Haunted (2 page)

Sudden blackness as the train entered a tunnel, the noise of its passage loudening to a hollow roar. A flaring of light, the man, alone in the compartment, revealed by the small flame.

Ash flicked off the lighter and the red glow of his cigarette cast deep shadows over his cheekbones and brow. He stared into the darkness and tried to recall the dream that had left him so clammy-cold. It was as elusive as ever. He exhaled smoke, wondering why he was so sure it was the same dream that always left him feeling this way. Perhaps it was because of the faintest odour of candlewax remaining in the air – no, in his
mind
– afterwards; perhaps it was because it always took a while for his heartbeat to settle. Or perhaps it was
because
he could never remember this particular dream.

Daylight burst into the compartment once more as the train rushed through a deserted station. One day, Ash considered, glad of the distraction, there might be hardly any stopping-points at all between cities, towns and villages, the rail network becoming a vast arterial system with few minor organs to service. What then would become of these ghost stations? Would spectral commuters continue to line the decaying platforms, would the guard’s warning to
Mind the doors!
still echo softly in the ether? Repeated images absorbed by concrete and board to be filtered back into the atmosphere long after the reality had ceased to exist. It was one of the Institute’s standard theories regarding ‘apparitions’ and one that he endorsed. Would that prove to be the case in this new investigation? Perhaps not; but there were plenty of other explanations of so-called ‘phenomena’ to choose from. He watched cigarette smoke rise lazily in the air.

The train
clacked
over a level crossing, a solitary car waiting behind the barrier like some small animal mesmerized into immobility by a passing predator.

Ash glanced at his wristwatch. Can’t be far to go, he assured himself. At least the journey had been restful, he’d had a chance to sleep . . . No, not so restful after all. The dream – whatever its content – had left him a little shaky. And his head ached dully, as it always did after the dream he could not remember. He touched fingertips to the inner corners of his eyes and squeezed gently to ease the ache. The pressure did not work, but he knew what would, an infallible cure. There was no buffet carriage on this train though, nowhere to get a stiff drink. Maybe just as well – it created a poor impression to meet a new client breathing alcohol with your first hello.

He rested his head against the seat back and closed his eyes, the cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, ash floating down onto his rumpled jacket.

The train sped onwards, hurrying through the countryside, occasionally slowing to a stop at favoured stations, few passengers alighting, even fewer climbing aboard. Towns and villages broke the landscape here and there, but mostly hills and pastures beneath a sullen and swollen sky drifted by the compartment’s windows.

The journey was over for Ash when the train pulled into the modest country station of Ravenmoor. He quickly hitched up his tie and shrugged on the overcoat that had been sprawled on the seat opposite. Pulling down a black suitcase and a holdall from the overhead rack, he rested them on the floor. He held the door ajar as the train came to a lumbering squealing halt.

Stepping down, he reached back for his luggage, then slammed the door shut with an elbow. He stood on the platform, the only passenger to leave the train. The station appeared empty of all other life and the absurd notion that it was already a ghost station occurred to him. Ash shook his head, abashed that he, of all people, should entertain such a thought. A uniformed figure emerged from a doorway further along the platform and threw up a hand in an informal gesture towards the engine. The train began to pull away and the guard disappeared again without seeing his charge safely on its way. Ash waited for the last carriage to pass by before walking along to the station’s single-storey building, the comforting clatter of wheels on tracks soon receding into the distance. The end of the train was just disappearing around a bend as he entered the gloomy ticket hall.

There was no sign of the guard inside and no one waiting to collect his ticket. An elderly couple were standing before the plastic window of the ticket desk, the man bending down to talk through the narrow money slot, ignoring the face-level grille. Ash strolled on through to the road outside.

No parked vehicles, no one coming forward to greet him. He frowned and placed the luggage on the kerb; he checked his watch. Ash stayed there for a while, studying what he assumed was the village high street. In immediate view there were a few shops, the inevitable building society, a post office – and The Ravenmoor Inn directly across the road. Hands thrust into his overcoat pockets, a fresh cigarette keeping him company, he waited for a car to pull alongside. That did not happen, so he paced the pavement, disliking the chill, a thirst itching at his throat.

A further ten minutes went by before he shrugged, returned to his case and holdall, and crossed the unbusy road.

The door of the inn opened on to a vestibule, with separate entrances to the bars on either side. Ash went through to the saloon and its occupants awarded him only brief attention. It was lunchtime active, but Ash had no problem in finding space at the bar, and no trouble in catching the barman’s eye. The broad-faced man detached himself from a conversation and strolled over to the new customer with all the casual authority of a landlord.

‘Sir?’ he enquired, indifference to a non-regular plain in his expression.

‘Vodka,’ Ash ordered quietly.

‘Something with it?’

‘Ice.’

The landlord gave him a long look before turning to the optics. He placed the glass in front of Ash and dropped in two ice cubes from an ice bucket nearby. ‘That’ll be—’

‘And a pint of Best.’

As the other man sidled away to draw bitter from a pump, Ash put two pound coins on the bar, then swallowed half the vodka. He leaned against the counter and let his gaze wander around the room. The inn was untypical of the usual ‘Railway Tavern’, for its low-beamed ceiling, large inglenook fireplace with polished horse brasses displayed over the mantel, declared more rural traditions. A thin man wearing a flat cap, his face blue-red with veins broken by harsh winds, watched him from a corner seat, eyes unblinking and cold. Three business types, hunched over snacks on a minute round table, burst into laughter at a hushed joke. A couple by the door, both approaching middle age, sat close enough together for their thighs to touch and listened over-attentively to whatever the other was saying in the manner of a man and woman each married to a different partner. By the fire was a group in tweeds and mufflers, the men mostly satisfied to listen to the conversation of their womenfolk while they sipped their gin and tonics and pondered the virtues (or perhaps the boredom) of retirement. Generally, the buzz of chatter, a thin haze of cigarette and pipe smoke, the yeasty smell of beer from the cask. Reassuring and cosy if you were a regular, clannish and faintly inimical if you were an outsider.

He turned back to the landlord as his pint was settled on to a counter mat.

‘D’you have a phone?’ Ash asked.

The other man nodded towards the door. ‘Through there. Where you came in.’

Ash thanked him and collected his change. He took his luggage over to a table beneath a window, then returned for his drinks, sipping the top of the bitter before carrying it and the vodka over to his seat. Discarding his overcoat, he made for the door, taking what was left of the vodka with him.

The payphone was further along the vestibule and he went to it, digging in his pocket for coins and laying them out on a narrow shelf next to the instrument. Sifting through with a finger he found a 10p and balanced it in the appropriate slot. He dialled a number and pushed in the coin when a girl’s voice answered.

‘Jenny, it’s David Ash. Put me through to McCarrick, will you?’

A hundred or so miles away the telephone rang in an office of the Psychical Research Institute. Bookshelves filled with volumes on the paranormal and parapsychological, together with folders containing case histories of certain types of phenomena, lined the walls; grey, chest-high filing cabinets occupied the few gaps between shelves. A desk, its top cluttered with documents, journals and more reference books, faced a door that was ajar; a smaller desk, likewise untidy, took up space near a corner. A room crammed with the written word, but at that moment, empty of life.

The phone shrilled persistently and there were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. The door was pushed wider and a woman, somewhat matronly in appearance, bustled in. She wore an outdoor coat and there were bright spots of colour on her cheeks from both the cold and the climb to the Institute’s first floor. In her arms was a large bag and a bulging manuscript envelope. She hastily picked up the phone.

‘Kate McCarrick’s office,’ she said breathlessly.

‘Kate?’

‘Miss McCarrick isn’t here right now, I’m afraid.’

‘Will she be long?’ asked Ash, frustrated.

‘David, is that you? It’s Edith Phipps here.’

‘Hello, Edith. Don’t tell me you’re into office work now.’

She gave a small laugh. ‘No, I’ve just arrived. I’m having lunch with Kate. Where are you calling from?’

‘Don’t ask. Look, d’you think you can find her for me?’

‘I expect s—’ Edith looked up as someone entered the room. ‘Kate’s here, David. I’ll just pass you over.’

She held out the receiver to Kate McCarrick, who smiled in greeting then raised her eyebrows questioningly.

‘It’s David Ash,’ the older woman told her. ‘He sounds grumpy.’

‘When doesn’t he?’ Kate replied, taking the phone and moving around the desk to her seat. ‘Hello, David?’

‘So where’s my reception committee?’

‘What? Where are you?’

‘Where the hell d’you think? I’m at Ravenmoor. You told me someone would meet me at the station.’

‘They were supposed to. Wait a minute, let me get their letter.’

Kate left her desk and went to a filing cabinet. She slid open a middle drawer and riffled through the protruding name cards, her search stopping at MARIELL. She took the file back to her desk and opened it out: there were just two letters inside.

Ash’s irritated voice came through the receiver. ‘Kate? Will you—’

She lifted the phone. ‘I’ve got it right here . . . Yes, a Miss Tessa Webb confirms she’ll meet you at Ravenmoor Station. You caught the 11.15 from Paddington, right?’

‘Yeah, I got it,’ came the reply. ‘And there were no delays. So where’s the lady?’

‘Are you calling from the station?’

There was a pause at the other end. ‘Uh, no. There’s a pub across the way.’

Kate’s tone deepened. ‘David . . .’

At the Ravenmoor Inn, Ash drained the remains of the vodka and swirled the ice around the empty glass. ‘It’s lunchtime, for Christ’s sake,’ he said into the phone.

‘Some people eat for lunch.’

‘Not me, not on an empty stomach. So what do I do now?’

‘Call the house,’ Kate told him, still frowning. ‘Have you got the number on you?’

‘You never gave it to me.’

She quickly scanned the correspondence before her. ‘No, sorry. Miss Webb didn’t include it in either of her letters. We’ve spoken on the phone, but it was she who rang me. Stupid of me not to have got the number then. You’ll find it in the book though, under Mariell, the family name. I gather from her letters Miss Webb is a relative, or maybe just a secretary. The house is called Edbrook.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got the address somewhere. I’ll ring.’

Kate’s voice was soft: ‘David . . .’

Ash hesitated before hanging up.

‘After you’ve called the house,’ Kate said, ‘why don’t you wait for our client in the station?’

He sighed wearily. ‘Presenting the wrong image for the Institute, am I? Okay, this is my first and last drink for today. We’ll talk later, okay?’

In the office, Edith noted the concern subduing her employer’s smile.

‘All right, David,’ Kate said. ‘Good luck with the hunt.’

Ash’s farewell was flat: ‘Have a nice day.’

Kate was thoughtful when she replaced the receiver and Edith, by now settled in a chair on the opposite side of the desk, leaned forward anxiously. ‘Problem?’ she asked.

Kate looked up, her attractive face breaking into a warmer smile. ‘No, he’ll be fine. Our client didn’t turn up to meet him, that’s all. Probably a confusion over time, or else she’s running late.’ She shuffled papers on her desk, retrieving an appointments book which had been buried. ‘Two sittings for you this afternoon, Edith,’ she said on finding the appropriate day. ‘A widow, freshly made, and an elderly couple who want their son’s death confirmed. Would you believe he was reported missing as long ago as the Falklands conflict?’

Edith shook her head regretfully. ‘The poor dears – so many years of uncertainty. They want me to locate his spirit?’

Kate nodded. ‘I’ll give you details over lunch.’ She pushed back her chair and stood. ‘Personally, I could eat a horse. But I’m counting on you to stop me.’

‘Perhaps we could share it.’

‘You’re not much help, Edith.’