She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  The bungalow’s back garden was a square of overgrown grass. Beyond a thin hedge was a field grazed by ponies. A deep-looking pond occupied the nearside of the field. Only the neighbouring bungalow overlooked the garden.

  There were two windows and a uPVC door at the rear of the house. The nearest window looked into a kitchen as bland as the bungalow’s exterior – white cupboards and tiles, freestanding oven and hob, Formica table with the remnants of fish and chips in greasy paper and a bottle of cider on it. Karl exchanged a glance with Butterfly upon seeing the food. He edged his eyes around the other window. It looked into a living-room that ran the length of the house. The room appeared to have been decorated by an old woman rather than a middle-aged man – chintzy three-piece-suite and curtains, pink carpet and matching fluffy rug, a herd of ceramic pigs on the mantelpiece. Crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers were scattered over the carpet by the armchair nearest the television. The television wasn’t on.

  “Looks like Pervy Pig isn’t home,” whispered Karl. He returned his attention to the door. “Barrel lock. I used to bust these things open in five seconds.” He set to work with his lock picking tools. True to his word, seconds later the door swung inwards. Placing a finger to his lips, Karl stood listening for a moment.

  Silence.

  Bathroom, he mouthed at Butterfly. She nodded understanding – he wanted to make sure Dale wasn’t in the bathroom – and they padded through the kitchen. Karl eased the door open. He took a step into the hallway and stopped dead. A figure was blotting out the light from the front door window. Dale Sutton was almost as wide as he was tall. His stomach sagged like a sack of grain over his tracksuit bottoms. His face was as pink and smooth as a baby’s with drooping jowls and a triple-chin. His fish-eyes protruded from fleshy pouches. A faint sheen of sweat glistened above his upper lip and on the bald dome of his head.

  At first, Butterfly saw none of this. Her gaze was transfixed on the rifle in Dale’s hands. It had a wooden stock and a single slender barrel. The rifle butt was pressed into Dale’s rounded shoulder. The barrel swayed back and forth between her and Karl.

  “Put your hands up,” Dale said in a gruff, tremulous voice.

  Karl raised his hands. “Is this number fifty five?” His unflustered tone suggested this wasn’t the first time he’d had a gun aimed at him.

  “Sixty two.”

  “Oh well we’re in the wrong house. A mate of mine lives at–”

  “Save it,” broke in Dale. He made a jerky motion with the gun towards the living-room. “In there. Go on. Move. And keep your hands up or I’ll shoot. Do you hear?”

  “We hear,” said Karl. “Relax. We won’t cause any trouble. This is just a simple misunderstanding.”

  Karl and Butterfly went into the living-room.

  “Sit on the sofa,” Dale instructed them. As they did so, he positioned himself in front of them. His tongue flickered nervously over his lips.

  “What now?” asked Karl.

  “That depends on what you’re doing in my house.”

  Karl motioned to the rifle. “What type of gun is that?”

  “Keep your hands where they are,” warned Dale.

  “Looks like an air rifle I had when I was a kid. I used to shoot rats with it. Proper piece of crap.”

  “Well this piece of crap could put your eye out no problem.”

  Karl pushed his lips out. “Maybe.”

  “What are you going to do to us?” asked Butterfly. Right that second, finding the killers almost seemed like an irrelevance. All she was thinking about was what would happen to Charlie if Dale pulled the trigger.

  “I told you, I’ll decide that when I know why…” Dale’s voice faltered. A glimmer of puzzled curiosity came into his eyes. “I know you.”

  The words made Butterfly’s heart beat even faster. How could Dale know who she was? Did he somehow recognise her from twenty years ago? His next words proved otherwise. “You’re the one that got away from Hawkshead Manor. I saw your picture in the paper. What do you want with me?”

  Not knowing what to say, Butterfly glanced at Karl. She saw that his right hand was edging towards the pocket containing the Glock.

  Don’t, her eyes pleaded.

  “I asked you a question,” Dale persisted.

  Karl gave him an amused look. “Is that gun a bit heavy for you, Pervy Pig? Your bingo wings are trembling.”

  “Don’t call me that,” retorted Dale.

  “What should I call you then? Rapist? Paedo?”

  Angry red splotches stained Dale’s pudgy cheeks. “I’m not a paedo.”

  “That’s not what I hear. I know all about you. You’ve got a thing for schoolgirls. Melissa Jones. That was the name of that fourteen-year-old you got pregnant.”

  Dale took a threatening step towards Karl. “I could shoot you. I’d be within my rights.”

  “I’ll bet you messed Melissa’s life up good and proper. Fourteen-years-old and lumbered with the baby of a sad-sack piece of shit. Have you ever even fucked a real woman?” Karl waggled his little finger. “Nah, I don’t reckon you could get your dick up for a real woman.”

  “I’ll shoot you.” Spittle flecked Dale’s lips. “I swear to god I will.”

  Karl thrust his face towards the gun as if daring Dale to do so.

  “Karl,” Butterfly hissed. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just having a chat with our friend the fat paedo,” he replied, keeping his eyes on Dale.

  “I’m not a paedophile!” exploded Dale, his face quivering like a plate of jelly. “I’d never hurt a child. Unlike her.” He darted an accusing look at Butterfly. “How many children are dead because of–”

  As fast as a striking snake, Karl’s hand shot out and swiped the gun aside. There was a hiss of air as Dale reflexively squeezed the trigger. The pellet thunked into the wall to the right of Karl. In the next second, Karl was on his feet, driving a fist into Dale’s abdomen. His eyes on stalks, Dale doubled over as the breath whooshed from his lungs. Karl drove his elbow down against the back of Dale’s neck. The whole bungalow seemed to shake as Dale crashed to the rug. Karl wrenched the rifle from Dale’s hands and tossed it across the room. At the same instant, he whipped out the Glock and aimed it at Dale’s head. Within the blink of an eye, the entire situation had been reversed.

  “Please,” wheezed Dale, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please don’t shoot me.”

  Karl glanced at Butterfly. “You OK?” When she nodded, he asked Dale, “Who lives next door?”

  “W… what? Why?” stammered Dale.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Eileen. She lives on her own.”

  “Does she go out to work?”

  “Yes. She works at the power station.”

  A slow smile spread over Karl’s face. “Well then we can make as much noise as we want.”

  “No. Oh god no,” sobbed Dale.

  “We should search the place,” said Butterfly. “If we find the necklace, that’s all the evidence we need to put him away for life.”

  “Why bother with searching when Pervy Pig here’s going to tell us everything we need to know?” Karl nudged Dale with his foot. “Aren’t you?”

  Flinching, Dale whimpered, “Just tell me what you want.”

  “Show him,” Karl said to Butterfly.

  Watching Dale as if trying to read every crease and fold of his face, Butterfly took out the ‘Little Sis’ necklace. He stared at it with incomprehension for a few seconds, then his eyes swelled in horrified realisation and darted to Butterfly’s face.

  “You recognise it, don’t you?” said Karl.

  Dale’s jowls flapped as he shook his head.

  “Oh yes you do,” continued Karl. “And you know exactly who she is. She’s not just the one that got away from Hawkshead Manor, she’s the one that got away from you and your pal Phil Beech.”

  Dale shook his head even more rapidly. “No, no, no,” he gasped. “It wasn’t us.”

 
; Karl looked at Butterfly. “Ask him.”

  “Where’s my sister’s necklace?” asked Butterfly.

  “Oh god, you’ve got to believe me,” sobbed Dale. “I had nothing to do with–” The air whistled from Dale’s lungs as Karl kicked him hard in the gut.

  “Don’t,” exclaimed Butterfly as Karl drew back his foot to kick Dale again.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Karl’s voice was calm, but his eyes were menacingly bright. “Do you know what we’d do to a fucker like him in prison?” Dale’s sobbing became almost hysterical as Karl said, “We’d cut off his dick and feed it to him.”

  “You’re not in prison now,” said Butterfly. “And this isn’t what I want.”

  “Isn’t it? Look at that fat blubbering bastard. Go on. Look at him.”

  Butterfly looked down at Dale. His face was a quivering mess of tears and sweat. His eyeballs looked ready to pop out of their sockets. His t-shirt had ruckled up, revealing a lardy, stretch-mark riddled belly with a livid red mark where he’d been kicked. Doubt welled up in her at the sight. Could this pathetic thing really have murdered her parents and sister?

  As if in answer, Karl said, “He cut your dad’s throat, then blasted Charlie and your mum in the face. But even that wasn’t enough. He carried on stabbing them long after they were dead. Do you know why? Because it made him feel like a big man for once in his life. Isn’t that right, fat boy?”

  Dale shook his head frantically. “No, no, no…”

  “Ah bullshit!” scowled Karl. “You did it.” He slammed his foot into Dale’s midriff again. This time, not only breath hissed between the downed man’s lips. He retched up a steaming puddle of cider and partly digested fish and chips.

  “Whoo!” laughed Karl. “That’s got a tang to it.” His probing gaze returned to Butterfly. “Ask him again.”

  She blinked away from him as if she had something to hide. The drum was beating in her brain. Thud… thud… She could feel sweat popping out all over her as she asked Dale, “Where’s the necklace you took from my sister?” Her voice was a strange mix of anger and pleading.

  “I don’t know, honest to–” Dale broke off, retching up more of his lunch.

  Butterfly swallowed as queasiness pushed its way up her throat.

  “He’s lying,” Karl stated as if it was a fact. He moved closer to Butterfly, his voice dropping low. “Are you going to let him get away with what he did to you?”

  Thud, thud... The drumming was getting louder and faster. A choking fist of rage replaced the queasiness. Butterfly swallowed again, but the feeling kept rising, forcing its way out of her mouth, “Where’s the fucking necklace?” she demanded to know. “Either you tell me or… or…” She trailed off as if uncertain of what came next.

  Dale squirmed and wept at her feet. Her lips twisted in disgust as, like a prostrated beggar, he wormed a pleading hand towards her. Karl stamped on the hand. A scream burst from Dale. Keeping his heel on Dale’s hand, Karl leaned in so close to Butterfly that she could feel his breath hot on her cheek. “Ask him again,” he murmured like a lover whispering sweet nothings.

  Thud, thud, thud went the drum. Butterfly squinted. Lights were dancing in front of her eyes as if she’d stared into the sun. Her throat was so full of anger that she could barely breathe.

  “Go on,” Karl urged, his lips almost touching her.

  She flinched at the feel of something hard and heavy being pressed into her palm. The drumming leapt up in volume as she saw that she was holding the Glock.

  “Ask him,” went on Karl, keeping his hand on hers, manoeuvring the pistol towards Dale’s head.

  Her mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Images were flashing through her mind – the masked man stepping from the trees, her sister and parents’ terrified faces. Was she remembering or was her mind painting pictures from things she’d read? She seemed to hear a voice – Dale’s voice – call out from some inner place. Run, run as fast as you can!

  Her finger twitched against the trigger. “It was you.”

  Dale shook his head, gasping, “No.”

  “Yes!” The word hissed from Butterfly like the pellet had from the air rifle.

  Karl’s voice tickled her ear. “Pull the trigger, Io.”

  Butterfly swayed on her feet. The splotches of light were spreading over her vision, blotting out Dale’s terrified face.

  “Do it. Do it,” Karl chanted like a schoolyard taunt.

  Thud! THUD! Suddenly all Butterfly could hear was the drumming and all she could see was the blinding light. Then her legs could no longer support her and she was collapsing to the floor. Her face slapped against the warm vomit. Before losing consciousness, she just had time to wonder whether Dale’s bloated face would be the last thing she ever saw.

  Chapter 20

  Jack’s phone rang. He put it on loudspeaker and Eric’s ever-steady voice came over the line, “I’ve tried Dale’s home and mobile numbers. No one’s answering.”

  In response, Jack pressed the accelerator closer to the floor. Fields rushed by. He swore as a tractor blocked his progress. He overtook it, hammering his horn to warn any oncoming vehicles. The glittering line of the sea greeted him as he hit the outskirts of Seascale. He raced through the sleepy streets as if Butterfly’s life hung on the next few minutes. He eased up on the accelerator as the Sat Nav informed him that he was approaching his destination. His gaze darted along a row of nondescript grey houses, homing in on Dale Sutton’s small semi-detached bungalow.

  Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Butterfly’s people carrier was nowhere to be seen. He pulled over by a rectangle of communal grass with a swing and seesaw on it. He got out of the car, just barely resisting the impulse to rush headlong to the bungalow. Eric’s Landrover drew in behind him. The sergeant got out and approached him, cautiously keeping the vehicles between himself and the bungalow.

  “What do you think?” asked Eric, squinting at the bungalow.

  “The windows are closed. Sutton might simply have gone out. Maybe Butterfly and Karl haven’t been here.” Although Jack’s tone was hopeful, he didn’t believe his words. Dale’s bungalow would certainly be Butterfly and Karl’s next port of call. He estimated them to be at least forty-five minutes ahead of himself and Eric, which would have given them plenty of time to do their thing. He prayed that ‘thing’ amounted to no more than breaking in and searching the bungalow. “How far away are the AFOs?”

  “I’d say about an hour.”

  “I can’t wait that long. I think Butterfly and Karl have been and gone. That means every second we stand here, they’re getting further away from us.”

  Eric ran his fingers through his beard, eyeballing the row of garages to the left of the bungalow and the houses to its right. The street was silent, except for the murmur of a lawnmower. “OK, we’ll take a look. But you follow my lead.”

  Jack motioned for Eric to lead the way.

  They crossed the play park and the strip of tarmac that led to the garages’ forecourt. Eric pointed to the bungalow’s front window. Nodding understanding, Jack followed him past the rusty old car in the driveway. They peered around the edge of the window. A three-piece-suite and a television were visible through the net-curtains. There was no sign of life or of any disturbance having taken place. Jack listened at the letterbox. Not a sound.

  They headed around back, peeping into the side window. Dale’s bedroom looked as if it had been ransacked – duvet scrunched on the bed, drawers half-open with clothes hanging out. Then again, maybe Dale was just messy. The kitchen was similarly devoid of life. Eric pointed to a half-eaten portion of fish and chips on a little table against the inner wall, whispering, “Looks like he’s in after all. So why isn’t he answering his phone?”

  Ducking down below the kitchen windowsill, they crept to the backdoor. Eric pointed to the lawn. The grass looked as if it hadn’t been mowed in months. A strip of the long blades had been flattened as if something approximately Dale Sutton-sized had cr
awled or been dragged towards the hedge that divided the garden from the field beyond. Eric took out his steel baton and extended it. Motioning for Jack to stay where he was, he followed the flattened grass to a gap in the hedge. He hurried back to Jack and told him, “It continues towards the pond. No sign of whatever made it.”

  Looking askance at Eric, Jack reached for the door handle. Eric nodded and Jack depressed the handle. The door swung inwards. The scent of vinegar and something more acrid tickled their nostrils as they padded into the kitchen. With his baton poised to strike, Eric peered into the hallway and bathroom. Empty. He edged into the lounge and stopped dead, pointing to a puddle of vomit on the carpet.

  “Looks like Dale’s lunch didn’t agree with him,” observed Eric. “That might explain his absence. Maybe he had to rush out for something to settle his stomach.”

  “Or maybe he vomited after someone punched him in the stomach. Then that same someone killed him and wrapped him in the rug that was here.” Jack squatted down to trace his fingers along a line that marked out a faint rectangle on the carpet. Beyond the line the carpet was several shades darker as if it had been shielded from the sun’s bleaching effects.

  “And then they dragged him outside and dumped him in the pond,” finished Eric.

  “Sounds about right.”

  “It sounds like what it is – speculation.”

  “There’s only one way to find out if it’s speculation – dredge the pond.”

  “Let me make a few calls first, just in case Dale has popped down the chemists.”

  With another glance of revulsion at the vomit, Eric took out his phone and stepped into the hallway. Jack scrutinised the room. His gaze came to rest on a small circular hole in the wall above the sofa. He ran his fingers over it. There was something embedded in the plaster. He dug at the hole with his car key. A flat-nosed pellet popped out of it into his palm.