Ravyn fled the caravan, hoping to escape the oppressiveness of the place, but the sensation lingered. He surveyed the enveloping forest. Just his imagination, he knew, and he could have proved it by recalling his measured paces, but the forest seemed closer to the caravan, on the verge of swallowing it, as it had seemed to devour Raymond Smith.
Ravyn thought about Cutter’s nights, the forest mingling with the darkness, pressing hard against the caravan. No electricity, the only light a lantern, the only heat a camp stove, both insignificant against the immensity of the universe. He could well understand the desire to be far from the haunts of men, but the idea of being crushed in the coils of the night was terrifying. It was fully daylight now, though muted by the abundant greenery, but he almost felt like rushing back to the caravan’s cluttered chaos.
He pulled off his gloves, but still held the folder by them, then slipped it between his shirt and waistcoat, freeing his hands. He pulled out his mobile and tapped in a number.
“Stark.”
“This is Ravyn,” he said. “I’m out at Cutter’s caravan still.”
“I can barely make you out, sir.”
“It’s almost a dead zone,” he said. He opened the SatNav app and pushed send. “Do you have my location?”
“Yes, sir,” Stark answered. “Coming through now.”
“Good, I want you to send Spooner out here.”
“He knows where it is.,” Stark said. “Went there for Cutter, and also a while back when it belonged to a bloke named Trentmoore.”
“Douglas Trentmoore?”
“Yes, sir, but how did you…”
“Send Spooner right away,” Ravyn interrupted. “Then get hold of SOCO and have him run out here with a forensics team.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Good. Incident room up and running?”
“Yes, sir, and I have the postmortem report…”
“Fine, I’ll start back soon as Spooner gets here, and he and I have a little chat,” Ravyn said. “In the meantime, set up interview appointments for the following people.” He gave Stark a list of people, in interview order. “Schedule forty-five minutes each. And, Stark, since they are only assisting us in the investigation, don’t put up with any only-with-my-solicitor excuses.”
“Yes, sir,” Stark said, and Ravyn imagined him smiling at the prospect of causing trouble. “I’ll send Spooner immediately.”
Ravyn returned his mobile to his pocket. Unable to enter the caravan or lean against its sides, he stood between it and the devouring forest.
The morning ticked on, the rising sun chased away a lingering chill, and a wind moved through the forest. To distract himself, he considered how the caravan might have come to the woods. The age of the vehicle and Smith’s testimony put its advent a generation back. The woods looked eternal and unchanging, but surely the growth had not been as thick then. An auto would have needed a track to back the caravan into place, to escape the entangling grip of the trees. He wondered how fast the roots spread, how many inches the limbs stretched with each passing year.
Once the trees got it, he thought, they never let it leave. But what happened to Trentmoore? And what was Cutter’s connection to a man he could never have met? Did they both succumb to the spirit of Red Cap Woods?
Ravyn snorted in disgust at his own foolishness. Aunt Althea had tried to explain the concept of genius loci, but he never quite understood what the old Roman philosophers were getting at, or Pope in his treatise on architecture, which he had found baffling. Looking about him now, however, and listening to breezes through the trees that seemed very much like whispers, he got an inkling of what others had felt. Still, he decided, there was a vast gulf between an emotional impression felt in a place and peopling that place with fairies, hamadryads or elves.
A twig snapped.
Ravyn stiffened at the intrusive sound, turning his head quickly in its direction. All he saw was an impenetrable wall of gnarled and mossy trunks, a web of intertwined branches.
“Someone there?” he called.
No one answered. He heard breezes hissing through the limbs, fluttering the leaves, but nothing further indicating the presence of a watcher. He waited, not moving his gaze from the area from which the sound had come. That twig, he knew, had not been broken by an animal, for a creature that did not learn stealth did not survive. Only the human animal crashed its way through nature and believed itself safe from predation.
He was distracted by a crashing sound on the other side of the clearing and saw PC Monty Spooner stumble forward. Foot caught on a root, he fell on his face. Ravyn whipped his gaze back, but saw only a flash of white between the trees, then nothing.
He was angry at this lost opportunity and Spooner’s role in it, but restrained his feelings. Taking Spooner by the arm, he helped the older man to his feet.
“Thank you much, sir,” Spooner said. “It’s treacherous among the roots. Guess I left the path somehow.”
“Did you see anyone on the way?”
The man’s bushy white eyebrows shot up. “See anyone? No one to see this deep in the woods, except Cutter of course, but now he’s brown bread.”
Ravyn took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. Obviously, the constable spent too much time in front of the telly watching EastEnders and Frost. He understood Ashford and its residents better than any outsider could, but, really, he should have been pensioned off a decade ago.
“Of course, that’s not to say people don’t get out here now and then,” Spooner continued, oblivious of any censure from the chief inspector. “There’s that poacher what lives near the Old Pike, but he minds himself. ‘Course, there’s young folk now and then playing silly buggers around the old stones and such. But this deep in?” He shook his head. “Not much to attract people, is there? Much more to make them keep their distance, if you know what I mean.”
“How well did you know Allan Cutter?” Ravyn asked.
“Well enough to leave him be,” Spooner said. “Really wasn’t the type to poke. Had a temper, that one. Angry at the world all the time. But he knew to mind himself around me. If he didn’t cause me any trouble, I didn’t look to cause him any. Had an understanding that way, him and I.”
“Did that understanding include providing him official police reports?” Ravyn asked.
Spooner licked lips that were suddenly dry. He removed his cap, wiped his brow with a sleeve, and put his cap back on.
“I didn’t see any harm in it, sir.”
“You didn’t?”
“They were all thirty years old and more,” Spooner said. “They were just taking up space. Cutter asked if he could have them, and I didn’t see why not.”
“Why did he want them?”
“This caravan used to belong to Douglas Trentmoore,” Spooner replied. “As I told Sergeant Stark, this Trentmoore was…”
“Never mind about that now,” Ravyn snapped. “What was his interest in Trentmoore?”
“Well, it was only natural, I thought,” Spooner protested. “You move house into someone else’s place, you see things he maybe left behind, you might want to know more about him. He asked after the man, I told him what I knew, and he asked me if he could have what no one else wanted. I didn’t see any harm in it, and I didn’t mean any harm by it.” After a moment, Spooner added: “Sir.”
“What was Cutter searching for?”
“Sir?”
“The walls of the caravan are covered with maps of the area,” Ravyn explained. “Snaps as well. From the markings on the maps, it seems he was searching the forest for something specific. Do you know what he was looking for?”
“I didn’t know Cutter was looking for anything, and I sill don’t” Spooner said. “I never been inside his caravan—never was asked in, never wanted to go in.”
“Very well,” Ravyn said. “I’m heading back to the village, but I want you to stay here and wait…”
“Stay here?” Spooner interrupted. “Alone, sir?”
“Why not?” Ravyn asked. “You don’t believe in the red cap elves, do you?”
“No, sir, but…”
“Good,” Ravyn snapped. “I had Stark call in forensics so you won’t have to wait long. They are the only ones you let inside that caravan. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Spooner scratched his jaw. “People shy away from here, so who would be wanting to get in there?”
“No one but the SOCO and the forensics team,” Ravyn said. “Are we clear on that?”
Spooner nodded.
Ravyn glanced about. “Keep your wits about you. Before you crashed in, I thought someone was watching. I did not see anyone, and your entry would have scared off anyone—not to mention every creature in a five-hundred yard radius—but do not let your guard down. Anything out of the ordinary happens before SOCO gets here, you use your mobile to call DS Stark.”
Spooner swallowed nervously. His eyes darted about, but he managed to murmur an acknowledgment. Satisfied he had wrung all he was going to get out of Spooner, Ravyn turned and started away, not the way he and Smith had entered, but in the direction in which he knew lay the Goblins’ Playground
“Sir, if I might ask?” Spooner said, voice faint, uncertain.
Ravyn turned. “What is it, PC Spooner?”
“About those reports I gave to Allan Cutter,” the old man said. “I know it was not quite all proper and by the book, but I didn’t see any harm in satisfying his curiosity. He’s a local lad and hasn’t had the easiest life being raised by that dragon in the library.”
“Those reports should have been submitted long ago, either for archiving or destruction,” Ravyn said.
“Aye, that I know too, Chief Inspector, but in every other way I am very conscientious about my job,” Spooner pointed out. “It’s all I ever done, and I don’t think anyone from Stafford or elsewhere could have done as good as me. People trust me. They look up to me. They know I am looking out for them, and that I’ll not make trouble for them. I guess what I’m asking, sir, is—what’s going to happen to me because of those reports?”
In the memory of most people, Spooner had always watched over Ashford, and they had gone to him with their troubles and scuffles when they would have shunned an outsider. Ravyn recalled his time here as a lad, with Spooner not looking much different than he did now. The hair was whiter and his wrinkles deeper, but he still stood straight as a sword and wore his uniform with the sort of pride now out of fashion. The end of PC Monty Spooner’s watch would be the end of an age, but, as Ravyn reminded himself, all ages end, just as every man has his season.
“You should not have given those reports to Cutter, but, as you say, they were old and all interest had passed from them,” Ravyn said. “It was poor judgment, perhaps, but I see no malicious intent and no dereliction of duty.”
“Yes, sir,” Spooner agreed.
“Unless the reports somehow make it into the evidence the CPS will present, which is unlikely,” Ravyn said, “I see no reason why they need be brought to the Superintendent’s attention.”
Spooner smiled.
“But you need to consider retirement,” Ravyn continued.
Spooner’s smile faded.
“And in no more than one month,” Ravyn added.
The old constable seemed to shrink, but his backbone remained stiff and his gaze steady. He might have sighed, but Ravyn thought it also might have just been the wind.
“I don’t want to admit it, sir, but you might be right,” Spooner said. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I suppose there might be some who say it’s been too long.”
Ravyn waited. A decision had to be made, but it was a decision best made by PC Spooner himself. Ravyn could easily press the issue, bringing the matter to Heln’s attention, which would then involve the Chief Constable. If he did that, however, there would be no comfortable pension, no longs days of lazing in the pub, having drinks bought and listening to cronies carp that no wet-behind-the-ears PC from Stafford would ever be a patch on their long-time mate. And their mate he would become, segueing from annoying rozzer to something akin to an elder statesman. But Ravyn knew he himself would lose if PC Monty Spooner came to ill, for he would ever be the agent of his destruction.
“I’ll do that, sir,” Spooner finally said. “As soon as I get back I’ll send in my request. No sense putting off what has to be, I guess. Will I have to…well…”
“What, Spooner?”
“The reason, sir,” Spooner said. “Will I have to list a reason for me leaving sudden like? I know I’ll have to put something, but…”
“End of service, Spooner,” Ravyn said. “An end to a career that has been long and honourable. No need for details.”
Spooner nodded.
“If you put in your request today, we’ll have a replacement by end of week,” Ravyn said.
Spooner’s eyes widened, his lips tightened. “I had hoped…”
“Of course, you will remain on duty a month after the new constable is chosen,” Ravyn said. “You will introduce him around, show him the ropes, ensure he doesn’t make a total arse of himself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“After a month,” Ravyn added, “he’ll be on his own. Then, you and your mates can loiter around the Three Crowns talking about what a total arse the new constable is.”
Spooner grinned.
“As I told you,” Ravyn said as he turned. “Keep alert and wait for SOCO. Trouble—call Stark.”
Ravyn heard Spooner’s assurances behind him, but had already turned his mind to other considerations. It was possible Cutter had been on his way along Hob’s Lane from his caravan, but he had seen nothing indicating the caravan as a primary crime scene. On the other hand, the location of the first blood drops was not far at all from the Goblins’ Playground.
At first sight of the megalithic stones erected in the midst of the forest his heart leaped. Ravyn dismissed the lad wanting to gawk.
Before he started schooling with Aunt Althea, he had heard many stories about the stones. The Goblins’ Playground, as it had long been called, was much like any other ring of standing stones in Britain, with complex geometry and astronomical alignments. Its chief difference was being in the depths of the woods rather than on a plain where sightings of stars, the moon and planets, and the rising and setting of the sun could be made. Until the antiquity of the forest was established by dendrochronology in the early Sixties, archaeologists believed the woods had grown up around the stones, an idea mocked by Ashford folk whose roots were as deep as those of the forest’s trees.
Though scientists were forced to admit the villagers were right about the siting of the stones, they totally dismissed the rich corpus of folklore. The stones had not been raised in a single night, nor had they been put in place by Druids, and there was nothing demonic or Satanic about the stones. Even folklorists dismissed the notion that the Goblins’ Playground was linked in any way to the Old Religion of the Witches, which eventually came to be called Wicca.
Only old Margaret Murray, whom Aunt Althea once guided to the stones, had given any credence to the Goblins’ Playground being tied to the God of the Witches. But it must have been small credence indeed, Ravyn reflected, since the ancient structure in Red Cap Woods did not merit even a footnote in her notorious book.
Ravyn had never been so close to the tall weathered stones, each one many times as tall as a man. Looking at them, he could almost see the goblins they had once been, dancing in a circle when transformed to stone by the offended Lord of the Woods.
Putting aside all the flights of fancy with which his head had been filled by books, boys and maiden aunts, Ravyn systematically searched the area around the stones. He began fifty yards out and slowly spiralled inward. He smiled as he noticed he automatically started moving widdershins, as an old shaman would have done.
The morning had warmed considerably, though here among the trees a hint of chill remained. The breezes calmed and a quietude settled upo
n the place. The only sound was the soft hiss of his own feet gliding through fallen leaves.
As he circled closer to the heart of the old monument, Ravyn fought the feeling he was being observed. There were no sounds, no sights, no smells that would indicate he was anything but alone, but he could not shake the sensation he was being watched from the darkness among the trees.
The Red Cap Elves are still there in the woods, no matter what people might say, a much younger Dylwyth Mayhew old told a little boy named Arthur. They hide in the woods and await the unwary. Their eyes flash like diamonds in the forest of the night, but if you see their eyes, it will be too late. They’ll dip their caps in your blood and take your soul into darkness.
At times, DCI Arthur Ravyn marvelled that he had survived his own youth. Between the deaths of his parents and a cavalcade of aunts, most of whom were well-intentioned, it was almost a miracle he had not gone mental. He suppressed a smile. After all, there were some who would argue he was not far from mental, no matter how well he did his job.
Near the outer ring of stones he suddenly halted and knelt on one knee. The lower part of the megalith was stained with a splash of dark liquid, dried but still shiny. It continued down to the sandy soil and grass at the base. He resisted the temptation to touch it. This was no relic of the human sacrifices Ashford folk claimed to have happened here, but blood of a more recent vintage. He drew a bright yellow marker from his pocket and jammed it into the ground a little distance from the stain.
There was no use calling in the forensics team right away, he realised. It would be occupied for some time at Cutter’s caravan. He would finish the search he had started, then make the call. It was not that he thought Cutter had been attacked anywhere else at the ring but this one place, but his desire for order required he finish the pattern he had begun.
On the other side of the stone ring he stopped again, staring down, knowing he would have to make the call now, pattern or not. He pulled out his mobile and tapped in Stark’s number.
“I was just about to call you, Guv,” Stark said without greeting or preamble. “I just…”
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