She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  Jack offered a grim smile. “Me too.”

  Eric motioned to the pub. “I thought it would be best to begin at the beginning, so to speak.”

  Jack nodded agreement and they headed into the pub. The lunchtime trade – a motley collection of old men, tradesmen and farm labourers – were propping up the bar. There was a distinct absence of the hikers and other tourists that usually flooded the area at that time of year. The hum of chatter died and all eyes turned towards the newcomers.

  “Hello Len,” Eric said to the ruddy-faced landlord.

  “Eric,” said Len, glancing up from pulling a pint. “What can I do for you?”

  Jack held up his phone to display a photo of Butterfly. He swiped to a mugshot of Karl. “Have you seen either of these people today?”

  “No.”

  Jack showed the photos to the drinkers lined up at the bar. “Yeah, I had words with them out front,” said a sour-faced man with a greying crewcut. From the way he said ‘words’ it was evident the conversation hadn’t been pleasant.

  “Are you sure it was them?”

  “Yeah, they’re not exactly hard to recognise.”

  So Butterfly was with Karl. A shock of adrenaline flushed through Jack at the knowledge. He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Can I ask your name?”

  “Rob Baker.”

  “At what time did you speak to them, Mr Baker?”

  “Opening time.” His lips twisting, Rob jabbed a finger at Butterfly’s photo. “I recognised her straight away. She’s one of them psychos from the manor house.”

  Jack winced internally at hearing Butterfly described as, one of them psychos. “How did she seem?”

  Rob shrugged. “What do I give a shit how she seemed? I told her she’s not welcome around here. Those nutjobs have ruined this area. Just ask Len. Trade’s practically non-existent, isn’t it?”

  Len nodded morosely.

  “My wife worked at a B&B out towards Wasdale,” Rob continued to rant. “They had to let her go. There were no guests, apart from a few weirdos who come here because of what happened. What do you call ’em?”

  “Murder tourists,” put in one of Rob’s companions.

  “Murder tourists,” echoed Rob, scowling. “That’s all we’re good for now. Do you know what they call this place? The village of the damned.”

  Jack’s gaze travelled along the faces at the bar. The same simmering resentment glowered in all their eyes. It was clear that things could turn nasty if Butterfly showed her face in the village again.

  “Why has she come back here?” asked Len.

  “I don’t give a toss why she’s back,” spat Rob, eyeballing Jack and Eric. “What I want to know is why haven’t you lot locked her up and thrown away the key?”

  “As far as we’re aware, the woman in question has committed no crime,” said Jack.

  “Committed no crime?” Rob laughed bitterly. “Is that some sort of sick joke? Well I’ll tell you this, I won’t let that crazy bitch do anything else to hurt this village. I see her hanging around here again and I’m–”

  “That’s enough,” Eric cut in firmly. “I don’t want to hear any more of that talk. Is that understood?” His steady brown eyes moved around the barroom and met with silence. “Now can any of you tell us anything about how the lady in the photo seemed? Did she seem distressed?”

  “No,” said Rob. “I wouldn’t have given her and her husband a second glance if it wasn’t for their tattoos.”

  Jack’s eyebrows pinched together. “What makes you think he’s her husband?”

  “What do you think? They look like a pair of circus freaks.”

  Biting down on a jolt of anger, Jack asked, “Did they have a baby with them?”

  “They drove off in one of those shitty people carriers. Now you mention it, there was a baby seat in the back.” Rob shook his head. “Poor little thing. Imagine having parents like them. Wonder how long it is before that bitch shoves poison down its throat?”

  Jack’s fist clenched involuntarily. Fighting the urge to smash it into Rob’s ignorant face, he said, “Which way did they go?”

  Rob pointed towards Wasdale Road.

  “Thanks for your help.” Jack pushed the words through his teeth.

  “If you see either of these people again, please contact Whitehaven police station,” Eric said to the assembled drinkers.

  As they turned to leave, Jack noticed a solitary figure nursing a pint by a window. The man was wearing a battered old wax jacket and flat cap. He had narrow, sloping shoulders and a thin face. Bushy brows shadowed his beady eyes. Wisps of lank grey hair curled from beneath his cap. A ratty moustache fringed his upper lip. He looked to be in his mid-to-late fifties. He stared into his glass, avoiding eye contact with the policemen as they passed by.

  Once they were outside, Eric said, “Butterfly could have tried to tell those men she was in trouble, but she didn’t. Is that a good thing?”

  “She may have thought she’d be worse off with them than Karl.” Jack sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of his words.

  “So we’re proceeding on the assumption that she’s with him under duress?”

  “Why the fuck else would she be with him?” snapped Jack. He reigned in his anger with a deep breath. “Sorry, Eric.”

  Eric put up a hand as if to say, No need to apologise. “How worried should I be about Karl Robinson?”

  “He has a history of violence, but I don’t think he’ll hurt Butterfly or Charlie.”

  “I was thinking more about you and me. Should I be calling in backup?”

  The what ifs returned to torment Jack. What if Butterfly was suffering another of her episodes? Depending on her state of mind, she might indeed be with Karl of her own free will. If that was the case and she was intent on exacting revenge on the killers, then the fewer people involved the better. “No. I’m heading out to Low Lonning. That’s where they’ll go next. Maybe it would be best if you don’t come with me.”

  Eric’s beard split into a smile. “Do you know how boring it is around here most days, Jack? I could do with some excitement. Not too much, mind.”

  Jack summoned up a grateful smile in return.

  “I’ll follow you,” said Eric, getting into his Landrover. “Oh by the way, that weasel-faced bloke drinking on his own, did you recognise him?”

  Jack nodded. “Phil Beech.”

  “Do you think we should warn him to stay put until we’ve found Butterfly and Karl?”

  Jack shook his head. “This place is already ready to explode. Best not stir up any more bad memories.”

  Chapter 17

  Karl drove back down Leagate Brow while Butterfly fed Charlie. The milk lolled Charlie off to sleep. After crossing the little bridge, they turned right. After a hundred metres or so, the road curved leftwards up a low hill. A narrow lane branched off to the right, running between hedges alongside the River Bleng. There was a ‘Private Road’ sign at the end of the lane.

  Butterfly pointed past the sign. “It’s down there.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Karl turned off the road. “Let’s hope we don’t meet Beech coming the other way.”

  The car juddered over potholes, passing a farm with a large collection of corrugated barns. Karl screwed up his face at the stench of manure. “And they say London smells like shit.”

  On their right, trees snaked along the riverbank. The lane headed into a long tunnel of oaks and alders. After maybe a quarter of a mile, it re-crossed the river on a wooden plank bridge and emerged at a grassy clearing with a stone cottage at its centre. The cottage was set a short distance back from the lane behind an overgrown privet hedge. Its dandelion-flecked lawn gently sloped down to the pebbly riverbed. The cottage’s slate roof was blanketed with moss. Lichenous streaks stretched down the walls from its leaky gutter. But otherwise it looked well-kept – pale blue front door, matching window frames, little leaded windows, blood-red roses climbing the walls. To the right of the cottage a short gravel
driveway led to a wooden garage. There were no vehicles in the driveway. Although it was turning into a warm afternoon, all the windows were shut.

  Once upon a time a little old woman and a little old man lived in a cottage by a river… The opening line from The Gingerbread Man played in Butterfly’s mind as her gaze moved between the secluded cottage and the sun-splashed river.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” observed Karl, continuing past the cottage and climbing away from the river up a steady incline. He pulled off the lane into the trees so that the cottage was hidden from view. He looked askance at Butterfly. “So how do you want to play this?”

  She glanced uncertainly at Charlie. He hadn’t woken despite the car stopping. He usually took a long nap in the early afternoon.

  “Bring him with us if you like,” said Karl. “But breaking-and-entering is best not done with a baby in tow. Remember, Beech has got a shotgun.” He gestured to the woods. “What harm will come to Charlie here? I’ve been robbing houses since I was nine. I know where people hide the shit they don’t want to be found. We’ll be in there ten minutes tops.”

  “Ten minutes,” Butterfly echoed, nervously running her tongue over her lips.

  “The longer we sit here, the more likely it is that Beech will show up and we’ll miss our chance.”

  “OK, let’s do it.”

  Grinning like a kid on a daytrip, Karl got out of the car. Taking care not to wake Charlie, Butterfly put him in his seat. She placed a rusk and a couple of his favourite toys within his reach. If he woke, hopefully they would keep him from crying. She wound down a window a few centimetres, allowing the cool air of the woods into the car. Then she got out, closing the door as quietly as possible behind her.

  They slunk through the trees to the cottage. Karl watched its windows for a moment before stepping into the lane. As if he owned the place, he strode through the gate and along the path. His grin returned when he saw the front door. “Yale lock,” he said. “You used to able to pick one of these things in ten seconds flat. Fancy a go? See if you’ve still got the touch?”

  Butterfly gave a frowning shake of her head, motioning for Karl to get on with it.

  He opened a leather wallet containing a series of picks of varying lengths and slender metal rods with right-angled flat ends. “This is the torque rod,” he said as if he was teaching a protégé. He inserted a rod into the lock. “The rod goes in at the bottom of the lock. The pick goes in at the top like so.” He slid a pick with a curved tip into the lock above the rod. “Now you just tickle it over the pins whilst twisting the rod.” He withdrew the pick, subtly working it up and down. There was a click and the lock turned. “Et voila!” He looked at Butterfly. “Bring back anything?”

  “Let’s just get this done as fast as possible,” she whispered sharply, doing her best to ignore the faint drumming that had started up behind her forehead.

  Holding up a cautioning hand, Karl poked his head through the door and whistled. “Here boy, here boy.” Silence greeted his call. “No dog.” He opened the door fully and stepped inside.

  Butterfly followed him into a gloomy hallway with a low beamed ceiling, a flagstone floor and yellowed Anaglypta wallpaper. To their right were stairs carpeted in threadbare brown. On their left were pegs draped with jackets, fleeces and flat caps. The floor under the pegs was cluttered with mud-encrusted wellies, waders and boots. Beyond the pegs was a panelled, unpainted door. There was an identical door at the opposite end of the hallway. A heavy scent of fried food hung in the air.

  Karl headed for the second door. It led to a cramped kitchen with a red quarry-tiled floor. There was an overflowing bin by the backdoor. The walls were lined with rough wooden cupboards and shelves. Blackened pans dangled from hooks. Crockery and utensils stained with grease, egg-yolk and baked bean juice cluttered the work-surface. More crockery was piled in a deep, chipped ceramic sink. A frying pan and whistling kettle occupied what looked to be an old camping stove. Karl touched the kettle.

  “Still warm,” he said. “Looks like Beech had his lunch and headed out to slaughter a few bunnies.” He pointed to the shelves, which were crammed with mismatched crockery, tins, condiments, jars of instant coffee and boxes of teabags and cereal. “Have a look in those tins.” As Butterfly did so, he searched the cupboards, checking there were no loose panels that things might be hidden behind.

  The tins contained sugar, granulated gravy and the like. Karl motioned to move on. The other door led to a living-room with a tatty sofa and armchair arranged around an incongruously modern flat-screen television. Logs were piled haphazardly to either side of a log burner set in a tall stone fireplace. Ranks of empty beer cans marched across a coffee-table. There was a dining-table with a single chair by the dusty window. The walls were devoid of pictures. There were no ornaments or any other signs of a woman’s touch. Butterfly found herself thinking of Jack’s living-room when she’d first moved in. Jack. He must have returned home and found that she was gone by now. Had he picked up on the significance of her leaving the case files in the hallway? Of course he had. Jack didn’t miss signs like that.

  The muscles of her jaw pulsed. Part of her wished she hadn’t left a clue for him to follow. She was fairly certain Karl wouldn’t use his gun on her, but Jack was another matter. There was another consideration too – if Jack caught up with them, she may well lose her best chance to find the killers.

  Flipping up the sofa cushions, Karl said with a chuckle, “Way back when I was a kid, I once found over three thousand quid under an old dear’s sofa.”

  The amusement in his voice rankled Butterfly. She wondered once again how she could have been attracted to a man like Karl. The answer was as obvious as it was uncomfortable – because she’d been no better than him. “We’re not looking for money.”

  “Sorry, force of habit.” He gave the contents of some shelves the once over, flipping through dog-eared angling and shooting magazines, peering into a collection of pewter tankards.

  After a swift search of the fireplace, they left the room and headed upstairs to a little landing with three doors. A bathroom with a stained toilet, an equally grubby basin and bath was visible through one door. Karl wrinkled his nose at the mould-flecked tiles, pube-encrusted soap, grey towels and sour whiff of urine. “This fucker has got serious hygiene issues.”

  He had a glance in a bathroom cabinet and prodded the side of the bath to see if it was loose, before moving on to the neighbouring door. Beyond it was a box-room with a desk and a computer. Grinning, Karl pointed out a toilet roll next to the monitor. “Wouldn’t you like to know what Beech has been looking at?”

  Now it was Butterfly’s turn to wrinkle her nose. “Not really.”

  Karl ran his fingers along the edges of the dark-patterned carpet. “Just checking for loose corners,” he explained. “You’d be amazed how many people hide their life savings under the floorboards.”

  He straightened with a shake of his head and made for the final door. Beech’s bedroom was as spartan as the rest of the house – an iron-framed double-bed with a jumble of blankets and two pillows, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a bedside table with a tea-stained mug on it. But what caught their attention was a tall, grey-metal strong box in one corner. Karl set to work on the lock with a torque rod and pick, applying light twisting pressure on the rod, pushing the pick into the lock and raking it back out. The lock turned a fraction. He repeated the process and it rotated further. The strong-box door swung open, revealing a shotgun, a rifle with a telescopic sight, several boxes of cartridges and bullets and a leather ammo bag. The guns’ wooden stocks and black metal barrels gleamed spotlessly.

  “Looks like these are the best cared for things in the house,” observed Karl.

  “No necklace,” said Butterfly, pursing her lips in disappointment.

  Karl shut the strong-box, inserted the pick again and rammed it upwards with the heel of his hand. “He’ll have a hard time opening this now.”

  “But
won’t he know that someone’s been tampering with the lock?”

  “Perhaps, but better that than him coming at us with his shotgun if we need to have words with him.”

  Butterfly frowned. Karl’s tone hinted at much more than simply having words.

  “I know you don’t like the thought of it,” continued Karl, reading her expression, “but if you’re serious about getting to the truth, we might have no other choice. Come on, let’s search the rest of the room. We’ve been in here too long.”

  Butterfly checked out the drawers. “Just socks and underpants.”

  “Take each drawer all the way out. Make sure there’s nothing behind them.” Karl drew aside the assortment of shirts, trousers, jeans and jumpers hanging in the wardrobe to check it didn’t have a false back. Then he peered under the bed and lifted its mattress. “Nothing but dust and pubes.” He puffed his cheeks. “If your sister’s necklace is here we’re not going to find it without taking this place apart brick by brick.”

  Butterfly slotted the drawers back into place and headed for the stairs. As much as she wanted to keep looking, she’d already been away from Charlie too long. She opened the front door a crack and peered through it before stepping outside. Karl pointed to the garage. Butterfly nodded and they headed around the side of the house. Karl made short work of the padlock that secured the double-doors. He squinted into the garage’s gloomy interior. Bags of ‘Mixed Corn’ poultry feed were stacked beside the plastic barrel bins used for dispensing it. An array of animal traps – wooden boxes and cages with sliding doors, spring-loaded vermin traps, wire and twine snares – were neatly laid out on a workbench.