The Heroes - What an Anniversary!

Posted on: 28/01/2024

It's been a year since the debut novel, 'The Heroes' was published - and what a year it's been for the local Brighton author.

'The Heroes' has been featured on local Seahaven FM Radio and The London Book Fair.

"I would like to thank Tom, Hazel, Paula, and Simon for their encouragement during the penning of this book.  Most appreciated." 

'The Heroes' -  What is this debut novel about?

Spring 1968

Formerly inseparable, five boys, known affectionately as ‘The Heroes’, all of them eight years of age, school together, play together and explore together. One day in the spring term, one of them dies suddenly, in the arms of his teacher and their headmaster goes missing without a trace.

May 2019

Fifty years later, local private investigators, Robert Fox and Rosemary Bennett are engaged by the dead boy’s sister to find out if the headmaster is still alive, because he may hold the key as to why her brother, Derek, died.

Everyone says that he died of natural causes, but the boy’s sister believes it is something more sinister.

The two private investigators seek out the four remaining boys and their teacher, to help them in their quest for the truth about what happened to her brother and of the headmaster’s disappearance.

But they are not the only ones seeking them out.

The boys each have held a chilling secret, and someone wants to keep it that way, no matter what it takes.

Will Fox and Bennet find out what the boys know before someone else does?

Read Sample

Chapter One

The woman dressed in body-hugging black Nike running gear, stopped outside of the black entrance door, next to the hat shop in the Lanes, in Brighton Square. Familiar with the coded keypad, she punched in the entry door code for ‘Fox and Bennett – Private Detective Agency’.
“Best if you wait in the shop,” she said to the other woman with her.
The buzzer sounded, the locking mechanism clicked, and the woman pushed the door open, stepped inside and climbed the stairs in front of her to the first-floor landing. Looking to her right, on the opaque half-glazed panelled door was a sign–written in black, with the words ‘Fox and Bennett’.
She pushed the door open and let herself in. The Venetian blinds across the windows were open, and sunlight filled the room, illuminating the top of the two mahogany desks positioned opposite each other on either side of the room. One was piled high in papers and ring binder folders, the other clear and neatly set out with a business card holder on its right, blotter pad with a writing pad on top in its centre, and a phone on the left. A three-seater settee was positioned with its back against the window, and another door was tucked away in the far corner of the room.
Behind her came a familiar voice.
“Hello, Tegan. Come to check up on me, have you?”
Tegan turned to see Rosemary Bennett striding towards her with a tray of refreshments in her hands, the smell of fresh coffee replacing the stale air of the stairwell.
“Morning, Rosemary,” Tegan replied cheerfully, holding the door open, allowing Rosemary to pass her and place the tray on the clear desk. “I was hoping to see your new partner, Robert Fox. I have someone in the shop who is looking for you both.”
“You are unlucky today, Tegan, I’m afraid. He’s in London on business and I’m just off to an appointment.”
“Shame,” replied Tegan, showing her disappointment at not meeting Robert.
“He’s been with you for nearly a year now, hasn’t he?”
“He has indeed, and he has fitted right in,” replied Rosemary.
“Got his name on the door, I see, Rose, I mean Rosemary,” Tegan corrected herself.
Rosemary didn’t reply, so Tegan continued.
“I’ve been for a run along the seafront, this morning, where I joined a group of runners, one of which was telling me about wanting to find her brother’s headmaster, who she says is missing. Apparently, everyone has told her that he’s dead, but she’s not convinced. She didn’t say much more, just that she could do with some help from a local private investigator.”
“Has she been to the police?” Rosemary asked.
“Apparently so, they too have confirmed that he is probably dead. So, I told her about you and Robert. You know how I like to help local businesses in need, so I thought you might be able to help her,” suggested Tegan. “Her name is Jayne.”
“I can certainly have a word, Tegan,” responded Rosemary, grabbing a business card from the desk behind her, and passing it to her uninvited guest, said, “Ask her to call me when she can, and I shall be happy to talk to her.”
“Oh…I thought that you would like to talk to her now.”
“Now?” Rosemary replied, irritated at the fact that Tegan was now trying to organise her diary.
“Well, yes, no time like the present, is there? She is waiting downstairs, in the shop, and she was very insistent that she came to see you, now.”
“Really, Tegan?” replied Rosemary, trying not to lose her cool with her landlord’s wife. “I do have another appointment at ten-thirty.”
“Well, I’m sure this meeting won’t take long. I’ll get her now,” Tegan replied. She paced quickly out of the office and bound down the stairs. Rosemary didn’t hear the entrance door close shut.
I need to complain to Tegan’s husband about her just letting herself in without asking, she thought.
Rosemary busied herself by positioning a single chair in front of her desk, ready for the unknown guest, then checking herself in the full-length mirror which hung behind the office door, smoothing down her white blouse, then twisting the waistline of her grey knee-length skirt around, so that the side seams of her skirt were correctly positioned at her side, she stood in front of her desk waiting to greet her potential new client.
She heard the front entrance door creak open, then slam closed shut, followed by the stomp of two pairs of feet climbing the stairs.
Tegan stood to one side of the office doorway, allowing Jayne to enter the room.
“Rose, this is Jayne. I told her that you would be able to help her.”
Jayne was five-ten tall and slim, her body shape hidden beneath her black baggy jogging outfit, unlike Tegan, who enjoyed flaunting hers.
Rosemary took a step forward and held out her hand, which Jayne shook. “Hello, I’m Rosemary Bennett. How can I be of assistance?”
“I think I’m in need of your help, Rosemary. My name is Jayne Sargeant. I would like you to help me find the headmaster of Plumpton Primary School because he has disappeared, and I believe that his disappearance was because he stumbled on to something rather sinister to do with the death of my brother, Derek.”
“Have a seat, Jayne. Alright if I call you Jayne?”
“Yes,” Jayne replied, taking the seat offered to her. Tegan remained standing in the doorway.
“When did the headmaster disappear?” Rosemary asked.
“1968,” Jayne replied.
“1968?” Tegan blurted out, “That’s more than fifty years ago.”
“Tegan. Thank you,” scolded Rosemary, realising that she was still in earshot. “I will take it from here, thank you,” she continued, as she walked over to the door, ushering Tegan out of the doorway, and then watched her descend the staircase, opening the door onto the alleyway.
“Can you make sure that the entrance door is closed behind you, please? Thank you.”
Tegan slammed the door shut, and Rosemary returned to her office, closing the door behind her. Stepping around to her side of the desk, Rosemary continued the conversation.
“You were saying, Jayne.”
“You are the first person who hasn’t reacted the way that Tegan just did when I told them about the year in which he disappeared.”
Rosemary poured coffee for them both. “What about the police?” Rosemary asked.
“They’re of the opinion that as he hasn’t been seen for more than ten years, they have declared him dead,” Jayne replied.
“What does the headmaster have to do with your brother?”
“He was my stepbrother. My mother told me that Derek died suddenly in his teacher’s arms in the playground at the school, on the day when they announced that the headmaster had committed suicide.”
Jayne unzipped her hip bag and teased out a monochrome print.
“Derek died six months after this class photo was taken,” said Jayne, pointing to her stepbrother seated amongst school children, in front a brick and flint wall. “His death was recorded as heart failure, but my mother maintained that he was in the best of health, and then there was the headmaster’s note to her.”
Jayne handed over a triangular-shaped piece of paper which had been torn on the diagonal, on which there was a handwritten note, to Rosemary.
Rosemary read it out loud.
“Karen, I’m sorry. Peter.”
“Do you know Peter’s full name?” Rosemary asked.
“Peter Dennett,” Jayne replied.
“Do you or your mother know what he meant when he said sorry?”
“No, we don’t. My mother is in her eighties, she doesn’t remember too much nowadays, but she does remember the day my brother died.”
“When did she receive the note?”
“She found it in Derek’s old scrapbook photo album, when we cleared out the loft, six weeks ago. My mother is moving into a care home at the end of the month. I took the note to the police, but they took no notice. They told me that he had probably committed suicide by jumping from Beachy Head.”
“What evidence do the police have to confirm their presumption that he died?”
“They told me that the archive reports state that he was suffering from severe stress at the time when they discovered his car at the top of Beachy Head and surmised that he had committed suicide.”
“Can I presume that no body was found?” asked Rosemary.
“No, and it never has,” replied Jayne.
“Would you like me to find Peter Dennett?” Rosemary asked.
“Not just find him, Miss Bennett. I would like to know why he disappeared so suddenly, what caused him to go missing and never be found. I would also like to know why he put the note in the album, whether he is in fact dead or alive, and if he is alive, then where is he?”
“Why come to us now, Jayne?”
“It’s my mother’s final wish, so I’d rather engage you, if you have the time, so that I can spend what precious days I have left with her.”
“Do you have the album with you, Jayne?”
“I don’t, my mother keeps it with her. It’s the only tangible link between her and Derek. I can arrange for you to have a look at it in a couple of days.”
“Is there anything other than the photo which may help our enquiries?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“That’s fine, then we can start with what we have immediately, Jayne. We shall endeavour to find out all about Peter Dennett, but as you can appreciate, there are no guarantees that we’ll find the answers that you are hoping for.”
“I understand. I shall leave the photo and the note with you. Good luck Rosemary, and I hope to hear from you in the next few days.”
Jayne rose from her seat placing the cup and saucer on the desk, as did Rosemary, they shook hands and Jayne said, “I shall see myself out,” and left the office, closing the door behind her.
Rosemary heard Jayne descend the stairs, then the door creak open and slam shut.
Rosemary checked that the stairwell was empty and returning to her office, sat back down in her chair and studied the photo.
She grabbed her phone and called her partner in her investigation practice, Robert Fox, to tell him about their new client. He told her that he was working with one of his old colleagues in London, that he’d be staying overnight and that he would call her in the morning. She smiled to herself when he ended the call with his now-familiar departing phrase, “Signing Off.”
She signed into her computer, opened a browser, and typed in Plumpton Green Primary School.
There were several entries. She chose Plumpton Historic Society. On the menu, she pressed ‘Gallery’. The image on the screen in front of her showed four women sitting around a table with a man seated at one end.
Under the photo, it gave their names, Peter Dennett, Karen Sargeant, Teresa Johnson, Jean Field, and Charlotte Embling. She printed off the photo, then set it down next to the monochrome image given to her by Jayne and confirmed to herself that the teacher sitting in the middle of the classroom of boys and girls was the same as Charlotte Embling sitting at the table.
Rosemary typed in ‘the British Newspaper Archive’, into the browser which has over forty million archived articles online. Entering Plumpton Primary School, on one tab and Charlotte Embling on another, she found the address she was looking for.
“Look forward to meeting you tomorrow, Charlotte.”

Chapter Two

Rosemary Bennett watched the elderly woman tilling the sandy soil in the flowerbed, in front of her bungalow. “Hi there,” called Rosemary, gaining the woman’s attention, “I’m looking for Charlotte Embling.” The elderly woman stood unsteadily on her feet and walked over to the gate. A very elegant lady, Rosemary thought, seeing the old woman’s long silver hair grown down to her waistline, gently blowing in the cool breeze.
Charlotte hesitated before responding, her thoughts suddenly spiralling back more than fifty years. She hadn’t been known by her maiden name for years. To her neighbours, she was Charlotte Jackson. She contemplated her response, before giving her reply. “No one by that name here, young lady, sorry.”
“Do you know where I may find her?” Rosemary asked, “I was hoping that she could help me with my enquiries.”
“Are you the police?”
“No, I’m a private Investigator. I believe that she can help me find somebody.”
“May I ask who?”
“That information is between me and Miss Embling.”
“I am intrigued as to why you think she may live here. Who gave you this address, Miss…?”
“Miss Bennett, Rosemary Bennett. This is her family home according to the census of 1968 and I was given this snapshot of Miss Embling in this class photo,” responded Rosemary, holding it up in front of Charlotte. The photo in front of her was younger, but there was no mistaking the likeness, and she knew her visitor saw the resemblance too.
“You know, I haven’t gone by the name of Charlotte Embling since I was married back in 1974,” she replied to Rosemary.
Rosemary, in a quiet voice, said, “I presume then, Mrs Jackson, that you know Peter Dennett?”
“The Peter Dennett that I knew was once the headmaster of Plumpton Primary School.”
“Could we talk about him and the photo I have with me, please?” asked Rosemary.
Charlotte stared at the photo in Rosemary’s hand and remembered sitting in the middle of a group of children in front of the entrance to Plumpton Primary School, for the annual class photo. “You’re looking for Mr Dennett, you say?” asked Charlotte.
“Yes, I believe that you were a teacher at the school when he disappeared.” Charlotte looked warily at Rosemary, pondering whether she should talk to this stranger about her past, and then she shuddered, losing her balance, as her own comment struck her. Is Peter Dennett still alive? she thought.
Rosemary noticed her hesitation.
“Is he alive?” Charlotte questioned.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“For whom, may I ask?”
“The sister of this boy in this photo,” replied Rosemary, pointing to Derek Sargeant.
Charlotte’s expression changed in an instant, to one of confusion.
“Derek didn’t have a sister,” Charlotte announced.
“Oh, but he did. She was born after he died,” Rosemary replied, grabbing at Charlotte’s interest.
“Why does she want to know what happened to Peter Dennett?”
“She doesn’t; her mother does.”
“Karen? She had a daughter? I never knew.”
“It’s not common knowledge.”
Charlotte wobbled unsteadily on her feet, grabbing on to the gate between them to steady herself.
“Are you okay? Can I help you inside?” asked Rosemary.
She saw Charlotte take a couple of deep breaths.
“I think that would be a good idea,” Charlotte replied. Rosemary led Charlotte into her home with her arm under hers, closing the front door behind them, and leading her through the corridor to a room, where she sat her on one of the oak chairs positioned around the round oak table. She quickly scanned the room. The lounge-diner was sparse with two sideboards, just one settee, two matching floral armchairs and the round oak dining table they sat at, surrounded by four chairs. She watched Charlotte take a few deep breaths.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, “you’re very kind.” Charlotte and Rosemary sat opposite each other at the table with the old photograph that Rosemary had brought with her, between them.
“Can you tell me about this photo?” asked Rosemary.
Charlotte hesitated, thinking back to her time at the school.
“This is you, isn’t it?” Rosemary asked, pointing at the young teacher in the middle of the children.
“Yes. It was 1968. I remember it as if it were yesterday,” recollected Charlotte, as she ran her right hand through her long silvery hair, whilst gazing at the school photo of Class 3EM. “I loved teaching all the children in this photo, but I had my favourites, you know, as all teachers have. Mine were these five schoolboys sitting together. I affectionately named them as ‘The Heroes’ of Plumpton Primary School” – Charlotte recounted, pointing at each of the boys in turn – “because they all volunteered to retrieve their beloved football, when it had been accidentally kicked over the playground’s high chain-link fence, from the stream during the school lunch breaks. The shallow stream, which meandered alongside the school’s northwest boundary, slowly flowed towards Lewes, where it joined the River Ouse. It still does; however, the school is long gone. It was a funny sight, seeing the boys scaling over the high fence, them being just five years of age. Boys took risks in those days, nowadays, they don’t, and it was fabulous seeing them scaling the fence as they matured in age, especially when the boys were all the age of eight. It took them much less effort and little time to climb over the playground boundary, retrieve the ball and re-join their cohorts before they were caught red-handed by the other teachers or their assistants.” Charlotte tittered to herself. “The ball retrieval had always been a covert and exciting activity carried out by the boys, largely without incident, usually coinciding with a staged fight which was played out at the southern end of the tarmac playground. The fight diverted the attention away from the true goal of retrieving their beloved football. I know I should have stopped them climbing the fence, it was always a bit risky, but none of them ever fell, and they were my favourites. I made sure that I was always there to catch them if they were to fall, and as I’ve said, the stream was not fast flowing or deep.” Again, Charlotte tittered. “I remember that the punishment for the boys being caught outside of the school boundary was expulsion for the remainder of the week, sometimes two, plus, of course, the obligatory meeting with the parents, none of which any of the boys wanted. The tell-tale signs of their infringement, other than being caught in the act, had been when they had lost their footing and had slipped on the moss-covered banks into the slow-running shallow stream. There weren’t many occasions, but when they did slip, I was the teacher responsible for placing their wet clothes on to the radiators in the school staff room.”
Charlotte paused for a moment, then continued.
“All but one of ‘the heroes’ had slipped into the meandering stream in the first week of spring term of that year, two on the same day and were punished by expulsion for a week in which time they had all contracted flu. Their parents complained incessantly to the Governors of the school, saying that we weren’t taking care of them during school time and that the school’s security arrangements were severely lacking. The complaints rapidly subsided when any football games during breaks had been banned by the school, two weeks afterwards on the direction of the Education Authority, to the displeasure of all of the boys in the school.” Charlotte focused her eyes again, on the five boys in the photograph in turn. “It was the day after the ban that there was an unexpected and sudden arrival of men and women in white laboratory coats, in their waders, taking water samples along the stream.
The kids couldn’t take their eyes off them, pressing their noses up against the fence for a better view, although the visit was short.
It was a couple of days later that the northern end of the playground was separated from the school with another shrouded high-level chain-link fence. The security personnel in battle fatigues were posted at the entrance gate onto the highway at the front of the school and a convoy of mobile cabins were wheeled into the enclosure.”
“What did Peter Dennett make of all of this disruption to the school?” Rosemary asked, trying to steer the conversation towards finding out about the headmaster.
“Poor Mr Dennett, the school’s Headmaster seemed keen to involve the pupils of the school with the unusual activities going on behind the fence. He proclaimed himself editor of the school magazine, which he named ‘The Meander’, its name derived from the meandering stream of course, which he was due to publish, but the small paper was confiscated by the Education Authority that very morning from the school, before it was circulated.
He didn’t attend school that day, or any day after that, which took us all by surprise. We were told the very next day, in his office by the Chair of Governors, that he had gone missing and a week later he was presumed dead. His car was found at the top of the cliff at Beachy Head. His body was never found, and many surmised that he had committed suicide. Personally, I do not believe he could do that.”
Rosemary reflected on the conversation with Jayne, and it seemed to coincide with Charlotte’s account. “On that tragic day, when we learnt about Mr Dennett’s apparent demise, the five heroes” – Charlotte said, pointing to each of the boys in turn – “John, Keith, Alan, Trevor, and Derek, were playing tag with each other in the playground. Derek had been complaining to me earlier that morning of feeling unwell, and his mother had been called to collect him as soon as she could. He perked up a bit at morning break and was happily running around through the crowded playground, ducking behind a group of boys gathered around two opponents playing conker fights and another group of girls playing hopscotch. Towards the end of the break, I could sense that Derek wasn’t right. His speech was slurred, and his body movements became robotic. I remember quickly pacing towards him, the mass of children parting, forming a clear pathway for me, as I strode directly towards him. He saw me coming and he ran directly into my open arms. I will never forget the horror on his face, his eyes staring up at me, then the sudden fitting of his body as he fell into my arms, his dead weight pulling me to the ground, and grabbing hold of his jumper at his chest with his right hand, he gasped, ‘the spacemen’ with his last breath. I saw his eyes roll back into his head and felt his boiling sweaty body go limp. I cradled his sodden, clothed, lifeless body in my arms, tears streaming down my cheeks as I cried out for help.” Charlotte paused to gain another deep breath. Rosemary’s lips were pursed as she held Charlotte’s gaze, listening intently to the tragic events unfolding.
Charlotte’s soulful eyes locked with Rosemary’s and said, “I couldn’t save him you know; he died in my arms. Those poor children were standing around me, the other teachers asking if Derek and I were alright, and then Derek’s mother appeared in front of me and saw me sitting on the ground, with her dead son in my arms. I didn’t know what to say. All I could say was ‘I’m so sorry’. The look of disbelief, a look that only a mother makes when she knows the worst has happened. That look will be etched on my mind forever.” Charlotte broke down sobbing quietly, her head bowed, the tears now flooding over her flushed cheeks. Rosemary looked at the pensioner’s silver hair falling to each side of her face, patiently waiting for Charlotte to recompose herself. After a few minutes, Charlotte raised her head and stroked her long hair away from her face. “I’m sorry. What must you think of me?” she asked, as she palmed the tears from her face.
“Charlotte, the last thing I wanted was to upset you,” Rosemary said.
“I haven’t spoken about the past for many years, not until you turned up at my door,” replied Charlotte, “in fact, I haven’t spoken to anybody for a long time.” She paused, regaining her thoughts. “I felt sorrier for Derek’s mother. They didn’t release his body from the mortuary for over a month. It must have been torturous for his mother. He was her only child. They told her it was because they had to do a post-mortem, not once but twice. They, the health authority, said he had died from a heart attack that could have happened at any time, apparently from an underlying health condition that had never been picked up previously. His school friends were traumatised, blaming themselves for making him run after them around the farmer’s barns and fields on the previous night. They told me that ‘the spacemen’ were chasing them, but when I enquired, everyone in the village told me that it was their imagination running away with them. I kept reminding the boys that it wasn’t their fault” – Charlotte again paused for a few moments, then continued – “I left the school shortly afterwards and teaching in this country, for that matter. I have never forgotten that day, and never will.”
“Have you kept track of the others?” asked Rosemary, as she looked carefully into her eyes.
“The others?”
“Yes, John, Keith, Alan and Trevor.”
“The Heroes,” Charlotte replied. “What teacher doesn’t remember the children in their care? I can tell you now that they all excelled in their schooling and have forged their own successful careers.”
“Do they contact you, or you contact them at all nowadays, Charlotte?” Rosemary saw Charlotte smile and her eyes dart upper left, signifying that she was remembering happier times again.
“I bumped into Trevor just last week in Oxford Street, literally, when I was going into Selfridges. He was very sweet, and I was elated when he immediately recognised me, after all these years, and called me Miss Embling. He was coming out of the department store, having bought his wife a beautiful vase for her birthday. He nearly dropped the bag that it was in when we collided as I entered the store. I didn’t recognise him at first, but as soon as he called out my name and mentioned his and Plumpton School, the memories came flooding back, and now,” she hesitated, then continued, “you are talking to me about my time at the school.” Charlotte suddenly looked concerned. Rosemary could see the change in Charlotte’s facial expression. She knew she had to get more information from the only other real lead she had in finding out about Peter Dennett.
“So, how was Trevor?”
“Oh, he is very well. He is so tall, so handsome and he has one of those fashionable sculptured beards. We went for coffee in the new restaurant on the first floor of Selfridges. Now, what was it called?” she asked, as she raised her eyes to the ceiling, scanning her memory for the answer.
“The Brasserie of Lights,” Rosemary replied.
“Yes, that’s it. Have you been there too?”
“I have been there a few times,” replied Rosemary.
“It’s beautiful. We sat directly under the silver Pegasus.”
“I remember sitting there too; it is beautiful,” responded Rosemary. “Does he live close by the restaurant, do you know?” Rosemary asked.
“I’m not sure. My knowledge of London is not the best,” Charlotte replied, “but he works in an office in Green Park, just along from Annabel’s Wine Bar, he told me. He must be doing very well for himself. He was wearing a very expensive suit and that vase that he bought for his wife must have cost him over a thousand pounds!”
“Wow,” replied Rosemary, committing Charlotte’s response to memory. “You must have felt so proud of Trevor when you met up with him.”
“Oh yes, I was, and I am. I was just trying to work out how old he is now because he was eight when I was twenty-two.”
“That would mean that he is fifty-nine now,” Rosemary replied.
Charlotte nodded. “How time flies,” she muttered.
“Can I use your bathroom please?” requested Rosemary.
Charlotte nodded and led the way out of the lounge-diner and pointed to the door in the corridor to her left. Rosemary snibbed the lock on the toilet door, took her iPhone from her pocket and fired off a quick text confirming Trevor’s whereabouts. Just as she re-entered the lounge, a text message pinged up on her phone. She quickly glanced at the response. ‘Message received. Be in Green Park within the hour. Signing off.’ Charlotte was seated at the table. Rosemary could sense that Charlotte had something on her mind. “Now, where were we?” Rosemary asked.

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