion at the Carnegie Engineering Works. Mr. Morgan, a popular bus conductor at the Green Lane Depot in Stanley, was a former merchant seaman and a prominent union delegate. He is survived by his sisters, Ruth and Louise, and sons Dafyyd, 19, and Robert, 8. A service will be conducted at 1 p.m. Tuesday at St. James’ Church in Stanley. The family requests that memorial tributes take the form of contributions to the Socialist Worker’s Party.

I go back through papers for the week before. An accident like this must have been reported. I find the news story at the bottom of page five. The headline reads: WORKER DIES IN DEPOT

BLAST.

A Liverpool bus conductor has died after an explosion at the Carnegie Engineering Works on Saturday afternoon. Lenny Morgan, 55, suffered burns to 80 percent of his body when welding equipment ignited gas fumes. The blast and fire severely damaged the workshop, destroying two buses.

Mr. Morgan was taken to Rathbone Hospital where he died on Saturday evening without regaining consciousness. The Liverpool coroner has begun an investigation into what caused the explosion.

Friends and workmates paid tribute to Mr. Morgan yesterday describing him as extremely popular with the traveling public, who enjoyed his eccentricities. “Lenny used to dress in a Santa hat and serenade the passengers with carols at Christmas,” said supervisor Bert McMullen.

At three o’clock I rewind the microfilm, pack it into boxes and thank the librarian for her help. She doesn’t ask me if I found what I wanted. She’s too busy trying to repair the spine of a bound volume that someone has dropped.

Despite looking through another two months of newspapers, I found no further references to the accident. There must have been an inquest. As I ride down in the lift I flick through my notes. What am I looking for? Some link to Catherine. I don’t know where she grew up, but her grandfather certainly worked in Liverpool. My instincts tel me that she and Bobby met in care— either at a children’s home, or at a psych hospital.

Bobby didn’t mention having a brother. Considering that Bridget was only twenty-one when she had Bobby, Dafyyd was either adopted or more likely Lenny had an earlier marriage that produced a son.

Lenny had two sisters but I only have the maiden name, which makes it harder to find them. Even if they didn’t marry, how many Morgans are likely to be in the Liverpool phone book? I don’t want to have to go there.

Pushing through the revolving door, I’m so lost in thought I go around twice before finding the outside. Taking the steps careful y, I fix my bearings and head toward Lime Street Station.

I hate to admit it, but I’m enjoying this: the search. I’m motivated. I have a mission. Last-minute shoppers fil the footpaths and queue for buses. I’m tempted to find the number 96 and see where it takes me. Lucky dips are for people who like surprises. Instead I hail a cab and ask for the Green Lane Bus Depot.

8

A mechanic holds a carburetor in one blackened hand and gives me directions with the other. The pub is cal ed the Tramway Hotel and Bert McMul en is usual y at the bar.

“How wil I recognize him?”

The mechanic chuckles and turns back to the engine, leaning inside the bowels of a bus.

I find the Tramway easily enough. Someone has scrawled graffiti on the blackboard outside: A beer means never having to say, “I’m thirsty.” Pushing through the door, I enter a dimly lit room, with stained floors and bare wooden furniture. Red bulbs above the bar give the place a pink tinge like a Wild West bordel o. Black-and-white photographs of trams and antique buses decorate the wal s, alongside posters for “live” music.