“Mr Rimmer, please come in.”
“Please, call me Jack. There’s no need to stand on ceremony for me. Besides, I think that I may have some news for you.”
Katie led him into the living room, where a subdued toddler was standing in the middle of the small space not occupied by furniture.
“I may have news for you too, Mr...Jack,” said Katie. “I just need to clean up little Joshua first.”
As Katie removed the print from her son with a baby wipe, Jack told her what he had discovered the previous night.
“I found the story on the website of the Lancashire Evening Post. Apparently, when the railway embankment was being cleared to make space for this estate, some human remains were found. The skeleton of a man, aged about forty, was unearthed by a mechanical digger. The skull had a large depression on one side, suggesting that the man had suffered a blow to the head.”
“Was it the right side of his head?” asked Katie.
“Er, they didn’t say.” Jack was taken aback by the comment. “What makes you say that?”
“Our visitor has blood all down the right side of his face. And he says that somebody hit him. Last night he said ‘he’s my friend’, but I don’t know if he was talking about who hit him. He also said something about a pole and a lamp, but I’ve no idea what that means.”
“Can you remember exactly what he said?” Jack’s former life as an intelligence officer began to assert itself.
“Hang, on, I wrote it down,” Katie went into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a spiral-bound notepad. “He said...somebody up the pole, cutting wires, that’s why the lamp’s out. At least, I think that’s it. It didn’t make any sense.”
“It makes sense to him. We’ll just have to work out why it was important.”
***
Jack Rimmer’s condition had been caused by a sleepless night. He felt that he was so close now to discovering what had happened to his father, and it was that thought, endlessly churning about his mind, that had kept him awake until the early hours. Thoughts of where his father’s remains may be, and how he ended up in his makeshift grave in the first place, had spun and swirled around his head, denying him the blessed release of slumber.
His alarm had erupted into his dreams at seven; his list of tasks for the day had not diminished just because of a bad night. After showering, shaving and dressing, Jack had eaten a leisurely breakfast in the pub adjacent to the motel before beginning his search for a hire car. A local company had a car ready for immediate hire and agreed to deliver it within the hour. His next port of call had been the Mellings’ flat; following his conversation with Katie he drove into the city centre in search of the library.
The Harris building was, to Jack, a stunning example of Victorian philanthropy. Opened in 1893, it had been built with a legacy from a Preston lawyer. A colossus of neo-classical grandeur, its original exterior was marred by a covering of nets to keep the stone free from the detritus of the plethora of pigeons that inhabited the stone market square facing the front of the building; this consisted of a sculptured pediment atop an impressive colonnade. Unusually for a building in this style, there was no grand central staircase at the front, instead separate entrances at either side, modified to reflect modern sensitivities, allowed access to the atrium and thence the central hall. Jack, drawn to this huge chamber, found himself marvelling at its immense elegance, from the slightly uneven marble mosaic floor to the lantern tower which must have been, Jack thought, at least a hundred feet above his head. Taking the door straight ahead, he found himself in the lending library, where a young Muslim woman wearing a hijab directed him back to the entrance.
In the entrance hall, a pair of stone staircases led left and right to the first floor, the location of a museum and Jack’s intended destination: the reference library. Taking the stairs to the right, he passed a Roll of Honour, the names of local men killed in the First World War. The sight of this reminded Jack about his long-dead uncle, probably commemorated in like manner a few miles away in his father’s home town of Southport. The sombre, respectful carvings soon gave way to an exhibition by a local artist: Jack’s first thought, that it must have been the work of nursery age children, soon gave way to the realisation that this was what is euphemistically termed “modern” art.
At the top of the first flight of stairs was a short landing and double doors leading to the museum and reference library. Spotting the latter to his right and passing through the open door, Jack found himself standing in front of an information desk. A somewhat overweight man, wearing a pale yellow shirt and an exasperated expression, was talking quietly on the telephone. Acknowledging his presence with a wave of his hand, he quickly concluded his conversation and turned his attention to Jack.
“Sorry about that. How can I help you?”
Jack explained what he had come for, and was led to a group of viewing machines; some with people sat at them, their faces illuminated by the screens; some with “Out of Order” notices on them, just to the left of the main desk. The librarian selected a roll of film from an adjacent drawer and fed it into one of the vacant machines.
Following a few brief instructions how to advance, rewind and rotate the images, Jack was left to his own devices. The first thing that he noticed was the name of the newspaper: in 1941 it was called the Lancashire Daily Post, and was priced at 1 ½ d. The sight of the old penny symbol unleashed a wave of nostalgia in Jack, not least memories of his mother giving him sixpence to go to the cinema on a Saturday morning, or the excitement generated by the sight of a ten shilling note in his birthday card.
The front page stories were all resolutely upbeat: how Luftwaffe raiders had been shot down or why the Axis forces could never win. Jack had to go deeper into the papers to find any hint that the British people were actually on the receiving end of any hostilities, and even then the articles were limited to vague allusions to bombing raids “somewhere in the North West”. Finally, he found what he was looking for.
It was tucked away on page five, neatly sandwiched between a war-winning message to children from Togs the Terrier and a sublimely kitsch advertisement for “Mazo: the new wonder washing tablets”. An announcement that train services to Southport would be disrupted for a few days “due to engineering work” had appended, almost as an afterthought, the news that a railway signalman was missing. That’s it, thought Jack, another piece of the puzzle. Even as the notion crossed his mind he realised that some elements were still missing: the identity of his father’s assailant being one.
***
Peter Thornhill was past seventy. He had joined British Railways in Crewe at the age of fifteen and had worked his way up from being a cleaner, through fireman to being a driver in the dying days of steam traction. After fifty years’ service he had retired, moved to York, then gone back to work as a volunteer at the National Railway Museum. Having spent his career on the western side of the Pennines, he was the resident expert on the former London Midland region of the nationalised railway. In his seven years at the museum, he had shared his knowledge with many people, but few, if any, had looked quite like the young man who had presented himself at the information desk ten minutes earlier.
Mike Simpson had worked a double shift the previous day, another first for him. Today he was due to work the afternoon session beginning at two. He had amazed his mother by being out of bed at the unheard-of hour of eight that morning, actually eaten some breakfast then set off into the city centre and thence to the museum. He had hoped that the information desk would be manned by the same girl as Sunday: when it turned out to be a man in his fifties he couldn’t decide whether he was relieved or disappointed. Pushing these thoughts aside, he asked for the man whose name he had been given.
“What can I do for you, young man?” asked Peter, wondering why he had been asked for by name. Mike decided to stick with his earlier ruse.
“I’d like some information on the Penwortham Triangle, please. I’m...er...researching fo
rmer Lancashire railways for my history project.” Mike could feel his face redden as the lie passed his lips.
“Are you indeed?” Peter thought for a moment, then beckoned Mike to follow him. They walked for what seemed like an age, through the cavernous main hall that held the priceless collection of locomotives from a replica of the Rocket to a colossal steam engine that had seen service in China. Finally, they entered a side room and Peter took down a manila folder from a shelf. Humming to himself, he flicked through the pages, pausing briefly at one page before shaking his head and continuing. After another half minute, he stopped and put the folder down on the small table that nestled against the wall.
“Ah, yes. Here we are. Let me see...it was the West Lancashire railway which ran between Preston and Southport. Oh, it looks like it wasn’t a true triangle at all for very long. See here.” His finger pointed to a black and white map. “The three points of the triangle are all junctions. To the north, just on the riverbank, is Ribble Junction. That’s the name of the river, you see. Directly south of that is Penwortham Junction, then to the east, you’ll see that the tracks don’t actually join up.” The old man’s speech was getting faster, his enthusiasm for his subject getting the better of him. “They would have joined at one point, but on this map...it’s dated in the mid-thirties...that leg of the triangle is just a couple of long sidings.”
Mike was thoroughly bemused by this point. The Thomas the Tank Engine phase of his life was many years in the past and hadn’t lasted long anyway. But there was no holding back Peter, who was perusing another book.
“Yes, here it is. Middleforth Junction. The signal box was closed in 1905. Fascinating!” Mike realised that Peter was actually talking to himself, as if he had forgotten that he was not alone.
“Could I take a copy of that map?” asked Mike. Peter looked at him blankly for a moment. “What...hmm...yes, of course. A copy. Follow me!”
Twenty minutes later, Mike left the museum armed with an annotated copy of the eighty-year-old map. Walking towards the city centre and his place of employment, he realised that he had no idea what to do next.
Tuesday Afternoon
The past few days had been a revelation to Steve Melling. Features of the world around him had taken on a new significance. Some areas of his local environment were now explained; not that the lack of explanation had ever bothered him before. The strange wall outside his front window had become a bridge, carrying steam trains to Southport. To Steve, that particular seaside resort was accessible only by bus, which was why he hadn’t been there since his childhood.
As he crossed Penwortham Bridge on his way home, he noticed for the first time the date carved into the stone wall: 1759. For a moment, Steve had a sense of history, of the innumerable pairs of feet that had preceded his own. He even found himself wondering, as he reached the Penwortham side of the river, just how old the pub associated with the bridge might be. Looking across the road at the primrose yellow building, he saw a familiar figure sat at one of the benches outside.
“Hiya, Kev,” called Steve from the opposite side of the road.
Kevin Anderson, for once, did not have a pint of lager in front of him. Startled by Steve’s greeting, he meekly raised one beefy hand in acknowledgement.
“What’s up, no pint?” asked Steve, smiling. “That’s not like you; are you ill or something?”
“Er...no. I’m fine. Not sure about old George, though. He keeps talking about some bloke that died years ago. He’s right wound up about it. Says ‘e’s come back.”
Steve was shocked to the core by Kevin’s announcement. Surely they couldn’t be talking about the same ghost? He feigned insouciance.
“What d’you mean, come back?” Like a ghost? That old man’s losing it.”
Kevin shot to his feet and lifted a threatening fist. “No he isn’t! ‘E told me all about it, how one of ‘is mates got killed way back, an’ how ‘e keeps thinking that ‘e’s come back!”
Steve took a step back, as surprised by the vehemence of Kevin’s reaction as his revelation.
“Steady on, mate,” Steve held his hands out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t mean anything by it, but you don’t hear about ghosts every day, do you? I mean, if I told you that I’d seen one, what would you say?”
“Sorry, Steve,” mumbled Kevin. “The old man’s really cut up about it.”
Steve realised that Kevin, probably without knowing it, had more respect for George Williams than anybody else. Kevin never talked about his family, and it dawned on Steve that he may not have any close relatives and had latched on to George as a sort of surrogate father figure.
Dark spots suddenly began to appear on the table between them, and Steve, his curiosity aroused as never before, suggested that the two of them went inside for a drink. Kevin, broke as usual, agreed to just the one, if Steve was buying. Checking the contents of his wallet, Steve agreed, and they headed inside just as the heavens opened.
***
The rain was drumming on the roof of Jack Rimmer’s hire car as he searched for a parking space close to the Mellings’ flat. Finding a small gap outside a motorcycle dealer on the corner of Stricklands Lane, he carefully manoeuvred the Nissan Micra into the opening. Waiting for the shower to pass overhead, he observed a woman in her forties emerge from the front door of Katie and Steve’s building. Putting up an umbrella, she turned and waved towards the uppermost floor of the flats before huddling under the floral canopy and half running along the road. As she turned the corner into Leyland Road, Jack decided that he would brave the downpour after all.
Taking his briefcase, he held it over his head as he ran through the deluge, splashing in a puddle and soaking his left foot as he reached the opposite kerb. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he chastised himself for not looking where he was going in the knowledge that his foot would probably be wet and uncomfortable until he could return to the hotel. He had returned to see Katie on the off-chance that she had had another visitation and thereby gleaned more information.
As it turned out, his optimism had been misplaced.
“My mother’s only just left,” Katie informed him. “Our visitor only seems to appear when it’s just us here. He must be shy, or something.”
Katie was as surprised as Jack at her nonchalant attitude to what he thought must have been a terrifying experience. In fact, she had sensed the return of the spectre as her mother had closed the door behind her, only for the feeling to quickly dissipate. Jack’s appearance a few moments later had gone some way to explaining the reason for the apparition’s seeming change of heart.
“Steve will be home soon. Why don’t you stay for a while? I’m sure that he would like to meet you. Tea?” Katie headed into the kitchen as Jack nodded his assent.
“Go into the living room and make yourself at home.” she called. Jack picked his way through the minefield of Fisher Price toys and joined Joshua in the small room at the front of the flat. The toddler looked up from his endeavours with a plastic hammer, stared blankly at Jack for a moment, then returned to his impact engineering.
About half an hour later, Steve arrived, apologising to his wife for being late. Jack recognised him from their brief encounter in the road outside the previous week, but Steve’s reaction was somewhat different. Picking up his son, who had flung himself at his father as soon as he entered the room, Steve fixed Jack with a meaningful stare.
“You look just like him. Do you know that?” Jack was lost for words, and Steve continued regardless. “I think that I know what happened. What’s more, one of the men responsible lives just the other side of the river.”
“His name is George Williams. He used to be on the railway, as a signalman, I think.” Steve began to recount the information that he had gleaned from his encounter with Kevin Anderson. “I’ve known him for ages: he drinks at the Labour club. He has some weird ideas about how society should work, but he’s an interesting guy none the less.
“Anyway, K
evin is pretty close to him, and spends time at George’s house. It turns out that George has been seeing ghosts too, not as close as we have, but, according to Kevin, he knows who it is and how he died.”
Something about the name made Jack reach for his briefcase. Rummaging through the papers and notes jumbled together inside, he finally found what he was looking for.
“Was he involved in derailing a munitions train?” Jack’s voice was sombre yet commanding; another vestige of his military career.
“Yeah, that’s him. How did you know?” Steve asked as Katie looked on, not comprehending.
“It’s all here, from the Public Records Office. I found a declassified MI5 report from nineteen forty-one. The name George Williams appears as one of a group of Communist sympathisers who were fooled into attacking the train by a German spy.”
“German? Kevin said that they were helped by a ‘comrade’. They thought that they were working for the Russians! Do you think that they ever knew the truth?” Steve’s mouth opened and closed briefly, but no more words came. A brief silence ensued, broken by Katie's somewhat indignant voice.
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