The Shrouded Path

by Sarah Ward

  With a determined paddle, she set off again and came out into the morning air. In the distance she could hear a whistle, probably from the steam train that meandered up the restored track over the Topley Trail. Mina stopped paddling, trying to make a connection. Cutting, Catherine had said. Wasn’t there a railway reference to do with cuttings? Her knowledge of trains was so scant she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it. Cutting. Could this be what her mother was talking about?

  Back on land and wrapped in one of her mother’s oversized jumpers, Mina heaved a black bin bag into her van and headed towards her own home. In her childhood semi she pulled out clothes from the bag and put them into her washing machine. Her mother made do with handwashing garments bought specifically for the reason that they didn’t need ironing. Mina’s clothes, which could hardly have been called chic, needed a more robust clean after work. The house was airless after being closed up for so long. Mina moved restlessly around, watering the pot plants, and then went out to the back garden. A dead robin lay on the lawn, pathetically small in the expanse, a victim of the ginger tom next door. She picked up a trowel and buried the bird in one of the borders, next to a mulberry bush.

  She checked her mobile again to see if the hospital had tried to contact her. Nothing but a few missed calls from her friend Jo. She sat on a bench, massaging her temples, then went back inside and rang her friend.

  An hour later, Jo hugged Mina to her ample bosom and then looked at her critically. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ Mina attempted to shrug away but Jo’s arms held her. ‘You are looking after yourself, aren’t you?’

  Irritated, Mina pulled away. ‘Let’s find somewhere to eat.’

  Bampton was crowded for a drizzly late October morning. She assumed that the town was catering for the residents of the nearby cities of Manchester and Sheffield with nothing better to do on a wet Tuesday than take a run out to the countryside. Even the chip shop was already open and one family with a white terrier in tow were attempting to eat trays of chips while standing under a large black umbrella.

  Mina nodded in their direction. ‘I want something a bit more comfortable than that. Do you mind if we climb away from the centre of town? There’s somewhere I want to try.’

  She steered Jo up a steep hill that had them both panting for breath by the time they reached the top. They walked through a car park towards the entrance of a café painted with the familiar Peak District green. The building was a large cavernous space that had been divided into four separate dining areas with big wooden tables and signs asking diners to help themselves to cutlery. It had the air of an upmarket canteen.

  ‘What’s this place? I’ve never been here before.’ Jo was looking around her. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘Can’t you tell? Well, we did rush in, didn’t we? If you’d noticed the huge clock hanging off one side, you’d have realised. It’s Bampton station, or it was before they shut it down years ago. The line ran outside that window there and you can walk along it all the way into Buxton. It’s pretty impressive.’

  ‘I can’t see the path.’

  ‘It’s behind the trees. I had a look on the map earlier. I’ve always meant to come up here but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know. For some reason I thought it wasn’t that nice.’

  Jo picked up a menu. ‘I didn’t know this café existed but I have walked parts of the trail. We can go for a little walk afterwards if you like and I can show you where you can hire a bike. That’s the best way to see the old line. You could cycle seven or eight miles until the path peters out.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was that interesting. I got the impression it was fairly derelict.’

  Jo looked at Mina in astonishment. ‘Who on earth told you that? The trail is one of the most beautiful walks you can do without going out into the hills. It’s great for the elderly and young kids because no part of it is particularly steep. It’s heaving in the summer but you’ll largely have it to yourself this time of year. Who said it wasn’t worth a visit?’

  ‘My mum. She always said it was a terrible place.’

  ‘Really?’ Jo put down the menu and studied the blackboard hanging from the opposite wall with the daily specials. ‘Locals often don’t realise the value of what they’ve got. They also, in my experience, never walk anywhere. I bet she’s never even gone down the path.’

  Mina, thinking of her bookish mum, smiled. ‘You’re probably right.’

  Jo looked across at her. ‘You are coping, aren’t you? It’s a horrible situation to be in. I can’t even bear to think about my mum being ill. I like to pretend she’s going to live until she’s a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m just trying to make sense of a few things. Let’s forget about that for the moment. What are you going to eat?’

  Jo humphed. ‘I’m going to have a baked potato although I’m trying not to have such a carb fest this winter. Still, it’s baked potato weather. What about you?’

  ‘Soup for me.’

  ‘I knew it. You’re on a diet.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s just since Mum’s illness my appetite’s gone.’

  Jo was silent and looked at the table. ‘It’s a bloody awful way to go. Although I’m not sure there is a good way to die. With my dad it was quick. Mum went to take him a cup of tea in the study and he’d gone. Is that better? Maybe for him but what about the rest of us? I never had the chance to say to him the things that really matter. Have you?’

  ‘It’s hard because some days I think I’m about to lose her and others she’s, well, not okay, but better.’

  ‘Will you feel you’ve said everything you need to say, though?’

  Mina shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. What might be the end for Mum might be the start for me. Does that make sense?’

  Jo stood up, purse in hand. ‘Not really, but it doesn’t have to. It just needs to make sense to you.’

  And that, thought Mina, as she watched her friend go to the counter to order the food, is the heart of the problem. Nothing at the moment makes sense.

  16

  So Dahl wasn’t a dick. That was good to know. She’d had two glasses of wine and he hadn’t pressed another on her. He’d also stuck to two bottled beers and then headed off. They’d talked of Derbyshire, politics and his last big case in that order. When she’d asked why he’d moved to Bampton he’d changed the subject. She’d woken up clear eyed and, for the first time since Sadler’s departure for his hols, looking forward to going into work. She sat down at her desk, keeping a wary eye on Matthews. Dahl came into the CID room balancing two coffee cups on top of each other.

  ‘They give you a tray for them if you ask.’ Connie wished she’d stopped off on her way in. She’d been planning to get herself settled and then nip out. Now she was sinking under a mountain of paperwork.

  ‘I wasn’t planning on getting two when I placed my order so I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Need waking up, do you?’

  Dahl placed a cup in front of her. ‘One of them is for you, actually.’

  ‘Me? How do you know what I like?’

  ‘I saw you drinking from a cup yesterday so I described you to the server and asked if you’d been in yet. She said no and that you liked a skinny latte extra hot.’

  Connie reached into her handbag. ‘You’d make a great detective. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Have this one on me. In future we’ll go halves.’

  ‘Nice one. Thanks, Dahl.’ Connie took a long sip of the hot liquid and bent her head back over her papers. She was aware of Dahl making himself comfortable at DS Palmer’s old desk.

  ‘How did you describe me to the barista?’

  Dahl laughed. He had another mismatched outfit on. This time a pinstripe jacket made out of linen with trousers also with thin lines threaded through them but of a thicker material.

  ‘Don’t you look in the mirror before you leave the house?’

  Dahl looked up in surprise. ‘What’s the matter? Have I
got toothpaste on my cheek?’

  ‘Your cheek? I know you wear glasses but that’d be one hell of a miss.’

  He threw an empty styrofoam cup at her. ‘Go on then. Tell me what’s wrong with my appearance.’

  ‘Your trousers don’t match your jacket.’

  He looked down at himself. ‘Don’t they? Oh well. The blind man will be pleased to see me, as my mother says.’

  Smiling, Connie switched on her computer.

  ‘By the way, do you own a sewing kit?’

  ‘Me?’ Connie opened a desk drawer. ‘I had one once upon a time. Why?’

  ‘The hem of your trousers is coming undone.’

  Connie lifted a leg and swore. ‘This is only the second time I’ve worn them. They’re going back to the shop tomorrow.’

  Matthews opened her door and came over, irritated by their laughter. ‘How did you get on with Nell Colley yesterday?’

  Connie looked to Dahl. ‘The house shows no sign of disturbance and the neighbour’s story rings true. We’ve taken a bag of the deceased’s medication. There’s quite a lot of it but nothing that appears out of place. I’ll check it this morning.’

  Matthews looked relieved. ‘Do that and then bring me the paperwork to look at.’

  ‘There is one thing.’ Matthews stopped at Dahl’s voice. ‘She did have a visitor on the morning that she died. The neighbour seemed certain of this but we haven’t been able to trace them.’

  ‘A friend?’ asked Matthews.

  ‘That would be my guess because I’ve checked all the authorities.’

  ‘Do you think it significant?’

  ‘I don’t think so and the GP doesn’t appear inclined to inform the coroner. No further action would be my recommendation.’ Dahl’s voice had an air of authority and Connie was impressed. Not a colleague who would need hand holding then. Instead of the expected relief at his recommendation, Connie felt the twinge of apprehension she had first experienced while looking over the file and again at Nell’s house. She sat back in her chair and wondered whether to say something. Matthews, however, was also clearly impressed with Dahl and she, at least, looked relieved.

  ‘Good. Check through the medication then bring me the paperwork.’

  Connie watched Matthews shut the door and turned to Dahl. ‘We didn’t mention the book she was writing. The more I think about it, the odder it is. Even her neighbour thought it was out of character for Nell to want to start something and then prevaricate about it. The memoir must have been about an important moment in her life.’

  ‘That’s the point of memoirs. Important for the person writing it but often not that interesting for anyone else.’

  ‘I guess,’ said Connie. ‘It’s strange, though. I spoke to Sadler last night and he’d heard about the death from one of his neighbours. Nell was worried about libelling herself.’

  ‘Did he give any more information?’

  ‘He doesn’t have any more details, but what about the funeral notice that Nell was looking at? Perhaps it’s connected to her. You circled the name in the notes on your desk.’

  Dahl frowned. ‘It’s unexplained, that’s all. The house was clean so she hadn’t kept any subsequent local papers. Only the one with Ingrid Neale’s name in it.’

  Mayfield looked up. ‘Ingrid Neale?’

  Connie swung around in her chair. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘She died in June. She was an elderly patient who was found dead. Sadler sent me out to look at the death, check everything was all right.’

  ‘Was it in High Oaks?’

  ‘No, not even in Bampton. A sudden death in Cold Eaton. She was definitely called Ingrid Neale. Lived with her sister Monica Neale and Monica’s husband. What’s her connection with yours?’

  ‘Our deceased kept the funeral notice.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mayfield. ‘They probably knew each other.’

  Dahl also turned to face Mayfield. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘I think it was an asthma attack. I can dig out the file for you, if you like. The correct procedure was followed, I checked. She’d certainly seen her GP that week and he was happy to sign off the death certificate. She was in some discomfort. There was even an oxygen tank at the property.’

  Dahl continued to stare at Mayfield. ‘Who was the doctor who signed off the cause of death?’

  ‘I’ll have to look at the file. My memory’s not that good.’

  They waited for a moment while Mayfield clicked around her computer.

  ‘Here we are. The woman’s GP. A Dr Jake Parsons.’

  Connie felt her body go cold. ‘But that’s the same GP as our death.’

  Mayfield looked unconcerned. ‘There are only three GP practices in Bampton. It’s not that significant.’ She looked at them both. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Can I look at it?’ Dahl got up and walked over to her. He leant over her, rapidly skimming through the notes. At one point, he stopped and looked up at Connie.

  ‘She was found sitting on the sofa, fully dressed.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s the same situation as Nell Colley.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Dahl, you’ve got to die somewhere. Why not on the sofa?’

  He was shaking his head. ‘I’ve spent longer in uniform than you, I bet. Remember being called to deaths? How many were sitting up?’

  ‘Lots of them.’

  He shook his head. ‘No they weren’t. A few were, certainly, but not lots. If you’re feeling ill you go to bed. You don’t sit upright on the sofa.’

  ‘You bloody do.’

  ‘You do not.’

  Mayfield was watching them both. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Dahl wrote an address down on a notepad and motioned to Connie. ‘Let’s go, and this time I’ll drive.’

  17

  Mina and Jo began to walk down the old railway path but the pelting rain forced them back into Bampton where they ran to their vehicles. Mina switched on the windscreen wipers and, checking the map on her phone, took the road out towards Cold Eaton. At the junction where she should have turned a sharp left towards the village, however, she carried on half a mile or so until another turning appeared at the bend. It was marked with a brown tourist sign pointing the way to Eaton station.

  The road was as narrow as the one to Cold Eaton but filled with potholes. Mina expertly navigated the van between the fissures in the road and the surface turned to gravel in front of a long squat building built in Derbyshire stone. Next to it, a train hissing steam from the top of its engine looked braced to depart. As she got out of the car, admiring the house opposite which was brightened by window boxes full of winter planting, a capped guard looked Mina up and down.

  ‘You’ve got three minutes to buy a ticket.’

  ‘I’m not travelling, only visiting the office.’

  The guard turned his attention to a couple with a young child in a pushchair who was struggling to get out in the excitement. Mina pushed open the door to the ticket office and approached a small group huddled around a computer. A woman peeled away and came to the counter.

  ‘You’re just in time—’

  ‘I’m not getting on the train, thanks. I wanted to ask you about something. About the history of this railway.’

  This got the group’s attention. They all stared at her, poised to answer.

  ‘I was wondering if someone could give me information about this railway line. It closed down for a bit, didn’t it?’

  ‘It’s only been going for the last five years. It’s volunteers who look after it,’ a tall man answered with an air of authority. ‘Why were you wanting to know?’

  ‘I live in Bampton and only know about the closed section. You know, the trail where the old track used to be. I remembered that this bit had been reopened and I’m trying to find someone and they mentioned the railway.’

  ‘Who did?’

  At the man’s abrupt tone, Mina’s eyes filled with tears. The woman behind the counter noticed and lifted the hatch. ‘Listen, the t
rain’s off. I can hear its whistle. It won’t be back for an hour. I’ll get Jim to look after the counter and I’ll make us a brew.’

  She steered Mina into the back room and switched on a kettle rimmed with limescale. The cups didn’t look particularly clean but the woman gave them a wipe with a piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘I’ll make you a restorative cup of tea. I’m Jean, by the way. Don’t mind the man who just spoke to you. He’s my brother and he’s been like that since the day he was born. Awkward. He speaks to everyone like that.’

  ‘You work here?’

  ‘Volunteer, and it’s a labour of love. We used to live in the house over the road.’

  ‘The one with the window boxes? I noticed as I was coming down the path.’

  ‘That’s the one. Our father was the station master here until 1966 when the railway shut down.’

  ‘What a wonderful place to grow up. Were you sad to leave?’

  Jean chuckled. ‘I’m older than I look. By that time, I’d already left and was living in Bampton. The family joined me in a house nearby and that was that for us and the railway. Or so we thought.’

  ‘Did you miss it? The station?’

  ‘I did but not as much as Jim. He told me he used to dream about it. I was bringing up kids and, believe me, they don’t leave you much time for anything else.’

  ‘When did this part of the line reopen?’

  ‘About five years ago but we’d been campaigning for it since the nineties. When they announced that they were turning the old track line into the Topley Trail, it was a case of now or never. It would have been lost forever to the dog walkers. Have you been down there?’

  ‘Not really. I remember my mother being a bit sniffy about it. Saying something like it wasn’t worth a visit.’