Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  I hurt him on both shins, enough to make him double up and spew foamy phlegm from his mouth. It hung in a dribble from his lower lip, but I wasn’t going to hang around until it fell.

  “Salope!” He shouted after me, but his drinking had slowed him up. I reached the unlocked kitchen door at least three lengths clear of him and slammed it shut on his angry face. I drew all its bolts across and closed the window just as a grimy hand was about to snake in. “You have a short memory, Laure.”

  Only then did I realise that the door had been unlocked all along. And where the Hell was John Lyon?

  Yes, the chair he’d sat in was angled away from the kitchen table as if he’d suddenly had to stand. But although his jacket wasn’t there, my brother’s anorak and drawing things were exactly as I’d last seen them.

  All I could hear was my heart as my fingers located the biggest carving knife in the drawer. The same one Papa had wielded. I took it up into his study from where I could see the liar slinking back to his filthy trailer.

  I picked up the phone.

  No tone.

  I tried the one in Papa’s bedroom, where the bed was unmade and, like Vervain, his smell still lingered.

  The same dead silence.

  What to do?

  Someone had not only taken the one thing that gave me a reason to get up in the morning, but also had isolated me. Now every second mattered. Vervain surely knew I’d give my life for him. I’d told him often enough. With shaking fingers, I dug around in my rucksack and found his first photograph. Even though his face had been shrouded by what Cerys had later said was a lucky ‘cawl,’ his eager, baby eyes met mine.

  *

  I’d hated that little graveyard from the minute I’d first seen it, but that hadn’t stopped Papa insisting I occupy the one room overlooking its lumpy grass and tilting headstones. “Mathieu’s too young,” he’d said at the time. “He’ll get upset.”

  “Perhaps when he’s older.”

  But what if he wasn’t going to get any older?

  Tucked amongst my Tampax, unused for the past three years, lay the garnet-coloured rosary that Elisabeth gave me for my Confirmation. I’d stopped going to Saint- Benoît’s church after Maman died. Just to step inside that sombre, incense-scented place, made me freeze. Instead of hope, it celebrated death and decay. Even its organ creeped me out. Elisabeth threatened that if I didn’t keep up my Confessions and use this rosary every day, I’d be a lost soul for ever. Une ȃme derangée, as she’d put it. As for the gold crucifix identical to hers, non, merci. She’d been the one wanting to join the Order of the Blessed Saints once she’d retired from teaching last summer, not me. As for Mathieu, he’d buried the same souvenirs of Les Tourels on the beach at Aberaeron during a school trip last year, then forgotten where.

  Now, with the bigger Pater Noster bead cold between my finger and thumb, I prayed for him to be safe. Prayed too that in future, I’d be a better sister.

  *

  I changed my underwear and jeans, nicking my stomach skin as I pulled up its zip, and tiptoed out of my bedroom. Sometimes I’d imagined hearing long-dead whisperings rising up from that ancient, place of unrest, making me listen to their memories and realise how we’re all just two missed heartbeats away from that same fate.

  But not now...

  All was deathly quiet. The knife’s handle heavy in my hand as the drainpipe took my sliding weight until my boots touched gravel.

  Sssh…

  I knew a short cut to Glan y Mor and crept along it, aware of rain-softened foot and hoof prints mostly belonging to Papa’s hack mingling to a mush with mine. If Gilles Dugard hadn’t been around, I’d have borrowed that mare to ride, for this was taking too long. Me against the world. The bad, drizzly world. And my heart was bad too, because I’d not done any of this for Mathieu.

  I’d try Kevin first, then that useless local cop, telling myself so what if it was late? They had to know what had happened. I finally and blindly reached the gate that led down between the terraces of stone houses, then stopped. The knife was too big. Too risky, so I hid it for later amongst clumps of conveniently uncut grass that lined the track. I was just checking none of its blade would catch stray torchlight, when I distinctly heard footsteps coming toward me and, in the murky gloom, made out the stumbling figure of a man shambling from side to side. A man, stinking of horse manure.

  Merde indeed…

  I reached down for that hidden knife, then realised who it was, frantically pushing the kissing gate open.

  14. John.

  Friday 11th March. 9.25p.m.

  Still no boots, no keys or phone or socks and God only knew where I was. The night’s drizzle made everything unrecognisable, and I felt drunk on the Christian staples of sorrow and pain. In that order. I could probably cadge some footwear then drive back to the hotel. Leave all this sorry mess behind. A valued employee shot in cold blood, a weeping girl, a missing boy. A family splintered through its heart.

  But no.

  Having finally found a muddy track leading to what I hoped was civilisation, I needed directions for Ty Capel. To head -butt Gilles Dugard before the cops got to him first.

  Meanwhile, that empty, double bed at Coed Glas, would have to wait.

  At least Sion Evans’ Motorola was still working and in that dank, black night I paused as his brother picked up. He was at home. Just down the road, Sheepish wasn’t the word for it, but he was interrupted by the slurp of footsteps running towards me followed by an angry shout of recognition.

  Laure Deschamps? What was she doing here?

  *

  The whites of her eyes blazed like those of her horse. Her hair and clothes the same as mine. Wet, dishevelled.

  “No!” she cried, trying to snatch the two-way off me. “Papa said he didn’t want flics, remember?”

  “Since when did you cow-tow to him?”

  “I’ll smash it to bits like he did with mine.”

  She would have done, too…

  “Don’t you know about perjury?” I shouted back. “It carries a jail term. Is that what you want? Because I bloody don’t.”

  I wasn’t going to regale her with my nightmare in Perpignan last June. She’d enough to deal with. She was also looking me up and down.

  “Why perjury? You’re a fine one to talk after what Gilles Dugard has just said. That it’s you who’s taken Vervain and Mathieu…”

  “What?”

  That dank night not only reached my marrow, but froze it.

  *

  Seconds later, we gripped each other’s hands for the simple reason she didn’t want me falling over. So here I was, Granddad Lyon schlepping along in her holey socks, on a dismal night with a relative stranger, yet one with whom I felt a growing connection.

  She’d eventually believed my story that I’d been out searching for her brother in one smelly old barn after another, and I’d lost my footwear while trying to get my feet clean in a stream. We then agreed to meet up with DC Eifion Evans whose house wasn’t far. There, I’d hopefully get an update from the Transport Police and, if Eifion Evans was to be trusted, plan the next moves.

  During our short journey to the track’s end and up Glan y Mor’s main street, Laure filled me in on her abortive trip south with her father who still somehow planned to run her horse tomorrow. Also. his affairs, her mother’s depression and in the background. her banished, caring aunt. But how could I in turn reveal that I’d actually been in that transporter? Seen her beloved horse most likely already dead, and sensed that Mathieu might also have been on board? I had to perpetuate my flimsy lie, but with each step, knew that before we reached number 6, Morfa Road, she’d have to know the truth.

  “Look, I’m not blaming you,” she said as we reached the steps down to the main street. “It’s Gilles. I’m sure he knows what’s really happened to Vervain. ‘Papa swears he’s God’s gift to horses. Is he blind? Is he stupid?”

  I took a deep breath. Time to come clean. Alison would expect no less. And
Ben Rogers, God rest his soul.

  “Laure, look, I’m sorry. I’ve lied to you,” I began, then soon wished I hadn’t.

  *

  A panicked silence in that wild, ancient place swallowed up the drizzle’s whisperingsr and the sea’s restless surge to the rocky shore. Then, like those waves meeting an immovable obstacle, came “I fucking hate you! I hate you!”

  She slammed against me, all young bone and grief, heaving, pummelling my arms, my chest until for a split second, a speeding car’s headlights trapped us in their glare.

  *

  I didn’t need to ring the bell of number 6, as its front door was already half open and a shifty-looking Eifion Evans looked us up and down then beckoned us in. Encased in a black tracksuit with VICTORY in white across his front, he’d obviously had a recent shower and crumbs stuck to his lips.

  “Come through and I’ll put another log on the fire. The wife’s away at her sister’s and Rhys is supposed to be in bed, so take off your coats. Plenty of hooks…”

  He then eyed my socks. “I got spare of them and all.”

  “They’re OK,” I said, making sure the two-way was well hidden. “But if I could borrow a pair of boots, shoes whatever. Size ten. I’m no use to anyone like this.”

  I noticed Laure standing stock still. Time running out, so while our host located a pair of thick-knit socks and well-worn brown walking boots from under an assortment of outdoor gear and handed them over, I thanked him then asked if the Transport Police had yet come across the dark blue Scania transporter.

  “In here,” Evans diverted, gesturing to a back room and once inside, squatted by the open grate, his tracksuit bottoms strained tight over his substantial buttocks. Builder’s crack on full show, black and hairy. As if aware of our stares, he straightened up to indicate a round table set for two, on which the remains of an improvised meal were still in place. The fire still unlit.

  “Do sit down,” he said. “Can I get you both a tea?”

  “I asked a question,” I reminded him.”

  “And my horse is even further away.” Laure added. “Talk to Mr. Lyon, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want my beautiful boy hurt.”

  “We’ve tried contacting your father, mind,” he said, “but no reply. And as for the transporter…”

  “Your brother’s transporter,” I corrected him, thinking of the useful rifle I’d left in its murky bowels.

  He flinched. Looked away.

  “So far no joy. The focus in on Poole, given Danny Lennox’s location and where this Scania may be heading.”

  “And who was your contact? Can I please have the number?”

  Evans tore the corner off a piece of kitchen paper and obliged. His ballpoint creating a series of blue holes in the flimsy paper. I half-recognised the name. DS Dave Rickards transferred from Nottingham some eight years ago to be nearer his ailing parents. I wasn’t holding out any great hopes.

  Sounds of reggae music were coming from upstairs. Laure tensed up. I still wasn’t off the hook as far as she was concerned, but could you blame her?

  “You must have known where they were going!” she accused me. “North, south, east, west, or are you going to fob me off again? Poor, damaged Laure…”

  “I’d really no idea. D’you think I’d be here otherwise?”

  She chipped in, looking next at Evans.

  “You must have heard something beforehand. Your brother and that weird woman were in that truck’s cab. Stealing my horse.”

  Just then, came the thud of footsteps on the stairs. Eifion Evans started. His face a dangerous shade of pink.

  “What’s up?” The black-haired boy in too-big pyjamas stood half in, half out of the room. Also plump with those same black eyes buried in pads of fat. A spiteful mouth. “I done something wrong again?”

  “Where’s uncle Sion gone? Did he say?” asked his father. “He’s not been answering his phone or two-way radio, and you were helping him out earlier.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “With the mart lambs.”

  A shake of the head.

  “He never said nothing about no horse.”

  “Who mentioned a horse, then?”

  “Her. Beti cow-face.”

  Bingo.

  “Was she with him?”

  A shifty pause.

  “Answer me, son.”

  “You’d better,” I added.

  “She was. But so what? They’ve been shagging for yonks.”

  *

  Once the effect of this shock statement had waned, the lad’s father persevered with another question.

  “Did either of them mention France at all? He’s been over there several times.”

  At the ‘France’ word, Laure had pushed her fist into my arm. It seemed as if just then, her youth had vanished.

  ‘We’ve got all the papers, so back off or you’ll be next for the abattoir.’

  “We haven’t got all night, Rhys,” I said. “And withholding information is a serious offence.”

  “Might have done.” He mumbled.

  I addressed the potly cop, now the colour of a beetroot.

  “Any workers from his other business we could ask?”

  “What other business?”

  “Halal meat,” said Laure scornfully. You know, letting animals bleed to death without stunning them first.”

  “No. Just him and her,” said the boy, perhaps remembering my recent threat.

  He was lying. But not very well.

  “Nice people. No wonder your father described her as ‘not your normal woman.’”

  Fresh pee darkened the upper legs of the boy’s pyjamas. With difficulty, I held Laure back from physically attacking him, and added another question.

  “Did this Beti and your uncle mention Mathieu Deschamps at all?”

  At that, the young, puffy faced Rhys Evans turned away. “No, and I don’t know where he is, neither. Honest to God…”

  “I never said he was missing.”

  “Came on the news earlier in uncle Sion’s cab,” he sniffed. “Been working out ever since where he might be.”

  Was this a clever manipulator, or your typical cop’s kid? Yes, I’d heard he was a bully, but was probably bullied far harder. I then spotted a framed photograph of an equally well-covered young woman holding a baby. Presumably his mother, looking less than happy with her lot.

  Eifion Evans picked up the wall-mounted phone from next to the dead fire and gestured for the boy to go.

  “Who are you calling?” I said.

  “Transport Police. Like you told me to. They’ll cuff my brother before he can take a squat.”

  “Tricky for you, now, surely?”

  Eifion Evans closed his eyes and made a throat-slashing gesture. “Yes, I’ll be stuffed. No job, no pension. If he lets me live, that is.”

  “Tell them she’s got a gun,” I said as he dialled. “A new Beretta Elite. Knows how to use it too. I also heard him take a call from some woman. I remember the words ‘delay,’ money” and ‘knife.’”

  Laure let out a cry, but I couldn’t look at her.

  Evans then began and ended his message. His body slackened but not for long. Loud reggae music had resumed upstairs. He rolled his eyes in despair. “Do you want ‘im? I’ve given up.”

  “Not just at the moment,” I said. I want to hear Gilles Dugard start singing, and get a new lock sorted for my flat in Nottingham.”

  *

  After that visit, Laure and I didn’t speak. To her just then, I still was the lowest form of life. I’d let her down, let myself down and with every quickened step back to Ty Capel, realised that frightened cop would be more concerned about saving his own skin than anyone else’s. For a start, he’d left the crucial ’brother’ word out of his recent phone call, but then thirty years in the business had taught me that people could be full of surprises.

  Another inadequate was the racehorse trainer himself who’d not only destroyed his daughter’s treasured phone, but so far
not sent her any fatherly message of regret or commiseration.

  So, there was just me and a disturbed, seventeen-year-old perched on the edge of what seemed just then, an ever deeper, ever more dangerous pit. I wanted to be out there, ideally with Alison and my old team from Sherwood Lodge HQ. Getting the show on the road.

  “Why has Vervain been taken?” Laure suddenly shouted, above the nearby sea’s constant motion. “Is it really to an abattoir? Tell me. You’ve been a cop.”

  Been. Exactly.

  Waves still punished the nearby cliffs. Gulls up late, mewled then vanished.

  “Laure Deschamps, it’s actually you who should be telling me.”

  15. Elisabeth.

  Friday 12th March. 10.30 p.m.

  I felt really quite unwell. Better to have had the Channel’s turbulence beneath my shoes than the sly shift of water flowing this way and that.

  Despte that, I made my way up to the bar on Deck E, where that same barman was busy filling the various displays of snacks - roast peanuts, ham and cheese-filled baguettes, and pizza slices whose toppings reminded me too much of old blood. I needed alcohol. Strong and effective. Immediately effective.

  “Double gin,” I said to him. “And soyez vite.”

  “Are you OK?” He focussed on my blemish. My always reliable stress indicator.

  “I’m fine,” and, seeing the Dog Collar’s eyes on me reflected in the bar’s long mirror, moved away the moment that ice-cold drink was in my hand. A gulp slipping refreshingly down my throat.

  Then I remembered my car keys.

  Non…

  I wasn’t alone. Other voices rose and fell. Still angry and indignant, just like my students at school whenever any small liberty was removed. Influenced no doubt, by too many flic crime dramas and courtroom scenes.

  “We want our lawyer,” said one.

  “Trust the French to act like Nazis,” said another. “Why we’re selling up in bloody Brest.”

  “Damned cheek. I’ve personal stuff in my car.”

  “Invasion of privacy, that’s what.”

  But no-one had a problem like mine, and not for the first time since I’d stepped on board, did I close my eyes and let my trembling fingers follow the dips and curves of Christ’s little, gold body hanging from my neck.