Jess is so overwhelmed with relief that she can’t do more than murmur “thank you” and pass the phone to Nick. He finishes the conversation and talks to Erica. Afterward, neither Jess nor Nick is able to sleep. Jess stares at her packed bag on the floor of their room and knows she’ll be on her way to the airport tomorrow morning, regardless.
It’s Time to Tell
Episode 10—Ghost
“What do you do after something has knocked you down in life? Do you become a ghost of your former self, forever held back by it, or do you move on and try to rebuild by learning from what happened? To rebuild is possible. I am proof of that. I’ve probably had a happier life than I would have done if I’d been allowed to stay in the police service.”
My name is Cody Swift. I’m a filmmaker and your host of It’s Time to Tell, a Dishlicker Podcast Production. That was the voice of ex–Detective Superintendent Howard Smail reflecting on the passing of time. Before I get down to the business of this episode, I have a short personal note: I am bringing you this episode of It’s Time to Tell on my own. Unfortunately, Maya has stepped away from the podcast. She tried to carry on after the assault, but she feels she needs time alone, somewhere she feels safe, to recover. I respect her decision. Having Maya working alongside me has been a privilege, but I won’t lie, it has also put a strain on our professional and personal relationship. Her departure is the right thing for her. For me, it’s a personal blow.
However, I intend to carry on without her, regardless of the risks. I feel I am too close to some kind of resolution to stop. To walk away now would leave too much unfinished business for too many people.
Yesterday, I took a trip to the center of Bristol, where I met a man who, after twenty years of silence, got in touch as a direct result of listening to this podcast. He has asked to remain anonymous, so when you hear his voice, it will sound a little distorted. I met him, at his request, in a diner near the University buildings. Students sat at booths around us and you may also hear some bangs and crashes from the kitchen as we talk. It’s my voice you will hear first:
“Can you tell us about yourself?”
“I’m a taxicab driver. I’ve been doing the job for forty years.”
“Here in Bristol?”
“Yes. I’m born and bred.”
“Can you explain why we’re here?”
“I heard the podcast and I realized I had something to tell you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I was the driver who dropped Jessica Paige back at the Glenfrome Estate on that night.”
“The night of the murders?”
“Yes. But I didn’t know it was her. If I had, I would have told police. I didn’t think anything of it on the night—she’s not the first I’ve picked up in a bad way, and she won’t be the last—and I was away on my holidays the next morning, so I missed the news about it and the police appeal. I didn’t put two and two together until the wife told me about your podcast, and I listened to that episode about Blackhorse Lane.”
“Where did you pick her up?”
“Near the bus station in the center. As I recall, she was sat on a bench. I was waiting at a red light and she approached the car. I had my Out of Service light on, but she begged me, saying she didn’t feel well and she had to get home to her kid.”
“You took pity on her?”
“I did. She showed me some cash, too, so at least I knew she could pay.”
“How did she seem?”
“In a bad way. She was pale and sweaty and propping herself up on the side of the car. She had trouble talking.”
Do you remember what time it was?”
“I’m going to say around quarter to eleven, something like that. Fifteen minutes after we set off, we was almost at the edge of the estate, and I had to stop to let her out to be sick. I thought about leaving her there, we were so close, but she was crying and you wouldn’t do that to your own daughter, so I let her take her time. I even got out and asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital. She said no, she just wanted to be home, and I gave her a few more minutes. She got back in after that and I drove her to her door. There were people there, so I left her because I had to get home. We was on a flight out to Málaga at five o’clock the next morning, so I never saw the news about the murders or any of the appeals the police made. I never made the connection until now.”
I shared this report with my criminology students, who previously studied the routes between the Paradise Casino and the Glenfrome Estate. They mapped out the new route after further consultation with the driver, taking into account what Felix Abernathy told us, and had this to report. This is Simon McKay, a third-year student, once again:
“We looked at the route and the timeline and we concluded that everything made sense. Whatever she was doing, it’s likely that Jessica Paige was not near the Glenfrome Estate at any time during those seventy-two minutes.”
It is such a relief to hear this. Whilst I have tried to retain a professional detachment during the investigation into Jessica Paige, it hasn’t been easy. I liked her too much for that. To find out that she had had some direct involvement in the murders of Charlie and Scott, or had even witnessed them, would have been terrible. I plan to continue to delve into who her associates were, but I want to change tack. In the clip at the beginning of this episode, Howard Smail mentioned the word ghost. It reminded me of something. I asked Smail about it: “Do you remember DI Fletcher reporting that Charlie spoke a word to him as he was dying?”
I asked because I remember Fletcher quizzing me about it the very first time he interviewed me, but when I mentioned this to Fletcher during our recent conversations, he denied it. Smail riffled through his policy book.
“I’d forgotten this, but I do have a note of it. It’s on a list of possible avenues of inquiry. It was low priority.”
I even tracked down Fletcher’s partner, Detective Sergeant Danny Fryer, who interviewed me back in 1996. He couldn’t talk to me about the case on the record—he said the police were keen that I had a single contact, and that was John Fletcher—but he did confirm this point. I wasn’t recording him, but his response when I asked about it was something along the lines of “I remember John mentioning it to me. He was really cut up after the boy died in his arms. You don’t get over something like that. We never knew what it meant, though. Didn’t we ask you about that in the interview?”
DS Fryer’s response made me even more curious that Detective Inspector Fletcher claimed not to remember this. How could you forget?
I thought about it a lot. I thought about all the things it could mean. Did Charlie know he was dying? Did he think he’d seen a ghost? Did he think DI Fletcher was a ghost? The answer came to me when I went back to revisit the site where my friends’ bodies were found.
It’s a different place now. The old stadium where the dog track was situated has been torn down and replaced with a massive IKEA. I stand in the car park in the spot where I think the bodies might have been. I brought two bunches of flowers with me, one for each of my friends, and I lay them at the base of a streetlamp and take no notice of the furniture shoppers who give me funny looks. In a corner of the car park a police tape flutters around a hole in the ground. I can see the towers of the Glenfrome Estate from where I lay the flowers, but I recognize little else apart from the old social club in the corner. It looks identical, even after all these years. I had no idea it survived the redevelopment. I go in, order a drink, and nurse it at the empty bar.
The barman is chatty. I ask if he remembers my dad, though he looks a bit young. He says no, but he reckons there are blokes still drinking in the club that would do. He asks why I’m there so I tell him. He has a tip for me:
“If you want someone to tell you about the dog track, that’s Len. He used to be a steward. He’s in there.”
“In there” is a room on the other side of the bar where six pool tables are set up and men are playing on two of them. Len is an old-timer with white hair and a lively laugh. W
e take a seat at the edge of the room while his companions continue their game. Len talks about his time working at the dog track and paints a picture of the place that brings memories flooding back for me. He remembers Sidney Noyce and the murders. Here’s a clip from our conversation. You’ll hear Len’s voice first, and you might hear some background sounds of the games being played around us.
“Sidney Noyce was a gentle lad. It was hard for any of us who worked with him at the track to believe he was violent. He was very good with the dogs, and although he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, you never had to tell him anything twice where they were concerned. I remember the morning the bodies were found. Hot as hell. I was stewarding.”
“Charlie was still alive when they found him.”
“I heard that. Doesn’t bear thinking about. To think we were just feet away from him all morning.”
“He said something to the officer that was with him. I’ve been trying to find out what it might mean.”
“What did he say?”
“Ghost.”
“Ghost, did you say?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to talk to Bill Felter.”
Len makes a call and tells me he will come with me because he hasn’t seen Bill in years. I drive us onto the motorway and out of the city toward Wiltshire and the countryside. We pull off the motorway after twenty-five minutes of driving, into rolling chalk hills. Len directs us down a narrow country lane and before long indicates that we should pull off down a ridged concrete driveway that leads to a small farm. We park beside a chain-link fence enclosing a dilapidated yard. We can hear barking dogs even before we get out of the car.
A man in blue overalls crosses the yard toward us. A crow lifts from a fence post as he passes and lands on the chimney stack of a small, unloved redbrick home. The man shakes Len’s hand and introduces himself as Bill Felter. He takes us on a quick tour of the property. A stable building has been converted to dog kennels. Len looks at the dogs with a critical eye before petting each one. I find it hard to see them penned. I am moved by the apparent frailty of their limbs and their liquid eyes. I think of Charlie. “I like their soft ears,” he told me once, “soft as cotton wool.” I remember how he used to fret if he thought one of the dogs wasn’t happy.
After the tour Bill takes us into his kitchen and we talk. He makes strong tea and offers us biscuits from a chipped tin. Len tells him about Charlie’s last word. This clip is the conversation that followed between Bill and Len. You’ll hear Bill’s voice first:
“Ghost! Was it now? Goodness me. I didn’t know.”
“It’s got to be to do with one of your lot.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Did you have a runner that morning?”
“Might have done. I can check.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve still got the program.”
“I keep them all. We can’t all have a memory like yours.”
Len chuckles as Bill leaves the room to search for the race program. It doesn’t take Bill long. He returns within minutes, holding a booklet. He has folded it over to expose one particular page, and he hands it to me. The date at the top of the page is Monday, 19 August. It lists the dogs running in the morning races. That is, the dogs that may have been running as Charlie took his last breath. I run my finger down the names. Here and there Bill has annotated it with results. I don’t know what I’m looking for until I see it. In the 11:05 race a dog called Ghost Chaser ran. It took first place at odds of nine to one. Len leans over to take a look.
“That’s it. All Bill’s dogs run under the kennel name Ghost. I knew it had to be one of his. Makes sense, don’t it? Fancy keeping that all these years, Bill.”
“How else do you remember?”
“Fair enough.”
Len is pleased with himself, and I want to thank him but I find myself lost for words. Tears run down my face because all I can think about is how I reckon Charlie heard the race starting and heard the name of the dog on the PA. You could hear it a mile off. He always stopped to listen if we were passing and the races were on. When I’ve composed myself a little, I ask what Ghost Chaser looked like. Bill answers swiftly:
“Brindled. White sock, left hind leg. I never forget a winner.”
Charlie loved the brindled dogs the most. The men fall silent. One of them puts a hand on my shoulder and leaves it there until the shaking subsides and I am ready to drive Len and me home.
Ghost Chaser won the race as Charlie died, and Charlie knew. I’d like to think it distracted him from his suffering.
I’ll be back next week with a new episode of It’s Time to Tell. Meanwhile, here’s a clip from ex–Detective Superintendent Howard Smail to give you food for thought:
“What’s the worst case of all? One involving kids. Why? Because it involves kids. The majority of detectives I knew had to work hard to build up emotional armor in that job. We did it the difficult way: by being thrown in the deep end on tough cases and working out afterward how to deal with how we felt about what we’d seen. There was very little psychological support within the force back then, so it was a sort of DIY job, but sometimes our defenses weren’t strong enough. Every man I knew had a bad day sometimes, but John Fletcher was different. It was as if he arrived on the job complete with a heart of steel, and from what I’ve heard, he’s never shown any cracks in it to this day. That’s not healthy. Now I’m not necessarily talking about John Fletcher, I’m talking about any human being, but you have to ask yourself: how much can one human being take before they break?”
Chapter 24
Fletcher wakes with a start because the doorbell is ringing. It’s daylight, which means he’s overslept. He has a sour mouth and he isn’t awake enough to ask who is there before he opens the door.
“John! I was about to let myself in!”
His ex-wife is holding a set of keys. Her gaze travels up and down Fletcher and she recoils a little. He stands aside to let her in. “What do you want?”
“I left you a message to say I was coming to collect Theo’s walking boots.” Her perfume washes over him as she bustles past.
“He can’t get them himself? You spoil him.”
“Don’t start.”
“How’s Andrew?” he asks, but she doesn’t hear him. She has stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “John! Oh my god! What kind of state are you living in?”
Fletcher stands behind her and sees it with her eyes: dirty crockery and cutlery piled in the sink; garbage overflowing from the bin; a pan lined with burnt baked beans abandoned on the stove; a frying pan so black and dirty he can’t even identify what he last cooked in it; spills and grease on every surface. She turns to face the entrance to the sitting and dining rooms.
“Don’t go in there!” he says, but it’s too late. He sits on the stairs while she takes in the chaos. He’s been sleeping under blankets on the sofa for weeks. The dining table is ruined. A red wine stain darkens the carpet.
“This is worse than a student house!” she says. “You need help.”
“Take whatever you need and go,” he mutters.
“We have to get this sorted before we sell it, John, you know that, don’t you? And look at the state of you!” There is irritation all over her face and, worse, pity. He can’t stand it. “Lock up after yourself,” he says. He turns away from her and walks out of the house. He doesn’t care that he hasn’t changed or showered since last night, or was it the night before? He ignores her calls. He needs to get away. He needs to see Hazel Collins.
HAZEL COLLINS OPENS the door and peers at Fletcher. “You again, Detective? You’d better come in.”
Fletcher is impressed she remembers him. He wouldn’t have put money on that. He follows her into the sitting room, and Hazel sinks into the high-backed armchair she occupied last time Fletcher was here. He takes the chair beside her, as before. Two used mugs are on the coffee table. Otherwise the place looks and feels as still as a museum.
“Wou
ld you like more tea?” Hazel asks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make it yourself if you do. Annabel’s rules: no kettle boiling while she’s out.”
She thinks I never left, Fletcher thinks. No point in contradicting her. He declines the tea. “Where is Annabel?” he says.
“She’s at a rehearsal. She’ll be back later.”
Fletcher glances at a carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It’s a quarter to ten.
“I saw her concert last night,” Fletcher says.
“The Bach?”
“She played beautifully.”
“She plays Bach very nicely, but she prefers the Romantics. The young love to express their emotions, don’t you think, Detective?”
Fletcher blinks. “I suppose so. Look, Ms. Collins, Annabel gave me something at the concert. Something she got from you.”
“What’s that, dear?” Sunlight reaches into the room and picks out drifting dust motes above Hazel Collins’s head. She squints.
No, Fletcher thinks just as he’s about to answer, this is the wrong tactic. He needs information from her before he challenges her about the ear. Where has his judgment gone? He assumes a light tone. “Actually, I’ll talk to you more about that in a minute, but I’d like to chat about Peter Dale first. You said before that you and Peter were lovers?”
“Saucy!” Her fingertips flutter across her chest until they locate her string of pearls.
“Did you ever meet Peter’s brother, Terry Taylor?”
“Terry wasn’t Peter’s brother; he was his half brother. They had different dads.”
“Did you ever meet Terry?”
“I met Terry, all right. He was a pest, always phoning to ask about his investment. He turned up at the office more than once. He was a very fussy man, and he didn’t know how these things work. It used to wind Peter up.”
“They didn’t get on?”
“Terry annoyed Peter.”
Her eyes travel the room in an unfocused way and Fletcher fears she’s going to drift into an absent state. Her fingers pluck at the pearls. “Didn’t we talk about this already?” she asks. “I’m getting muddled.”
I Know You Know Page 26