Beast of Robbers Wood

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Mrs Martin doesn’t believe it’s nothing,” Ravyn said. “I don’t believe it’s nothing.”

  “Then you’re as bleeding barmy as she is.” Pym pointed at the distraught woman at the table, who refused to look at him. “When Lisa has had her fling, she’s going to come crawling in all weepy-eyed, sadder but much wiser.” He gave Ravyn a knowing smirk. “And with a little smile on those lips, I’ll bet.”

  Helspeth lifted her gaze, staring at Pym. Her arms trembled and her lips tightened till they were a narrow gash across her face, Her eyes widened until Ravyn could see white all around her irises. Had she leaped from her chair to slap Pym or grasp him by the throat, Ravyn would not have been surprised. Instead, she looked away from them both.

  “Where have you been today, Mr Pym?”

  “What?”

  “It is a simple enough question,” Ravyn said. “Can you account for your movements today?”

  “What are you on about?” Pym demanded. “Of course I can.”

  “Then please do so.”

  “Well, I’ve been in Little Wyvern all day, haven’t I,” he said. “Working on some big project, a museum or something. Latten got the contract—Latten Builders in Stafford. Been at it since half-seven this morning.” He snorted. “I’d be there still, except Helspeth called, said something happened to Lisa. I’ll get docked, sure.”

  “Can anyone verify your claim?”

  “I was with two others, Pete and Quince.”

  “Full names?”

  “How should I know?” Pym demanded. “I’m a floater. Get sent wherever another body’s needed. It’s a work party, not bloody high tea. You can get the names from the office.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Ravyn said. “I have a few other questions for you. Perhaps it would be best if we spoke privately.”

  Helspeth started to get up.

  “You sit yourself right there, Helspeth.” Pym looked back to Ravyn. “You got anything to ask, you ask. I got nothing to hide. Don’t even know what you’re on about. This has nowt to with me, does it? What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not trying to insinuate anything,” Ravyn said. “I am trying to eliminate you from the investigation. I can best do that by asking the routine questions I would of anyone closely associated with a missing girl, especially one sharing a residence.”

  Pym shifted uneasily. Until that moment, he considered Lisa’s disappearance Helspeth’s problem, not his.

  “The best way you can help me, and yourself, is to answer my questions directly, without either evasion or misdirected hostility,” Ravyn continued. “If I am unable to eliminate you as a person of interest, at least for the moment, then I’ll question you at the Stafford nick. However, since my attention is focused on events in Midriven I cannot say when, precisely, I might get around to you.”

  Pym considered how much time might be lost at work. He could ill afford anymore docked pay than might already be in the offing. Old man Latten might not charge him for the time lost if he had a good sob story, but the milk of human kindness would run dry at the teat if it got around he had been hauled off to the chokey.

  “All right. Ask your questions.”

  Ravyn glanced at Helspeth.

  “Nothing to hide, Mr Ravyn.” Pym’s tone was now more muted.

  “Did you leave Little Wyvern at any time prior to the call from Mrs Martin?”

  Pym shook his head. “Pete and Quince kept me busy all day.”

  “What is your relationship with Lisa?”

  “What relationship?” Pym wanted to punch the detective, but the last thing he needed was trouble with the filth again. “There’s no relationship. I live here and she lives here, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t take no hand in raising her, do I? She’s not my brat, is she? I told Helspeth when I moved in I wasn’t looking to be a dad, so don’t expect it.” He shot her a glance. “Ain’t that what I said?”

  “Yes, Roger. That’s what you said. Not a father.”

  Pym frowned. “I mean, Lisa’s a good kid, but we got nothing in common, that’s all. There’s no blood. She accepts me being here, but I don’t tell her what to do, or tell Helspeth how to raise her.”

  “Do you interact with her at all?”

  “No.”

  “Neither of you speak to each other?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean that,” Pym said. “Of course we talk, how-do-you-do and all that, but we got nothing to chit-chat about.”

  “You don’t spend any time with Lisa?”

  “If I’m not here with Helspeth or at the Ned Bly, then I’m at work,” Pym said. “Got no time for Lisa, do I?”

  “Have you ever taken her places?”

  “I don’t run a bloody taxi service.”

  “Shopping in Stafford, for instance?”

  “Only with her mum,” Pym said. “Not often at that.”

  “Never without Mrs Martin present? Are you certain?”

  “Well, she might ask for a ride, if she misses the bus. It’s not often.” He fought rising panic. “And not alone.” He saw Helspeth’s eyes narrow. “Always a friend with her. It’s, uh, Annie someone.”

  “Annie Treadwell,” Helspeth said. “The girl I told you about.”

  “But I only took her if it wasn’t out of my way,” Pym said. “And only if she asked. I didn’t volunteer. Why would I?”

  “She ever ask you for cigarettes?”

  “No. Why should she?”

  “I told you, Lisa doesn’t smoke,” Helspeth said. “She knows how I feel about the filthy habit.” She ignored the look Pym gave her. “Besides, what has that to do with her being missing?”

  “It’s just a small detail,” Ravyn said. “The foundation of every investigation is composed of small details. Usually they come to nothing, but sometimes they lead to great truths.”

  “Well, if details are so bloody important why aren’t you writing down any of this?” Pym asked. “How do I know you will not twist what I say? Coppers have done that before.”

  “No need to worry, Mr Pym. Your words will be recorded as you said them, exactly as you said them.” Ravyn smiled. “I have an excellent memory.”

  Chapter 3

  Schoolgirl’s Story

  Detective Chief Inspector Ravyn paused a moment on Water Street looking up at a surprising large house. A wrought-iron fence was set between regularly spaced square columns. Three steps led to a gate. Set into the stone post left of the gate was a gleaming brass plaque inscribed THE GARLANDS. Beyond the gate, a flagstone walk wound through a perfectly manicured lawn to a wide portico.

  The houses of Water Street and the cottages of Autumn Lane shared a tiny village, but were worlds apart. He wondered if the gulf between the inhabitants were as wide or as real.

  A car stopped behind him. Recognising the motor sounds, he did not turn. A door opened and closed, footfalls neared.

  “Everything sorted out, Stark?”

  “Finally, sir. PC Vainglory’s influence among the villagers is not what it should be for a resident constable.”

  “Vainglory is a walking, talking, likely drinking indictment of the old system,” Ravyn said. “But it mostly works.”

  “Me and the senior constable from Deeping Well, PC Lessing, rousted as many bodies as we could for the search parties. Things are moving now as they should have been.” He gazed up at the house. “Posh place.”

  “In any village, no matter how small, there is always the good side and the bad side,” Ravyn said. “Midriven is no different.”

  “I stopped by the school and had a word with Sandra Mitchell, the teacher,” Stark said. “There was an incident in class with Lisa and…” He gestured at the house. “…Annie Treadwell.”

  Ravyn lifted an eyebrow.

  “The girls were caught passing a note.” Stark reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, shook off the lint, and handed it to Ravyn.

  The words on the note were in a childish hand, not what Ravyn would have
expected from a student in any decent secondary school. He often expected too much from others, applying to them the same yardstick by which he judged himself. Except for university, he had avoided the mediocrity of government education and the trauma of public school. He never had to fight to rise above the limitations of his teachers. He occasionally forgot others were not as fortunate.

  The scrawl, when deciphered, made caustic observations about ‘the Mitchell,’ as the teacher was called, both her looks and sex life, or lack thereof. Accompanying the words was a satiric sketch miles beyond the penmanship in quality. The note was crudely witty. A smile tugged at the corners of Ravyn’s lips.

  “Yeah, it’s all pretty mild, if you ask me,” Stark said. “The real sin was getting caught. Miss Mitchell didn’t seem concerned about Lisa being missing. I mean, she made all the sympathetic clucks, but I caught the smirk. I think she rather hopes Lisa stays gone.”

  “I take it ‘the Mitchell’ is of the old guard.”

  Stark nodded. “Made mention at a half-dozen times about the new families moved in over the past few years. She sometimes called it a ‘plague,’ other times an ‘infestation.’ Hard especially on ‘that rubbish council housing.’ Lisa and her mum may not be with that lot, but they’re just a different species of vermin.”

  “What did she say about Annie Treadwell?”

  “Good girl led astray by a tart who’s no better than her mum, though not in so many words,” Stark said. “I know you expect me to be a human tape recorder, but…”

  “No, it’s all right, Stark, paraphrasing has its value as well.” As Stark breathed a small relieved sigh, Ravyn added: “I will, however, expect the usual verbatim record in your written report.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stark had not really held any hope of escaping the guv’nor’s exacting standards. “I expect it’s the schism between Us and Them. No matter what, Lisa is always going to be one of Them. How did it go with the mum?”

  Stark was always amazed when Ravyn distilled a complex interview, no matter the number of participants, into its crucial essence in a minute or so. A few snippets of conversation, some succinct observations about the cottage and its inhabitants, and Stark felt as if he had been at Ravyn’s side the whole time.

  “He’s lying about the cigarettes,” Stark said. “I’d put a pony on his dabs being on that cello wrapper you found. Is it important?”

  “Helspeth may not understand about the cigarettes, but she now harbours other suspicions,” Ravyn said. “He should have taken my offer to speak privately.”

  “Think he’s got something going with the girl?”

  “It’s possible, given his evasiveness, but I don’t think so,” Ravyn said. “If anything, he’s being used by her.”

  Stark shook his head. “He better hope his meal ticket doesn’t suss that out.”

  “Mrs Martin is motivated by her needs,” Ravyn said. “Her husband’s death left her destitute, but also lonely. To assuage that loneliness she endures Pym’s bad habits, crassness and brutality, but she won’t abide him laying a hand on Lisa, no matter what.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Stark said. “I’ve seen dysfunctional families where anything goes. The Martin woman may be deliberately blind to it—as long as she gets what she wants, sod all else.”

  “Mother and daughter are each desperate in her own way, but they do care about each other,” Ravyn said. “The daughter calls when running late; the mother takes extraordinary measures when the daughter fails to call—those are not the actions of people blindly caught up in their own worlds.”

  “If he’s not involved with the disappearance…”

  “He’s entirely out of the frame,” Ravyn said. “Latten confirms he was in Little Wyvern from early this morning until he was called away, always under the direct supervision of one or the other men. Evidently, if Pym is left to his own devices he is prone to wander off to the nearest pub for a pint on the clock.”

  “How does he not get sacked?”

  “His workmanship is consistently excellent and he follows his instructions, as they are given,” Ravyn said. “According to Latten, Pym is a good enough worker to warrant the extra supervision, so he’s always put with regulars who keep an eye on him.”

  “And I imagine all of them are kept slogging along under Aggie’s eagle eye,” Stark suggested. “Poor blighters.”

  “More than likely,” Ravyn said. “You know how she is. Wealth will not change her nature.”

  “Almost feel sorry for the poor sods.” He shuddered, recalling Agnes Swanner and the terrible murders in Little Wyvern, though he could not say which affected him most. “Even if he is out of the frame, trouble might be brewing between Pym and the woman.”

  Ravyn nodded. “Contact PC Lessing. Have one of the cars take a slow turn down Autumn Lane. Make sure it’s seen.”

  “There’s already one down at the other end of Flintlock,” Stark said, punching the number on his mobile. “I’ll have him use one of the others as a bookend.”

  Ravyn and Stark passed between the gated columns and made their way up the walk. The lawn was deeply green on either side, each blade no taller or shorter than the one next to it. The flagstones were expertly fitted and trimmed. Every tree and bush around them seemed placed with mathematical precision.

  As they neared the house, the door opened. A man stepped onto the porch. He wore dark trousers, a waistcoat with watch chain, and a perfectly knotted silk tie with blue and white stripes. The sleeves of his pinstriped shirt were rolled halfway up his muscular forearms. His thinning hair was combed over.

  “Something I can help you gentlemen with?”

  “Are you Mr Treadwell?”

  His gaze narrowed. “James Treadwell. What do you want?”

  “I’m DCI Ravyn, Stafford CID.” He held up his warrant card. “This is DS Stark. We’d like a word with Annie, if we may.”

  Treadwell glanced at the identification. “Why?”

  “One of her schoolmates has been reported missing, and…”

  “That Lisa Martin person,” Treadwell said. He crossed his arms. “Her mother was by earlier, wanting to talk to our Annie, but I sent the mad cow on her way.”

  “Not very helpful, were you?” Stark said.

  “Not my problem.”

  “Your daughter may have been one of the last people to see Lisa,” Ravyn said. “Mrs Martin says they are friends.”

  “I rather doubt that.”

  “May we come in?”

  Treadwell sighed. “If you must.”

  They were shown to a spacious parlour with a wide view of the lawn. Strategically placed bushes and trees revealed only segments of the surrounding fence but nothing of the street or village beyond. The house was in the midst of a community, Ravyn thought, yet isolated as any hermit’s aerie. The room was overly warm.

  “Please be seated,” Treadwell said. “I’m happy to assist you in your investigation, but Annie will not be of any help. She has been told not to associate with the Martin girl.”

  “Why is that, Mr Treadwell?”

  “You’ve met the mother, Mr Ravyn,” Annie’s father replied. “I hardly think an explanation is required. Mother and daughter are not from around here, both very common, and Pym is even worse, a drunk and a letch. Annie and the girl may be classmates but that is no reason to assume more than a casual acquaintance.”

  “From what I’ve been told they see each other quite often,” Ravyn said. “They socialize in the village, sometimes go to Stafford for shopping or the cinema.”

  Treadwell shook his head, his mouth grim. “Quite impossible, Chief Inspector. Annie associates only with her own kind. She is not allowed to go to Stafford without permission.”

  “May we speak to Annie?” Ravyn asked.

  Treadwell paused. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Any particular reason?” Stark asked.

  “Annie is too sensitive, too compassionate for her own good, actually,” Treadwell explained. “I’m sure
she knows the Martin girl, but she knows nothing about the girl running off. I prefer to keep it that way, for the time being. In a day or two, when she returns to school, she’ll find out, but by then it will be old news.”

  “Why do you say Lisa has run off?’ Ravyn asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Ravyn gave Treadwell a clueless expression.

  Treadwell snorted an exasperated sigh. He moved to the edge of his seat, put his right hand on his knee, leaning forward slightly, and jabbed a didactic finger at Ravyn.

  “Listen, Chief Inspector, I know the Martin girl and her mother better than you do,” he said. “They may not be our type of people, but I know what type of people they are. Riffraff. The sort of human debris that gets swept into a place like Midriven by economic needs and social pressures. They haven’t been here five minutes, and it won’t be five minutes more before they are swept somewhere else. Likely, the girl chafed being trapped in a decent place like Midriven and has run off with some boy. Or maybe to some city where she’ll end up a prostitute, probably addicted to drugs. You can see why I don’t want Annie associating with that sort.”

  “Others have suggested as much,” Ravyn said.

  Treadwell settled back with a satisfied smirk.

  “However,” Ravyn said, “I do not believe that to be the case.”

  Stark secretly enjoyed the way Treadwell went from smirk to snarl in the blink of an eye.

  “So, if we can speak to Annie, please,” Ravyn said.

  “I think not,” Treadwell replied. “I’m afraid I must ask…”

  “I’m afraid you do not understand the situation, Mr Treadwell,” Ravyn said.

  “I understand this is my house,” Treadwell said. “I asked you in as a courtesy; now I’m telling you to leave.”

  “Actually, what you do not understand ,Mr Treadwell, is the nature of the case,” Ravyn said. “When a child-in-peril notification is filed with the police special rules apply. We have good reason to believe Annie saw Lisa today, therefore we have an obligation to speak to her, and with that obligation comes the right to speak to her, with or without your approval.”

  “I will complain to the Chief Constable.”