Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  I braked as the gradient deepened, and gulleys either side of the track merged together to become one deep channel full of brown mud.

  “Gellionnen,” Alson said in an impressive Welsh accent as we passed between a huddle of tin-roofed cottages and dilapidated barns. “It means ash grove.” Yet here there wasn’t such a tree in sight. Just razed acres of ancient land I knew so little about.

  A speck of doubt danced in my mind while the VW somehow made it over a lengthy, frozen ditch where a further sign to the right indicated ‘GWESTY COED GLAS **** 1 milltir.’

  *

  Here, the track’s next section had recently been laid with Tarmac. The hedges on either side trimmed back to allow two vehicles to pass. At least normal vehicles. Not this. A house-sized transporter which had suddenly appeared from around the oncoming bend, now blocking my way.

  “Best back up.” Alison craned her beautiful neck to check behind us. “That’s how it is in these parts. Size matters.”

  Normally I’d have smiled, but not then. That inhospitable scrub where I’d betrayed the murderous Karen Fürst to her enemies and faced more than shot ankles, had changed me forever.

  Sod it.

  I nudged the car forwards.

  The Scania was a left-hand drive with a local plate. Its driver’s face a threatening red, while his balled fist pressed against the windscreen stickered with crumpled delivery notes. I memorised the number plate which dated the crate as being fourteen years’ old.

  Fuck you.

  “John, please.” Alison grabbed my arm. “We don’t want an incident. Not here. Not now.”

  “Oh yes we do,” I said, revving some more and gaining another metre. “There’s a passing place right behind him. I saw it.”

  Just then, that driver’s dark blue door swung open. The guy - about my age, plus a gut that said Ginster lover - climbed down and waddled over to my side. As he did so, he took in my VW’s number plate, then Alison. In particular, her breasts beneath her jumper and unzipped anorak. I opened my window. The man’s blood-splattered overall pressed against the door. His dung smell overpowering as was the din of so many bleating animals above the truck’s engine noise.

  “What’s your problem?” I challenged.

  “You. Where you heading?”

  “That’s our business. We need to get past.”

  “Saes is it?”

  I glanced at Alison who’d closed her anorak over her chest. “English,” she muttered. “As you know, there’s a lot of history.”

  “You mean, ‘come home to a real fire?” I muttered.

  “Shhh…”

  “I bloody heard that.” The bully flicked my wing mirror out of kilter. “You don’t know nothing. You and that tart. Think you can come over here and…”

  I closed my window. Jerked the VW forwards, leaving my opponent staring after us. I was enjoying the engine’s power. Control lost for too long.

  “In God’s name, what are you doing?” screamed Alison, normally calmness itself. “D’you want to kill us both?”

  “Watch me.”

  And with that, I took the VW so steeply up the overgrown bank on our right, past the transporter’s seemingly endless, slatted side, it seemed as if that hill beyond the pig wire was falling on top of us. She tried to grab the steering wheel but seconds later, we plunged down to Tarmac again, juddering my ankles. Making me gasp in pain. And in

  that moment, like a sick joke, the sun broke through casting the shorn landscape in an

  eerie glow.

  “Damn you, John!” She pulled down her mirrored visor, eyeing the track behind. “And damn him too. Look! He’s following.”

  But no. The Scania must have stopped for some reason, giving us a breathing space in which to negotiate the steep curve upwards on to a generous parking area in front of the hotel.

  *

  Surely it should be busier than this? I thought, deciding on the least obvious place to stop, trying not to dwell on the fact that Alison hadn’t spoken to me since that vicious confrontation.

  Unlike the bare scenery beyond Coed Glas, a screen of massive Leylandii surrounded the car park. Each one powered towards the darkening sky, their branches like so many blood-red skeletons - a startling foil to their gloomy foliage. In the furthest spot lurked a green Land Rover and Suzuki motorbike which, judging by the angle of its clogged-up front wheel, had been parked in a hurry.

  I pulled in alongside them, checking we were out of sight from the road, and waited.

  “There he goes,” I said to a determinedly silent Alison as that unnamed juggernaut hovered at the bottom of the drive before moving on. “Good riddance.”

  But once the brown spray behind it had settled, she pushed open her door and baled out. I reached for her, but too late.

  “Hey, come on,” I said. “It’s over now…”

  “Too bloody right.”

  With that, she grabbed her small, wheeled case from the boot and strode towards the invitingly lit entrance door. With a hurting heart, I watched her neat figure make light of yet another slope; the sheer energy in her legs, slim and shapely in tight denim jeans ending in blue, kitten heels. The body that only last night had warmed my bachelor bed. And deep in my damaged heart I knew then, she was probably walking out of my life.

  *

  I should get out too. Pull her close and tell her I’d never met anyone like her. But I couldn’t. Why? Perhaps I just didn’t get it…

  She’d been involved in some pretty rough stuff at work. Headless bodies in the

  latest drug cartel case. Child custody tragedies and the rest. So how come me taking the

  initiative on a country road was such an issue? OK, pain and sleep loss had stolen the

  light from my eyes and set them into ever-deepening sockets. Thinned me down so my other clothes no longer fitted, but a glance at my face in the rear-view mirror showed it wasn’t all bad news. Perhaps the poor light helped. Whatever. But hadn’t Carol my widowed sister still living near Perpignan, often said I always made bad choices? The sister who’d only got in touch last month to say her George had just died.

  Wrong, Carol. Wrong…

  I still bore the burden of Ben Roger’s needless suicide in Sherwood Forest. My cowardice for not pressing Alison as to what exactly she might have promised our rejected young colleague. Holding back at the Inquest and to Ben’s grieving parents. Clinging to my own shred of happiness.

  I didn’t deserve anything and, as the hotel door closed behind her, realised that shred of happiness was being torn away. She’d been waiting to dump me. A man whose diary for April and May was still littered with hospital appointments. Who might a year on, even need a Zimmer frame…

  “Get out, you.”

  “What the…?”

  My unlocked door was suddenly pulled open. The boiler suit and his ugly mug was in shadow, his left hand gripping a Thumb Hole Hunter rifle whose steel barrel prodded my thigh.

  An ominous click. A hollow laugh.

  No time to use my phone. For a start, the surrounding conifers were too tall to allow any reception. And why again, was this place so empty? Why no obvious CCTV? And then a thought hit me like a black tsunami - what if Alison should re-appear?

  “Five seconds to shift your arse,” growled the thug. “One… two…”

  I positioned myself as though to get out, but once my right leg was free of the door and, with my upper body following, I threw a punch to that blood-stained chest. And another, knocking my attacker off balance. His rifle hit the ground, not quite close enough for me to pick up. Its man-made stock sweaty, sticky. I slammed my car door shut, drove across to the more exposed side of the car park nearest the hotel. From there, I saw the Scania parked up against the retaining wall, facing the other way. Its live cargo whose muzzles pushed out between the slats, in obvious distress.

  I hit 999 on my phone.

  SERVICE UNAVAILABLE.

  Shit.

  The guy was still doubled-up, gripping his crot
ch as a chequered Mondeo parked lower down the slope, and two, sturdy cops complete with crackling two-way radios, baled out. The shorter, older one in a crumpled trench coat, the other in uniform under a yellow cagoule. Soon, they were being followed by the truck driver.

  “You didn’t hang about.” I challenged my exagerratedly limping adversary, also noticing a police-issue radio jutting from his boiler suit pocket.

  “Fuck off. I’ll get you banged up for being a danger to other road users,” he snarled. “And now GBH. You wait.”

  *

  The Blue Room, actually green, due to a high, moss-covered wall almost pressing against its rear window, seemed more like a Chapel of Rest. As for the unlit wood-burner with its doors hanging open and two piles of ash on its slate sill, I wanted to shove in some of the unused logs stacked nearby and at least create some warmth.

  Better still, I wanted out.

  As for Alison, she didn’t even pause when she saw me through the half-open glass-panelled door. Minding her own business with a handy taxi waiting outside. Avoiding the risk of being a possible witness, that’s what.

  Nice one…

  I heard her clicking heels reach the reception desk in the entrance hall. Then her apology to the hotel’s proprietor before leaving. DC Eifion Evans, one of the cops who’d escorted me and the other guy into this chilly space, coughed to regain my attention.

  “Mr Lyon,” he then gestured towards the thug. “I need to make it clear from the outset that, as it happens, Sion Evans here, is my elder brother.”

  How cosy…

  “Why I’ll be leaving the proceedings to my capable colleague here, PC Gwallter Williams.” At this, the much younger cop blushed.

  “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  The distinct whiff of b.o. met my nose as he passed by.

  Following procedure alright, I thought, unimpressed, seeing Alison’s yellow Minicab veer out of the drive back the way we’d come. I’d also seen relief in the brother’s swift exit.

  *

  Sion Evans, nursing a glass of water and a scowl abrasive enough to clean an oven, watched him go. Alarm in his black eyes as he addressed PC Williams.

  “Why isn’t that tart of his here as well?” he demanded. “She was sat next to this Saes when he tried to top me…”

  The same rifle rested against the young cop’s leg. For two pins I’d have grabbed it and fired that fucker’s head off.

  “Liar.You tried to drive us off the road. As for your word, ‘tart,’ she’s a serving Detective Constable, and could get you for slander. Happy with that?”

  Thr hulk looked away as Williams leant forwards. His tone deliberately meant to discourage complaint.

  “What exactly is your issue with Mr Evans here? And your full name would be helpful.”

  I produced my still-useful police ID and held it out. A faint blush again hit his clean-shaven cheeks.

  “I see. A former Detective Inspector with Nottingham CID…”

  Evans hid deeper in his chair, still avoiding eye contact while Williams persevered more politely. “Intimidation is a serious charge, Mr Lyon. How far do you wish to proceed with your grievance?”

  All the bloody way…

  “An apology will suffice for now,” I said instead. Still getting used to being called ‘Mr.’ “And someone should go and see to his poor sheep.”

  Williams looked over at the occupant of the biggest armchair. “Would you accept an apology, Sion?”

  The truck driver shook his head. “No way. Me chest’s still killing me and as for these bloody grazes…” He rolled up his boiler suit’s sleeves and sure enough, both elbows were already bruised blue-black. “I want to see this bastard scorched like a smoky. Carcass an’ all.”

  I shivered in the silence. I knew full well what a smoky was and, having regained

  composure pointed at his rifle. “Do you have a current licence for that? If not, you’re in double trouble.”

  Evans began to stand then changed his mind. Poured the remaining water

  down his throat and burped. “Just give me time.”

  “Time to find it, you mean?” quizzed Williams.

  The other man turned his black stare on to me. “Time to see him sorted out.”

  “And your police-issue radio? Another useful perk, eh?” I ventured, but before either man could respond, Williams’ own radio buzzed into life. As if glad of the diversion, he snatched it up, but his expression soon changed to match the sombre sky outside.

  “Missing?” he said to his caller. “You sure?”

  I couldn’t make out the rest. That line was too poor. But then, unexpectedly, the novice cop made a cardinal error. Something no-one in Nottingham would have done in front of strangers. He repeated out loud a name and address.

  2. Laure.

  Friday 11th March. 2.15 p.m.

  Christ, it was cold enough to freeze your bollocks off, I thought. Or your tits. A good job I was used to this kind of temperature in the Poitou-Charentes, but the Welsh variety came spiked with ice and a west wind so fierce, my face beneath my riding hat, had frozen into a grimace.

  As for my mount, eleven-year-old Vervain, the 5/4 on favourite to land tomorrow’s Sprucewood Novices Chase at Chepstow, he’d suddenly leapt out of the training gallops like a two-year-old, almost unseating me as he’d landed, and now look…

  Having spotted the sea below the distant cliff edge, he was fighting his double bit to get there.

  Merde…

  He was out of control with his grey head stuck forwards and the restraining bit dangling from the side of his mouth. That sea closer with every stride. If I messed up this last and most important work-out, I’d be relegated to stable chores. Or worse, given a one-way rail ticket to Cardiff to make my own way in life. Why? Because my Papa, Alain Deschamps, racehorse trainer extraordinaire, allowed not one make-weight in his successful yard. Even if I was his only daughter.

  “Whoa!” I screamed.

  Fat chance.

  Vervain was away with the fairies, as they said this side of La Manche. Chasing the looping seagulls and the wind so fast I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hold on, and the white-turreted Sea Breeze Hotel with its windows full of happy diners, was the last thing I saw before hitting the ground and passing out.

  *

  “Laure? You OK?” came a man’s voice from somewhere close. “Just blink if you can hear me.”

  Danny Lennox, Head Lad at Papa’s stables was bending over me. His dark hair ripped back from his forehead by the gale. I smelt Lynx, Juicy Fruit gum then the unmistakeable whiff of horse dung. Why? Because he’d covered me with a horse rug that hadn’t been washed for years.

  I blinked. Saw his handsome, weather-beaten face near mine. Storm clouds bobbing by beyond him, and Vervain grazing calm as you like, as if nothing had happened.

  “He’s foux. I don’t know what got into him…” I managed to say.

  “Can you move? That’s the main thing.”

  I wriggled my arms and legs.

  “Yes.”

  “And your back?”

  “It hurts.” But at least I could roll my frozen body from side to side.

  “Careful.” Danny’s gloved hands eased me into the sitting position. I felt sick, not only with shock and anxiety, but embarrassment. I was a good rider. He’d often told me so. Falling off was failure.

  “You’ve been lucky,” he said. “We’re only feet away from the cliff edge.”

  “I can see that. What will Papa say?”

  “She doesn’t have to tell him, does she?” Came another’s voice from behind me. A woman, and very Welsh by the sound of her, with a white terrier sniffing around Danny’s leg. “I mean, it’s the big day tomorrow. We’ve got money on our local horse. Money probably down the pan. Is that it there? The ghost?”

  The ghost? What’s she on?

  Now I could see her. Taller than Danny, aged between forty and ninety, with a pinched, pale face poking out from a black, fringed hea
dscarf.

  “No,” I said, rather too quickly, still in shock.

  “What’s the real name of this horse?” Danny challenged her, encouraging the dog away with the toe of his boot, keeping hold of Vervain at the same time. “There’s Robert Jones over at Narberth with two well-fancied runners for a start…”

  “Vervain.” She pointed a black-gloved hand at me. “And you’re its French trainer’s daughter, aren’t you? We heard about your Mam. Died two years ago last Christmas, didn’t she? Took her own life she did. There’s pity for you…”

  Gossipy old crow.

  “I don’t want pity,” I snapped. “Just people like you to mind their own business.”

  “Well, there’s nice.”

  I shivered again thinking of myself and my little brother Mathieu holding hands by that frosty open grave in a churchyard so far away. Why Papa had afterwards de-camped to West Wales where land was still cheap, yet where each of his planning applications for more stables and a pool for the horses had taken far too long to be approved. I was about to give this tactless creature a third dose of my tongue when Danny stepped in with a strained smile that left his nice eyes untouched.

  “Anyway, Mrs…”

  “Miss, if you don’t mind. Beti Morgan it is…”

  “Well, Miss Morgan. Thanks for calling my boss so promptly from the hotel over there. We’re very grateful.” His words were tossed away by the wind and the roaring waves, but instead of walking off, the stranger stayed put. A woman whose eyes were like the deep, treacherous Irish Sea itself.

  “Act normal if you can,” Danny hissed into my ear. “She’s trouble. I can sniff it.”

  “With his help, I pulled myself up from the wet grass and relieved him of the gelding’s reins. The girth had been tightened, the saddle once more secure and that double bit was in place again.

  “And thank you for doing all this,” I said, seeing his old Range Rover parked nearby.