The Disappearance of Sylvester Purbeck

The Disappearance of

Sylvester Purbeck

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Promethean

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Smashwords Edition © by Hylton Smith 2019

Chapter 1

April 1967

The weather forecast missed the target once again. Gale force winds, lashing rain and rolling thunder. The offices of solicitors normally conjure up sterile, organised workspaces which run according to strict practices, limiting any off-the-cuff modes of behaviour. This Friday morning was different. The unofficial entertainer within Jacobs, Watson and Middleton, a truly reputable name, hadn’t arrived and it was already 10.15 am. This was very unusual for Sylvester, as he’d never been late for work or absent in almost twelve years. One of the lower paid members of the practice ‘hierarchy’, he was actually the lynchpin of scheduling, data retrieval and communication with the plethora of court personnel. Most of the senior partners and second tier managers considered him to be far too flippant regarding his view of their heavily buttressed clique, but he was nevertheless highly valued by the personnel at the front line. On this chaotic Monday everyone was concerned, a fluctuating cocktail of worry and anger.

Cyril Jacobs was sailing steadily towards full retirement within five months. A paternalistic replica of his father, who was a founding member of the organisation, Cyril was fonder of Sylvester than the rest of the senior echelon. His official remit had not yet changed but it was obvious to all that he was already freewheeling to herbaceous borders and extravagant world cruises. His intention was to spend every winter with his wife in their secluded villa in Portugal. Grey haired and quite stooped, he suffered from multiple arthritic complications and the warmer climes always eased his burden. He’d decided to drive to Sylvester’s home, rather than continually listening to the engaged landline tone. He was no longer handling ongoing cases and his short absence wouldn’t affect the workload at all.

Melanie Watson was overtly angling to occupy the void of the outgoing ‘godfather’ and didn’t bother to feign otherwise. She was Teflon-like in rebuffing claims that she was far too abrasive to fill Cyril’s boots. Typically, she was openly cursing Sylvester, saying his playboy persona was always destined to let the firm down at some time. She busied herself by re-allocating duties rather than procrastinating as to why Mr Purbeck had gone AWOL.

Cyril, why waste your time chasing after that prima donna? There’s more than enough to do here, just look at his desk, a total mess. Good riddance is what I’d say, this is a good opportunity to fire the disrespectful cretin.

Melanie, give the drama queen a rest. He never leaves his desk like this, and that’s why I’m concerned about his no show. I’ll be back within the hour.

Meanwhile, another strand of conjecture was being aired. Geoffrey Middleton was trying to placate one of the junior staff. Thomas, calm down. Just tell me exactly why you fear for his safety.

I was in a hurry to leave last night and Sylvester was unusually disturbed about something, whimpered Tom Williamson, one of five junior clerks, and I told him I had to meet my girlfriend even though I could see he was really upset. He looked scared, that’s not Mr Purbeck.

Middleton stroked his chin ruefully. You can’t assume he’s in danger or any trouble as yet. He might have had some bad news, like a family bereavement or something. Just go about your work as normal, I’m sure we’ll know more before too long.

One of the retained barristers was rushing around, uttering profanities while trying to locate his case file for a fraud trial in the afternoon. Jeffrey Egan had an impressive reputation for winning lost causes in court, and at the same time being absent minded about practical stuff such as filing papers. Visibly sweating, he aired his frustration to Victoria Pinsent, whom he was tutoring. What a total arse Sylvester can be! He knew I had to see the judge this morning, so why the hell didn’t he leave the prep work on my frigging desk last night? Learn from this, Vicky, you have to spell it out in words of one syllable what exactly you want from these jumped up admin bods.

I don’t like to be addressed as Vicky if you don’t mind. Leave me to look for the file, it doesn’t help to merely rant about Sylvester without knowing why he isn’t here yet. Do you want a coffee?

Yes, why not? I’m going to receive a reprimand whenever I do get to court now. Thank you Ms Pinsent.

*

June 1948 had seen the vessel - Empire Windrush dock in Tilbury. It heralded the impending welcoming of an entire generation of immigrants from the Caribbean region. Sylvester hadn’t been long in this world when his mother stepped off the Windrush, unsure about what their new life would bring. In those days his name was Tobias Marley. Not the family name of his biological father, who was rumoured to be an obscenely rich American businessman. A love child of an unmarried mother wasn’t particularly helpful to one’s social standing in Jamaica so soon after the Second World War. Leona Marley, despite her total dedication to her young son, finally accepted she’d never be able to get employment of sufficient reliability in Jamaica to raise Tobias with any prospect of a decent future. Disembarkation was supposed to be the first step on to the blank canvass of a resurgent Britain. It didn’t quite turn out the way she expected. Within six years she contracted aggressive cancer of the lymph with a prognosis of only a few months to live. In utter desperation she persuaded a neighbouring family to take in her son via the adoption agency. She passed away three and a half weeks later, but not before she wrote a message in Tobias’s favourite storybook, and impressed upon him to look at it every single day. Tobias was never told that his mother had died, a charade was constructed to give him hope that she had merely gone back to Jamaica to see her parents, and would return sometime soon.

The ensuing years were incredibly difficult for him. No sign of his mother returning and a cuckoo-like existence within his foster family. He’d never been truly accepted by the Jacksons’ children as one of them, and the parents appeared to be blind to such persecution. Indeed the father, James Jackson secretly forbade him from being registered as Tobias Jackson, telling him to pick a totally different name. As the alienation grew and the ache of missing his mother was ever present, he felt trapped and this triggered relentless emotional isolation. It was no surprise that he vowed to escape from the suffocating Jackson dysfunctional family life. On his eleventh birthday he went missing. Even though the adoptive father, James Jackson, reported to the local police that his son Jermaine West was missing, his concern was half-hearted at best.

Manor Cross, in the same way as many other suburbs in the capital was already transmuting from a diverse residential makeup to more of an enclave of ethnic origin. Many opportunities beckoned young boys in particular to drift into the murky world of gang subculture. Perfect if one didn’t want to be found. Identity change was recommended and free if all other entry tests were passed. Tobias excelled in every respect and had already changed his name at his foster father’s insistence. He’d chosen Jermaine West, thus satisfying the entry condition of being untraceable back to any family willing to cooperate with the police.

Having effectively bypassed childhood, he rose through the ranks steadily rather than meteorically, staying under the radar of competing gangs in other boroughs.

The years had rolled by with so much success, and at twenty-two years of age he reasoned that it would be dangerous to be promoted yet again. He enthusiastically planned his second journey to anonymity while ensuring that Jermaine West, just like Tobias Marley, would become a missing person. Renting an apartment in one of the more cosmopolitan areas, he quickly attended to the creation of the person he really wanted to be. Step one was a visit to an ultra-reliable passport forger. Thankfully his gang involvement had exposed him to a gateway of the slightly more ‘legitimate’ ones, relatively free of the tentacles of the violent underworld. Step two. Having studied four nights a week at evening classes he gained the necessary GCE passes to open up the chance of going to university. Sylvester Purbeck only became reality when he knew for certain that he was still untraced. Only appearing in an ‘official’ way at approximately the same time as he entered preliminary law school. His bizarre objective being to engineer becoming nothing more than a student of average ability, and to scrape through his final examinations. That achieved, he began his secret era of being strictly self-taught. This would have been a strange sequence for most students from privileged backgrounds, but essential for Sylvester to maintain a low profile. And where better than a starchy but reputable solicitor’s practice? Chief cook and bottle washer seemed about right, apparently posing no threat to the high and mighty colleagues by whom he would be surrounded. In reality, he became infinitely more knowledgeable than most of the blowhard solicitors and barristers on the company books. A perfect position of invisible power and a potential entrance to other activities. Jacobs, Watson and Middleton was ideal, a traditional and highly reputable firm with no burning aspiration to worship at the altar of legal notoriety. A haven of modest stability was his perfect cover.

*

Melanie picked up the phone. Hello, Cyril, so where is he?

Not here. The concierge kindly let me into the apartment when I explained the situation. The place had been ransacked from top to bottom. I must say that the police responded quickly when I insisted something sinister was going on here. Anyway, it’s a crime scene now and I’m on my way back, but there was a daubing on a living room wall, with just one word – ‘traitor’. It’s perplexing because there’s money in his bedroom drawer and very expensive paintings hanging correctly in every room. His watches, of which he had many, and other valuable accessories are still lying around. There’s no sign of blood as far as I could see, but the forensic squad may find some evidence of that when they arrive. It seems to me he could have been abducted, but let’s wait until the police find something definitive.

I’m so sorry, Cyril, I let my mouth run off this morning. Is there anything I can do here?

Not yet. Oh wait, the police said they will need to come to the office to investigate any possible link to his workplace. I told them that such a link was pure fantasy but they insisted it was standard procedure in building up a picture, especially of his recent movements. Just prepare the staff for this, we can’t avoid it no matter that it may bring adverse publicity.

*

The frenetic office bewilderment ramped up another notch just as two individuals turned up at reception. The female was first to speak, announcing themselves as D.I. Norman Richardson, and herself, D.C. Helen Hunt. We need to speak with the man who called the police to the apartment of err…Sylvester Pub…sorry…Purbeck.

Please take a seat and I’ll find Mr Jacobs for you.

We’ll stand if you don’t mind, said Richardson, we’re very busy. So, could you track down Mr Jacobs quickly?

Of course, right away in fact.

Cyril Jacobs appeared at the top of the ornate carved Edwardian staircase and motioned the two police officers to join him. In his opulent chamber, Melanie Watson and Geoffrey Middleton were deep in conversation and obviously in disagreement about something. The door opened and Jacobs introduced the two officers.

D.I. Richardson wasted no time getting to the point.

Can any of you explain to me why you felt the need to check out Sylvester’s apartment when he was merely ninety minutes late? I mean, come on, he could have come down with the flu or had his car break down. Normally we would only consider a person to be missing after a couple of days.

Jacobs explained that Sylvester wasn’t a ‘normal’ employee in that sense. He was Mr Reliable, he’d have called to say he was going to be late. He was a man of impeccable punctuality. It was just a foreboding feeling on my part, so I called his number several times but nobody picked up. I wondered if he’d had an accident or a heart attack, or something out of the ordinary which prevented him from letting us know he’d be late.

Melanie and Geoffrey nodded in agreement. Jacobs noticed D.I. Richardson’s sceptical expression, and was about to make a comment when the Detective Inspector resumed his rehearsed probing.

In that case you’ll be interested to hear that forensics have found dozens of different fingerprints in the apartment. There was also some spots of blood on a Chinese rug in the hallway. Tests are underway and at this stage we’re looking at this as a potentially suspicious disappearance. What does that mean? We need evidence to rule in or out various scenarios, so we want to begin with finding out more about Sylvester. Did he get on well with people here?

Melanie responded immediately. I didn’t warm to him and neither did one or two of the management staff, but I suppose it was nothing more than frustration or annoyance at what he didn’t say when he patently disapproved of our instructions.

Geoffrey Middleton backed this up but said despite this ‘insolent attitude’ Sylvester was a likeable character. Cyril Jacobs agreed with both of his fellow partners.

Richardson nodded. Then you won’t mind us speaking with everyone here, beginning with whoever saw him yesterday just as he was leaving work.

An awkward silence ensued before Richardson altered his tone. Can I assume you being lost for words means yes?

All three of them affirmed this but looked utterly apprehensive.

Chapter 2

Young Tom Williamson was visibly nervous as he was first to be called for an interview with the C.I.D. officers. D.C. Helen Hunt took the lead. Ok, Tom, we understand you were the last one to speak with Sylvester yesterday. Is that correct?

Yes, well, I mean he was still here when I left work.

Right, and what time was that?

Tom thought about it for a few seconds, squinting and looking up at the smoke-stained ceiling. I think it was about six-thirty, err, no, no, I heard the office clock chime as I left. It must have been a little after six, because I caught the twenty past six bus.

And what were you talking about with Sylvester?

Uh, just the usual, I was going to meet my girlfriend for tea and then off to the pictures.

The two detectives glanced at each other. So, what movie did you see? asked D.C. Hunt, and where did you have your tea?

I had tea at my girlfriend’s house and at the cinema we saw the latest James Bond film – ‘You Only Live Twice’.

D.I. Richardson spoke for the first time. What was Sylvester doing when you left?

He was preparing the briefs for today.

Richardson pressed on. Was it normal for him to be working when everyone else had left?

Yes, replied Tom instantly, every evening, I think he did so because he could clear the workload a lot quicker when there was nobody to distract him. I’ve been told he often stayed until eight o’clock, when the cleaners arrive.

D.C. Hunt resumed her line of questioning. Maybe he was worried or upset about something last night, did you notice any such behaviour?

Not at first, Sylvester doesn’t talk about himself much, but he did say he would finish his workload by about seven o’clock. He then kept dropping files on to the floor and swearing. That wasn’t like him at all, he always had everything under control, especially his language. I asked him if he was feeling ill, but he said not. I thought he looked pretty anxious and I asked if there was anything I could do to help. He then seemed to be on the verge of tears, but when he smiled he told me to go and enjoy the movie.

Did Sylvester have any pets? inquired D.I. Richardson.

Err, oh, I believe he had a cat with a funny name, a strange name which I can’t bring to mind.

And what about friends, did you know of any?

No, I don’t think anyone here knew much about Sylvester’s life outside of work. He was a very private person. Oh, one day I overheard him on the phone telling someone called Lewis that he shouldn’t be contacting him at work, and then ending the conversation by clashing the phone down.

"When was