Remember, Remember

by Lisa Cutts

  Never had one word been uttered about this in all the time I’d known my friend. In thirty-eight years, during all of the meals, drinks and chats we’d shared together, he hadn’t mentioned one word of it. I trusted Stan with my life. Well, if someone saved your life, I supposed that was only to be expected.

  I went home with Bill and wouldn’t discuss my mum’s revelation. I would talk to Stan about it, but not tonight.

  I would only ever admit to myself that my real reason for not wanting to face Stan was because it had made me feel so sad to think it might have been true and that I’d missed out on a whole better life. The thought of Stan looking after me as his own daughter showed me a new world of lost opportunities – feelings of loss I knew I’d never shake. I had kept secrets for decades. One more wouldn’t matter.

  My Sunday was spent sleeping, reading, watching television and catching up with anything and everything to avoid making any decisions or confronting any issues. I felt more tired than I had in a long time.

  29

  Monday morning saw me ready to return to work, glad of the distraction from my private life.

  When I got to the Cold Case office, Harry was already busy at a terminal compiling overtime and staffing figures for a meeting to justify Cold Case’s existence. Wingsy walked in seconds after me, while those about to go off to Crown Court were busy discussing the jury’s imminent return with the Barry Oakes verdict.

  ‘Morning, Nina,’ said Harry from his side of the office. ‘Managed to come up with a priority for the train crash? And by the way, you look dreadful.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ I said, peering around my computer screen at him. ‘Yes, I have. I’d like to visit Thomas Ross. He lives in West Sussex. I’ve got an address for him from the Voters’ Register, but no phone number. I was planning on going this morning. Can I see if Baldy’s free to come with me?’

  ‘Yeah, you can. Leave me the address and call me later if he has much to say.’ Harry returned to compiling a list of how the budget had been spent so that he could go fully prepared to the morning meeting where a senior officer would ask him why he couldn’t release some of his staff to other areas of police business. Knowing him of old, he would fight for his staff and return in a foul mood. I’d been a police officer long enough to know that it was a good idea to keep out of the way of anyone attending such a meeting, to give them a reasonable cooling-off period. I figured that a trip to Sussex and back should be plenty of time for my detective sergeant to calm down.

  I looked expectantly at Wingsy and gave him my best Monday morning smile.

  ‘I’ll make the tea; you sort out a vehicle and we’ll head off,’ said my companion for the day. ‘I’ve got a sat nav as well.’

  I busied myself getting the paperwork and travel logistics sorted. As we were about to leave, Wingsy said, ‘I’ll see you in the car. I’ve got to get my packed lunch salad out of the fridge.’

  ‘Packed lunch salad?’ I asked. ‘You are some sort of super-tart. I was hoping that we could find a café or sandwich shop.’

  Wingsy looked at my stomach.

  ‘What?’ I said before I could stop myself.

  ‘It’s up to you what you eat, Nina, but I’ve got enough salad for two.’

  ‘Then it’s not really a salad, is it? A whole lettuce and a pound of tomatoes aren’t enough to see someone through the day. I’ll see you in the car park.’

  I flounced off down the stairs in the direction of the back yard, arms full of paperwork, checking the key fob for the vehicle registration. At the entrance to the patrol wing which led to the car park, I almost collided with Pierre Rainer coming through the door. He was flicking through his family liaison officer’s log book as he walked.

  ‘Hi, Nina,’ he said, voice full of cheer.

  ‘Hi, Pierre,’ I answered. ‘How’s Annie?’ As I uttered these words, I remembered that I hadn’t thought to check with anyone how Richard was. Annie’s son had been arrested for the murder of his own dad and I’d been so wrapped up in myself, I hadn’t even thought to ask after him. I was a terrible friend.

  Carrying out mental PACE arithmetic, I worked out that if Richard had been arrested on Friday and was still in custody without charge, he would either have been taken to the Magistrates’ Court for a Warrant of Further Detention at some point over the weekend, or released on bail. I should at least have found out whether he’d been charged or not.

  ‘Annie’s doing OK,’ said Pierre. ‘She’s pleased to have Richard home.’

  ‘When was he released?’ I asked.

  ‘Early Saturday evening, a couple of hours into the superintendent’s twelve-hour extension. I didn’t interview him, but I do know that he answered all questions. He said he went to see his dad in prison to warn him to stay away from Annie once he got out. He also said he was there when his dad was shot because he was making sure Patrick kept his word and steered clear. There wasn’t enough to charge him, but it may be a different story when he returns on bail.’

  It might have been my imagination, but Pierre seemed to remember who he was talking to. He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said as he began to walk away. ‘I’ll let Annie know you were asking after her.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ I said, making towards daylight. ‘Tell her I’ll be in touch soon.’

  I headed across the yard to the unmarked police car I’d managed to get my hands on for the day’s enquiries. As I loaded the stuff into it, I wondered what exactly I would be saying to Annie when I saw her next. I had the same amount of enthusiasm for facing her as I did for facing Stan. Fortunately, I had a drive of over a hundred miles each way to work out what I was going to do.

  Wingsy’s swearing interrupted my reverie as he made his way towards me, dropping his Tupperware box of salad as he tried to hold on to everything he was carrying. The lunch box hit the floor, the lid came loose and the adjacent parking bay was adorned with cucumber and radishes. As if the sight of Wingsy’s healthy meal on the tarmac wasn’t funny enough, the look on his face made me hold on to my sides as I hooted with laughter. He looked furious but I couldn’t help myself.

  When I’d finished laughing, I carried on giving the vehicle a quick check-over for faults: cracked glass, low tyre pressure… All of our police vehicles were supposed to be checked every Monday morning. I hadn’t bothered for months before my time off, and probably wouldn’t have taken the trouble now, had it not been for wanting to give Wingsy time to calm down after decorating the car park with his lunch. I knew that he’d sulk for a bit but then cheer up. Especially now I was going to be able to justify stopping for a pub lunch somewhere.

  ‘Ready, mate?’ I asked, pretending to check the vehicle’s oil.

  ‘You didn’t even wipe the dipstick when you checked that then,’ he said, leaning against the side of the car.

  ‘That’s because I don’t have anything handy to clean it with,’ I answered him. ‘Unless you’ve got a spare lettuce leaf I can use?’

  ‘Can we get going, if you’ve finished taking the piss?’

  At least he was laughing as he said it.

  I drove as Wingsy put the destination into the sat nav. As we settled into the journey ahead, we began with our usual ramblings about nothing. He told me how Mel, his wife, was on at him to decorate the house but wanted to move closer to her parents so what was the point? I told him about Bill and my visit to my parents over the weekend, leaving out the details of the row; I told him it was about money and left it there. Our journey was uneventful and we made good time on the way there. When the sat nav told us that we had fifteen miles to go, I gave Wingsy a bit of a run-down on what I was going to ask Thomas Ross.

  ‘He was on the train but he should have been sitting in the carriage with the other two players. For some reason he was four carriages away from them. Which was also four carriages further away from the impact of the train hitting Malcolm Bring’s lorry.’

  Wingsy shifted in his seat to look at me. ‘So, do you think that he
knew the train was going to collide with something? That’s why he moved further down the train?’

  ‘It could have been,’ I answered. ‘He also may just have wanted a wee. The toilets were towards the back of the train.’

  ‘What’s your plan, Nin?’

  ‘Thought I’d go for a very general who I am, what the purpose is and that there is new evidence being investigated. Strictly speaking, that’s true, although it’s currently in the guise of Joe Bring and his dead father.’

  ‘I know a bit about Tommy Ross,’ said Wingsy. ‘He played for the equivalent of today’s Premier League sides and was tipped to play for England in the ’66 World Cup. Due to injury, he didn’t play for a time before the squad was picked – that was why he didn’t get to represent his country in 1966. He wasn’t thought to be fit enough. That, and the corruption charges.’

  ‘Corruption?’ This I hadn’t expected.

  ‘Good lord, Foster. Are you telling me that you didn’t know about his convictions? How much research did you do on this fella?’

  ‘About as much as a detective would deem necessary to visit a seventy-three-year-old former professional footballer who was an innocent member of the public back in 1964 when the train he was travelling on crashed.’

  ‘Well, I’d tell you all about it now,’ said Wingsy, ‘but, knowing your attention span, especially if the topic is sport-related, I’ll let Ross tell you and fill in anything he leaves out.’

  The sat nav saved us from further bickering by telling us that we were metres from our destination. The road we were travelling along was wooded on both sides and we hadn’t seen a building since turning into it.

  Seconds away from accusing Wingsy of inputting the wrong post code, I bit my tongue when I saw a partly hidden entrance on the right. Large black iron gates were open on to a driveway, a plaque on them showing the property’s name as ‘Five Wents’. The trees hanging over either side obscured the house I presumed I was driving us towards.

  Five Wents was remarkable in that it was unremarkable. I hadn’t known whether Thomas Ross was going to live in a flashy house or a modest home, because of the more moderate earnings of footballers in the 1960s. Ross had subsequently enjoyed a career on radio and television but, again, it was difficult to gauge how well he had done from it. The large house was set back from the road along a driveway. All the windows were closed and, despite the lateness of the morning, the curtains in the bedroom windows were still shut. That struck me as a bit odd: who was Thomas Ross trying to stop from peeking inside? There wasn’t another building in sight, and no one was likely to be passing by.

  I pulled up outside the house, facing the car towards the exit – just in case – and we walked to the front door. I hoped Thomas Ross was at home, since we had come all this way. I had no idea if he’d be surprised to see two police officers at his front door to talk about a historic accident or pleased with the company, living as he did in the back end of nowhere.

  There was only one way to find out. I rang the doorbell.

  30

  We stood on the doorstep for less than thirty seconds before Wingsy said, ‘I’ll go round the back.’ Police officers were seldom patient people.

  Despite the huge iron gates to the driveway, security was most definitely not Thomas Ross’s highest priority. There were no fences or gates encircling the house itself, allowing Wingsy and me to walk around it. An enormous conservatory at the back of the house faced an overgrown garden. As we approached the door, I saw that it was ajar and someone was sitting in the conservatory. I could make out the outline of a man, hunched at a table, a drink held to his mouth.

  He looked in our direction, having spotted us perhaps in his peripheral vision as we made our way across his garden. Warrant cards in hand, Wingsy and I stood outside the conservatory waiting for him to get up.

  ‘Mr Thomas Ross?’ I asked as he came to the door. The images on the internet I had seen of him portrayed him as a dark-haired, carefree young athlete with his entire life ahead of him. Time had savaged him. His hair was almost entirely white, his eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks and nose were covered in small red veins. I was looking at a very heavy drinker. If I’d been in any doubt, a faint whiff of morning-after alcohol wafted my way from the former footballer. The man who might once have played for his country in England’s only World Cup victory liked a drink or two.

  ‘We’re police officers, but please don’t be alarmed,’ I told him. ‘We’re here in relation to a very old matter.’ This explanation was something I always used for non-emergencies. During my years of policing, I had never got used to the look of horror and dread worn by every law-abiding person I’d visited at home, on production of my warrant card and introduction. Parents immediately thought the worst for their children, partners and spouses worried for their other half’s safety, and those with loved ones of any description dreaded what they were about to be told.

  But Thomas Ross had already lost everything. I couldn’t have brought anything to his door that hadn’t already chipped away at his heart.

  Introductions made, I shook his hand. I couldn’t fail to notice a slight shake as he took mine. He led us into his kitchen. I glanced at the calendar on the wall next to the fridge. He had two hospital appointments in the next two weeks, and a letter from his doctor’s surgery was stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

  Leading us from the kitchen to the front room, Ross turned and said, ‘Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company. I haven’t cleared up yet.’ He went over to the window and drew the curtains, flooding the room with light. The room was cluttered with papers, empty bottles and dirty glasses. I had been in much more untidy houses but there was something very depressing about the room. I put it down to his lack of caring rather than a choice to live with so little joy in his life. Thomas Ross seemed to have given up on himself, and everything else along with it.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, smiling and gesturing at the large sofa. It was covered in dog hair but no other traces of a pet were obvious in the house. It was a neglected home.

  ‘Is there anyone else living here, Mr Ross?’ Wingsy asked.

  ‘No, there’s not,’ came the reply, with a slow shake of his head. ‘My wife died recently.’ He looked down at an empty whisky bottle as he said this. ‘The dog died the same week.’ Thomas Ross gave a dry laugh. ‘Sounds like a blues song, doesn’t it?’

  I smiled politely, although I found nothing funny about this man’s misery.

  ‘This may not be the best time for us to spring this visit on you and ask about this, so we can come back another time, Mr Ross.’ I said. I studied his face as I spoke. He oozed sadness from every pore, as well as forty per cent proof spirits, but his face was open and friendly, waiting for my explanation.

  ‘New information has come to light about the 1964 Wickerstead Valley train accident,’ I explained.

  The muscles in his face tightened. It was a flash tensing of his jaw. Thomas Ross started to grind his teeth. I had expected him to say something obvious such as, ‘Haven’t thought about that in years.’

  The words that did pour forth were not the ones I could have predicted.

  ‘That bloody train crash was no accident,’ he said, sinking down into an armchair, head bowed. ‘My life started to go downhill from the day of the crash. Everything went to shit afterwards. I had it all – a great career, a reputation – but I threw it all away. I was greedy and weak. Now I have nothing. My wife’s gone…’ He trailed off, wiping a tear spilling from the corner of his eye.

  He threw himself back in the armchair, sending a small dust cloud up into the air. He sighed and then, staring straight at me, said, ‘A few months ago I wouldn’t have told you this, but I’ve nothing to lose now. It’s all gone. I’m not even sure if he’s still alive, but I’ll do what I can to help. I have to make amends somehow.’

  I thought I’d missed something. Feeling myself frowning, I asked, ‘If who’s still alive?’

  ‘The man responsible for
the crash,’ he said. ‘Rumbly – Leonard Rumbly. He organised the train crash.’

  31

  For several seconds, I sat motionless. I was completely dumbstruck. Nothing was ever this easy in life. Certainly not in police work. A straightforward enquiry into what Thomas Ross had seen or heard on the train when it crashed, and why he hadn’t made a statement at the time, was about as much as I could have hoped for.

  ‘Leonard Rumbly?’ said Wingsy. ‘You’re sure about that, Mr Ross?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He can’t hurt my wife or me any more. If he’s still alive, he needs to face what he’s done. He should be held to account. I avoided speaking to the police at the time by making out I was too badly injured and couldn’t remember anything. No one questioned it. Now I know I need to make up for it… What do you need me to do?’ Ross glanced from Wingsy to me and back again, a look of peace taking over his features. ‘You’ll have to be quick, though,’ he said, nodding along at us.

  I glanced at my watch and was about to suggest that we come back another time when he interrupted.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘The time of day isn’t important. I have cirrhosis of the liver. I’m running out of time.’

  ‘What can they do for you?’ I asked, as tactfully as I could manage.

  ‘Not much.’ He shrugged. ‘If my wife was still here I might have had treatment, but I’ve drunk myself to death.’

  His honesty was uncomfortable. He was torturing himself on a daily basis and now he was paying the price he felt was appropriate for whatever he had done in his past.

  ‘She was in a wheelchair, you see.’ Ross smiled at me. ‘She never blamed me, either.’ He put a shaky hand up to his forehead, rubbing his brow, I thought to shield his waterlogged eyes.

  I had read on the internet about his wife, Shona, being knocked over on a quiet country road on her way home one day from a local stables. I had a sinking sense of dread that he was about to confess to trying to kill his own wife twenty-five years ago.

  ‘I was supposed to pick her up from her riding lesson but I got held up in the pub. This was well before every man and his wife had a mobile phone, so she started walking. Unlit country roads, no footpaths. She didn’t stand a chance. It was amazing she didn’t die. There were probably days when she wished she had, but she never gave up hope. She was a remarkable woman, in spite of what I put her through.’