Slow Train

by Jack Benton

  Slow Train

  The Slim Hardy Mysteries #4

  Jack Benton

  By Jack Benton

  The Man by the Sea

  The Clockmaker’s Secret

  The Games Keeper

  Slow Train

  Contents

  Slow Train

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Tokyo Lost

  About the Author

  Contact

  Acknowledgments

  “Slow Train”

  Copyright © Jack Benton / Chris Ward 2019

  * * *

  The right of Jack Benton / Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  * * *

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Slow Train

  1

  The television host leaned forward. Manicured nails and polished teeth glittered under studio lights which made Slim’s head ache as badly as any hangover he could remember. He stared at her, concentrating on her eyes, the placid disinterest hidden inside decreasing circles of makeup.

  ‘It’s not the first time you’ve done what no one thought could be done, is it?’

  Slim knew he would be sweating if the mentholated talcum powder pasted on to his face would have allowed it. As it was, only a single trickle ran down his back.

  Not for the first time wishing he’d broken three straight weeks of sobriety with a drink at the bar across the street, Slim shrugged.

  ‘I guess I asked questions that hadn’t been asked before. The answers were just waiting there to be found.’

  The host smiled a stunningly fake smile, more for the cameras than for Slim. ‘Well, that takes nothing away from what you’ve achieved.’ She turned to the audience, invisible beyond the glaring spotlights that angled in from left and right, leaving the space in between a haze of colour residue. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, one more time, John “Slim” Hardy, private detective extraordinaire.’ Then with another smirk, as though it would be the biggest scoop in the world, she added in a conspiratorial tone, as though it would stay between the two of them, and not be shared by however many were watching at home, ‘Are you sure you won’t tell us why they call you Slim?’

  Including once backstage, it was the third time she had asked. Slim made the same reaction as he had to the other two: an awkward smile and a glance at the floor, followed by a stumbling, ‘I wouldn’t want to bore you. It’s not a story worth telling.’

  Then, apparently credits were rolling, applause that sounded recorded came from all around, and someone covered in microphones and wires had rushed forward to usher him off the studio stage. The host gave him a brief translucent smile, her gaze already far beyond this moment, thinking of next week’s guests perhaps, and then he was surrounded finally by backstage gloom. People still buzzed around him, but he was able to make his way through the milling crowd of technicians, props people and other backroom staff, out into service corridors and back to a changing room where he was finally allowed a moment to himself.

  He took a deep breath. If this was fame, he could do without it.

  He was required to sign out at the TV company’s front reception desk, but that was his only required interaction with anyone as he headed on foot back to the modest hotel the TV company had booked for him. The downstairs bar beckoned him like a forgiving ex-lover, but he managed to avoid its lure and head up to bed. Late at night was always the hardest, when the demons that were rarely far from his mind came out to play, but if he could get into bed without a drink he knew he would feel better in the morning.

  His head still buzzed from the terror and thrill of the TV experience, but he was also exhausted after the studio had required his attendance from early this morning for screen testing, dress rehearsals, makeup, and other preparation. All that for a twenty-minute interview on his last case which he had mostly glossed over, reluctant to talk too much about events from which he had taken some months to recover.

  The fame it had brought—as well as a decent court settlement which would keep him off the streets for a while—had provided its own form of reward. Now he was in demand, his old Nokia 3310, a near indestructible lump of basic phone technology, was ringing at all hours. Unsure who had been giving out his phone number, after some searching he had remembered the old website he’d started setting up and never finished.

  Now he was renting a small office space in a pretty Staffordshire town, and had even employed an elderly lady called Kim to work as a secretary.

  For the first time he was enjoying a level of success, but everything felt hollow. Even when he should have been chasing up a fraudulent insurance claim or rooting out an extramarital affair, oftentimes he’d find himself wandering aimlessly, unsure quite where he was heading or what he was doing, as though the success he had found wasn’t really what he’d been searching for after all.

  As he lay down to sleep he put the phone down on the table beside him but noticed a small box in the corner indicating a new voicemail.

  Since changing his number, apart from a few old friends only Kim could reach him directly, so he picked up the phone and opened the message.

  ‘Mr. Hardy, I hope the trip went well. I got an interesting call this evening, for a case I thought might be right up your street….’

  Despite their high price tags, many of Slim’s recent offers of business suggested a level of peril or trauma he was keen to do without. Families of murdered relatives wanting justice against acquitted killers, child abductions, gang hits gone wrong. He knew he wasn’t helping his budding reputation as a man for the people by taking on only highly paid but safe fraud or infidelity cases, but it was doing his sanity a world of good.

  However, as he listened to Kim’s gentle monologue, he found himself intrigued. A historical missing persons case, dating back to the late seventies. Someone was looking for their mother, but un
like other cases he had been offered which he knew instinctively he would be unable to solve, there was something about the circumstances surrounding the disappearance that was different. It wasn’t that it sounded easy—far from it—actually it sounded nigh on impossible. A literal case of vanished without trace.

  As Slim wrote down the telephone number to call back in the morning, he knew now that he would struggle to sleep. The voicemail had already begun to fire within him the nervous excitement which made a case—for better or worse—hard to resist.

  2

  Holdergate was a quiet town set in a wide, flat valley between two sets of hills in the middle of the Derbyshire Peak District. Getting off a bus a few stops outside the town, Slim walked the rest of the way through gentle, rolling farmland punctuated by attractive houses set at the end of long driveways and down meandering farm lanes.

  Slim reached his lodgings, a guesthouse in a seventies-era building where the quietly spoken owner Wendy seemed surprised he had arrived without a car. His room had a view over the road, a left-facing one-way street lined by sycamores on both sides, the leafy branches obscuring a row of terraced houses and a single commercial property—a chip shop—half visible at the end. The bed was springy, the digital TV worked, the en suite bathroom was clean, and there were enough coffee sachets in a welcome tray for him to make one decent-strength cup.

  He paid for a week in advance, thinking that the calm and isolation of the place might be nice even if he decided not to take on the case. He took a walk around outside, soaking up the quiet residential streets that slowly gave way to a few touristy shops and businesses clustered around a quaint church. The churchyard was well-mown and tidy, even the older graves clean and quite legible, offering no surprises. Across a street were a line of temporary stalls aimed at tourists; a burger van was sandwiched between an ice-cream seller and one selling local books and postcards.

  The train station was a pretty stone building down a straight, slightly downhill road behind the church, lined on one side by a row of traditional stone houses. The road, straightened in the last forty years, continued over a level crossing; Holdergate Station itself was off to the right, set at the back of a small square bookended by a newsagent and a local branch of HSBC. The station front, with a stopping area for buses and taxis, was almost invisible through the trees of a leafy park which took up most of the area between it and the church.

  Slim followed the road and climbed a set of steps to the station entrance. He bought a platform ticket for ten pence from a clerk who assumed he was a trainspotter, informing him that the next train wasn’t due for another half hour. Slim told the man he just liked the atmosphere and took a seat on a wooden bench at the far end of the southbound platform. From here he had a view between a row of houses and a small village museum to the low hills of the Derbyshire Peak District. Holdergate was a sleepy place, one he found it hard to believe hid any dark secrets. Yet it was here on Saturday, January 15th, 1977, during a week of terrible blizzards, that a twin-carriage commuter train heading from Manchester Piccadilly to Sheffield had been delayed to a complete stop due to snow piled on the line, and a woman called Jennifer Evans had disappeared into thin air.

  Slim looked at his watch. Just after a quarter to three. It was time.

  He stood up, walked back along the platform, and went to meet the woman who had sent him an email, desperately begging for help.

  3

  ‘Mr. Hardy, it’s very gracious of you to meet me,’ said the pepper-grey-haired lady who had introduced herself as Elena Trent. ‘I didn’t expect a return call.’

  ‘I was intrigued by your case,’ Slim said. ‘I’ve never heard anything quite like it.’

  They took seats across a table in a pretty cafe-restaurant called Porter Lounge, set in an old storehouse behind the church. The window looked up a gently curving main street with the hills of the Peak District just visible above the rooftops. Slim ordered a triple espresso—requesting one be specially made—and a cheddar cheese sandwich. Elena ordered a tomato soup.

  ‘I’ve maintained all these years that she was abducted and most likely murdered,’ Elena said, putting chubby hands on the tabletop and fidgeting her fingers as though struggling to control her nerves. ‘I mean, it’s always officially been treated as a missing persons case, but I don’t think it ever was.’

  ‘How old were you when your mother went missing?’

  ‘I’d just turned twelve.’

  Slim quickly estimated her as fifty-three, only six years older than he, although he had initially guessed her to be in her sixties. He watched as Elena’s eyes dropped and her lower lip trembled. As she began to cry, Slim gave the server an awkward smile. The girl put the food trays down then hastily retreated.

  ‘I sat up all night waiting for her to come home,’ Elena said. ‘But she never did.’

  ‘Tell me in your own words what you remember of that night. I’ve read the files you sent me, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

  Elena nodded, composing herself. ‘My mother, Jennifer Evans, was on the eight-thirty commuter train back from Manchester after finishing work. She was a ward nurse at the Manchester Royal Infirmary. It had been snowing heavily all that day, and had continued into the evening. It was windy too, and the snow had drifted onto the line so badly that the train was held up at Holdergate Station. At that time we lived in Wentwood, the next stop up the line. There was set to be a delay of several hours, so she told me she was thinking of walking. It was only a few miles, and there was a footpath alongside the line in those days—an old bridleway—which was open enough for her to feel safe. She called me from a phone box outside the station and told me she was on her way. That’s how I knew.’ Elena wiped her eyes. ‘But she never came home.’

  ‘And no trace of her was ever found?’

  ‘There was an investigation, but it came up with nothing. Her bag was found lying in a patch of grass a short distance along the footpath, but it wasn’t discovered until three days later, once the snow had melted. The only other clue was the photograph of the footprints.’

  Slim nodded. ‘I remember you mentioned it in one of your files and attached a copy.’

  ‘Another passenger on the same train had wanted a photograph of the street outside blanketed in snow. He went to the waiting room window and lined up his shot. He told police that at the very moment he prepared to take his photo, a woman came into view. She walked a few steps up toward the park, then abruptly stopped and appeared to fall into the snow. The way the witness described it to police was that the woman scrabbled backward before immediately climbing to her feet, turning and running away in the direction of the footpath.’

  ‘And he took the photo anyway?’

  ‘Yes. He took the shot of the street showing my mother’s tracks. He took the picture from inside the station building but told police he then went outside to look for her. The tracks, however, disappeared after reaching an overhang outside the station, and he figured she’d gone back onto the platform to wait. He thought nothing more of it until he saw a missing persons poster a couple of weeks later and recognised my mother as the woman he had seen.’

  Slim frowned and scratched his chin. He had recently begun growing a little stubble to see what effect it had on clients, but had been dismayed to find most of it coming out as grey. He was only forty-seven but people told him he looked ten years older.

  ‘So what do you think happened? Why the abrupt running off?’

  Elena leaned forward. ‘I think she saw someone watching her, and whoever it was scared her. She tried to get away, but later that same night she was abducted and murdered, and whoever killed her then disposed of her body.’

  4

  It was fair enough that Elena thought her mother had been murdered, but the few historic newspaper reports that Slim could find in the reference section of the local library were less sensational. There was a missing persons case, it seemed, but with no evidence at all beyond the bizarre behaviour witnessed by
another passenger, the general consensus had been of an elopement with a secret lover. Sources close to the family claimed marital problems but didn’t go into any details. He wrote down every name he could find and added any details of their relationship to Jennifer Evans, then gave each of them a rating out of five for how likely they were to A, talk, and B, offer any valuable insights. For a case nearly forty-two years old it was likely many of the witnesses and interviewees had died, and those alive today would have had their memories dogged by time.

  It would be tough. Elena, controlled by emotions, would be unreliable, but she was still the closest person to the case barring the mysterious photographer who had taken the picture. His name was given nowhere in any news reports, and while Slim assumed it was a he, he realised there was no reference either to whether the photographer was even male or female, suggesting the information had been kept from the press.