As always, when his memories intruded into the present, he reminded himself of the righteousness of his long-held cause. As always, it didn’t quite work, the residual emotion being deepened as the bus dropped him off on Broadgate, next to Penwortham bridge. He had to walk the last couple of hundred yards home, passing the remains of the bridge that had carried the West Lancashire railway across the Ribble. Only the stone supports remained, the metal lattice bridge having been demolished shortly after the line had closed more than forty years before. The old bridge had also carried a huge water pipe: this was still in place, incongruously clinging to one edge of the otherwise redundant stanchions. It was enough, however, to remind George of his culpability.
Looking between the budding boughs across the river, where the embankment on the Penwortham side ended, he thought he saw a movement in the trees.
“Kids” he muttered to himself. But something, just a feeling, made him look back.
***
Despite the threat of showers, Jack Rimmer had decided to spend Saturday afternoon tackling the jungle that sprawled outside his back door. He had been hard at it for over an hour, with little apparent progress. The previous day had been largely consumed by a search for Cedric Morgan’s contact details which he had finally discovered in a totally unrelated folder full of newspaper cuttings and scribbled notes in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in his study. For a military man, Jack was surprisingly untidy. Although he had joined the army as a private, his natural leadership, coupled with his skill as a member of the Intelligence Corps, had led to his being selected for the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst in the mid 1970’s and his subsequent promotion to Lieutenant. Since then, he had lived in various officers’ messes where the daily domestic chores had been undertaken by others for him. Over the fifteen years that he spent as an officer he had developed a rather laid-back attitude to household tasks and the fifteen years since he had left the army had seen little improvement. His efforts had borne fruit, however. He had an invitation to lunch with Morgan at his home the following day.
He was scraping debris from his elderly Flymo when he realised that the phone was ringing. Dropping the lawnmower, Jack made his way to the kitchen, certain that whoever it was would ring off just as he lifted the handset. He was almost disappointed when he heard a woman’s voice rather than the hum of a disconnected line.
“Hello, is that Mr Rimmer?” The voice was familiar, but held a tremor of nervousness. “It’s Katie Melling here, we met on Tuesday.”
“Mrs Melling, of course, how nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?”
Her reply took him completely by surprise. “I’m not sure how to put this, but was your mother’s name Dorothy?”
“Yes, it was. How did you know?” replied Jack, instantly curious. The response shook him to the core.
“Because...” she paused for a moment. “ Mr Rimmer, it’s because I think that your father is haunting our flat.”
***
Katie spent the next fifteen minutes recounting the events of the past few days, occasionally glancing toward Joshua’s room where her son was having his usual afternoon nap. The rapt silence at the other end made her increasingly nervous as she related what the apparition had looked like and how it had spoken to her. As she ended her tale, the silence continued.
“Mr Rimmer, please, please believe me. I’m not making it up.” She was close to tears, and had twisted the phone cord tightly around her hand. It had taken her the whole morning to pluck up the courage to ring in the first place, and now it seemed that the one person that could provide her with answers thought that she had taken leave of her senses.
When Jack Rimmer spoke, his voice was guarded and distant. “Mrs Melling, I don’t know what to say.” Katie’s heart sank and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I have never experienced anything like this before, and clearly I have no idea whether this is a figment of your imagination, a fanciful story dreamed up for some reason that I cannot fathom, or whether you are indeed telling the truth. My mother’s name is a matter of public record, and I told you that my father had died before I was born. Even your description of this ghost could have come from the photo that I showed you.”
The line was quiet again. Katie felt crushed, humiliated. She began to sob.
“Mrs Melling, Katie, please listen to me.” Jack’s voice was warmer, more conciliatory. “All this is obviously very real to you, so would you please give me a day or so to think about this? Give me your number, and I will speak to you on Monday, if that is convenient.”
Katie wiped a tear from her eye. “Yes, Mr Rimmer. Monday will be fine. I’ll be working in the afternoon, though.” She gave him the number.
“Monday morning it is, then. Please don’t be upset; try putting yourself in my position. This has all been rather sudden. Bye for now.”
Katie put the phone down. He was right, of course. A story like that out of the blue: who would believe it? Before Katie could lapse into self-pity, she was brought back to reality by the simultaneous wriggling of her unborn child and a cry for attention from Joshua.
Steve had left early that morning, and was still oblivious to Katie’s experiences of the previous afternoon. As they stood in the kitchen washing up after tea, Katie filled him in on what had occurred over the past twenty-four hours or so.
“Do you think that he believed you?” Steve wondered how Katie’s story would have come across to a total stranger over the phone.
“I don’t know, Steve. He said that he would call back on Monday morning, so I suppose that I’ll find out then.” She thought for a moment. “Steve, can you get the morning off? I want you to be here if he calls.”
Steve went through to the living room and made a brief call. Moments later, he returned.
“I’ve sorted it, love. I just have to do a bit tomorrow instead.”
***
Mike had spent the day trying to stay out of trouble at work. His normal daydreaming, the source of most of his employer’s complaints, was gone, substituted by a sudden and unfamiliar thirst for knowledge. In between serving early-season tourists with coffee he had busied himself with energetically cleaning tables; this activity required no thought whatsoever and what looked like conscientious application to a mundane task was actually an excuse to ruminate.
“Mike, a word please.” Mike’s heart sank as his manager called him over. Expecting the worst, Mike was about to tell the manager, who was all of twenty-six, where he could stick his job.
“Nice work today, Mike. Keep it up.” Beaming his customary less-than-sincere smile, the manager turned and went back into the broom cupboard that passed for an office. So that’s the secret, thought Mike. Just look busy, and the tinpot dictator will be fooled. He allowed himself a smile before finishing his current table and returning to his cogitation. Fortunately the spring sunshine was attracting customers to the coffee shop’s pavement tables, so Mike increased the distance between himself and the manager by turning his attention to the outside.
He suspected that he had been visited by the ghost of his great-grandfather, who had obviously met a watery grave. There was no other explanation; not that any rational person would ever believe him. Mike knew that he needed to research that avenue further, but he was flummoxed by the rest of what he had been told. ‘The signalman’ suggested a railway, didn’t it? As for the ‘Penwortham Triangle’, well, he had never heard of a place by that name, let alone a triangle associated with it. Would it be like the Bermuda Triangle, perhaps? The other question was: why now? What had happened to trigger these weird experiences? Mike had heard stories from his friends about hallucinations, but they had largely been induced by various illegal substances. Mike had only ever tried cannabis once: the experience had been one big anti-climax and the sudden disappearance of one of his college friends had led to speculation among his peers that the unfortunate boy had been committed to a psychiatric hospital suffering from schizophrenia. When that particular rumour was confirmed
as being true, Mike had decided there and then never to touch anything like that. His peers, many of them regular users, had mocked him mercilessly to begin with, then simply ignored him. Mike was happy enough with that outcome: he found their obsession with sex and drugs deeply discomfiting and largely preferred his own company, or at least the company of his online opponents.
That evening Mike once again retreated into his bedroom, intent on a serious session with Google. Starting with information on the Merchant Navy, it became obvious quite quickly that, unless a family member had more information, the main source for research was the National Archive in London. A trip of that nature would be quite beyond Mike, who had never ventured further than Leeds on his own.
Further investigation failed to turn up a Penwortham Triangle, but did, at least, pinpoint the location of the town itself. The same web page had a map of the railways around Preston, which showed a Penwortham Junction. Also mentioned was a station, called Penwortham Cop Lane. What did stand out from the map was the layout of the railway: in several places three lines came together to form a triangle. This was good news. The repository of much railway knowledge was on Mike’s doorstep, at the National Railway Museum.
Sunday
The following day, as Steve Melling was closing the flat door behind him, Jack Rimmer was pacing the length of his study deep in thought. He simply could not believe the story that he had heard, yet he was struggling to come up with an explanation for why Katie had made the call in the first place. On balance, he decided, it was not an over-active imagination. There was too much detail in the story, and it would have taken more than a couple of days to determine his mother’s name via the usual route. That left a deliberate hoax. But why? What did the Mellings hope to gain from such a story? Their meeting had been entirely coincidental and Jack was hardly the famous author of a series of blockbusters and so was a poor candidate for blackmail. And yet...the only remaining possibility was so improbable that even Sherlock Holmes would never have believed it. And yet... could it be the truth?
Jack had spent the majority of his working life gathering intelligence. Whilst his gut instinct told him that ghosts simply don’t exist, the facts suggested that Katie Melling was telling him the truth. Looking at his watch, Jack made for his front door, grabbing his jacket and keys as he went.
Cedric Morgan lived some ninety minutes’ drive from Jack’s house in the village of Fletching in East Sussex. The village is what estate agents would describe as a “rural idyll”, with short rows of tiny cottages, most with immaculate gardens, clustered around a medieval church and the ubiquitous public house.
Jack parked his car outside Cedric Morgan’s white-fronted cottage just as the man himself was walking slowly toward him from the direction of the church. Now aged ninety-two, he leaned heavily on a walking stick and was accompanied by a tall, willowy woman of about Jack’s age who fussed over him as he stumbled slightly whilst traversing a pothole.
“Ah, young Rimmer!” Jack smiled as Cedric lifted his cane in greeting. “Oh, do stop grabbing me, Janice,” he said as the woman took his arm to stop him toppling over. “I’m not a total cripple, you know.”
The woman looked at Jack and rolled her eyes. She was clearly used to Cedric’s idiosyncrasies and ignored his grumpy entreaties whilst addressing Jack.
“You must be our last-minute lunch guest. I’m Janice Forsyth, your last-minute lunch cook. I’m also, for my sins, his daughter.”
“Jack Rimmer. Please to meet you.”
“Come on, you two,” said Cedric, irritably. “Let’s get inside. I’m hungry for food and a decent chin-wag.”
Inside, the cottage was tiny. The front door opened straight into the living room which was dominated by a huge inglenook fireplace that took up most of the wall opposite the door. To the left of the fireplace was another door which led to three steps down to the kitchen and dining area. The small, round table was set for three and the smell of roasting beef filled the room.
“Sherry, Rimmer?” Cedric was definitely one of the old school for whom the use of surnames came close to an expression of friendship. Jack declined, pleading the necessity to drive home after their conversation. His reply was greeted with an almost derisive snort.
“So, what do you want to know?” the old man had a glint in his eye as he sat in an armchair with a schooner of Amontillado. “Looking to dig the dirt on some poor soul, are you?”
“Er...no. I just wanted to speak to you about a wartime case.”
“Pity. Never mind. Which case are you interested in this time?”
“Sciron.” Jack explained the background to his enquiry, leaving out the previous day’s developments.
Cedric thought for a moment, running his gnarled hand through the shock of white hair that had clearly defied any attempt at grooming. “Ah, yes, the robber of antiquity. A very slippery character, as I recall. Led us quite a merry dance, that one. Do you know, we were convinced that he was a Soviet agent, but he turned out to be something quite different. One of Canaris’ finest, I suspect, and probably the only one that had us fooled in the early years. Yes, very clever, our Sciron.”
He paused, deep in thought. His eyes took on a faraway look and he appeared to be staring into space. “From what you tell me, he was probably responsible for the disappearance, or possibly the death of your father.”
***
Mike Simpson had emerged from his room at the early, for him, time of eleven thirty. His shift pattern meant that, having worked Saturday, he had Sunday off. As Jack Rimmer and Cedric Morgan were conversing, Mike was cursing his inability to drive along with the infrequent Sunday bus service. He had walked most of the way into town before a bus came, catching him between two stops and unable to flag it down. Having reached the iron girder bridge that crossed the railway, he decided that he would save his money and walk the last mile and a half to the railway museum.
Finally reaching his destination, Mike wandered into the museum’s City entrance. Unsure of what to say, and to whom, he nervously loitered in the entrance area, scanning the information on the walls around him. After a few minutes, a woman in the nearby gift shop caught his eye. Explaining that he was looking for information about the West Lancashire Railway, she directed Mike to the information point a few yards into the building. Thanking her, Mike made his way further into the museum. On duty at the information desk was a particularly attractive girl of about Mike’s age: immediately his nerves worsened and his mission was temporarily forgotten as he wondered whether she would notice that he hadn’t had a shower that morning. To make matters worse, the label with her name on was pinned perilously close to an eye-catching cleavage.
“Can I help?” Mike realised that the girl was looking straight at him.
“N..no. I mean..er..yes. I’m, er, looking for some information about a railway.”
“Well, I’d say that you’ve come to the right place, then.” Mike cringed inwardly as the girl fixed him with a thousand-watt smile. He couldn’t place her accent: it sounded a bit like Geordie, but not as broad. Wherever it came from, it sounded like she was gently mocking him.
“No, I mean, a particular railway.” Another horrific thought entered Mike’s mind: would she think that he was a train spotter? Mike knew that he wasn’t the coolest or most attractive man, but there were limits.
“Not that I’m a train spotter or anything,” he added unnecessarily.
“It’s okay,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Your secret’s safe with me. Which railway were you looking for?”
Mike couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were a deep shade of blue. “Er...the West Lancashire Railway. It’s not there any more, but, I, er...need to find out about it for, er, my college course.”
His relief at coming up with a reasonable explanation for his presence in the museum was short lived.
“Oh yes, what are you studying, then? I’m at the university too.” Mike froze. He was utterly hopeless at this sort of off the cuff dissimula
tion. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally managed to reply.
“I’m not at the uni...I’m, er, at York College. Studying, er, history.” He hoped that he had done enough to dig himself out of the hole that, as it happened, existed only in his own mind.
The girl looked at him for a second, then consulted the book in front of her.
“One moment,” she said, picking up the phone on her desk. After a brief conversation, she once again made Mike feel uncomfortable as she looked him in the eye.
“The man that you need to speak to, apparently, isn’t here today. He’ll be in tomorrow, and each day next week, until we close at six.” She handed Mike a slip of paper with the name of the man that she was referring to.
“Thanks, er, Emily” said Mike, using the name tag as an excuse to chance one more glance at her décolletage.
“You’re welcome. Any time.” The knowing tone in her voice was enough to send Mike scuttling away, berating himself for his incapability when it came to dealing with women. To add to his frustration, the bus timetable was working against him again, and he was forced to walk home, too.
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