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 17^th 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 19^th 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.