He phoned his boss. ‘They came back,’ he said. ‘Back to the house. I’m going away for a few days, with the family.’
He hung up before more talk was needed, before questions were asked. The company, his boss, his colleagues, had all been helpful, kind and understanding. It was the bank who paid for the security camera and nobody questioned the time Thomas had taken off. And they hadn’t questioned his work either, or lack of it. It was impossible sometimes for Thomas to concentrate, to muster any focus to complete even the simplest tasks. Some days he did nothing but close his office door and avoid everyone for as long as possible. Work had been patient but Thomas sensed they were looking to draw a line. They wanted efficient, punctual, clean and sober Thomas back. Maybe empty Scotland would help him return to himself, he thought, without believing it really could, as he called the children’s school and pulled the children out, ignoring the concerns of the head teacher, hardly listening to her. He noted Ann, watching him warily, as he made these calls, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t intervene. At the travel agent’s Thomas scanned the list of available houses and booked the first free cottage in an acceptable spot. The blonde woman in the red jacket behind the computer tried to dissuade him.
‘It’s not really a family holiday home, that one,’ she warned him. ‘It’s not close to anywhere, it’s normally rented out to fishermen. And it’s very basic, just somewhere for them to sleep at the end of a day’s fishing.’
Thomas looked at the map in front of him again. He saw how far away the cottage sat from where he currently was and said, ‘Book it.’
Returning home he ordered the family to pack.
‘We’ll need to do a food shop, Thomas,’ Ann told him. ‘We’ll need provisions.’
‘We’ll pick them up on the way,’ Thomas said.
Ann packed and then helped the children with their clothes. Daniel and Harriet, unfazed by the idea of this sudden holiday, happily pulled clothes out of drawers and threw them onto beds.
Thomas insisted they set off that afternoon; he was desperate to put some distance between himself and Abbeystead. He didn’t drive recklessly, but he drove quickly, barely moving out of the third lane. Other motorists sensed the vehicle surging behind them contained a determined man and moved out of his way. After the excited chatter from the children for the first couple of hours they grew quiet. Ann fell asleep, Daniel stared out of the window and Harriet lost herself in one of her books. Thomas used the peace to scan his body for tension. He was waiting for the hunted feeling to disappear. Surely, he thought, as he passed into Scotland, and then through the lowlands, and further on, higher up, single-lane roads only, mountains on his left and in front of him, he would start to feel safe soon. He looked at the dashboard: 350 miles he’d put between them and the house. How many miles would be enough? He still felt as threatened as when he was sat in his lounge with a line of masked men against the wall.
They arrived at the house in Highland black; they could barely see the building at all. Thomas was exhausted and it took him all his strength to climb out of the car and walk the few yards to the front door. He found the key where he was told it would be, underneath the third stone to the left of the front door, and let the family in. The cottage was basic. A small kitchen, a lounge with a tiny TV, a row of old paperback books on a mahogany dresser, two bedrooms and a simple bathroom, all on one floor. The carpets were dark and swirling, the decor cheap and dated throughout. He could sense the disappointment leaking from the children; this wasn’t the type of holiday they were used to. And when they realised they had to share a room Daniel became angry. ‘She breathes too noisily when she sleeps and I can hear her sucking her thumb in the night. It makes me sick. I’m eleven years old. I need my own room.’
Thomas couldn’t hear this. Not now. He looked at Daniel and said, in a steady, low voice, ‘Shut up. You’d better shut up now.’
Daniel looked at Thomas, searching for the joke, but there was no crack of a smile, no compassion evident, and when Thomas’s face didn’t soften, when the hard stare persisted and his expression didn’t waver, Daniel turned white. He left the room shaking. Ann immediately followed him out, swearing at Thomas as she went. Thomas could hear his son sobbing next door, Ann attempting to comfort him, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk through to them.
Later that night Thomas did apologise. He told Daniel he was tired from the long drive and all that had happened. He put his arms around his son’s thin shoulders, which Daniel allowed whilst remaining stiff and unyielding. Was this something else broken? Thomas wondered.
Ann and the children ate sandwiches quietly whilst Thomas checked all the windows were closed and double-checked the front door was locked. It was, but he wasn’t happy with how it rattled in its frame, it seemed flimsy to him, a good kick and it would give. He glanced around the hallway and spotted the chest of drawers underneath the coat rack. He heaved it to the door. It was heavy and a good fit. The door secure, Thomas realised he had to be in bed. Without saying goodnight to Ann or the children he went to the bedroom and dropped onto the ancient, rolling mattress. He wished he’d brought something to drink, anything to knock him out, to stop him thinking, to stop him from being with himself.
The next morning the family was as quiet as the night before. The children had realised that this wasn’t a usual family holiday and had already asked Ann how long they would be staying for. Harriet, the child who never moaned, who never caused a fuss, said, quietly but firmly, that she wanted to go home. Ann tried to kick-start things and rallied the children into the car and drove to the nearest town or village she could find to buy food for the days ahead. She allowed the children to choose a selection of sweets and chocolate each, everything they wanted, all rules out of the window.
Thomas took the opportunity to walk around the cottage and see where they were in daylight. The travel agent only had a summary of the house’s facilities, he’d not seen a photograph, and it was not what he’d expected. He’d imagined a thick-stoned squat little place, perhaps with a stone-floored hallway, white walls and beams across low ceilings and an open fire. But this was a bungalow which could have been plucked from any estate in England and dropped next to the quiet road in wild, remote northern Britain. It was nobody’s idea of a rural cottage, but that didn’t matter. It was about the location. The hundreds of miles they were away from Abbeystead and their own beautiful house. It wasn’t working though. Thomas felt his hands begin to shake. Panic rose in him and threatened to overwhelm. He needed to escape somehow. But when you’ve already run to the north of the country above your own, when there is only empty land and then miles of sea, where is there left to run to? Thomas looked around. Behind the house was a field and then a steep hill. He thought if he walked to the top of the hill he might feel better, calmer. Up there he would be able to see for miles. He walked for thirty minutes, his hands resting on his thighs, his breathing heavy and hard. He reached the top, sweating and tired. He looked around him. Everything here was bigger. Wider. The Highlands made Abbeystead seem model-like and quaint in comparison. Here Thomas wasn’t even a pinprick on the landscape. Below him he saw their car approach the bungalow and stop. The children stood at the open boot whilst Ann passed out bags and then they all walked to the front door. What a thing to see: his wife and children, walking together. Thomas’s legs went. He sank to his haunches and dropped into the heather. He was inconsolable.
Twenty
There was loud banging on Raymond’s door. He turned in his bed and looked at the clock; it was seven in the morning. Those girls from next door are back, he thought, even with a dead dad they want to cause trouble. But then he realised it was far too early for them, so he crept over to his window and peered down. A policeman and policewoman stood there.
They drove him to Pursely, twenty miles away, without saying a word to him, speaking only small talk to each other. At the station they led him to a room at the back of the building and then, after a few minutes, a man who in
troduced himself as Inspector Harrison appeared.
Raymond had given the police a statement, along with Thomas and Ann, on the day Keith Sullivan had turned up shouting he had a knife. He’d told the police, and the Nortons, that the man had been his neighbour in Etherton. ‘Sorry,’ he kept saying to Thomas, ‘I didn’t have a clue.’ But he felt complicit in it all so he knew what was coming from the inspector in front of him.
The room was hot and airless and Raymond was already sweating before the interview began.
‘Relax, Mr Farren,’ Harrison said. ‘Can we get you a drink of water?’
Raymond shook his head. He didn’t want to slow the process down. The men looked at each other for a moment. Harrison’s head was shaped like a peanut, his skin was smooth and tanned, scattered with brown freckles, his hair was short and blond. He was wearing a pink shirt and a silver tie and a black pointy shoe poked out from underneath the side of the table. He looked to Raymond like a man who would never speak to him in a hundred years, unless it was his job to do so now, in this room.
‘I’m looking at the statement you gave us earlier, Mr Farren. The day Keith Sullivan threatened the Nortons with a knife.’
He looked to Raymond as if for confirmation and Raymond nodded.
‘You are Raymond Farren. You own a house, eleven Granville Road, where you sometimes stay, but more often you stay in a caravan on a farm where you work, in Abbeystead.’
‘I used to,’ Raymond said. ‘That job isn’t mine any more.’
Harrison made a note.
‘You are friends with Thomas Norton, who also lives in Abbeystead.’
‘Yes,’ Raymond said.
‘And your neighbour, in Etherton, was Keith Sullivan.’
‘I know.’
‘The man we suspect was part of a team of men who held the Nortons hostage, robbed the bank and then later returned alone and threatened the family with a knife.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you become friends with Thomas Norton?’
‘I was walking one night when a car was set alight close to his house. There was an explosion and I went to see what had happened and he was already there.’
‘And you became friends after that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you knew about his job. You knew where he worked?’
‘We spoke about our jobs, yes.’
‘You say you were walking. They live in a remote spot, several miles from where you worked and stayed. Why were you so close to their house?’
‘It was night. I don’t always sleep well so I walk in the forest at night.’
‘So you know Bleasdale Forest well? You know your way through the trees?’
‘Yes,’ Raymond said. ‘Very well,’ he added, keen to tell the absolute truth.
‘And how well did you know Keith Sullivan?’
‘I didn’t really know him. I knew who he was but that was all.’
‘You never spoke to him? The man who lived next door to a house you own?’
‘He spoke to me a few times. He was hard to avoid.’
‘So you did know him a little?’
‘Just in passing. I tried to avoid him.’
‘Why would you try and avoid your neighbour?’
‘I didn’t like him.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t seem to like me. And he was, I don’t know. I could hear him shouting through the wall when he was drunk. And his daughters used to turn the bins over in my yard, spread the rubbish around, and ring my phone all the time, shout things about me. I tried to avoid all of them.’
‘Did you report this trouble?’
Raymond shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘My life wasn’t there. My life was in Abbeystead, Bleasdale. I just wanted to be away from there.’
Harrison flattened his tie against his shirt.
‘What we aren’t saying, Mr Farren, is that you knew the man who held the Nortons hostage and robbed a bank. And you knew the Nortons. And these people lived almost twenty miles away from each other.’
‘I know,’ said Raymond.
‘You know what?’
‘What you said . . .’
‘It’s some coincidence, is it not?’
Raymond shook his head.
‘It’s not a coincidence?’
‘No. It is a coincidence.’
Harrison shifted in his chair. ‘You say you never spoke to Keith Sullivan about Thomas Norton. You never mentioned his job, where he lived?’
‘Never. Not a word.’
‘How are you doing for money, Mr Farren?’
‘I don’t have much. Hardly any. I got paid for working on the farm, but not a lot. And that’s ended now. I’ve managed to save a little to live off until I find something else. But I don’t spend much.’
‘What about the house in Etherton? How do you pay for that?’
‘My mother left me it. It’s paid for.’
‘And you get by?’
‘Just about. My meals were included at the farm and there were no bills living in the caravan. Because I wasn’t at the house all the time the bills from there were small too.’
‘And at no point were you aware of Mr Sullivan’s plans?’
‘No.’
‘And, to confirm, at no point you told Mr Sullivan about Thomas Norton, his job and where he lived?’
‘No.’
Harrison picked up the papers in front of him and stood up abruptly.
‘OK. Thank you, Mr Farren.’
Back in Etherton Raymond sat in his chair in the front room, but he couldn’t settle. He pulled his bike from under the stairs and set off for Abbeystead. He’d been finding the ride harder lately, the hills steeper and longer, and halfway up Marshaw Fell he was suddenly struggling for breath. He climbed off his bike and rested his hands on his knees, gasping. He thought he might be dying for a second and then he told himself, ‘It’s just stress, it’s just stress,’ and slowly his breathing came back to him. He arrived at the Nortons’ shaky and exhausted.
They had been back from Scotland for three days. Thomas was at work, the children were at school, but Ann was home and invited Raymond in. She filled a glass of water for him and told him to sit down. His hand shook as he lifted the glass to his mouth and it took him a while before he could tell Ann what had happened that morning. Ann calmed him as much as she could, but Raymond became more agitated and upset.
‘You don’t think that I knew about it all, do you? Does Thomas think that?’
‘Don’t be silly, Raymond, nobody thought that.’
‘But they were asking if I’d told Sullivan about Thomas’s job. They were saying I was the connection.’ Raymond looked at Ann. ‘I didn’t say anything,’ he said. ‘I didn’t say a word to him about you.’
‘We believe you, Raymond,’ Ann said. ‘We never thought anything else for a second.’
‘But after the robbery, I didn’t see Thomas for weeks, months,’ Raymond said.
‘He didn’t see anyone! He barely saw me or the children. He’s been depressed, Raymond, it had nothing to do with you. And we didn’t even know Keith Sullivan was one of the men until he came back that day, Raymond. You’re working yourself up for no reason.’
‘But he was my neighbour. All along, he was just next door.’
Raymond stood up and began pacing the kitchen. There were deep lines on his forehead, his cheeks were red and there was nothing Ann could say to calm him down. She went to the hallway and called Thomas.
Thomas arrived half an hour later. He rushed into the house. ‘What is it?’ he said, looking around the room. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked Raymond.
‘Calm down, Thomas,’ Ann said.
Raymond looked to Ann.
‘The police have been speaking to him. Because his house in Etherton is next door to Sullivan’s. They’ve been asking him questions, saying he must have known things.’
Thomas looked at Raymond.
‘Di
d you?’ he asked.
‘Thomas . . .’ Ann said, in a low voice.
‘It’s a fair question, isn’t it? How else did a man who lived fifteen miles away know where I lived and what job I did?’
Raymond’s big head dropped. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘Think about it,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s not an unreasonable question to ask him. Is it? And he knew his job at the farm was ending, he knew he would be needing money.’
‘He chased him, Thomas! While you stood there he chased the little bastard!’
‘Maybe that was all part of it.’
‘I think you better leave,’ Ann said.
Raymond stood up.
‘Not you, Raymond. This man here.’ She was pointing at Thomas.
Twenty-One
Thomas sat on the thin bed at Redgate Guest House. He’d driven around for a couple of hours before ending up there, but he knew it would be his destination as soon as he thought of the place; there wasn’t anywhere else he could think to go. He’d never been a man with many friends but it struck him as he drove the empty country roads wondering where to take himself, how he’d let the friendships he’d enjoyed over the years slip away.
The woman who gave him the room was the same woman as eight years before, just heavier now and with shorter hair, but if she recognised Thomas she gave no indication. She handed him his key and pointed him on his way. He remembered the room from his previous stays. A dark red carpet, a cheap pine wardrobe and chest of drawers, thin cream curtains patterned with red flowers and a small bed against the wall. A print of three glossy purple mountains hung in a silver frame on the wall.
A memory came to him and he went to check. He pulled open the wardrobe door and looked at the left-hand side of the interior wall. It was as he remembered, a list of names of men, and some women, who’d stayed in the room ran down the inside panel. The list was a lot longer than it had been; it was on its third column now. He spotted his hand, about fifteen names down, TRN, just his initials, as some others had chosen to do. Thomas Richard Norton. He noticed the pencil, resting on a ledge, but he didn’t pick it up. He didn’t want this stay recorded, even in pencil on the inside of a wardrobe.
Into the Trees Page 18
