Chapter
One
Layton Muir got off the train at Langside
Station. It seemed like a lifetime
since he had last been here and he supposed in a sense that it was true. The tall man in his forties who stepped off
the branch line diesel was from the sixteen year old who had left in the
opposite direction to go to London find adventure.
He
had found plenty of the latter all right, more than any reasonable man would
need. But then he had always been hungry to find out new things and see what
was happening in the wider world.
The
station looked smaller than it had been when he left. It was a little dirty and grimy, although they had tried to
brighten up the place by painting the ticket office, waiting room, shelters and
iron pillars a tasteful two-tone shade of red and cream.
“Are
ye all right?” asked a railwayman standing near Layton on the platform. And Layton realised he had been standing
there for over five minutes just drinking in the atmosphere of the place.
“I’m
fine,” said Layton smiling easily.
“Just getting used to being back here.”
“Been
awa’ hiv ye?”
“All
my life.” The man accepted this without comment and walked away.
Layton
stood for a few more minutes, turning once or twice but remaining on the same
spot where he had alighted. Truth was,
he did exactly the same wherever he came to, whether in the middle of an
African jungle or down the bottom of the deepest mine on earth – both places
his work had taken him to. Somehow when
he was drinking in his surroundings he would gain a feel for the nuances and
contrasts of where he was. His crew had
learned to understand and respect this process, for it had been instrumental in
saving their lives more than once.
Now
he was back to where he had started. He
shouldered his bag and strolled up the slope that led to a flight of stone
steps. Once down these it would take
him to Bowman Street and from there he could get to the main drive – suitably
called High Street. It seemed that the
original town elders did not have much imagination.
He
could picture them now sitting round a scrubbed wooden table. This would have been some time around the
eighteenth century, racking their rural, rustic brains to name the village that
had sprung out of nowhere during the coal mining boom of that period.
Layton
had researched his own area by internet and post so that he could come here and
let his intuition do the rest. He did
not concentrate too much as he walked up the slope. The day was sunny and the pleasant glow on his head and shoulders
made him feel a little unfoccused. This
was far from his usual state and he just let a few facts percolate through his
mind as he walked on.
The
town of Langside – more an extended village really – had arisien due to the
industrial revolution in the late eighteenth century. Langside was more a nod to that revolution than a serious bid to
be part of the great capitalist enterprise that had reshaped the entire
world.
There
was a reason for that. A group of
craftsmen in Bairds Row – scene of his latest investigation – had pooled their
resources and borrowed an equal amount from the newly constituted Bank of
Scotland (the bank had actually been formed in the 17th century to
help fund the Darien project but nobody would even discuss that disaster that
had so wounded the pride of the Scottish Nation.) The Langside Association of Metalworkers and Cutlers had
prospered to the point where their products – wrought iron, knives forks,
spoons and weapons – bayonets mostly – graced tables and battles all over the
British Empire, It had been a time of
huge prosperity for the village and many houses had been built including the
Clarke Manor – biggest and best of them all.
As he thought of this, Layton turned his head and looked out to Bencraig
Hill on which the manor still perched, a huge dark building seemingly unaltered
by time.
But the place held some memories he did
not want to disturn on a day like this.
Langside itself looked small – a few parallel
streets lined mostly with with cottages of the black and white variety you see
on postcards of Scottish villages. As Layton knew, appearances really can be
deceptive. The actual village ran from
the manor away up on Clarke Point, down to Lower Dale street – were just
visible indicators of the houses and businesses hideen by the leafy lanes of
this region. It all looked like a town
dweller’s dream of rural paradise – a bucolic idyll, yet he knew that less than
a month before an even had happened her so monstrous not even the local people
knew the truth. Sunlight forgotten for
a brief moment, he felt that tingling that told him he was on to something
good.
Yes, the
prosperity had fallen from here in the 1890’s when Sheffield had taken
the production of metal houseware to a height that that could not be matched by
the rest of the country. The cutlers
had abandoned Langside to go down south and work in that industrial centre,
leaving the town itself to live in genteel poverty.
One by one the wealth residents had
withdrawn to live abroad and relieve tax burdens, leaving Langside as a rural
backwater.
One thing about the town was that coming
so late in the industrial revolution, they got the best roads McAdam could make
and the best railway service. Because
of their business needs – the ability to get the manufactured drop steel
products to England quickly and cheaply – the train route had been incorporated
into the main London line.
This meant that as the town declined back
down to a village and faded from prosperity, they still had daily reminders in
the new, fast services, most of which did not even stop here now, and of how
prosperous they had been. It also meant
that in the notorious purge of the 1960’s by Doctor Beeching (who Layton always
pictured as a monstrous black beetle of a man with a huge pair of scissors)
that they had retained a great rail and road service any major town would be
proud of.
He had been walking while he was mulling
over these matters and was already in the High Street, off which was Bowman
Lane where the entrance to the train station was. With a sense of surprise and
recognition he saw that most of the stores that he had known in childhood – the
tiny Woolworths, and RS McColls. The
local sweetshop that had belonged to Mrs Campbell. Did she still sell striped balls, a sweet he had always taken
delight in requesting from her?
The Co-op was still there, slightly
bigger than the rest, and the rural post office which was housed beside the
village hall in a series of converted railway buildings. These wooden, converted halls had been the
19th century equivelent of stockholding rooms, containing the goods
ready to be shipped by train around the Empire. Only the modest clocktower on the post office hinted at their
past use. The row of buildings had been
painted a rich cream colour – another link with the livery of the actual
railway station.
Layton walked past the few stores still
left – the ironmongers, the chemist and a store that sold goods for charity but
was not actually a charity shop.
Soon he found himself at the end of the
street. There, sitting back from the
road, was a two storey building, square and forceful with white stucco walls,
red shutters, black around the windows like a Goth’s makeup and a black
door. It was the old Kennedy farmhouse.
All the children knew the Kennedy lot
because of the big wolfish hound that lived there. Layton had taken on a paper round at the age of twelve and in
secret nightmares he still recalled the nightmare hound of the Kennedys. A cross between and Alsatian and God knows
what, it had taken the right to defend its owners to the extreme. He had several bruising encounters with the
animal and it had once actually bitten his backside, a sore throbbing wound
that refused to go away for weeks.
After that he had stood at the fence and thrown the daily paper
somewhere in the direction of the front door.
But neither Mrs Tully, his boss or Mrs
Kennedy ever complained about this.
They must have accepted his reason between them. Now a large white sign proclaimed in stark
black: ‘B & B, rooms now
available.’
Then there was a pull-off sticker across
the bottom. ‘Vacancies’ it said beside
this,. He knew the word ‘No’ was
underneath but he couldn’t imagine it was ever taken off – how many people
these days even knew of the existence of Langside? The main road bypassed it to the south and it was concealed on
that road by woodlands. The trains came
through here, but most of them were express jobs heading for Carlisle or
London.
He undid the catch on the flaky but stout
wooden gate leading to the yard and hesitated for a second, laughing ruefully
at the reason why. What had they called
that blasted hound? Oh yes,
Killer. Now Killer wasn’t around any
more – how could he be? But his ghost still haunted Layton and he found himself
looking for a replacement for the old meat-chewer as he had nicknamed the dog
as he walked up the cracked flagstones of the path.
Mrs Kennedy came to the door, and he
immediately recognised her. She was not
the original of course, but she had the same black hair and generous mouth as
her mother. Killer had been owned by
her father, a sour misanthropist of a man.
“Hi there,” he said, squaring his
shoulders. “I’m Layton Muir, I have a
booking.”
“Ah yes, I remember,” she said as if her
book was full and he was one of many.
“I’m Sandra Kennedy, come in Mr Muir.”
She was wearing a summery frock and was the kind of attractive, slightly
overblown kind of woman he liked. She
had a large bust and a rounded bottom that swished rather invitingly as she
walked. He felt slightly aroused by
this, but then women aroused him too much.
Another impulse arose, one he quickly quelled. He wanted to ask her what had happened to her father’s old
dog? He refrained from speaking because
it had probably been her childhood companion with a pet name of ‘Binkie’ while
‘Killer’ was for public show. Although
truth to tell he could not imagine the slavering brute of his imagination as a
fit companion for anything but a Rottwieler or an SS Commandant.
“I’ll show you your room,” she said,
interrupting his skewed thoughts, “you’re lucky, there’s only one occupied at
this time of year by my regular genmtleman.
They climbed the stairs together and her
scent drifted back to him, a flowery aura.
She was what his mother would have called ‘blowsy’ but he could see why
certain men might find her attractive.
He noticed that the house itself was in
good shape, the walls were plainly papered and the ceilings painted white. The stairs were carpeted in a wool twist a
sombre shade of red. Non-descript
paintings hung on either side of the steep stairway, mostly depictions of
country life. At the first landing she
stopped and turned to him. He flowery
scent much stronger now, a breast nearly touching his arm. “This is your room. Breakfast is served at 8.30 sharp. No visitors in the rooms please.” She said this with a covert glance at him
that carried a hint that he might be just the kind of man to have female
visitors when her back was turned. Then
she handed him the key to the room, which also included one for the front door,
“If you do stay out late, let yourself in
and out quietly. Do not disturb the
household.” She turned from him and
opened the room door. It was a
front-facing room and contained a double bed with a cream-and-brown duvet.
There was a small colour television on a pine dresser across from the bed. A long mirror hung beside the dresser. It was a sight that could have been
replicated in B&B’s up and down the country. Not that he was bothered – he would simply use this place for
sleeping quarters. He put his bags
beside the bed and noticed that she was hovering in the doorway looking a
little anxious.
“It’s fine,” he told her hastily and
watched her visibly relax.
“Thank you Mr Muir. If there’s anything else …you’ll let me
know, won’t you?” The significant pause
was not something he had expected.
“That’s fine Mrs Kennedy, I’ll do
that.” It seemed to be on the tip of
her tongue to say something else, but she smiled broadly, nodded again and
closed the door.
Layton put his tote bag on the bed and
emptied out the contents. He would but
some toiletries in town. He carried one
change of clothes barring some extra underpants and socks.
Among his effects he had thick notepad
and two black pens. He also carried a
usb recorder. It was like one of the
old miniature tape recorders but used magnetic memory instead of tapes. The disk could hold hours of information,
yet fitted in the palm of his hand.
He used the pad to write down information
at the end of the day, the recorder handy for jogging his memory. He put both pad and recorder on to the
dresser and went over to the window.
Even though they were just around a bend
from the High Street, from this angle the house looked to be fully in the
country. All he could see were trees
and hedges.
A rural idyll.
He didn’t think so.