Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  “My God,” murmured Catherine. “This is getting weird.”

  “Look,” I said to Lockley, “There’s Stephen Vickers as well. Catherine’s husband. He’d asked me over to Norfolk on Saturday to help with certain research he’d been doing. He has to be found before he’s either hurt or hurts himself.”

  “I do know the history, and we’re doing all we can, as I’m sure you’ll remember from your time in…”

  “And my son?” Catherine snapped, as if preventing Lockley from mentioning Nottingham. To rub in my new lowly status yet again. “He’s missing too.”

  “The same for him as well.” The Detective Sergeant then opened the door on to a grizzled guy in blue dungarees dangling a huge bunch of keys. His eyes suspicious. The embroidered hospital logo dominating his chest. “Derek here has to secure the premises. It’s been a long day for everyone, and tomorrow will be busier still.”

  “Any match yet with that black metallic paint found on the victim’s car?”

  Catherine flashed me a glance then turned away. Lockley on the other hand, sighed as if I were tiresome schoolboy. At that moment, her two-way radio crackled into life. She backed away to be out of our earshot. Clearly something important had come up.

  *

  “Well?” I queried, once she’d finished. The expression on her smooth, fleshy face inscrutable.

  “Are you psychic?”

  “I get the occasional hunch.”

  “OK. That paint you mentioned has just been matched to the Mitsubishi Pajero marque. It’s a start.”

  Brilliant.

  But Catherine shivered for the second time. Pulled up her mac collar and, having found a pair of leather gloves in her pockets, slipped them over her fingers.

  “More than that. A breakthrough.”

  “Mr. Lyon, in our rural, farming region, the Pajero is one of the most popular 4x4s and black a favourite colour, so you can see what we’re up against.”

  “We had a black 4x4 following us in the dark earlier on.” I glanced at Catherine. “Are you sure you don’t know what Chisholm drives?”

  A shrug that didn’t quite work.

  “And before you mention that dinner again,” she snapped. “I was too busy fucking cooking it to notice.”

  Silence fell in that cold room of the dead. I broke it, addressing Lockley again.

  “We can soon find out, and we urgently need to ask why no number plates? And if that Fiesta was the late Nicholas Beecham’s missing car, why the hell Greg Lake was driving it?”

  “We?”

  Thank you for that.

  She indicated to the caretaker we were ready to leave. But I wasn’t.

  “This mysterious visitor you mentioned. Did he drive himself here, and if so, in what vehicle? Would anything be captured on the CCTV?”

  “Can we please go,” said Catherine. “I’m sure DI Lockley’s quite capable of dealing with everything, and you seem to be forgetting, my Stephen’s still missing.”

  That made me more determined.

  “Connor Morris told me that Greg Lake, the dead driver, had also been found wearing a gold crucifix around what was left of his neck. Is this correct? If so, could I please see it?

  Catherine made a small noise.

  Lockley’s round eyes widened. “Really? I don’t recall seeing that listed here. I’d have remembered if so.”

  “Plot thickens. Greg certainly wasn’t wearing one when I saw him yesterday.”

  I handed her my card, keeping the surly janitor in my sights. After those two other goons we’d met on our way in, I was taking no chances. “May I see your ID? I said to him. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Hey up?” He looked at Lockley. “Tell me I’m hearin’ things?”

  Her meaty hand cupped my elbow. “This way, Mr. Lyon. You too,” gesturing to Catherine. “We’re all tired.”

  “When’s the Post-Mortem likely to be?” I persevered, aware of Mr. Dungaree’s death stare.

  “I’m afraid we don’t know yet.”

  Not the first time since I’d retired, did I feel exclusion’s cold embrace, made little better by Catherine taking my hand.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered as the door was locked behind us. “I’ve just remembered something, and it could be important.”

  “About the crucifix?”

  “No.”

  *

  We’d left Avril Lockley on reasonable terms and in a hurry, wary of meeting any more lunatics on the way out. However, once settled together in my car and seeing the hospital shrink into the night behind us, I said to Catherine, “that was nice. Not.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t say that. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Even as I said it, sensed my earlier resolve to clean mirrors and purge away smoke begin to falter. For wasn’t this the undegraduate I’d danced with in Durham university’s student bar when Stephen had found yet another Godforsaken place or other to explore, and she’d cried off? The one I’d more than once envisaged following me down to Nottingham?

  So where did that leave duty? The courage to ask her what needed to be asked?

  Christ, I was a mess.

  *

  By 11.30 p.m. we’d reached Stoney Linton, a village near the Norfolk/Suffolk border where Greg Lake had lived for the past two years since landing the Archive Technician’s job at the university. His one-way ticket to a refrigerated drawer.

  Huge, black firs, even more dense than those near Wombwell Lodge, clustered around the first few houses, all detached with here and there, the odd upstairs light on. Through my car’s half-open window, I read the road sign High Street, heard faint sounds of barking dogs and the throb of pop music as we passed ‘The Woolsack,’ which seemed to be the only pub. Someone having fun, I thought enviously, before my old job kicked in, fretting over such blatant abuse of its licensing hours.

  “Why not call Piotr?” I suggested to Catherine. “You were so relieved it wasn’t him back there. Surely he needs to know about your brother as well?”

  “I’m too tired. I will first thing tomorrow.”

  “Let me, then.”

  I had his number.

  She raised both hands in a gesture of despair, and I let it pass, but what was going on? He was her son. And missing. Just like her husband. She seemed increasingly to be following her own set of rules, shutting me out, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d say when I told her about her brother, and at the inevitable Inquest into Nicholas Beecham’s death. No date had yet been set and, with Connnor Morris also off the scene, I had to admit I’d probably be the last to know.

  *

  Five minutes later in that same, dank drizzle, we were creeping along Spinney Close, a development of more modest semis and maisonettes, while I looked for number 18. Without expecting much of a result, I gently reminded her, “what was it you remembered back there that was so important?”

  Her prompt, almost eager reply caught me by surprise.

  “Something Stephen said when we’d first moved to Longstanton.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’d taken a group of history students to Holcott on the Norfolk coast. Some old chapel or other, looking out over the North Sea. He kept going on about it. How peaceful, how he felt safe there…”

  “Safe from what?” I changed down to first gear. Greg Lake’s neat semi was in darkness. No police cordon to be seen.

  “He never said, but I guessed he meant Nicholas.”

  “Perhaps because your brother wanted whatever he could lay his hands on about your paternal grandfather and Vesper House?”

  Omitting the ‘why?’ clearly ticked the right box, and Morris’s news of the threats could keep.

  “Yes. And not so long ago, when he came calling with Piotr, he behaved like a boor, demanding to have a snoop at everything in Stephen’s study. Stephen stomped out of the house, even though it was snowing outside, and Nicholas then said he wished him dead.”

  He’s dead, too…

  O
dd that Stephen himself hadn’t mentioned it, I thought, pulling up the handbrake and shivering.

  Catherine gripped the black file even more tightly.

  “You never said.” I looked a her.

  “I’ve had Piotr to worry about.”

  “Did you tell DS Morris after Nicholas’s suicide?”

  Silence. Just me, her and the drizzle.

  “Look, John, I appreciate everything you’ve done so far, but…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Some things are private.”

  She twisted her head away from me round to stare out of her window.

  “How far is Braythorne from this place?” I ventured.

  “Never heard of it. Why?”

  “George Chisholm lives there.”

  The car window and its dark view had suddenly lost its appeal. Her tone was even sharper, accusing. I’d touched a nerve. “How did you know?”

  “Been a cop, remember? And while I was at it, learnt to kill more than two birds with one stone.”

  *

  Connor Morris, my lifeline, was off the scene, while Greg Lake’s death remained a mystery. Had he been deliberately pushed in the path of an express train? If so, why? And was the crucifix still on his body when he’d arrived at the morgue?

  I was sure more than ever, that the answer to this most callous of crimes and the two still missing men, lay with the black file on my companion’s lap, and possibly the green folder still underground.

  Here was a woman who, minute by minute had become more and more of a stranger. Further questions weren’t the answer. Instead, I was going to have to be very careful and work behind her back.

  I glanced in my rear-view mirror yet again. No following lights, but who knew what lay further around the corner just off the High Street?

  “Come with me,” I said. “Quick.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure we should even be here. I mean, you’re not…”

  “A cop any more? Go on. Say it,” I snapped.

  “Please, just leave me in the car.”

  *

  Greg Lake’s narrow-fronted home seemed to embody a lonely sadness. My impression was right. There was clearly no one in, and while I repeatedly rang the front door bell in vain, a neighbour emerged from the adjoining semi where a Hillman Imp was parked on the small drive. He wore a tartan dressing gown, matching slippers and spoke with a distinct local accent. Eric Reddings, in his fifties and just back from inspecting a North Sea oil rig, examined my card under the minimal glow from the nearest street lamp.

  “When did you last see your neighbour?” I began.

  “Thursday evening, before I left. Anything wrong?”

  “You could say that.”

  He eyed my Citroën and its lone occupant who seemed asleep.

  “Who’s she?”

  I was ready.

  “My friend’s wife, and it’s not what you think.”

  He shrugged.

  “Nothin’ to do with me.”

  Another upper light came on in a house further down the crescent. In my experience of late-night enquiries in Nottingham, it wouldn’t be long before we were surrounded by the curious. But then it was hardly a chequered Sierra with spinning blue lights parked outside, and I was hardly dressed like a cop. Uniform or not.

  “Have you seen a thick-set man, dark-haired, glasses, bit older than you, hanging around? Maybe driving a black Pajero 4x4?”

  Reddings rubbed his eyes. Thought for a moment, probably still hearing the din of waves and drilling in his head. “Can’t say, but there was someone else. Young. Looked like me nephew, come to think of it.”

  “Had he arrived by car or whatever?”

  “A red Fiesta it was. Thursday evening. Pretty sure that were it. Drove off together…”

  “Was he blond?”

  A nod. “Seemed tense, mind. Crashed the gears. I remember that.”

  “Did you see these guys return?”

  “No. Like I said, I were off to the rigs.”

  A spurt of adrenalin delivered another scenario. Maybe Greg and Piotr were closer than I’d imagined. Given what Catherine had said about the technician.

  “Here’s my card,” I said, “and if there’s anything else you recall, please let me know. But don’t put yourself at risk, and don’t say we’ve talked. OK?”

  “Risk? If you’d seen me out on those bloody waves…”

  More neighbouring lights like dull pinpricks on a dark, secretive night. But I had one more question for the man with drizzle in his hair. “Did you ever see Greg drive this same car?”

  “No, why? He’s got a little Renault. Nice one too. But don’t ask me where. It’s usually out there.” He pointed to the further, empty strip of driveway. “What’s up? Can’t you tell me?”

  “It’ll be on the news before long. Best you hear it that way.”

  “Oh, come on…”

  “Mr. Reddings, you’ve been most helpful, thanks, but I must be going.” We both saw Catherine staring our way, then gesturing me to re-join her.

  Not yet.

  Something held me back that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I waited until Greg’s neighbour had shut his front door behind him, then went over to my car.

  “Lock yourself in,” I said. “Just give me two minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure.”

  *

  Within seconds, I was on Greg Lake’s empty driveway where the street lamp’s dismal glow ended just before a wooden, unpadlocked side gate. Careful not to leave any prints on its squeaky latch, I passed through on to an area of paving slabs which as far as I could make out in the pitch darkness, led to a partially-glazed garage door and next to this, a more solid back door to the house. The drizzle would soon erase my footprints. One less thing to worry about.

  Beyond a mean, grass strip lay the hint of a fence, and beyond that, black, peaked roofs of more housing. So far unlit.

  I didn’t have long. My pulse on the rise. Any time now, a police cordon would be put in place. Until then, there had to be some clues as to why, if Eric Reddings had been correct, Greg and Piotr had been meeting up.

  Still feeling like a trespasser, my torch soon showed a small, pale grey Renault occupying the garage’s limited space. Yet its door’s keyhole still held a key from the other side. Careless or what?

  Ssssh…

  I immediately sensed I wasn’t alone. Had I, a bloody idiot, just walked into a trap? The answer came before I could react. Here was the bespectacled Dr. George Chisholm. Stephen’s description spot-on. Bigger than me in every way, he was dressed like the night from his wet, black hair to equally smooth, shiny shoes. His breath sour, strong as if he’d been drinking. The glint of something heavy in his raised hand. But I got in first with a tackle to his thighs. Spreadeagled him and snatched up that crow-bar.

  “Where’s Greg?” I said, kicking him over so he faced the concrete floor.

  “Who the Hell are you?”

  “Someone obviously in your way.”

  “You wait.”

  “No time, sorry.” I set down the weapon and frisked his pockets. He wouldn’t be winded for long. I pulled out an expensive-looking wallet and flicked it open. All I needed.

  “Well, well, well,” I chucked it back. Photograph and all. “This confirms it. Georgy porgy, pudding and pie. Drunk too. In any other circumstance, I’d be asking if you wanted a lift home.”

  “Cretin.”

  He was trying to move. The effort making his tongue push in and out of the side of his mouth.

  “Where’s Stephen Vickers?” I said.

  “I hope you’ve made a Will.”

  I kicked his feet in turn. Hard. He yelped.

  “Where?”

  “Ask her. The one in your car.”

  A piece of ice seemed to connect with my heart.

  “And where’s yours?” I then took a punt. “Being tarted up, eh?”

  He turned his dribbling face towards me.
/>   “You’ve picked on the wrong one, Mr. Has-Been. Grievous Bodily Harm, as I’m sure you remember, can carry a hefty sentence.”

  Only once had I ever been cautioned for over-use of force, but that small piece of ice inside me had turned to fire. I pulled out my cell phone. “What make’s your car?” I held it close by, so he could hear the Norwich CID number ringing. “A Mitsubishi Pajero by any chance?”

  No reply.

  “Well.if you won’t tell me, I’m sure you’ll tell the police.”

  He rolled over. Tried to prise himself from the floor but I trod on his knuckles.

  Another yelp as Avril Lockley picked up. I was glad to hear her.

  “I didn’t mean to shoe-horn you both out of the morgue,” she began, but was soon asking me what the hell I was doing at Stoney Linton at that time of night. I was brief and to the point. My drunken target was recovering. I couldn’t be his minder any longer. “Just get here,” I added. “And I’m nicking his crow-bar for protection.”

  *

  Not a 4X4 anywhere to be seen, and Eric Reddings’ house remained in complete darkness. I reached my own car and, without making a sound, stowed the crow-bar into its boot, thinking yet again how Melanie Cox’s little anecdote yesterday, had changed everything.

  57. STANLEY.

  Tuesday 14th December 1920. 4.20 p.m.

  “See, you’re in the bloody newspapers. Look at your picture in the Daily Star.”

  The one called Percy, twice me age who they used to sit outside me cage with a gun in ‘is hand, pushed the paper through the wire. Then I remembered when some travelling warmnit with a camera had taken pictures of me with Bessie and her piglets at Wombwell Farm last year. And there I were, looking up, smiling too. Blurred, but unmistakeable.

  Curse their souls.

  “Look, it says you’re under arrest. Wanted for questioning…” Percy read on, knowing I cudn’t. Having finished the list of names I never wanted to hear agin, he said with a grin. “and d’you know what? I’ll come and watch you swing myself.”

  I set the paper with its photo upside down next to me on the boat’s wet boards, then gripped me neck with both hands and shut me sore eyes. Ready for the drop to nowhere. Pockets empty, but not me heart. No, not me strong, hopeful heart.

  Mollie Parminter…