Slow Train

by Jack Benton

  With a shrug, he began the arduous climb back up to the hiking trail, leaving whatever secrets the old quarries held behind him.

  8

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.’

  The old man leaned on his stick and flapped his spare hand as though to swat a fly. ‘Not a problem. Come on in. Excuse the mess. The home help doesn’t come until tomorrow.’ With a wink, he added, ‘She just sits around drinking tea unless I leave her work to do.’

  Slim followed the hobbling old man into a cluttered living room. Police memorabilia lined the shelves and hung from the walls. Slim noticed a couple of bravery awards and recognitions for exemplary service.

  The old man offered Slim a chair then sat down in a special recliner, groaning as he slowly lowered himself into the seat, his cheeks reddening with the exertion.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not much left of me these days,’ he said.

  Slim nodded at the nearest shelf, on which stood a couple of framed black and white photos of a young man in a police uniform, alongside a constable’s helmet in a glass case, and a couple of mounted medals.

  ‘Looks like you gave yourself to the Force,’ he said.

  ‘I was as dedicated as they come for nearly fifty years,’ said the retired former Chief Inspector Charles Bosworth. ‘It was everything to me.’ He gave a phlegmy chuckle. ‘The Force was my life. That’s why I never married. She was my mistress.’

  ‘It must have been hard to give it up.’

  ‘They had to drag me out of that office,’ Bosworth said with that same laugh. ‘I stayed on in part as a consultant. And after that dried up, there was still the occasional visit by someone such as yourself wanting to know about a specific case. Jennifer Evans, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Slim said. ‘I’m a private investigator. My last couple of cases were somewhat … troublesome. Jennifer’s case sounded a lot less dangerous, if you understand where I’m coming from. A forty-year-old mystery. No danger involved, and no risk, right? If no one’s figured it out by now, there’s little chance I could do any harm.’ Slim looked down at his hands. ‘I’ve found out the hard way that some mysteries should stay buried.’

  Bosworth harrumphed, leaving Slim unsure whether he agreed or not, but he picked a couple of folders off a table beside him and handed them across.

  ‘I remember Jennifer Evans,’ he said. ‘A mystery like that never leaves you without a certain kind of feeling. I mean, she appeared to vanish into thin air.’

  ‘No one ever does that,’ Slim said, recalling a previous case. ‘They always go somewhere.’

  ‘But finding out where is the tough part, isn’t it?’

  Slim opened the top file and flicked through the contents. Much of it was the same as that provided by Elena, but there was some additional material. Some photos of Jennifer, one in her nurse’s uniform, another of her holding a young girl, a third with a man, he had never seen. She looked like a perfectly normal, happy mid-30s woman.

  There were also transcripts of interviews undertaken with other passengers. Most were short—a page or less—with the passengers asserting they did not know Jennifer, nor did they see anything suspicious. One noted that she was known as “that pretty nurse who sometimes takes the late train”, another that she “always had a smile”, and a third that “she seemed to have no care in the world.”

  ‘After you contacted me, I got in touch with an old friend at Derbyshire Constabulary and asked for a copy of the file,’ Bosworth said. ‘I still have enough sway that I got it without question. However, I’m afraid there’s not much to go on.’

  ‘The tiniest clue could be important,’ Slim said.

  ‘Oh, no doubt, but remember, this was in the days before DNA testing was used for everything. And Jennifer’s body has never been found. That’s a huge elephant in the room.’

  ‘May I ask what you thought happened to her? Off the record, if you like. Disregarding what the evidence might have suggested.’

  Bosworth frowned. ‘In the police we go on evidence only. I never had much use for idle speculation. Why don’t you tell me what you think happened?’ He smiled. ‘And then I’ll tell you why you’re likely wrong.’

  Slim rubbed his chin, tugging on a couple of days’ of stubble. ‘Well, she might have tried to get home on foot but wandered off the path.’

  ‘Her body would have been found. There are a few holes around here and there, but nothing deep enough to not be searched.’

  ‘Okay, perhaps she was abducted by the Peak District Strangler.’

  Bosworth shook his head and gave a sad smile as though he were talking with an amateur.

  ‘Of course we considered it, but Bettelman lived in Manchester. And even if he had been in Holdergate on a Saturday in January at that time of night, remember it was dumping with snow and had been for a couple of days before. Would he really have risked an abduction in those conditions? It would have been foolhardy in the extreme.’

  ‘Then she ran away. Abandoned her family. She had a lover, or perhaps her husband was a monster behind closed doors.’

  ‘Have you asked the daughter about that?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, I did, at the time. By all accounts they were a happy family. Her disappearance left her husband, Terry, distraught. He spent every weekend for months afterward combing the local area, convinced she had fallen on her way home. He found nothing, but the stress of it all took him to a nervous breakdown. He was in and out of hospitals, and Elena was shipped off to her grandparents in Leeds. He never did get over it, and died, something of a wreck, around 1990.’

  ‘It sounds like you kept in touch.’

  ‘In a professional capacity, yes. You see, the case was never officially closed until Jennifer was declared legally dead in 1997, twenty years after her disappearance. It was a case I kept open, always looking for new leads, but none ever came.’

  ‘So what do you think happened?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you precisely, because I’m not sure what it is, but I can feel in my heart that she’s dead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because what woman planning to leave her family would call her daughter like that? Imagine the callousness required. This from a woman who worked as a nurse at Manchester Royal Infirmary. No, I’m certain something happened to her, but whatever it was happened after she had finished that final phone call.’

  ‘So,’ Slim said, ‘what that boy saw is key.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Bosworth said. ‘We have nothing to go on but the memory of a six-year-old child and a single photograph of a few scuff marks in the snow.’

  9

  ‘Don?’

  ‘Hey, Slim, you’re sounding well,’ said Donald Lane, an old friend of Slim’s from the military who now ran an intelligence consultancy in London. ‘What can I help you with?’

  ‘I need help tracking someone down.’

  ‘Okay, sure. Still alive?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘That’s a start. What else do you have?’

  ‘He would be in the 48-50 age range. Grew up in Sheffield. First name was Toby. Some sort of creative career. An artist, maybe.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a go, Slim, but that’s a pretty vague outline.’

  ‘That’s all my contact could remember,’ Slim said. ‘As a boy he witnessed a possible crime, but as a man he sought to distance himself from it. That’s what I was told.’

  On the other end of the line, Don sighed. ‘Well, it’s not much, but I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Slim hung up. Next he called Kim.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Hardy. How is your investigation going?’

  ‘Pretty dead end as usual,’ Slim said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some drudge work for you.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘I need you to dig up a staff list from Manchester Royal Infirmary circa 1977. I appreciate that some might be very old or passed on
, but I’d like contact numbers for as many as possible.’

  ‘I’ll get to it.’

  ‘Great. Only if you have time—’

  Kim laughed. ‘Mr. Hardy, you’ve never been a boss before, have you? Of course I’ll have time. You pay me to have time.’

  Slim smiled. ‘It’s a new experience for me, for sure.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He hung up. Grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair, he hurried to another arranged meeting with Elena, over fish n’ chips in a local restaurant. Elena had brought with her a box of mementoes belonging to her mother.

  ‘I’m not sure if anything in this box will be useful,’ Elena began. ‘She wasn’t one for material stuff. Neither was Dad. You know, we had furniture and things, pictures of family, but these were the only ornaments or other decorative items that I still have.’

  Slim glanced into the box. A porcelain model house, small enough to balance on his palm. A bronze war medal. A small brooch in the shape of a swan. A few other items, all of which had the impression of being family keepsakes. Likely, none had any value to an investigation, but it never hurt to make sure.

  ‘Can I borrow these?’

  ‘Of course. Just, you know, be careful. They might look like nothing, but they have great value to me.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Thank you. Have you—I mean, have you made much headway?’

  Slim shook his head. ‘I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Trent. I don’t think that would serve much purpose. At this point, I haven’t the slightest clue what befell your mother.’ At Elena’s look of disappointment he added, ‘However, I’m only a couple of days into the investigation. I’ve made some good contacts, and I’m confident there’s a story to be uncovered.’

  ‘Well, it’s been forty-two years, so I suppose I can wait a few more days,’ Elena said.

  Slim forced a smile. He wanted to point out that the chances of finding her mother were remote, but he couldn’t bring himself to dash her hopes so soon. Not until he’d followed up every possible lead.

  ‘At the moment I’m just trying to cross off possibilities,’ Slim said. ‘The more I can eliminate, the more chance I have of discovering a lead which will reveal what happened.’ He paused, watching Elena as she ate, not looking up. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask this, but, as I say, I have to eliminate possibilities. Was there any reason why your mother might have wanted to run away?’

  Elena looked momentarily shocked. She gave a shake of her upper body as though struck by a sudden chill breeze, before finding her composure again. When she looked up, Slim could tell just from her eyes that it was a question she had often considered.

  ‘That I am aware of, there was no reason why my mother might have wanted to leave. We weren’t a “tabloid family”, if that’s the right way to put it. My parents didn’t have a perfect marriage, but it was pretty good by any standards. I was twelve, and aware of what was going on. There was tension when my dad got made redundant, some also when my mother took on extra shifts. But these were general things, and they sorted themselves out. My father got another job. My mother’s hours went back to normal. Day-to-day stuff. They rarely even argued. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I used to wonder if my mother had a lover she ran away with. We were close, though. Why abandon me? Why all these years without a word? My father … he barely had a temper. He was no closed-doors monster. If she wanted to leave him, he couldn’t have done anything about it.’

  Slim nodded. He made shapes on a notepad with a pen, wondering if there was anything useful he could write. ‘Have you ever received unusual mail over the years?’ he asked. ‘Unsigned letters, Christmas cards, anything like that?’

  Elena shook her head. ‘I’ve always been suspicious of anything that I couldn’t identify. But in the end, I always figured out who sent it.’

  ‘Are there any … how could I say? Any shady characters in your family or your parents’ friends circle? An uncle, perhaps, a jealous neighbour? Anyone who might have taken an unhealthy interest in your mother?’

  Elena sighed. ‘No one I can think of. Believe me, I’ve spent years thinking about this.’

  ‘I can imagine. At this stage I don’t have any decent leads, but, as far as I can see it, there are three options. One: she got lost on the route home and perished from exposure. Two: she was abducted shortly after making the phone call. And three: she took the opportunity given to her by such freak weather conditions to run away and start a new life somewhere else.’

  ‘And which do you think is most likely?’

  ‘Well, in actual fact, all three can be written off,’ Slim said. ‘One, because her body or her remains would have certainly been found. Two, because the adverse weather would have made the risk factor too high, and three, because if that was her plan, why call you? And why wait until she was within walking distance of home? Why not just stay in Manchester after her shift, give herself a decent head start?’

  ‘Are there any other options?’

  Slim sighed. ‘None that I can see at this point. May I ask, just for interest’s sake, what do you think happened? What have you considered most likely all these years?’

  Elena took a deep breath. ‘All these years I’ve believed someone took her,’ she said. ‘She was born in Wentwood. She told me she used to play around the railway line, up and down Parnell’s Hill. There’s no way she could have got lost, even in the snow. And if she had left us for someone else, there’s no way that she would have been silent all these years.’ She gave a vehement shake of her head. ‘No way. Impossible.’

  Slim nodded. Elena had said it with such conviction he could almost believe it. But, like everything else, there was a lie to be found somewhere.

  He just needed to overturn the right stone to find it.

  10

  The phone box outside Holdergate Station actually still stood, a classical old-fashioned red pillar box on a corner right beside a taxi rank. The phone inside, however, no longer worked, with a sign taped to the shelf inside stating that passengers wishing to make a call should use a newer payphone inside the station.

  Slim opened the door and went inside, trying to visualise how the street might have looked forty-two years ago. A turning circle outside the station could have sat four cars end to end. Three roads led off, a main road angling slightly uphill which was two lanes wide, then two smaller roads to the left and right. The left side road was a single lane which led along the tracks for a short distance, curving away into a residential cul-de-sac exactly where the bridleway began, while to the right the road was a dead end, ending at a steel gate that opened onto a goods yard, a sign beside the station indicating as such.

  The buildings to either side were 1960s-era, and while they now housed a couple of mini-marts and a travel agent, Slim had seen in old photographs that one had once been a bank, the other a greengrocer’s. Both would have been closed and shut up at the time the night train passed through on January 15th, 1977.

  Up a slight hill leading directly away from the station was Holdergate Park. In front of the park, the road jack-knifed, continuing alongside the park to the crossroads where the church stood. A railing fence separated the park from the street, a line of trees giving it a shadowy overhang. Billboards, one advertising a soap powder and another a newly released Japanese car model, shone from a bus stop a little to the left. The same photographs had shown Slim that the bus stop had previously been on the right-hand side, outside the bank.

  From the phone box, Jennifer would have been able to see as far as the park. Advancing up the street as far as the photograph of her footprints suggested would have allowed her to see farther into the park, and also a little up the road toward the church; however, as, according to police reports, it had been actively snowing at the time of her disappearance, not to mention dark, it was unrealistic that she could have seen farther than the park fence. Slim estimated that whatever she had seen to alarm her enough
to change course had been within a semi-circle of about twenty metres.

  It wasn’t far, barely as far as the two buildings on either side of the square, or the park’s fence to the north.

  Slim frowned. Had she seen something through one of the windows? Something that had upset her enough to run off? Or perhaps she had seen someone in trouble and gone for help, only for an accident to befall her before she made it?

  He went into the train station and called Kim, using the new payphone rather than trusting the reception on his old Nokia.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Hardy. How can I help? I should have that list of staff from Manchester Royal Infirmary by the end of the day.’

  ‘Thanks, Kim, that’s great. I have something else for you to do. If I give you a couple of addresses, do you think you could hunt down the occupants of the properties from 1977? I mean, they were commercial properties, but these places often have rented flats on the upper floors, and, well, it could be possible someone had come down in the night….’

  He trailed off, aware of how clumsy and ridiculous his request sounded. Kim, however, didn’t even pause to show her frustration.

  ‘Read me the addresses to write down and I’ll see what I can find,’ she said. ‘Have you got a computer set up down there?’

  ‘Um, not yet. I’ll get something sorted.’

  ‘It would help a lot if you had an email I could use,’ Kim said.

  ‘Right. I’ll get to it.’ Slim felt awkward as he hung up. Kim had regularly insisted that he get a decent laptop with a roving WiFi signal. She had also wanted him to trade in the old Nokia for a decent smartphone, but he had stood firm on that.

  As he got a coffee and sat down at a table overlooking the street outside, he wondered what chance he had of unravelling the mystery. Right now, it felt less than zero. Jennifer Evans had gone without leaving a trace.

  Or had she?