Page 3 of Murder Most Haunted

Unfortunately for Midge, the back of the bus was also the location of the lavatory.

The small cubicle door had a latch displaying ‘ENGAGED’ and a poster reading ‘OUT OF ORDER’ hanging from the handle.

The rest of the coach, upholstered in scratchy nylon the colour of an aubergine, also did little to live up to the promise of the brochure.

There were twelve rows of seats, two on each side, and the bus was old enough to still have ashtrays carved into the arms of the chairs, which heightened the residual smell of cigarettes.

Despite having deliberately laid her cane out at an awkward angle (a trick that usually had the desired effect on trains), to Midge’s immense disappointment, Noah Camber chose the seat adjacent to her.

‘Is it OK if I move your stick?’ he said, although Midge noted that he had already done so. He then proceeded to clean his hands with antibacterial gel before sitting. So much gel, in fact, that Midge was beginning to feel lightheaded with the fumes.

Midge collected her cane, sending it a silent apology for the disturbance, and wedged it back across the seat, blocking his attempt to sit down.

The boy frowned. ‘I need to be near the toilet,’ he explained, even though she hadn’t asked.

‘There are plenty of other seats equidistant from the lavatory,’ said Midge, gripping the end of the cane firmly. ‘Ones that are free.’

‘But this one is free,’ protested Noah.

‘Do you see my cane?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Then clearly the seat isn’t free.’

‘I get really travel sick . . . Oh bugger!’ He’d noticed the sign on the door.

Midge thought about this. ‘I don’t really think that is something that I need to know,’ she said.

She took out her phone and began to tap quietly into the keypad.

There was a ping from an incoming text notification. It was Bridie.

Are you on the coach?

Midge tapped back in the affirmative.

The boy had given up and moved to the seat across the aisle.

She considered the screen for a moment, her finger hovering above the keypad.

There had been an imbalance in their relationship lately that unsettled Midge in a way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

And she still hadn’t totally forgiven Bridie for forcing her on to this trip.

Remember to not swear at the nurses.

Remember to have a good time, typed back Bridie.

Midge sighed. What did that even mean? How could anyone possibly have a good time when their bottom was stuck to a lumpy coach seat cover that smelled of old pubs.

Things went rapidly from bad to worse when the sheepskin couple sat in the seats directly in front of Midge, giving her a first-class, cinematic view of the cavernous earhole of the man every time he turned to talk to his wife.

It constantly amazed Midge that men, who were so often appalled by the leg hair of women, would gaily sprout their own tropical vegetation inside their ears and nose without a single by-your-leave.

The close proximity of the passengers also meant that she was well placed to overhear the animated conversation between them.

‘. . . have to embarrass yourself like that?’ he was saying.

However, she was distracted from any further eavesdropping by Rendell making his way down the aisle towards them. ‘Right.’ He checked his watch quickly as the coach engine started up. ‘Let’s start with a bit of housekeeping, shall we?’

Midge really wasn’t sure if audience participation was required, but nodded all the same.

‘Firstly, it appears the toilet is out of action . . .’ Rendell held his hands up to ward off the groans from the seats around him. ‘We will be stopping at Tiverton Services, so please hold it tight till then.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! This is preposterous,’ complained the male sheepskin.

‘Secondly,’ continued Rendell, ‘during the weekend, we will be monitoring EMF forces in order to get the maximum from your experience, so I will need you all to hand in your telephones.’

‘EMF?’ asked the lady in front of Midge.

‘Electromagnetic field,’ supplied Rona, turning in her seat further down the coach and leaning over it to explain. ‘Ghosts generate an energy field that can be disrupted by phone signals and recording equipment.’

‘Exactly that,’ said Rendell. ‘Now, if you could all place them in this rucksack, I’ll safeguard them during the weekend.’

As Rendell worked his way along the coach, Midge quickly tapped into the keypad, No phones allowed. Won’t be contactable until we’ve finished, before powering the telephone down.

‘Mr and Mrs Mortimer?’ Rendell was standing over the couple in front of her.

‘Doctor,’ corrected the gentleman, dipping his chin at the medical bag now sitting in his lap. ‘It’s Dr Mortimer.’

‘Right,’ said Rendell, holding out his hand. ‘Phone, please.’

‘Look, is this necessary?’ asked Dr Mortimer. ‘I’m a GP and I really should have access to my phone at all times.’

From the gap between the two seats in front of her, Midge could make out a distinct tightening of Mrs Mortimer’s jaw. She appeared to be whispering to her husband, ‘Andrew, please.’

Reluctantly, Dr Mortimer passed over a silver iPhone to Rendell, who dropped it into the rucksack with a nod. That made three iPhones, one silver and two black (Mrs Mortimer and Rona), and one Android, supplied by Noah. Not that Midge was counting, of course.

Which just left Midge.

‘Mrs McGowan,’ said Rendell, squeezing down through the gap and leaning unpleasantly close to the back of Dr Mortimer’s headrest. He looked through the checklist. ‘Maggie McGowan?’

No recognition, only impatience on his face.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘I take it you are Maggie McGowan?’

Midge exhaled. It did not come as much of a surprise to Midge that she was easily forgettable, and it must have been over twenty years since he had last seen her.

For the first time since their marriage, she was glad at Bridie’s insistence on her taking on her surname.

Midge held out her phone for him to take.

‘Good God . . . is that a Nokia 3310?’ Noah, from across the aisle, appeared very animated suddenly. ‘Do you still get Snake on that?’

Midge replied, ‘It’s an old work-issue phone.

No games allowed.’ Not that Midge would have played one anyway.

This was the second time that Noah had spoken to her and Midge wondered if he now considered them friends.

Bridie had been talking a lot lately about Midge making more acquaintances, worried that she would become bored during retirement.

She had even tried to nudge Midge into joining her on some of her weekly engagements, much to Midge’s confusion.

For the last twenty years, she thought they had managed perfectly well, thank you very much, with her staying at home enjoying her embroidery while Bridie socialized.

She could see no good reason for that to change just because she had the misfortune of retiring.

She should have kept her mouth closed. Rendell suddenly leaned forward – the nauseating combination of stale cigars and sandalwood cologne causing Midge to blink rapidly in succession. ‘Are you ex-job?’ he asked. ‘Police?’

‘No.’ She shook her head firmly. She had decided before she set off this morning that she would not disclose her occupation to anyone on this holiday.

‘Really? I can usually tell ex-coppers a mile off.’ Rendell scratched his head.

Midge, who couldn’t think of any other appropriate response, shrugged.

‘Oh, were you in the police before?’ Rona’s head popped up again.

‘Oh yeah!’ Harold’s voice suddenly boomed out over the coach speakers, much to Midge’s alarm and Rendell’s annoyance.

He was sitting back in the driver’s chair and talking into the tour guide microphone.

‘You’ve got yourself a real detective here.

John Rendell worked on the Cuthbert baby kidnapping case . . . you may have heard of it?’

‘We don’t read the tabloids,’ called back Dr Mortimer.

In Midge’s opinion, the delivery of the statement implied an expected round of applause from the audience.

‘Turn that bloody thing off, Harold,’ shouted Rendell. ‘Now, any questions before we head off?’ Rendell turned to address the rest of the seated group.

‘Is lunch provided?’ Dr Mortimer asked. ‘My wife is diabetic and needs to monitor her insulin levels regularly.’ Through the crack, Midge could make out a small insulin pump patch on Mrs Mortimer’s left arm.

‘Physician, heal thyself . . .’ muttered Noah. Midge was about to point out that as it was the doctor’s wife who had diabetes, that quote wasn’t strictly relevant, but the engine kicked into gear, drowning out everything including the rumble of thunder outside, and the coach moved off.