by Ward,Matthew
Marsh was more angry than confused. What had Penhallow dragged him into? This kind of crap ended careers.
"Nearly there," said Penhallow. "Just want to show you something, that's all."
"Not interested. Take me back to the cottage."
"You'll be there soon," Penhallow said soothingly. "Nothing to worry about."
"I ain't worried." But the tremor in Taplow's voice said otherwise.
The car crunched to a halt. Ahead, a cluster of ivy-choked walls stood proud in the moonlight, reaching high into the sky like the ribs of a long-dead giant. It had once been a large building – a factory, or perhaps a mill, Marsh decided. Judging by the size of the birch trees intermingled with the overgrown stones decades – perhaps centuries – had passed since the place had fallen into ruin.
"We're here." Creaking the handbrake into position, Penhallow got out.
After a brief hesitation, Marsh followed. He heard the rush of a waterfall somewhere away to his right, hidden by the trees. The air was crisp, and full of the soft, earthy smell of recent rain on moorland. "What's going on, guv?"
She offered a thin, knowing smile. "Wait and see."
"I'm serious."
The smile vanished. "So am I." She reached down and opened the rear passenger door. "Out we come, Danny."
Taplow warily unfolded himself from the back seat. "What is this? Where are we?"
"It's called Carn Mill. Or, at least, it was, back in the day."
At once, Marsh realised what all this was about. In his experience, most coppers were grounded, practical, but not Penhallow. She was fascinated by folklore. More than fascinated. She talked about the stories as if they were real.
In three months, Marsh had learnt almost as much about Carann Bridge's mythical past as its criminal present: the Hidden Vales that opened only when the rains came, the mercurial spriggans of the moor, the Dancers of Trekerris Point – the list went on and on. To hear Penhallow talk, every rock, every felled tree, and every crumbling moorland ruin had a story. This was where the Green Knights of Pencombe swore allegiance to King Arthur. That was the church where Canon Winselm lost a game of whist – and his newborn daughter – to a piskie cardsharp. Over there was a house built from stones stolen from the other side of the mists.
At first, Marsh had thought it an act, the set up to some gag. After a few weeks, he'd realised there was no joke in the offing. Penhallow believed the stories, believed them as surely as any devout churchgoer believed in the resurrection, or life everlasting. The revelation had left Marsh disappointed that someone so outwardly logical, so rational, expended so much effort on kiddies' tales.
Penhallow pointed at the ruined mill's far corner, away beneath the thickest cluster of trees. "You can't see it now, but there used to be a cottage down there. Little cottage, with a millwheel and the like."
Taplow sneered. "So?"
"The miller, he had a daughter, a beautiful cheel with raven-dark hair. She was the only thing the miller had left of his wife, and he loved her dearly. Loved her a little too much, in fact. This girl – this Marya – well, she grew up a bit quick for his liking, started making eyes at one of the village boys. So one drunken night, Marya's tas drowned her in the mill race – her and her pet cat. The next day, he went down to the village, and spun a tale of how Marya'd fallen in, and gone under before he could save her. Everyone believed him. After all, his tears were true enough."
"That's a right lovely story, that is. Can I go now?"
Penhallow wagged a finger at him. "Tale's not done. Not quite. A spriggan, one of the Ladies of the Green, caught sight of Marya's body floating down the river. She thought it a terrible shame that so comely a cheel had met such an end, so she breathed the life back into her. But spriggans ain't like you and me, Danny. They don't see the world the same way. Marya came back, but she weren't the same. The villagers didn't notice the mill had gone quiet at first. It were three days before anyone ventured up here and found the miller. He was hanging from the rafters, ivy wound tight around his arms and legs, and eyes fair bulging from their sockets. Marya had come back for him."
Taplow spat. "Load of rot."
"You're not the first to say so. Or about the others."
"What others?"
"John Cerrick, foreman of this here mill, for one." Penhallow gestured at the ruined walls. "He strangled one of the weavers, tried to hide the body out in the woods. Owner set the watch on him, but they never took him. Found him hanging from an oak, a mile from here, ivy round his throat."
"I don't have to listen..."
"I can name you others. Marya's been a busy girl over the years. She'll take anyone who's killed – man or woman, doesn't matter to her, long as they're guilty. They do say that the last thing they hear is the sound of her weeping. They say it only stops when she's about to take her victim, 'cos it's the only time she's truly happy. There was a famous one in '89. Ian Trevellick." She turned to Marsh. "You'll know the name, Tom."
He did. Ian Trevellick was a legend in Carann Bridge. He'd taken three local girls. They'd never found the bodies. "Trevellick killed himself."
Penhallow shook her head. "That's what was put about, sure. Truth was, Weeping Marya got him. I was there when they cut him down. His face... He looked like every devil in hell had ridden out just to watch him dance his gallows jig. Served the little bastard right. He wasn't the last. She's a stayer, is our Marya."
Taplow had gone pale. "I don't give a crap about your fairytales." For once, he didn't sound full of himself.
Penhallow snorted. "You should. I've just told you that folk who kill young women don't meet a good end hereabouts – nor those who kill young men, neither. You think on that as you walk back."
"What? You were giving me a lift back. You said..."
"I said we'd give you a lift. Didn't say where. This is as far as you go with me."
"But... it's miles away."
"Best start walking then, hadn't you?"
Marsh couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Guv? Can I have a word?"
"In a moment, Tom." Penhallow pointed calmly into the forest. "It's that way, Danny. Keep heading towards the moon. If you hear weeping, start running and don't look back."
Taplow shifted his gaze nervously from Penhallow to Marsh and back again. Marsh didn't believe a word of what Penhallow had said about this Weeping Marya of hers, but the thought of trekking across the darkened moor sent a chill trickling down his spine. He supposed that was the point. Or maybe it wasn't the story that had him worried, but the premonition of his career going up in smoke. "Guv, that word?"
"In a moment, I said. Go on, Danny. Not scared, are you?"
That final jibe tipped Taplow over the edge. Pride won out over fear. With a rustle of branches, he fled into the forest. Penhallow exhaled a small, contented sigh, yanked open the car door, and got in.
Gritting his teeth, Marsh joined her. "Excuse me, guv, but what the hell was that?"
Penhallow didn't appear to take offence at his tone. "Just haring a bit of local history, that's all."
"Local history? Local bloody history? We're going to get crucified, you know that? He'll be up at the station first thing tomorrow, and we'll be right in the shit."
"I don't reckon so."
She didn't get it. She simply didn't get it. "And why's that? Because this Weeping Marya of yours is going do him in? That's great, that is."
"No. He won't do it, because that'd mean admitting I scared the piss out of him, and because it's his word against ours. He's no proof."
"Assuming I lie for you." As soon as he'd said the words, Marsh knew he'd crossed a line.
Penhallow's eyes narrowed. "Annie Brecken was a lovely girl. She walked past my house every Sunday, come rain or shine, always with fresh flowers for her mother's grave. She deserved better than to be drowned by that scrap of shit. If we can't lock him up, I'll get what justice I can. A walk in the wet and the cold's nothing. You hear me?" She tailed off, her knuckles whitening on the steerin
g wheel.
Marsh didn't trust himself to reply. It wasn't right Taplow was still at large, but what Penhallow had done wasn't right either. Not the bit about the story – that was just a cheap scare, mumbo-jumbo that'd fade as soon as the sun rose. But the moor was a treacherous place. One foot wrong, and Taplow could end up with a broken leg – maybe even a broken neck. There was some justice in that, perhaps, but it wasn't the way things were done. And yet... He could have stopped it, couldn't he? But he hadn't.
Penhallow was back to staring out across the ruins of Carn Mill. Marsh hadn't seen her this way before. She was normally collected, controlled – even cold-blooded. Just how much pent-up feeling was she sitting on, anyway?
Penhallow hung her head and slumped back in her chair. "Look, you're right. I shouldn't have involved you. If Taplow makes a complaint, I'll make sure the Super knows it was all on me. You'll be in the clear."
Marsh sighed. "Just take me home. Unless you're going to make me walk the moor as well?"
Penhallow's lip twitched into a not-quite smile. "No point. Marya only takes the guilty, not the self-righteous. You'd just hurt yourself, and I'd have to listen to you squallin' about it."
She turned the ignition key. The car purred into life.
*******
Next morning arrived too soon. Marsh arrived at the station late, bleary and in need of another coffee. There was no sign of Penhallow. Marsh sank heavily into his own chair and checked his watch. Where was she? Getting in early was her way of controlling the deluge of paperwork. They were due to meet the family liaison at the Brecken house in half an hour. Lurching to his feet, Marsh crossed to the corner office, knocked on the open door, and stuck his head inside.
"'Scuse me, sir. Any sign of the inspector?"
DCI Nance glanced up from his desk. "She's gone up to the Brecken house. Left half an hour back. Said she'd discussed it with you."
Marsh examined his memory of the previous night, and found no such discussion. A flash of irritation at being left behind vanished beneath a swell of relief at not having to meet Don Brecken's hopeless gaze. "Of course. Sorry. Not much sleep. Anything come up about Taplow?"
"Uniform were out at Bannow Farm again in the early hours. Seems they were celebrating."
Which probably meant Danny boy had got back safe. Marsh wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. "Oh."
Nance frowned. "You had something else in mind?"
"No, sir. Thanks."
Marsh beat a hasty retreat, and turned his attention to the mound of paperwork on his desk. Very little of it was urgent – most of it wasn't even really that important, not in his opinion – but you didn't go far these days unless you kept on top of the bureaucracy. Fast and loose belonged to a different generation. Penhallow's generation. Where was she?
An hour, two cups of coffee and two inches worth of forms later, Penhallow walked into the department. She looked wearier than she had the previous night, the bags under her eyes darker, more pronounced. She walked like a woman on the edge of collapse.
Marsh poured her a coffee from the department's cafetiere, and slid it across her desk. "How'd it go?"
"About as badly as you'd think." Penhallow took the cup in her hands, and drank in the heady fumes. A little of the tightness retreated from around her eyes. "I just wish there was something I could tell him." Her eyes flicked briefly in the direction of Nance's office. "What about...?"
Her meaning was obvious. "Not so far. Apparently there was quite a party at Bannow Farm last night, so I guess Danny made it back safely. Hopefully he got too blitzed to care."
Penhallow winced. "Look, about last night..."
"It's done with. We're a team, you and me, right? I'm not saying I approve, but... I understand. Just let me know beforehand next time, yeah?"
Penhallow took a swig of coffee, and favoured him with a long, appraising look. "You're alright, city boy. You know that?"
Marsh shook his head. One step forward, two steps back.
Before he could frame a response, Nance leaned out of the office. "Rose? Tom? You'd better get up to Bannow Farm. Danny Taplow's dead."
*******
The scrawny body hung from the low-hanging bough of a venerable oak, feet barely off the ground. Ivy wound tight around his neck and wrists, its waxy leaves reflecting the pale sunlight spearing through the forest canopy. Danny Taplow's face was twisted into a rictus of terror, eyes bulging obscenely from their sockets.
A gruesome sight, but Marsh couldn't dredge up even the slightest drop of pity. Justice, if of a wild and dangerous sort, had found Taplow, but that was of little comfort. Matters had gotten a lot more complicated – and not just for the white-clad scene of crime officers drifting across the glade like studious ghosts, cataloguing everything they could find.
"Communing with the dead?" asked Penhallow.
Marsh jumped, startled.
The inspector laughed. "Easy, city boy."
"I thought you were still up at the cottage." Turning, Marsh glanced back up the overgrown path. How the hell had she gotten so close without him hearing? Granted, he was knackered, but he didn't think he was that far gone.
"It's like an ant's nest up there. I've got Tavistock and Haley talking to the lads. Wanted to see Danny for myself." She paused, taking in the sight. "Nasty business. It won't bring Annie back, but this settles things between Danny and me. You too," she added, almost as an afterthought.
Marsh took the hint, quietly impressed by Penhallow's professionalism. Murder was murder. One case became another. "There's no way the Super won't find out about last night now."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Uniform were up here a little before two, telling 'em to turn their racket down a bit. They saw Danny, alive and well, so he got back from his moonlight walk well enough."
Marsh sighed with relief. "That's something. What happened to him?"
"Not sure yet. Enough of his mates agree that he popped out around four in the morning. Couple hours later, it dawned on those geniuses that something might be wrong. They went looking, found him like this."
"We got a time of death?"
"Forensics are being cagey, but they're not contradicting our merry band of witnesses. They want one last go at the site, then they'll cut him down." She shrugged. "Can't leave him up there scaring the wildlife, can we?"
Marsh nodded at the churned mud beneath Taplow's dangling feet. "Don't know what they expect to find. Looks like a herd of elephants has been through."
"That's what you get when it's a bunch of boozed-up northerners are the ones who do the finding."
Marsh nodded, opened his mouth and hesitated. There was no easy way to say this. "You know we'll need to talk to Don Brecken."
Penhallow shook her head. "He didn't do this, Tom."
Marsh had expected that response, but didn't back down. "We'll still have to talk to him."
"I already know who did this, and it weren't him."
Marsh stifled a groan. "Weeping Marya? Come on, guv. This isn't the time for stories."
"Believe what you like, city boy. I know what I know. We can roust Don Brecken, but we'll find nothing. Just do me a favour, and mind your manners. Don's been through enough these past few days."
*******
As Penhallow had predicted, the conversation at the Brecken house was a waste of time. Diane, Annie's stepmother, swore her husband couldn't have left without her knowing, as did Don's brother and sister-in-law, who'd been staying at the house since Annie's disappearance. It was an old building, and Don would have needed the grace of a cat to navigate the creaking floorboards without waking anyone. And catlike he was not.
None of it was proof, of course. The family could have been covering for Don, or in it with him, but Marsh couldn't see it. They were sad, so desperately sad, and weary. Even the news of Taplow's death had barely penetrated their fug of grief.
Only Diane Brecken had evidenced a flicker of anger. It faded as soon as Marsh noted it, replaced by the same empty
sorrow in her husband's eyes. Annie's death was hitting her hard, but then by all accounts she'd had loved the teenager like she was her own. Not for the first time, Marsh felt like a spiteful child, stirring up grief to see what floated to the surface. But that was the job.
Marsh parted ways from Penhallow after leaving the Brecken house, heading back to the nick to wait on the initial forensic report while the inspector returned to Bannow Farm to organise a second round of interviews. When the phone call came, the results were hardly encouraging. Preliminary examination confirmed Danny Taplow had been strangled – no surprise there – but had found no other signs of violence, beyond a few cuts and scrapes. That might have spoken to a stealthy assailant, or at least one Taplow knew and trusted but, given how drunk he'd reportedly been, a marching band could probably have snuck up on him.
As for the rest, forensics had pulled some partial footprints, all of them matched to Taplow's mates, but all that did was place them at the site, which was hardly news. Fibre samples would be tested in due course, but there was little chance of any surprises there. Sensing Marsh's frustration, the forensic technician expressed an unconvincing hope that a more detailed examination would yield something useful. Marsh thanked him politely, and slammed the phone down.
"Bad news?" asked DCI Nance.
Marsh leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. "Forensics is a bust. Looks like we'll have to pull Taplow's mates in for questioning. Think I'd rather face down this Weeping Marya of the inspector's than go round that lot again."
Nance arched an eyebrow. "Rose been storytelling?"
"A bit. Taking it seriously, far as I can tell."
"She's just pulling your leg, Tom. Not that I'll be heartbroken if we have to write this one off, but it's a bit early for that. You'd better get up to Bannow Farm, give Penhallow the good news."
*******
"Now, why does this seem familiar?"
Marsh ignored Penhallow's question, letting his gaze linger on the rabble of dejected and hung-over young men being led into the police van. This made for the second time in three days they'd been detained en masse. He met the inspector's deadpan stare with one of his own. "Well, I hear repetition's the key to police work."
