Prologue
The night before Midge’s retirement party, Bridie convinced her to go to bed with a cucumber and mint face mask on.
‘Please try it, Midge. Sylvia swears by them.’
‘Who’s Sylvia?’
This produced the slightest of sighs. ‘From my amateur dramatics group. Apparently, the polypeptoaminoacids get rid of large pores.’
Bridie, it turned out, had no idea what a polypeptoaminoacid was, and never, in Midge McGowan’s fifty-five years, had she been aware of her large pores. But it wasn’t often that Bridie asked something of her and she had been so dreadfully excited about the retirement party that Midge didn’t have the heart to say no. It took her approximately fifteen minutes to apply the mask, which left her with only thirty minutes before bed to work on her handkerchief embroidery. With a base of white linen and edged with lace, the handkerchief was a canvas for a vibrant canary, embroidered with meticulous care, perched near one corner. It was the final one in a set of six canary hankies and involved a rather complicated lazy daisy stitch. Only having half an hour meant she made a mistake with the cross-overs, ruining the entire birdcage and forcing her to start afresh with new material, which was bothersome to say the least.
While she slept, Midge had a dream.
She was sitting in her rocking chair, inside a locked, gilded cage. With each movement of the chair, a tiny bell connected to a circular mirror beside her rang out. As she rocked, her face in the reflection changed. Just when she was pulled from sleep by Bridie’s gentle shaking, she recognized the features. She’d seen the eyes, nose and mouth many times before in her dreams. But only once to touch in the flesh.
It was the baby.
It was always the baby.
The banner in the property office read, ‘Happy Retirement DS MAGOWAN’.
The party was more disappointing than the typo. They had put the food table upstairs so that by the time Midge had huffed and puffed her way up to it, her gouty knee was aching and she had to lean on the cane more than she wished. It was hardly worth the effort except that she found common dining areas fascinating. It was Midge’s opinion that the importance of eating habits in identifying personalities was greatly undervalued.
‘McGowan, there you are.’ Detective Chief Inspector Helen Goodall was standing next to the cupcakes but chose instead to pick up a carrot stick from the plate nearby. ‘Can’t stay for long. I’ve got an area meeting with the Gold Team.’
Midge nodded while she caught her breath, propping the cane against the table as she did so.
‘I just wanted to say thank you for all of your hard work and good luck with the retirement. Thirty years . . . Goodness!’
The look of pity said it all. DCI Goodall was only twenty-eight and already two pips above Midge. Of course, she had been fast-tracked, but she would undoubtedly finish her career as an area commander. This generation of women had no idea how good they had it, thought Midge. When she’d started out as a probationer, they were still pulling up the skirts of the WPCs and stamping their bottoms with the station property stamp. No doubt, her retirement as a mere detective sergeant was as distasteful to DCI Goodall as the carrot stick she was pretending to enjoy.
‘I expect you’ll be glad to get out of the property office, finally.’
‘Yes . . .’ Midge replied, unsure of what to say
say next. ‘. . . Helen.’
Midge had spent the majority of her career in what was really a civilian role, overseeing the evidential property office – the room where every item of physical evidence from a criminal case was logged and stored should it ever be required for trial. What had started out as a temporary secondment soon evolved into something more permanent with no one seemingly in a rush to ask for her back. Not that Midge had ever considered complaining. Despite the cold of the old sandstone building, she’d enjoyed the inanimate irrefutability of the property records, and before long she and the register book had become synonymous. Need to find the hairbrush in the Langham case for court? Ask Midge the Register! And so, she’d made it her second home; hidden away inside the endless rows of material evidence that had unlocked so many crimes. An alibi-wrecking train ticket, the misplaced knife in a rack, even the hidden clay on the soles of trainers . . . However clever the criminal, regardless of their meticulousness in covering up, there was always an object that didn’t fit or belong and that would eventually become their undoing. Things were far more reliable than people, Midge often concluded.
And there was something oddly comforting about the neat rows of identification labels attached to each evidence bag.
Labels were important.
Right down to the plastic hospital tag on a newborn infant’s wrist.
‘What a lovely dress,’ the DCI remarked.
Midge fiddled with the cuff of the rainbow-coloured smock which she had bought because she knew absolutely nothing about clothes and thought it practical to have a colour to match any jacket.
‘Yes.’
Usually, Bridie bought all of her outfits. But on this occasion, she had insisted on Midge going shopping by herself. Where was Bridie? Midge did a quick scan of the room. She would know how to keep the conversation going. Well, nearly always. At least, when she was on her uppers. ‘The art to small talk,’ she would say, ‘is telling them something about your day.’
Midge tried her best. ‘I wore a face mask last night. Cucumber and mint.’
The DCI blinked. ‘Oh.’
‘It had peptopolyaminoacids,’ she finished.
Hopefully, you’ll be able to rest up that knee and lose the cane soon enough.’
‘I’m not injured. I’m overweight,’ frowned Midge, before clarifying, ‘Morbidly.’
The DCI bit down into her carrot stick and asked, ‘Your friend not with you?’
The emphasis was deliberate. Another thing this generation had to be grateful for. Twenty-five years of introducing Bridie as her companion. Of course, Midge was more than aware that the world had moved on, but these things were just not as simple as that.
‘I was looking forward to finally getting to meet her. I’ve heard she’s quite the life of the party.’
Her beautiful, bright Bridie bird.
But the brightest lights shine only against the darkest of backgrounds . . .
Bridie had made it upstairs and was walking towards her, cheeks flushed from a passing conversation with Inspector Rowan. Involuntarily, Midge checked the rest of her face. The echo of her laugh had a high pitch to it that undoubtedly had more to do with excitement than the power of the inspector’s joke-telling. But there were no tell-tale dark rings under her eyes and, for this evening at least, the shadow of illness was absent.
She squeezed Midge’s shoulder as she reached them. Years of habit while in company made Midge stiffen slightly and pull back. If Bridie noticed, she didn’t show it and, instead, turned smoothly towards DCI Goodall, extending the touch that had just been spurned.
‘Hello, Ma’am,’ she said, waiting for DCI Goodall to balance her paper plate before shaking hands. ‘Lovely to meet you. What a fantastic spread you’ve put on.’
Midge didn’t think she meant it. A beige buffet, she’d whispered to her when they’d arrived.
The DCI smiled while checking her watch. Bridie rolled her eyes at Midge.
‘Sorry, McGowan,’ said Goodall. ‘I’m going to have to go. Like I said, big meeting. Anyway,’ she pulled an envelope out of her pocket, ‘the station had a whip-round for you. Hope you enjoy it.’
Midge accepted the envelope marked with the property office stamp with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been handed their next dental appointment. She went to put it straight into her handbag (also rainbow coloured), when a gentle nudge from Bridie alerted her to the fact that more was expected. ‘Open it then, silly!’ she laughed.
Obediently, Midge tore open the envelope. Inside was a voucher of some sort.
It read:
A HAUNTED CHRISTMAS WEEKEND
20–22 DECEMBER
AT
THE FAMOUS ATHERTON HALL
Courtesy of HAUNTING HOLIDAY EXCURSIONS
Cost: £175 (inclusive of police discount)
Coach transfers included
She frowned. ‘The price is still on it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the DCI waved her hand, ‘sorry about that. Should have markered that off.’
‘A hundred and seventy-five pounds?’ said Midge. ‘But I have thirty direct colleagues. The normal donation amount is ten pounds per person. Which would make an expected total of approximately three hundred pounds.’
The DCI’s mouth was opening and closing slightly.
‘Oh, Midge!’ squealed Bridie, clapping her hands together like a schoolgirl. ‘It’s a haunted house trip, how marvellous! Just like they do on the television!’
‘But ghosts aren’t real.’ Midge, who couldn’t think of anything more ludicrous, did not understand Bridie’s excitement. ‘You know all that stuff is nonsense.’ They’d once accidentally watched a paranormal investigation show together, full of flashing lights and shaky night-vision camera footage that had given Midge a migraine even before the posturing of the overly made-up presenter had started.
Midge considered the voucher again. ‘Unless it is a birthday, of course, then the average contribution drops to five pounds per person
Hopefully, you’ll be able to rest up that knee and lose the cane soon enough.’
‘I’m not injured. I’m overweight,’ frowned Midge, before clarifying, ‘Morbidly.’
The DCI bit down into her carrot stick and asked, ‘Your friend not with you?’
The emphasis was deliberate. Another thing this generation had to be grateful for. Twenty-five years of introducing Bridie as her companion. Of course, Midge was more than aware that the world had moved on, but these things were just not as simple as that.
‘I was looking forward to finally getting to meet her. I’ve heard she’s quite the life of the party.’
Her beautiful, bright Bridie bird.
But the brightest lights shine only against the darkest of backgrounds . . .
Bridie had made it upstairs and was walking towards her, cheeks flushed from a passing conversation with Inspector Rowan. Involuntarily, Midge checked the rest of her face. The echo of her laugh had a high pitch to it that undoubtedly had more to do with excitement than the power of the inspector’s joke-telling. But there were no tell-tale dark rings under her eyes and, for this evening at least, the shadow of illness was absent.
She squeezed Midge’s shoulder as she reached them. Years of habit while in company made Midge stiffen slightly and pull back. If Bridie noticed, she didn’t show it and, instead, turned smoothly towards DCI Goodall, extending the touch that had just been spurned.
‘Hello, Ma’am,’ she said, waiting for DCI Goodall to balance her paper plate before shaking hands. ‘Lovely to meet you. What a fantastic spread you’ve put on.’
Midge didn’t think she meant it. A beige buffet, she’d whispered to her when they’d arrived.
The DCI smiled while checking her watch. Bridie rolled her eyes at Midge.
‘Sorry, McGowan,’ said Goodall. ‘I’m going to have to go. Like I said, big meeting. Anyway,’ she pulled an envelope out of her pocket, ‘the station had a whip-round for you. Hope you enjoy it.’
Midge accepted the envelope marked with the property office stamp with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been handed their next dental appointment. She went to put it straight into her handbag (also rainbow coloured), when a gentle nudge from Bridie alerted her to the fact that more was expected. ‘Open it then, silly!’ she laughed.
Obediently, Midge tore open the envelope. Inside was a voucher of some sort.
It read:
A HAUNTED CHRISTMAS WEEKEND
20–22 DECEMBER
AT
THE FAMOUS ATHERTON HALL
Courtesy of HAUNTING HOLIDAY EXCURSIONS
Cost: £175 (inclusive of police discount)
Coach transfers included
She frowned. ‘The price is still on it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the DCI waved her hand, ‘sorry about that. Should have markered that off.’
‘A hundred and seventy-five pounds?’ said Midge. ‘But I have thirty direct colleagues. The normal donation amount is ten pounds per person. Which would make an expected total of approximately three hundred pounds.’
The DCI’s mouth was opening and closing slightly.
‘Oh, Midge!’ squealed Bridie, clapping her hands together like a schoolgirl. ‘It’s a haunted house trip, how marvellous! Just like they do on the television!’
‘But ghosts aren’t real.’ Midge, who couldn’t think of anything more ludicrous, did not understand Bridie’s excitement. ‘You know all that stuff is nonsense.’ They’d once accidentally watched a paranormal investigation show together, full of flashing lights and shaky night-vision camera footage that had given Midge a migraine even before the posturing of the overly made-up presenter had started.
Midge considered the voucher again. ‘Unless it is a birthday, of course, then the average contribution drops to five pounds per person
idge herself was always very careful to put in the appropriate amount of money for the numerous office whip-rounds. At her own father’s funeral, an overheard declaration from her mother that she had ‘only received fifty pounds for him’ had led to a young Midge spending several years under the misunderstanding that rather than being dead, her father had in fact been raffled off to the highest bidder.
‘Midge!’ Bridie’s side-eye informed Midge that her reaction was not what was expected. ‘Don’t be so ungrateful. I think it’s a fantastic idea.’
Midge decided that a joke of some sort must be being played on her and pushed the voucher back towards the DCI. ‘Perhaps this present was meant for someone else . . . DI Atkins is retiring next week . . .’ DI Atkins was certainly the type to enjoy this sort of foolishness. He’d once tried to engage Midge in a conversation about star signs, of all things.
‘No,’ replied Goodall, shaking her head. ‘Definitely for you. Apparently, Haunting Holiday Excursions is run by an ex-copper who retired a few years ago. HR get a discount, so we’re all stuck with these for the foreseeable. What’s his name? . . . Jack . . . Randall, I think.’
The room around Midge shifted to the side suddenly.
‘John Rendell?’ She swallowed to moisten a throat that had turned dry. ‘Do you mean Rendell?’
Midge could feel Bridie’s inquisitive eyes boring into her as she waited for the DCI’s response.
‘Uh, yes. That’s it, think so. She nodded. ‘Bit before my time, of course, but you probably knew him.’
Midge pushed the voucher back into the envelope, still conscious of Bridie standing beside her. ‘I can’t . . . we’re busy.’
‘What are you talking about?’ frowned Bridie. ‘You’re not doing anything then.’
‘Your chemo . . .’ protested Midge, slightly breathless.
‘You weren’t coming to that anyway,’ replied Bridie. ‘It will be good for you, instead of sitting at home on your own.’
Midge wasn’t sure at what point ‘sitting at home on your own’ had become either a good or bad ‘thing’ but Bridie had certainly been putting more emphasis on it lately.
‘Look, feel free to do what you want with it,’ interrupted the DCI. ‘Personally, I’d much prefer a set of golf clubs.’
‘Oh, come on, Midge. It’ll be fun!’ cried Bridie, as they watched DCI Goodall walk off across the room. ‘You never know, you may enjoy it.’
Midge, who knew she most certainly would not enjoy it, said, ‘But it’s with other people . . . a group . . .’ There would be introductions, hand shaking, the expectation to make small talk and, God forbid, the confusion of air kissing.
Bridie squeezed Midge’s hand. ‘Just think of it as a stately home tour, then, if nothing else.’
And a coach? They were to journey in a coach? That not only meant impossibly small seats for a person of her size but also a communal lavatory that actually travelled with them.
‘Really, when you think about it, all ghost stories are just unresolved murder cases,’ said Bridie. Midge frowned, opening her mouth to challenge the statement. ‘Look, I tell you what,’ Bridie stopped her as they watched the DCI head for the exit, ‘do this for me and I’ll try extra hard at the treatment not to swear at the nurses again.’
Which was a little unfair, Midge thought.
So, unsurprisingly, by the time they had finished their cocoa later that evening, the proposed trip was already a fait accompli. Midge had exhausted every possible argument she could think of, and Bridie was still cheerily emphatic that she would enjoy herself. Therefore, at 10 p.m., when Bridie extended her arm towards the stairs and asked her usual, ‘Shall we, old girl?’, Midge responded with a rather sulky, ‘You go on, these lights won’t turn themselves out.’ The prolonged debate about the trip had meant that by the time Midge climbed into their Laura Ashley bed it was already too late to even look at her embroidery – at which point, considering the intensity of the last few months, she actually began to wonder if a little time apart from Bridie would not be such a bad thing.
Friday 20 December
1
The coach was two minutes late. Not enough to annoy the rest of the assembled group despite the cold weather, but long enough to bother Midge, who had arrived fifteen minutes early in the hope of securing a seat close to the back so that she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She needn’t have worried.
There were only four others in their party and ten pieces of luggage.
Two expensive, black canvas suitcases belonged to a smartly dressed couple in matching sheepskin coats. They were about Midge’s age, and stood slightly off to the side talking between themselves. The man was also carrying a black leather medical bag, which Midge hadn’t added to her luggage tally, given its professional function. Five leopard-print cases of varying size surrounded a thirty-something female, who had introduced herself as Rona, without even looking up from her phone. The final pieces, aside from Midge’s own navy hostess suitcase, were a mismatched red suitcase with its keys still attached to the lock alongside a well-travelled green rucksack, both of which were being hovered over by a nervous young man dressed in so much black that Midge wondered if he had just come from a funeral.
‘We’ll be picking up a couple more at the services,’ explained Rendell from the coach steps.
She had recognized him immediately. True, the trousers were a little snugger around the waist, the skin more sagging and mottled, but the Scottish accent, wavy hair and overwhelming scent of cigars hadn’t changed.
Nor had the smarminess.
‘Lovely people! Gather round.’ He turned and shouted up to the coach driver, ‘Jesus Christ, Harold, you’ve parked in the middle of the road. I’ll need a gang plank to get this lot on, what’s the matter with you?’ As they waited for the door to fully open, he added, ‘Hurry up, now, come . . . come, I won’t bite, unless you want me to!’
For a split second, Midge wondered if she was supposed to inform him that biting of any kind would not be acceptable, but he continued to wave them closer without actually leaving the warmth of the coach’s heater system. ‘I’m John Rendell, the owner of Haunting Holiday Excursions.’
The group, apart from Midge, all murmured back their hellos from the cold pavement.
‘I have the honour of being your tour guide for the weekend.’
For reasons that were unfathomable to Midge, this announcement elicited a scattering of applause.
‘Word of warning,’ continued Rendell, pointing up at the dark, grey sky. ‘We’ve been told it’s heavy snow forecast for the weekend, so let’s hope you’ve all packed something to keep you warm at night.’ He raised an eyebrow at the young female on her phone. She had bright pink hair, which was topped off by a leopard-print jumpsuit that coordinated with the indecent number of bags crowded around her. The leopard suit covered the sort of figure that Midge felt men appreciated, certainly if the furtive glances of the young fellow in black were anything to go by.
Rendell was interrupted by the driver (an elderly man with an unusually thick head of hair wearing a Christmas jumper of two indecently positioned reindeer), who pushed past to climb down the steps. ‘This is Harold,’ said Rendell.
‘Morning all!’ the man smiled. His eyes drooped slightly into the corner folds, which distracted Midge enough to stop her pointing out that, due to his tardiness, it was in fact now afternoon.
‘If you take your suitcases over to the back end of the coach, he’ll load your baggage on,’ said Rendell.
ghtest intention of releasing it to a man wearing a jumper with two fornicating reindeer on it. It had been all very well for Bridie to urge her to ensure she had clothes for ‘every occasion’, but she’d disappeared off to the shops before Midge could ask her exactly what that meant. Left to her own devices, she’d opted for two police-issue navy jumpers and a pair of walking trousers, while her travel outfit consisted of brogues, casual slacks and a blouse that Maureen in finance had once said was a nice cut. She had, of course, packed all the new ‘ladies’ – it would have been unfair to leave one behind. Six handkerchiefs, each with their brightly embroidered canaries, tucked snugly into the case. She had given the one with the mistake to Bridie for her chemotherapy session. In a last-minute fit of daring, Midge had thrown the rainbow smock in as well, and then had needed to sit down for a minute or two to recover, which was long enough for her to realize that the only other shoes she had to wear with the smock were her old police boots that she had packed in the event of snow.
‘Best do the rest of the introductions on the coach, hadn’t you?’ said Harold, rubbing his hands together and revealing a number of black tattoos across his knuckles which starkly contrasted with the ghostly band of a displaced wedding ring. ‘Freeze the balls off a brass monkey out here.’
‘The brass monkey is a brass plate on the deck of a ship used for storing cannonballs,’ Midge informed the group, remembering Bridie’s advice to make an effort with conversation. She cleared her throat. ‘So the balls in question are not, in fact, the reference to primate genitalia that many people assume.’
Harold stared at her before attempting to lift one of the cases. ‘Blimey, what’ve you got in here, mate, a dead body?’
It was the red case belonging to the boy in black. ‘My recording equipment,’ he said, rushing forward to stop Harold bouncing it across the pavement. ‘Careful! It cost a lot.’
Unable to help herself, Midge’s eyes were drawn to the handwritten label on the suitcase.
IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO:
NOAH CAMBER
C/O THE CAMBERS
THE WINTERBOURNES
LEAMINGTON
‘Recording?!’ said Harold, straightening his back. ‘Are we going to be on the television?’
Which is when the young woman who had identified herself as Rona finally looked up from her phone and said, ‘I most certainly hope not, I’m supposed to be incognito.’ She appealed to Rendell, ‘My PA was very explicit about that in her emails to you. No one must know I’m here.’
‘Did she tell you it was a safari?’ asked Midge, pointing to the leopard print, thinking that perhaps would explain the camouflage.
‘I knew I recognized you! You’re Rona RX, the pop star, aren’t you?’
Midge turned to stare at the woman who was speaking. It was the well-groomed sheepskin lady, whose pearl earrings now emphasized the red flush of her ears brought on by the sudden attention.
‘My son . . . loves . . . loved your music,’ the woman fumbled, while her gloved hand reached for that of the man next to her.
‘Rona RX is dead,’ replied Rona, pulling a pair of Gucci sunglasses down over her eyes even though Midge had already begun to feel the touch of sleet on her cheeks. ‘It’s just Rona now.’ There was the faintest upper-class enunciation to her throaty voice as she spoke.
‘A pop star, eh?’ whistled Harold. ‘Wait until I tell my Linda.’
Rona grimaced before suddenly pointing a finger at Noah’s suitcase. ‘Look, if he’s got something heavy in there, I don’t want it squashing my shoes!’
‘It’s nowhere near your shoes,’ said Harold, frowning.
‘No, that suitcase.’ She pointed at one of the leopard prints. ‘It’s all my shoes. They go everywhere with me.’
‘That entire suitcase?’ said Midge, who was glad she had kept the ladies with her, unable to bear the idea of them being squashed.
oah was back clucking over Harold as he pushed the suitcases into the hold. ‘It’s not TV equipment,’ he was explaining. ‘I’m a podcaster.’
‘Pardon?’ said Harold, levering the suitcase up for one last shove, causing Noah to wince.
‘Like a radio show,’ he explained.
‘Oh?’ Harold straightened up, raising an eyebrow. ‘Do you do requests and things?’
Noah shook his head. ‘Uh, no. Nothing like that. It’s a show about the paranormal.’
Harold was disappointed. ‘That’s a shame. I love a bit of the golden oldies . . . any of the big band stuff . . .’
To Midge’s surprise, the driver suddenly burst into song, the air condensing into dismal puffs in front of him.
‘Parom pa dom . . . pom-pom . . . parom—’
‘Harold!’ Rendell’s voice cut through the noise, his face dark with irritation. ‘Stop fooling about, we’re behind the departure schedule.’ He flashed a smile towards the rest of them. ‘If you’ve handed your bags over to Harold, please find your seats.’
‘Yes, boss!’ Harold gave a mock salute and smiled at Midge, who was left standing next to him as the others moved back along the pavement. ...
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