She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  “I’ve been on to the chemists and the doctors. Dale hasn’t been seen at either place.”

  Jack showed Eric the pellet.

  “It’s an airgun pellet,” said Eric. “That didn’t come from one of Phil’s guns.”

  “I don’t see an airgun around here.” Jack glanced towards the pond.

  Catching his meaning, Eric said, “OK, Jack, we’ll do it your way. But if this is a crime scene, we’d better not touch anything else.”

  Eric got on the phone again as they returned to the back garden. Jack sidled through a gap in the hedge and followed the flattened grass to the pond. The water was impenetrably brown and flecked with algae. Jack stared at it, feeling as if he’d swallowed a lump of concrete.

  Oh Jesus, Butterfly, he thought. What have you done?

  Eric came up behind him. “SOCO and a dredging team are on their way.”

  “If Sutton’s in there, you know what that means.”

  “That Butterfly and Karl are looking for Phil.”

  “We should head back to his house.”

  “I say we wait and see what comes out of the pond. Two of my men are with Phil, and the AFOs will be here soon. For all we know, Dale might be drunk on a bench somewhere around town. We could be putting him at risk if we go back to Gosforth now.”

  “It’s not him I’m worried about.”

  “I know and I’d feel the same way if I were you,” Eric said sympathetically. “But we need to get a proper handle on what’s going on here. And we can’t do that if we keep charging blindly back and forth.”

  With a heavy sigh, Jack reluctantly accepted that Eric was right.

  “Let’s go speak to the neighbours,” suggested Eric.

  They worked their way along the street, knocking on doors. There was no one in the neighbouring bungalow. A woman was hurrying out of a house a few doors along to pick her kids up from school. She hadn’t seen anything. The old man next door to her had been dozing in his chair with the television turned up to full volume. No one answered their knocks at the next couple of houses. A woman in the last house in the row had seen Dale leaving his bungalow at about half-past twelve to buy fish and chips – as he did every day. The houses facing the bungalow were a good hundred metres away and partially screened by trees. The chances of their inhabitants having seen anyone coming and going from the bungalow were low.

  By the time they were knocking on the final door, a ‘SCIENTIFIC SUPPORT’ police van was pulling up. A solidly built middle-aged woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair got out of it. Eric waved, heading over to her. Beaming at him, she said, “Hello Sergeant.”

  “Hello love.”

  “Hey, less of the ‘love’, we’re on duty,” the woman gently admonished.

  Smiling back at her, Eric said, “Jack meet Crime Scene Examiner Susan Ramsden. My wife.”

  Jack shook Susan’s hand. “Good to meet you, Susan.”

  “You too, Jack.” Susan’s smile turned serious. “Eric told me what’s going on. You must be half out of your mind with worry.”

  Jack confirmed her words with another heavy sigh.

  Susan surveyed his unshaven face. “I’ll bet you haven’t had a chance to eat lunch, have you?” She pointed to a Tupperware container and a flask on the van’s passenger seat. “There are ham sandwiches and tea there. Even if you’re not hungry, you should try to eat or you’ll be no good to anyone.”

  “My wife loves to feed people,” commented Eric as Susan opened the back of the van and began sorting through a plethora of Forensic gear – fingerprint and DNA kits, photographic equipment, latex gloves, crime scene tape.

  “I heard that,” she shot back. “A sandwich and a cuppa can solve a lot of problems.”

  With a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, Eric glanced at Jack. “You’d better do as she says.”

  Jack opened the Tupperware box. His stomach grumbled at the smell of ham. As he took a bite of a sandwich, he thought about Butterfly. Had she had anything to eat? And what about Charlie? If he hadn’t been fed, he would be screaming blue murder by now.

  He poured himself a cup of tea and sipped it, eyeing the group of residents gathering in dribs and drabs by the play park. An old woman with crossed arms called to Eric, “What’s he done now?”

  “Please go back to your houses,” replied Eric. “There’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  “Nothing for us to be concerned about?” snorted a thirty-something woman. “I’ve got two young daughters. That pervert shouldn’t be allowed to live around here.”

  “Then where should he live?” Eric said as an aside to Jack. “At least in a small community like this people can keep an eye on him.”

  “They weren’t keeping an eye on him in ’98,” said Jack. “He was able to make his way to Low Lonning and back without being seen.”

  “So you really believe he killed that family?” put in Susan.

  “Do you know of anyone else with a history of sexual offences who was aware the Ridleys would be there that afternoon?”

  “No, but do you know there have been dozens of different theories over the years as to who killed the Ridleys?”

  “People love to play armchair detective,” said Eric.

  Susan passed a box of evidence markers to him. “Help me carry this stuff around back.”

  Jack picked up a box of kit too. As the three of them headed for the backdoor, Eric told Susan what they’d touched and where they’d been in the house. She set to work, photographing the flattened grass. “So tell me about these other theories,” said Jack.

  “Gypsies did it. Several people said they saw gypsies in the area that day. That was one theory that did the rounds. Total nonsense. There were a fair few other theories about killers from outside the area. I suppose it’s easier to believe that no one from around here would be capable of such a thing. That being said, some rumours did circulate about the Brays. And then, of course, there was that theory about the killers being strange little orange people, about ten centimetres tall with currants for eyes.”

  Jack’s brow briefly wrinkled in confusion. Then his lips curved into a wry smile.

  “Sorry,” said Susan. “Bad taste, I know, but I can’t think about the case without hearing those words – Run, run as fast as you can.”

  “I think we can be sure the Ridleys weren’t killed by gingerbread men,” said Eric

  “No, but Susan has a point,” said Jack. “That’s the one thing that sticks with me too.”

  Eric turned at the sound of another police vehicle pulling up outside the house. The group of onlookers had swelled to a dozen or so. “I’d better set up a perimeter.”

  “You mentioned the Brays before,” Jack said to Susan as Eric headed for the street.

  “Yes, there were some nasty little whispers about them, mainly put about by Phil Beech and his mates.”

  “What sort of whispers?”

  “Just the usual rubbish – they’re oddballs, inbreeds with webbed feet. They were easy targets you see. They keep themselves to themselves. Always have done. Except for Hayley. That’s Alistair and Pam’s daughter. She lives in Gosforth. From what I hear she doesn’t have any contact with her parents. Apparently they had some sort of falling out. Don’t ask me what about.”

  Jack’s eyebrows drew together thoughtfully. “I wonder if it’s got anything to do with Alistair Bray’s illness.”

  “Alistair’s ill? I didn’t know that. What wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know, but according to Pam he was too ill to speak to us this morning. She blamed his illness on the farm.”

  “Well it’s a hard way of life. I’ve been called out to more than one farm where the farmer’s put both barrels of a shotgun in his mouth. Depression’s rife in the farming community and people are often reluctant to seek help for mental health problems, especially the older generation.”

  “Do you know where Hayley lives?”

  “She’s got a little house on Whitecroft Road oppos
ite the Methodist church. Why?”

  “I’d like to have a chat with her.”

  Susan frowned. “I thought you were convinced Beech and Sutton are the killers.”

  “I am apart from one or two doubts, but I’d rather keep busy than hang around here worrying about Butterfly and Charlie.”

  Susan gave Jack a smile of understanding.

  “Thanks for the sandwiches,” he said.

  She made an it’s nothing gesture. “When this is over, you and Butterfly will have to come over to the house for a proper meal.”

  Jack found a small smile of his own. “I’d like that.”

  He returned to the front garden. Eric and a constable were stringing blue and white striped tape across the driveway. A van with ‘SPECIALIST SEARCH AND RECOVERY TEAM’ emblazoned on it had joined the police vehicles. Officers were sorting through dredging equipment – full-body waders, rakes, shovels and pumps.

  “I’m told the pond isn’t all that deep,” said Eric. “It shouldn’t take long to find out if Dale’s in there.”

  Jack told Eric about Hayley. Eric scratched his beard doubtfully. “Doesn’t sound like anything to me.”

  “Me neither but…” Jack tailed off into a sigh. He didn’t have the energy to repeat the conversation he’d had with Susan.

  “I’ll call you as soon as there’s anything to tell.”

  With a nod of thanks, Jack got into his car. As he pulled away from the bungalow, the eyes of those gathered by the play park followed him suspiciously.

  Chapter 21

  Butterfly regained consciousness with a gasp as if surfacing from the depths of a lake. For an instant, she didn’t know where she was, then it came flooding back. She opened her eyes, expecting to see Dale Sutton’s living-room. Instead, she saw that she was slumped in the front-passenger seat of her car. Karl must have carried me here, she thought, straightening up. She winced as a needle of pain pierced her skull. She felt as if she was coming around from an all-night bender. But at least she had come around. Her unconsciousness had been as dreamless as death, and yet here she was alive. How much longer would she remain that way though? Days? Hours? Would she live to hear Charlie say his first word?

  Charlie! Where was Charlie?

  Heedless of the pain, she jerked her head around. She was alone in the car. Outside was a winding gravel lane hemmed in by trees and bushes. Karl was leaning against the bonnet, cradling Charlie in his arms and feeding him a bottle of milk. Karl was smiling in that unguarded way that made his face boyishly handsome. The lines of anxiety receded from Butterfly’s forehead, but reappeared as she reached for the door handle. There were rusty red smears on her fingers. Was it Sutton’s blood? Who else’s could it be?

  Oh Shit, oh shit! What had happened? Had she pulled the trigger? No, she’d wanted to, but she hadn’t actually done it… Had She? Her eyes were racked with doubt as she got out of the car. The ground felt like the deck of a boat in choppy waters. She clutched the door to steady herself.

  “Welcome back.” Karl’s voice was as soft as a purr. “How are you feeling?”

  Butterfly held out her hands. “Give him to me.” Her tone was both pleading and sharp.

  “Relax. He likes me.” Karl stroked under Charlie’s chin. “Don’t you, Charlie boy? Yes, you like your Uncle Karl.”

  “Give him to me,” repeated Butterfly. The sharpness was gone. Only the pleading was left.

  Karl frowned as if troubled by what he heard. He held out Charlie. She took Charlie into her arms and removed the teat from his mouth. He let out a mewl of disapproval, pawing at the bottle.

  “Don’t worry.” Karl pointed to an electric kettle on the backseat. “I made the milk with boiled water as per the instructions.”

  Butterfly seemed to remember seeing just such a kettle in the bungalow’s kitchen. “What did you do to Sutton?” she asked hesitatingly as if afraid of the answer.

  Karl pointed at his chest, his face a picture of faux-innocence. “Me? Nothing.”

  “So he’s still alive?”

  Karl’s lips curled away from his teeth in a way that made Butterfly shudder. “I’d say Pervy Pig’s about as far from alive as you can get.”

  “Are you saying I–” Butterfly broke off, strangled by the realisation of what he was insinuating. The colour leached from her lips as if she might faint. Karl moved as if to catch her.

  “No,” she spat at him, retreating unsteadily, clutching Charlie to her chest. Charlie’s mewling ratcheted up to a cry of distress.

  Karl countered with an almost gleeful, “Yes! You gave that fat fuck what he deserved – a bullet right there.” He pointed at his forehead.

  “You’re lying.”

  “You came back to me, Io. You came back and did what needed to be done. Don’t you remember?”

  “I…I…” stammered Butterfly, searching her mind for the truth of what had happened. It was like trying to see the bottom of a muddy river.

  “I knew you were still in there, Io. You just needed something to bring you out.”

  “I’m not Io!” Butterfly’s voice was a tremulous shriek. Whirling away from Karl, she broke into a staggering run.

  He caught her up in seconds, wrapping his arms around her in something between an embrace and a restraint. “Yes you are,” he murmured in her ear. “And soon you’ll come back to me for good. All you need to do is finish what you’ve started. Only one more to go.”

  Tears tracking her cheeks, Butterfly tried to twist free. “Please stop this.”

  “It’s too late for that. We’re in this together. All the way.”

  Butterfly gave up resisting. Her head hung down against Charlie as Karl guided her back to the car. Charlie’s eyes were swimming with tears. His warbling cries were like knives twisting in her brain.

  “Shh,” she soothed, her voice heavy with resignation.

  She dropped onto the backseat. The milk bottle felt as heavy as a brick as she lifted it to Charlie’s lips. He fell mercifully silent as he resumed sucking on it. Karl closed the backdoor, got behind the steering-wheel and reversed along the lane. “We’re only a mile or two from Beech’s place. With any luck, we’ll deal with him and be on our way within the hour.”

  “Be on our way where?”

  “Wherever you want. The world’s our oyster. I know a bloke who knows a bloke who’s the Picasso of fake passports.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  Karl gave Butterfly one of his we’ll see smiles.

  They pulled onto a tarmac road that crossed a humped stone bridge. A foam-flecked river babbled between pebbly banks. Anyone passing by would have thought they were just a family enjoying a day out, the same as the Ridleys all those years ago. Butterfly was suddenly overcome by the strongest feeling that maybe she hadn’t escaped the killers after all. Maybe she was still on Low Lonning with a bag over her head, unconscious, trapped in a nightmare from which the only escape was death.

  “What if Sutton and Beech are innocent?” she asked.

  “But they’re not. They killed your parents and sister. Sutton admitted it just before you put a bullet in him.”

  Butterfly gave Karl a searching, doubtful look. “What did he say exactly?”

  “He said Beech was the one who did the killing. He claimed he tried to stop him.”

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  “What does it matter? The fucker was there that day. Him and Beech took something from you. Now they’re going to give you something back.”

  Frowning thoughtfully, Butterfly touched her ‘Little Sis’ necklace. “You didn’t find my sister’s necklace.”

  “Sutton said Beech has it.”

  “How convenient.”

  Karl chuckled at Butterfly’s sardonic tone. “You know I just love it when you do your cold-hearted bitch thing.”

  She made a conscious effort to soften her voice. “I keep asking myself how I could have loved someone like you. The same question goes for you. How can you love s
omeone like Io?”

  Karl shrugged. “Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment.” He looked at Butterfly in the mirror with almost pitifully pained eyes. “I always said you were my cocaine. I couldn’t give you up even though I knew you were bad for me. Pretty fucked up, eh?”

  “Pretty fucked up,” agreed Butterfly.

  They passed a ‘Welcome to GOSFORTH’ sign at the outskirts of the village. Butterfly felt an urge to duck down – not in fear but in shame – lest they were recognised.

  “Not far now,” Karl said excitedly as they turned onto Wasdale Road.

  “I won’t do it.” Butterfly tried to say it with conviction, but there was a telltale tremor in her voice.

  “Yeah you will,” grinned Karl. “You’ll finish this and we’ll get our life back. Only this time it’ll be so much better. Do you know why? Because now we know what it’s like to lose each other. Every night in that prison, alone in bed I felt…” he sought for the right word, “empty. Like someone had ripped my insides out. I never want to feel like that again. I’d rather be dead.”

  “You don’t mean that,” said Butterfly, but when she looked in Karl’s eyes she saw that he did.

  “No one will ever love you like I do.”

  She thought of Jack, of everything he’d risked for her. “You’re wrong.” Now there was real conviction in her voice.

  Karl’s eyes flared like a blowtorch. “You’d better hope I’m not, because if your copper tries to get between us I’ll cut his fucking heart out.”

  Charlie scrunched his face and let out at wail at the anger in Karl’s voice. Butterfly stroked his fluffy hair, shushing him. She stared out of the windows, her eyes riddled with anxious uncertainty. Was Jack somewhere nearby or was he with Naomi back in Manchester? She was no longer sure what to hope for.

  When they passed the ‘Private Road’ sign, Karl slowed almost to a jogging pace. The potholed lane snaked its way through the trees to the wooden plank bridge. He edged onto it, craning his neck to see the little cottage. He braked abruptly and shoved the car into reverse.

  “What is it?” asked Butterfly.

  Karl didn’t reply. After reversing a couple of hundred metres, he pulled off the lane into a gap between the trees. The car juddered over a stony track that crossed the river on another wooden bridge, beyond which was an open farm gate and grassy field.