Mentally reviewing the interview with Ralph Fenwick, he began to look for something that would lead him in the right direction, as opposed to leading him up the garden path.
Ralph Fenwick was thirty-two and worked from home as a freelance computer software designer. Currently renting, with a view to buying. Very good at his job, apparently, and making an above-average income, thank you very much. Moved to Wiggleswood some time last month to get away from the City.
Hadn’t we all, Bill mused.
He has a wife, Stephanie, who works for American Express, and is currently overseas on business. There are no kids.
All this he had gleaned during a conversation with Fred at the pub about a fortnight ago.
His recovery after the accident had been ‘A miracle’, as the doctor had put it, and this was what had prompted Bill to go and see him.
A flicker of recognition began to splutter its way to life in Bill’s mind. Not a full, ‘lights-on-somebody’s-definitely-home’ type of moment, but certainly a single birthday-cake candle of light.
And then he got it.
Familiarity!
This was the elusive term he had been searching for. He hardly knew Ralph Fenwick from a bar of soap and yet he had felt a sense of familiarity during the interview. It was the eyes. Yes, he remembered now. That was it!
But what was it?
‘He . . . it . . . Damn, damn, damn!’ He cursed in frustration, banging his fist on his desk. And as he did so, the metaphorical candle was snuffed out and he was left back in the dark.
The door opened gingerly, PC Finch’s head poked around the jamb. Behind Finch, PC Griffith stood holding a glass of water in her right hand and two aspirin in her left.
‘You okay, sarge?’ Finch asked. ‘Sharon’s got your aspirin here.’
‘Oh. Thanks,’ Bill replied woodenly.
Finch stood aside for his colleague and the still-tearful constable entered, carefully placing the glass of water and two tablets on Williams’ desk.
Bill acknowledged with a half-smile and a mumbled ‘Thanks, Sharon’.
‘Ah, there it is!’ said Finch.
‘What, constable?’ Bill asked.
‘My paper, sarge. Popped into your office first thing this morning. Must have left it on your desk. Thought I’d do the crossword during lunch.’
Bill picked up the folded newspaper. He didn’t enjoy crossword puzzles and never understood Finch’s fascination for them, especially as he was sure the man made up half the answers. He glanced at the clue for seven across.
A ghost that turned to drink perhaps? (6)
Bill grabbed a pencil from Finch’s top pocket, filled it in quickly then handed Finch his newspaper.
‘Wiglob, sarge?’ Finch asked, frowning at the word Bill had pencilled in.
‘Yes, lad, Wiglob,’ Bill confirmed as he stood up.
‘I’ve never heard of the word before,’ said a mystified Ben Finch.
‘That’s because there is no such word, constable. For crying out loud! It’s just like half the daft answers you fill in your darn crossword puzzles. They only mean something to you. Well, Wiglob is from the Bill Williams Book of Stupid Meaningless Words.’
‘What does it mean, sarge?’
Bill was about to explain what meaningless meant, but quickly downshifted mental gears, being mindful that that he was dealing with someone who was, in part, named after an orang-utan. He sighed.
‘It means there’s something going on here and I haven’t the foggiest idea what it is. But I will find out, Constable Finch, you can count on it.’ Bill swallowed the tablets, gulped down the water and left the office.
Finch turned to Sharon Griffith. ‘Poor sarge. I wouldn’t want to be Ralph Fenwick right now, that’s for sure.’
PC Griffith gave Finch a blank look.
‘Fenwick did old Fred in, I’m telling you. Mark my words.’
Finch looked at his crossword. He rubbed out Wiglob, thought for a moment then pencilled in the word Spirit.
*
Hendrix and Ralph walked toward Fred’s house.
It had been agreed that if someone had to go, the best option would be them.
‘I have a tin that I keep in a secret cubby-hole next to my bed. No one knows about it. It has several thousand pounds in it. Just bring about half of what’s there. My bedroom has carpet tiles and you will find a small trap-door under the third tile from the wall next to the window. That was my emergency fund. I kept it for a rainy day,’ Fred had told them miserably. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’
The cat had glanced out of the window before he and Ralph had left.
‘I don’t know so much . . .’
The drizzle was not heavy and it obviously had no effect on them as they walked up the road chatting casually. Well, no effect in the sense of making the pair wet. However, the rain did fall around them, forming a sort of outline that created the impression of a hole in the rain. The effect would have been most disconcerting had anyone been there to witness the phenomenon. Fortunately, at that moment the road appeared empty.
A dark blue Volvo was parked in the driveway.
‘Uh-oh. Fred’s got visitors. Family by the looks of it,’ said Ralph. ‘We should be okay though, shouldn’t we?’ he asked the cat.
‘If we can gain entry there’ll be no problem. But remember, although we aren’t visible, we’ll have to be very careful about moving anything. I’ll scoot round the back and have a peep. Hold on a minute.’
The cat disappeared over the side gate. Two minutes later he was back.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone inside. I think they are next door at the neighbours. There are four people in the kitchen. The women are crying.’
‘There’s a boy, Michael; any sign of him?’ Ralph asked.
‘The only children I saw were two babies sitting in high chairs with the adults,’ Hendrix told him.
‘That’ll be the twins. They belong to Angela and Tony. Perhaps Gary and Liz left him at home? Seems unlikely though. Are you sure the boy wasn’t with them?’
‘Well there was no one else in the kitchen and I didn’t notice the television on in either house, so he wasn’t in front of the TV.’
‘Okay then. Let’s go,’ said Ralph. ‘But keep your eyes peeled in case they come back, all right?’
‘Will do,’ the cat confirmed. ‘The wooden side gate is only on the latch, and they’ve left the back door ajar. We’re in luck.’
‘Then let’s make it snappy.’
*
Bill Williams made a call to Gary and Liz’s home from the front desk.
There was no reply.
‘I’ll call them when I get home,’ he said to the two police officers.
PC Griffith had managed to stop crying at last. Sharon Griffith and Liz Peters were best friends. They had attended school together at Corlington Comprehensive.
It had only been a few hours since the accident, but news of Fred’s death spread quickly and touched many people in Wiggleswood. Sharon had grown up in the village and had spent almost as much time at Fred and Gwen’s house as she had at her own home when she and Liz were younger.
Bill went off shift. He wasn’t due on again until two the following afternoon. He had some research he wanted to do, and for that he needed some peace and quiet for a few hours, away from prying eyes. And, more importantly, away from the nonsensical prattle of PC Finch.
A few years ago, he would have driven to Corlington and visited the public library. These days there was the internet.
Bill walked to the back of the police station to the small car park. Bill’s ride was an old Jeep. When he first moved to Wiggleswood he’d owned an E-Type Jaguar; a car he had had a passion for since his early twenties.
After his wife passed away he indulged himself and splashed out on the sports car, very quickly realising how impractical it was to drive for a man of his size, even more so now that he lived in the countryside, where a four-wheel drive vehicle like a Jeep is
often a necessity.
He had been in Corlington one Saturday morning three years ago when he noticed the Jeep parked outside a recently-opened trendy coffee shop. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign stuck on the back of it.
After he parked the Jag he began an inspection of the Jeep, quite forgetting he was in uniform.
Within thirty seconds, a rather flustered young man appeared at his side.
‘Morning, officer, er . . . something wrong?’
Bill merely asked, ‘Is this your car?’
‘Yes. Why?’ was the anxious reply.
‘Can we go for a spin? I’d like to see how it rides, if that’s okay with you?’ Bill asked.
‘Listen officer, I know it might look like a bit worse for wear but it’s licensed and it went through M.O.T. less than two months ago.’
Bill cottoned on. He smiled.
‘Young man, I’m not pulling you in for anything. You have a “For Sale” sign stuck on the back.’
‘So, what of it?’ he nervously replied. ‘That’s not against the law is it?’
‘No, of course not. But I might be interested in buying it.’
‘Buying it? Oh! You want to buy it. Right!’ He laughed and so did his two friends who had wandered outside to see what was going on.
It turned out to be a fortunate encounter all round, as the Jeep’s owner had a thing for Jags. In the end, no money changed hands; only license and registration papers.
Bill pulled out of the car park and turned left.
A figure dressed in black had just stepped out of the post office and was busy trying to open an umbrella.
Bill braked and called to the man. ‘Give you a lift, Reverend?’
Reverend Steven Wilkins made a dash for the Jeep and climbed in.
‘Afternoon, Bill,’ he said cheerily, then immediately sobered. ‘Terrible news about Fred. I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes it is. It hasn’t hit home yet. But I’m sure it will fairly soon. I’m going to miss him.’
‘We all are, Bill,’ Reverend Wilkins agreed. ‘I spoke to Gary and Liz less than an hour ago. Arrangements are already under way for the funeral. It’s on Sunday. Gary and Liz are over at Fred’s place, I believe, and Gary has already phoned the family solicitor about the will and that sort of thing. ‘
‘Ah,’ Bill nodded. ‘That explains why there was no reply when I phoned a few minutes ago.’
Bill put the car into gear and drove towards St. Mary’s church.
Reverend Steven Wilkins was nearly seventy. He had been the church’s representative in Wiggleswood for nigh on forty years. He lived alone in a small cottage adjacent to the church, and as Bill pulled up outside it he turned to Wilkins and asked, ‘What do you know about spirits, Reverend?’
‘Well, Mr and Mrs Lawley always give me a bottle of Glenfiddich at Christmas and Mrs Potters likes a nip of gin on occasion. She thinks I don’t know, of course, and tries to pretend one of the parishioners leaves it behind in the Bible rack after service.’
‘That’s not . . .’ Bill began.
‘No, of course it isn’t. I’m sorry Bill. My stupid sense of humour. Are you referring to ghosts or something more . . . well, spiritual?’
‘I . . .’ Bill paused for a moment and considered the question. ‘You know I’m not really sure what I mean, to tell the truth. It’s just that I went to interview a neighbour of Fred’s, this morning. Ralph Fenwick. He was involved in an accident about the same time as Fred had his heart attack, and they were both taken to hospital in the same ambulance. Well, to cut a long story short, he walked out of the hospital not more than five minutes after being wheeled in on a stretcher, fighting for his life. The doctor said it was “A miracle”, and that’s a direct quote.’
Reverend Wilkins had learnt the art of patience and so he waited, instinctively knowing that Bill had not finished.
‘It’s just that I could swear I felt something while talking to Ralph Fenwick. Don’t ask me what. Perhaps it was nothing more than my imagination. Too many years round villains, maybe. Or call it instinct if you like. Anyway, I’ve learnt not to ignore such things out of hand.’
‘Are you suggesting there’s skulduggery afoot, Bill Williams?’
‘No . . . well,’ Bill shook his head. ‘No, I’m sure there’s no foul play. But I am sure there was something not right about Ralph Fenwick this morning.’
‘God works in mysterious ways, sergeant. Anyway, I will have a look amongst my books and see if I can find something for you. I have about fifty copies of the Watchtower if you fancy an interesting weekend read?’
‘I didn’t think the old C of E held much stock in the Witnesses,’ said Bill, raising an eyebrow.
‘They don’t. But I respect their viewpoint even if I don’t agree with it. I keep the magazines in a Sainsbury’s bag and use them as a doorstop. Religion has many uses.’ The Reverend smiled as he climbed out of the Jeep. The rain had stopped.
‘Care for a spirit of the amber Scottish kind before you head off?’
Bill offered a weak smile. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Maybe on Sunday. I’ll probably need it more then.’
‘Understood. See you Sunday, then.’
Bill executed a three-point turn on the gravel driveway, drove down Vicarage Lane, and headed home.
9: Seeing Ghosts
The back door creaked. Not enough to attract any attention but enough to make Ralph and Hendrix stand stock-still for a moment. A non-existent breath hissed between Ralph’s non-existent teeth.
The house was deathly quiet. An unfortunate term under the circumstances, but it was the first thing that came to Ralph’s mind.
The small television set that sat on the kitchen working surface was off, just as Hendrix had said. The pair crept cautiously past it and headed down the passage towards Fred’s bedroom.
Halfway down they noticed the lounge door was ajar. They paused, listened for anything that might be beyond it, and then continued down the hallway.
With Hendrix leading the way, they reached the bedroom. The cat nudged the door and it swung open silently.
Standing on the window side of the bed, Ralph counted to the third carpet tile. Then he knelt down and lifted it aside to reveal a small wooden trapdoor.
Below it was the tin. It was about the size of a schoolchild’s lunch box. Ralph carefully lifted it out of its hiding place and put it on the bed. The hinged lid opened without a fuss, revealing two clear plastic packets, each containing a thick wad of bank notes of various denominations. Ralph chose one of the packets at random, then closed the lid and replaced the tin in the cubby-hole.
As Ralph re-laid the carpet tile the toilet in the en suite bathroom flushed.
‘Oh, shine a blinking light,’ Ralph hissed under his breath. ‘I thought you said . . .?’
The cat shrugged, and immediately crawled under the bed. Ralph’s reaction was just as instinctive. Although he would never have been able to fit under the bed with his fellow intruder, he did make it to the built-in wardrobe, sliding the door open and hiding inside just as a young boy emerged from the bathroom.
Ralph held his breath. A pointless exercise, and of course, impossible. However, Michael showed no indication that he was aware of anything amiss, as he was concentrating on zipping up his trouser fly and tucking in his shirt.
A small black head poked out from underneath the bed. Hendrix’s whiskers twitched.
Of course he won’t be able to see us, Ralph thought, feeling foolish, but stayed where he was anyway
Michael finished adjusting his clothing, leaving half his shirttail sticking out the back of his pants. The boy blinked sleepily, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. He looked as if he had just awoken.
Hendrix became transfixed as the boy looked directly at him and spoke.
‘Hello, kitty,’ said Michael in a dreamy sort of voice. Then he left the bedroom and went back to the lounge.
The wardrobe door gently slid open. Ralph stood rooted to the spot in disbelief. ‘The kid sa
w you,’ he hissed.
‘Yes, I know. Come on, let’s get out of . . .’ the cat began, but Ralph shook his head vigorously and held an index finger to his lips. If the boy could see, then he could probably hear as well. Hendrix nodded once in understanding.
Gingerly, they crept down the passage, pausing to peep around the lounge door. Michael was fast asleep on the couch.
As they went through the back gate, they heard a female voice say something about a funeral and Sunday. The pair weren’t quite as blasé as they headed back to Ralph’s house
Once they arrived, they found Fred still sitting in the kitchen.
Ralph tossed the bag of money on the table.
‘I think our position may be a little more tenuous than we first thought. Michael can see.’
*
The clock on the computer showed it was 23:32. Bill had been on the internet for nearly three hours and his headache from the morning was no better.
He had logged on to Google and typed ‘Spirits,’ then pressed search. As is the norm with unrefined web searches, the computer indicated there were 368,000,000 million references for the word. After a couple more attempts, he narrowed his search using phrases such as, The afterlife, Near death experiences, and Ghosts.
The dizzying number of references reduced by at least 75%, but it still did not help him much, the problem being compounded by the fact he didn’t really know what it was he was looking for. Sometimes there was a lot to be said for a qualified, knowledgeable librarian.
Ironically, amongst all the supposed ‘factual’ stuff was a reference to a film called All of me, starring the comedian Steve Martin. It seemed the closest to what he thought he was looking for.
The gist of the film concerned a dying millionairess who tried to have her soul transferred into a younger, willing woman. But something goes wrong, and she ends up in her lawyer's body - together with the lawyer.
The description of the film sounded quite funny. He made a written note and decided he would buy or hire the film at the first opportunity.
He logged off, got up from the computer, poured himself a whiskey and put on a CD.
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