Once again, thoughts, feedback and what not are much appreciated.
The Man with Two Shadows
“I’m going to the local police with what we got,” Dr Webster explained, “it probably won’t got anywhere but it’s worth a try.”
“No body, no disturbance in the snow, I don‘t think even with the ticket you have much to go on,” Sara summarised.
“Probably not,” agreed Dr Webster, “but at the very least it may cause something to happen along the way,” he added with a smile.
“I guess so,” she conceded and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, “keep me informed of any developments.”
A thought occurred to him and he advised her to use the camera on her phone to photo the ticket just in case, with that Dr Webster bid Sara adieu and departed upon his journey. Sara yawned, the events of the past twelve hours finally caught up with her and she decided to grab a hour or two of shut eye and headed upstairs.
He was disturbed from his postulations by the call of one of the policeman bringing him to the interview room. He sat himself on the hard wooden chair prepared himself for the questions. He recognised the two constables as the two from the night before, one of them began the interview tape.
“Interview begins at 10:23 officers present Police Constable Price and myself, Police Constable Murray. Interviewee will now confirm his name.”
“Doctor Benjamin Webster.”
“This is in relation to a reported incident last night, the 23rd of January,” began Price.
“I believe I have some evidence to help establish my claims from last night.”
“Oh?” Quizzed Murray.
Dr Webster produced the train ticket and presented it to the officers, who examined it thoroughly describing the details they saw out loud. After a long pause, Price addressed Dr Webster directly, “my dear doctor, while this is no doubt an unusual specimen there is nothing here to support the claim it was present at the platform.”
“I shall conceded that, but what of Marston Plummer?”
“We are currently conducting a safety check upon that name, it may take sometime,” stated Murray.
“True,” answered Dr Webster, “but there can’t be that many Marston Plummers about, can there?”
“Probably not, I agree.”
The interview continued on for a short time, restating the details of the night and events in the morning before being terminated. Dr Webster left none better off then he was before, be no worse either leaving the two policemen to puzzle over the ticket themselves. Murray decided to get the ticket finger printed while Price went on to chase up the name Marston Plummer, unknown to them Chief Inspector Dean had been watching them on the security monitor. Dean scratched his chin thoughtfully, he scribbled down the name Plummer on a piece of paper and circled it with a red pen and next to it wrote a single word and heavily underlined it. The word was: BOGUS
“Ah Dr Webster,” he exclaimed, “what a pleasant surprise!”
“Good afternoon Arthur,” smiled Dr Webster, “may I come in, I have a little tale to tell.”
“Yes I know, call it instinct if you like but something seems a bit odd.”
“That an intelligent good looking teenage waitress had a bounce on you?” quipped Arthur lightening the mood. “Yes that does seem a bit odd.”
“That too,” laughed Dr Webster before returning to a more sombre manner, “the whole set up seems, well like a set up.”
Arthur poured two cups of tea and got Dr Webster to recant the story once again, making the good doctor feel like a stuck record.
“It seems to me that you need to find some proof,” he concluded lavishing a large blob of clotted cream on his scone, “I don’t doubt you for the moment my boy.”
“Is there anything you can do your side?” Asked Dr Webster.
“Maybe, but as I say it doesn’t have anything to do with security, so as such my hands are tied.”
With that Dr Webster finished off his tea and bid Arthur adieu, informing him that he had a patient to tend too. Once he was away from Arthur’s office he pulled out his phone and logged onto the national railway website and looked up the train times for the station.
“Good afternoon Terry,” he chirruped.
“Hey this is a turn up,” beamed Terry cheerful as ever in appearance, “didn’t think I would see you again so soon.”
“Well I couldn’t resist having another pint of that fine porter you serve,” replied Dr Webster warming himself by the fire.
“Out of luck then I’m afraid,” answered the landlord, “it went this lunch time.”
“Ah that’s a pity,” said Dr Webster.
“Well try a splash of this,” suggested Terry pulling a small sample from a pull into a tumbler. Dr Webster took up the tumbler and sampled the dark liquid within… A hint of chocolate, orange and… ooh was that spiced rum? No… not spiced rum, but certainly something…
“I’ll have a pint of that,” he announced and paid for his pint. After he’d consumed two thirds of the pint he explained, one of the reasons why he was there.
“Don’t be daft doc,” replied the smiling landlord once he had explained, “I put her up out of the goodness of my heart, its certainly not for you to reimburse it.”
“That’s as maybe, but I thought I would make the offer,” rebutted Dr. Webster. He finished his pint and ordered another and sat near the fireplace, looking out the window watching the station. He observed that someone in the kitchen was studying the station too, he masked his interest by pretending to play with his phone. A minute or two later Terry had left the bar and the cook had emerged from the kitchen. She was a fierce battle axe of a woman with a stern vulture like expression with multiple self-drawn tattoos upon her arms. Dr Webster caught her attention and made a casual inquiry about Train times.
“Once an hour each way usually,” the cook stated, her eyes narrowing on him as she explained, “we get the occasional freight for the farmers but that’s about it.”
“It must be quite useful to have a train in the early hours,” he joked, “especially if you’ve gone to a club in town.”
“Early hours, you must be ’aving a giraffe,” she grunted, “the trains don’t stop here after eleven.”
“Ah my mistake,” Dr Webster smiled, “I must have misread my timetable.”
“What do you wanna know all this for anyway?”
“Oh I’m just making inquiries for a friend, a Mr. Marston Plummer.”
“Funny name, silver spoon in his mouth no doubt,” the cook said dismissively, “can’t abide them toffs. You don’t look like the type who mingles with them.”
“Well its more through business then social routes.”
“I see, anyway I gotta get back to the kitchen. Them spuds won’t peel themselves.” With that the cook disappeared back into the kitchen and Dr Webster returned to his perch at the window. He could see the layout of the station better now, the station was slightly higher in the distance then he expected meaning… he sprang to his feet and quickly popped out through the door. Once outside, he traced his way where his room had been the night before. There was no mistaking its location as the window was sandwich squarely in the middle of the gabled roof, with the second tower beside it, odd structure for a pub he thought. This location and the elevation meant that the station could not be obscured by the row of trees, but the field behind would be. A field which no-one would notice if the snow was partially absent. Dr Webster smiled, so that’s how the platform was resurface so quickly. Pleased with himself, he returned to the warmth of the fireside and treated himself to another pint of the chocolate tasting stout.
“Terry, is Sara working tonight?” He asked casually.
“No mate, she phoned in sick a bit ago,” answered Terry, “ Poor thing caught cold pretty bad. All that running around in the middle of the night I expect.”
“Yes… That would be it,” said Dr Webster guiltily, she shouldn’t have followed him and should of insisted she go back. Dr Webster finished his pint and bid the Landlord farewell, he had twenty minutes before the next train home, time to have a proper look around the station.
Dr Webster was disturbed from his thoughts by the sound of the train pulling into the station, he returned to the platform and quickly hoped aboard, sat himself in a good seat and stared out the window at the pub. As the train pulled away he failed to notice a duffel coated man watching him from the table a few rows down, his hands gently rapping out a rhythm on the arm of his chair.
YOU’RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE