IN SEARCH OF THE REAL FRANK CARVER — an extract

Hold the front page

'This could be a real scoop, a totally different take, a genuine human interest story. And it's right in our own backyard, Trevor. You need something to get your teeth into. You'll never get a better chance than this.'

I lean forward, adopt an expression of guarded enthusiasm and marvel at the strength of the buttons keeping Derek's stomach the other side of his shirt. I try to count the dots on his flamboyant bowtie, anything to stop me raising my eyes to the most elaborate comb-over I've ever seen, a miracle both of engineering and hair lacquer. 

'So what do you say, Trev? Are you up for this?'

'Erm, I don't know boss . . ....  It's not going to be easy. The nationals, both the gutter and the chatter, are going to be all over this, waving their greasy chequebooks. Why would anyone let a local paper, no disrespect, even put a foot in the door?'

'It's because we are local and we are straight. Those are our big pluses.  We have a well deserved and, I might say, hard earned reputation for fair play and we know the people.  No one else can claim the same. And we are in at the beginning.' 

Derek's enthusiasm is making him quite animated and I'm beginning to worry about the top of his head.

'There is more than one reputation at stake here, Trev. And it's what the locals think that people care about. The neighbours, the shopkeepers, all those we come into contact with on a regular basis. Only a local paper can help in a situation like this.'

We're discussing the biggest story to hit Wokehurst since the Wanderers apparently made it through to the third round of the FA Cup over twenty years ago.  A local guy, Frank Carver, a so-called pillar of the community, has been charged with murder and no common or garden one at that. Derek's idea is that we interview Carver's friends and family, discover the man behind the headlines and seek out any clues in his history that might support the allegations. We'll cover the trial of course, like everyone else, but then we'll print a special edition of the paper and publish it on the day of the verdict, which could be weeks away. 

I think he's living in cuckoo land.

'I know Frank Carver, Trev. I've played golf with him, that was when I could play golf. We've sat on the odd committee together. He's a decent chap. I don't think he would have done anything as horrendous as this but, even if he has, there's got to be some explanation. You're the man to find it. An experienced journo, an objective professional, an outsider, if I may put it that way, looking in.'

I'm not sure he believes the soft soap any more than I do. He's trying to convince a washed-up Fleet Street hack whose last full-time job was on The Grocer for heaven's sake. So here I am at The Wokehurst News and Mail, Chief Investigative Journalist, well the only one to be totally accurate. I've not had a drink for six months and I'm not sure this last chance saloon is the most appropriate place for me.  I heave an internal sigh.

'Give it my best shot, boss. Don't expect miracles. I can't believe the nationals won't have sown it all up by now but I'll take the file and get on the blower.'

'Good man. I knew I could rely on you. And Trevor, stop calling me boss will you?'

I give him a grin and wave him back to his seat as he attempts to rise. His crutches lean against the desk, testament to a blameless life brought low by a virulent and, as yet,   unidentified virus.

I wander back to the open plan part of the office giving a weak smile to the raised eyebrows of young . . .... I'll remember his name in a minute, and plonk myself down in my chair. As I steel myself to make the first telephone call, I look around the tired-looking room with its second-hand furniture and third class people. What the hell am I doing here? I've been at the paper just over a month, having been 'let go' by The Grocer a year earlier. I'd wallowed in self-pity and Irish whiskey for a while and I'd still be doing so if it wasn't for that letter from my daughter. Swapping spirits for the spiritual in the twelve step programme has not turned me into a member of the God squad, but I suppose it has given me the opportunity to take a sober look at myself, pun intended. I tell myself I'm lucky to have a job, a halfway decent one, and pull the telephone towards me. The first person I call is Frank Carver's brother, Simon. I play the integrity card for all its worth.

'If you know the paper Mr. Carver you must know we will handle it differently. We won't pontificate or sensationalise. All I'm asking is . . .'

'Words, just words. I've already  had two of the red tops camped outside and they were only persuaded to leave when I threatened to let Duke off his lead. I don't even know why I answered the phone.'

'Mr. Carver. Don't you think it would be good if someone gave your brother at least the benefit of a doubt? All I'm asking is an hour of your time. I want people to learn about Frank the man,  not the monster the media have already started to create.'

'Enough. I get the message. Get over now and I might answer the door. The trouble is away visiting our eldest so I could cope with a little distraction. Got the address? Can't miss it. It's the last one on the left.'

  Was it me or the paper? Probably just a bored man with a big ego. Who cares? I think I might be back in business. And I owe Derek Tindall. He was my first boss when I was a rookie on a trade paper. He taught me a lot but I never gave him a second thought when I landed a job on a National in the dying days of Fleet Street. But Derek was the only one who got in touch when I hit rock bottom. He's a decent man and deserves my respect. The News and Mail may not be the centre of the universe but it's a decent enough local paper and that's down to his ten years at the editor's desk.  He's given me a chance and I better take it. A double murder doesn't happen every day and it is on my new doorstep. Let's see where it leads.

The brother

Wokehurst is a big enough town to have more than one posh bit but I'm told The Ridings is where the new money lives.  My chatty Asian minicab driver is of the same opinion. As he reverses away I plod up the long drive admiring, if that's the right word, the faux Georgian columns guarding the brilliant burgundy-coloured front door of the double-fronted detached house. I push the bell and, as the strains of Land of Hope and Glory fade away and the barking of a distant dog continues, Simon Carver opens the door. I'm taken aback for a moment because he looks nothing like his brother. I know what Frank looks like, everybody does. His face has smiled or scowled, depending which image has been chosen, from newspaper pages and television screens over the past couple of days. That face is thin, verging on gaunt, the hair fine and dappled with grey, eyes myopic behind thick, dark-framed spectacles. Now here stands his brother, his twin actually. If Frank is the chalk, pale and wan, Simon is a ripe, robust double Gloucester. Curly, blond hair falls almost to his shoulders, his ready smile splits a perma-tanned face and piercing blue eyes seem to combine both menace and welcome. He's dressed in a purple, designer tracksuit and I just know he's very proud of the physique beneath it.

'Ace reporter Trevor Jenkins if I'm not very much mistaken. Come in, you're making the porch look untidy.' Simon extends his hand and I feel the pressure of a couple of large rings and a man used to getting his own way. 

'Get you a drink?' he calls over his shoulder, as we cross a thick, shag-pile carpet into a sunlit room boasting a view of a large outdoor swimming pool and decent-sized garden, laid to grass.

'Coffee thanks, black, no sugar.'

'Nothing stronger?'

'No thanks. I don't drink.'

'Heard a rumour.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You didn't think I'd let you come here and quiz me about Frank without doing some checking, did you? I rang Derek Tindall, your saintly boss, as you were on your way, wheedled some info out of him. Seems he's a bit of a Perry Como.'

'Come again?'

'Catch a falling star.' 

'Very droll but, Perry Como? Bit before your time surely?'

'Love the old crooners, Sinatra, Bennett, real music not like today's tosh. Grab a pew . . . not that one. I'll get your coffee, black death I call it. Mineral water for me, you've got to keep hydrated.'

As he powers up some espresso machine and tells the dog to shut up, I wonder what Derek's told him about me and whether it'll help or hinder our chat. One thing I do know, those crooners had to step aside when rock 'n roll came on the scene and quite right too. The first might cure insomnia, the second cures practically everything else. Once we've settled down and he's reclining on his white leather lounger, I've decided on the direct approach.

'Look you know why I'm here Mr. Carver. Your brother's on trial for double murder. He's local, well you both are, and we thought it would be only fair to show our readers the man not the myth most of the media are creating.'

'Lovely sentiment. What you really want is a scoop, a sales increase, a career rescued in freefall, an offer from one of the big boys when they realise you're not a spent force after all.' He takes a sip of water from a cut glass tumbler and stares at me.  

I relax my hands and return his stare.  You meet all sorts in this business and you learn to keep your emotions in check. 

'You've got that wrong Mr. Carver.'

'Simon, for Christ's sake.'

'Simon, then. I'm pleased to have this job on the News and Mail and I'm not looking for a way back to the big boys. This is it. I'll repay Derek's faith in me by doing as good a job as I can for as long as he'll have me.'

'Have it your way. Look, I don't really know what you want me to say. We're talking about my brother, my twin for God's sake! Banged up for killing two innocent people. This isn't easy. Yeah, wWe've had our ups and down over the years, what siblings haven't? I was a bit of a bastard to him in the past, especially in the early days. Doesn't mean he didn't deserve it.  But that's old history. We're mates now, or were, you know, until all this kicked off. We'd hang out occasionally, have him and her ladyship round for dinner, play a bit of snooker. I always won, mind. And now you're here, looking for a story while he's looking at a long stretch in prison.' 

'Only if he's guilty of course.'

'Naturally and I pray to all the gods going that he isn't.'

  'Tell me about him. What sort of person is he? Are you similar, being twins?'

'Now you're asking. No, far from it'.

Simon goes quiet for a moment. What memories are stirring? I've never had a brother or sister, would have been nice, but surely, in a terrible situation like this, the over-riding desire would be to help, to comfort, to protect, regardless of whatever's happened in the past. Or am I being naive? Simon leans forward.

'Look, tell you what, I've just had a thought. I'm gonna tell you something about Frank, might just put things in perspective, help you a little bit. You see Frank wasn't so much an afterthought as an after birth. You won't know the story.' Simon sits back in his hideous lounger and clasps his hands behind his head. He's enjoying himself, the smug git.

'We're gonna go back to the beginning. Mum had just delivered her precious, long-awaited son, that's me of course, when the midwife said, 'There's another one,'. aAnd mum, bless her cotton socks, replied, 'No, I don't think so.' It was like she was turning down a second cup of tea. Of course there were no sophisticated scans in those days, no print-outs of indecipherable images with which to bore the pants off friends and family. Poor mum must have thought there was a very restless kid stampeding around inside her. We were probably fighting even then. Anyway a few minutes later out he popped. He wasn't expected, he wasn't planned, he was a bit inconvenient, tell the truth. I mean what was the point then of a single pram, a single cot? Mum and dad rose to the occasion, course they did, claimed to be proud as punch to have twins. They showed him love but, to be honest, he wasn't very good at returning it. I reckon he always had that feeling he was an accessory, a minor character if you like, not the main attraction.'

It sounds like an often told story and I can't help but feel there's a hint of guilt behind it, long-term guilt, worth probing a little.

'That's very helpful, interesting perspective as you say. Perhaps you could tell me something about growing up together. You went to the same schools, including the senior one, I understand. Have I got that right?'

'Going back a bit aren't we? Yeah we both went to Donmead. That was one thing I do reckon mum and dad got wrong. Absolutely insisted we were not going to be separated. Hearts in the right place, wanted me to look after my little brother. Had to go out of the county though before they found a school that would take us both.'

'Why was that then? Didn't want to take twins, seems strange.'

'Nah. I wasn't academic, only just scraped through my eleven plus as it was then. Done alright mind. You don't need exams to make money. I mean look at this place, worth a bit north of two million. Anyway, Frank's few mates all went to St. Mark's, the local grammar, decent comprehensive now, good enough for my kids. He could have gone, should have gone, but they didn't want me. So we end up at Donmead. Big on sport, they welcomed me with open arms. Rugby, cricket, I was always in the first team. And boxing. Made me captain a year below the top form. Used to practice on Frank sometimes, no, only joking.'

I don't sense much humour in Simon Carver as he sits there relishing his role of story teller. I'm pretty certain I would not have enjoyed having him as a brother, but if all I ever interviewed were nice people I'd soon cloy of the same diet.

'But Frank didn't settle in well, is that what you're suggesting?'

'Too right. First couple of years he hated it. Fish out of water. Went from top of the class at our old school to near the bottom. He was unbelievably shy, wouldn't say boo to a pigeon. Had no real friends.  Mind you the teachers didn't help either. Priests mostly, Catholic school of course, Jesuits. What is it they used to say?. 'Give me a child to seven and I'll . . . fuck up the rest of his life.' Simon gets up suddenly, walks over to the patio doors and, looking through the glass, does some stretching exercises. More memories?

'Right lot of bastards some of them. Very good at, well I suppose you'd call it intimidation. Picking on the weaker boys, heavy with the cane and the sarcasm. They liked me, blond, blue-eyed, athletic. There was one . . . anyway, they tended to pick on Frank. But that's history, one of my least favourite subjects. You asked. I told. Gonna get a refill. You? 

'Another coffee would be good.'

'Your funeral.'

As he leaves the room I take the opportunity to get up and nose around. What really catch my eye are the photographs. Dozens of them, on the walls, on tables, on the expensive-looking piano in the corner. Lots of Simon with various, what,? Bbusiness acquaintances I suppose, on the golf course, on a yacht, in a nightclub. He always seems to be in the centre. Then some with family. He has two boys, both grown up and living away, and a marriage apparently often on the brink of divorce. Fair play to Derek, he'd done his homework. Carver's wife, judging from the few photos of her, doesn't fit the image of the ageing bimbo I was expecting to find, more like an attractive librarian.

'Clocking the Trouble I see.'

'Fine looking woman, your wife I assume?'

'Beauty and the beast. Only I'm the beauty in this marriage. She's got the brains though. Punched above my weight in that department. Anyway haven't got all day. Where were we?'

'Frank at school. Did life get better for him?' Carver hands me my coffee and we both resume our seats.

'Oh yeah. He came good in the end. School toughened him up, made him more, what's the word, resilient, that's it. He settled down, found some friends, became the class clown or so I heard, they'd put us in different forms.  Frank did alright in his exams, stayed on for the sixth form, nearly went to university, ended up in advertising. That's when we started to drift apart.'

'Really. So why was that then?'

'Obvious isn't it? I left school at sixteen, got a job straight away, building site. Good money, my first motor when I was seventeen, more girlfriends than I could shake a stick at, not that it was a stick I was shaking.  Happy memories.'

'And Frank?'

'Well he had two more years of school, didn't he? No money, no girls, still as shy as Shergar and, being brutally honest, the handsome gene had skipped over him.' Simon jumps up, grabs a photo I hadn't noticed and hands it to me.

'There's me and my little brother. Not exactly identical are we?'

It's the two of them, looks like it was taken a few years ago, some social gathering in Simon's garden. He's pretending to push his brother into the swimming pool. He's laughing, Frank is squirming. They don't even look like brothers, let alone twins. I hand back the photo.

'So, not close in looks, not close at all?'

'By the time he'd left school and failed to get into university - that was another real dent to his confidence - I'd got my first pad with a couple of mates and of course he was still living at home.'

''So you saw less and less of him. He did start on a successful career though didn't he?'

'If you like. Poncey advertising. Started as a trainee executive. Well that's what he called it. Messenger boy more like. Earned peanuts. Had to wear a suit. And they made him do evening classes. Not my idea of a good time.'

'But worth it in the long run? Ended up a director?'

'Yeah. Credit it where it's due, I suppose. The boy came good. Took a while mind. He always was bright, good at listening too, gave off this air of caring. Clients appreciate that sort of thing. So he rose through the ranks and ended up helping to run some sort of agency.'

We sip our drinks and I wish mine was something stronger, the taste for it never goes away, don't care what they say. He starts using his glass like a dumbbell, flexing his arm and I sense he's getting bored or restless. Time to cut to the chase.

'So long story short. Have I got this right? Frank does better than ok in his chosen career. Marries, one child, moves back to Wokehurst. Happy ever after? Obviously not.' 

'Well that's a life in three sentences. And another big one on the horizon.' 

'So what went wrong and, I'm sorry but I have to ask, do you think he's the sort of person who could kill?'

'That's the big one isn't it?  I can't get it out of my head. My brother, a murderer? Is it possible? My own flesh and blood, the person I've known longest in my life. Look, before I kick you out here's what I think about Frank. He was and is a shy little boy with a bit of a chip. There's this veneer of confidence but inside he feels unloved, unappreciated and perhaps, deep down, I don't know, unworthy. Cod psychology if you like but booze became his best friend.'

'Real problem thean?'

'Not at first and he hid it well. Look in my job you graft then you play. You can't run a roofing company with sixty staff from inside a bottle. But in Frank's case you could. Client entertaining was half the job. And it made him more . . . entertaining, class clown coming back. Then it became the whole job, leading to no job. Ring any bells?'

And just for a moment I thought I'd detected a hint of humanity. Cocky bastard. Don't let it show.

'Bells? Perhaps you're back in the boxing ring, Simon.  So tell me, was he what you'd call a happy drunk?'

'Or did he turn violent you mean?  Did he kill the two of them in a drunken rage? I've no idea. I wasn't there. He won't let me see him so I haven't got his side of the story. The sixty dollar question? I don't know. They're dead. He's alive. Something happened.'

'So you have tried to visit him in prison then. Why won't he see you?''

'Said my piece. It's time you went. I'll tell Derek you did a good job and didn't try and get in my drinks cabinet. Now sod off will you, no offence.'

Simon jumps up from his chair and hustles me out to the front door. He looks uncomfortable, embarrassed even. Frank has rejected him, refused a visit from his only brother. That says a great deal. Waiting on the corner for my minicab to arrive, I'm already writing my piece.  I don't think Simon 'big brother' Carver is going to like it. I should care.

The Girlfriend

Back at the office I give Derek a brief recap on my meeting. He's got good news. He's telephoned Avril Johnson, the one the tabloids are calling Frank's girlfriend. He knows her from when they were both governors at a local school and, reluctantly, has agreed to see me. Apparently she needs to put the record straight. Whatever that means. I've had enough for the day but before I slope off I ask young whatisname to see if he can find any contemporaries of Frank from both his schooldays and his career. He seems pathetically pleased to be given something vaguely interesting to do. Must make a change from births, deaths and marriages. I walk out of the office and contemplate an evening with a stir fry, some vintage Little Richard and an early night in my luxurious bedsit. Of course they don't call them bedsits anymore, they're studios or studio apartments or bijou residences. Call them what you like, they're still single rooms with four walls. Mind you, I don't suppose I'd swap my cell for Frank Carver's.