She leans back against the wall for a second.
‘Uncle Walt,’ she says.
But she knows he’s gone again. Gone wandering. Gone missing. Gone God knows where.
Last year he kept going on and on about seeing lights up over the clouds at night, wouldn’t believe they were the black helicopters from the military base up the coast. During the day, sometimes, there were jets doing their practice runs out of sight, the sonic boom of them reaching the village once a month. It wasn’t that she liked the sound, or the base – she’d signed a petition to get it moved, though heaven knows where they could have moved it to – but she didn’t understand why Uncle Walt got so freaked out by them he decided it had to be the Others dropping by. Strange lights out at sea as well, he said. They were just patrol boats, she told him. More every year, replacing the fishing ships, replacing the cruise liners that one by one are changing their routes to tour the Mediterranean instead. They’re keeping track of the seas, she told him. The borders. It’s just the navy out there. But he’s never been willing to accept that.
When he went missing before, though, last year, she’d had the feeling he could look after himself, more or less. True, he’d started forgetting things, but most of the time he was fairly lucid. Stubborn as always. Never wanting her to fuss. He’d disappeared out into Mungrid Woods for two days. There’s nothing out there at all, just the ancient oaks. Some of the oldest trees in the country, so they say, and you can believe it too, the bark more lined than old skin, their branches twisting through the centuries. She still doesn’t know what made him go there – he’d refused to even talk about it when he got back. He had this distant, peaceful look in his eyes, like he knew something profound that she didn’t. The doctors said that sometimes, when this kind of thing happens, they’d be looking for a childhood home, but there’s no houses near there at all. Uncle Walt has spent his whole life in Burrowhead. There was nowhere else for him to go looking for his memories. Didn’t make sense. What had he wandered off to find?
There’s a buzzing, though, she’s sure she can hear a quiet buzzing coming from somewhere, and she storms down the hallway towards the sound, suddenly realising what’s wrong. Opening the door to the cupboard under the stairs, a single bee flies out towards her, fast and desperate, like it’s been shut up too long and will do anything it has to for freedom, and that’s when she sees her uncle’s small indoor hive has been moved. It’s gone. That’s not good. That can’t mean anything good at all. Uncle Walt wouldn’t move it, he wouldn’t get rid of it, not unless things had got very bad indeed.
She was the one who helped him make it. It was their project, just the two of them, back in the autumn when they decided to start the new colony. It was something to keep his mind occupied. Something they both loved doing. She’s been helping him feed the bees all winter with inverted sugar and it’s nearly the new season, their queen is safe and they’ve kept her warm and comfortable in the box all through the winter, but now they’ve gone. The queen and her workers. The bees and Uncle Walt. They’ve gone.
LUNCH BREAK AND ALL
Georgie knocks gently on the door to the Spar before pushing it open and letting the bell jangle her arrival. The last thing Pami needs is for Georgie to be giving her a fright, what with everything going on. Though Pamali doesn’t seem jittery today – she looks rather glamorous, actually. Georgie stands back and opens her arms.
‘That dress is stunning on you, Pami,’ she says. ‘What’s the special occasion?’
‘No occasion,’ smiles Pamali as she steps round from behind the till and gives a twirl. ‘Just felt like making an effort this morning.’
‘Gorgeous colours.’
‘Made it myself.’
‘You did not.’
‘Did too!’ Pamali laughs and stops swirling to give Georgie a hug. ‘I feel like the most popular woman in town at the moment. Yesterday I had Walt and Andy popping in for a chat, and today it’s you. You’re not orchestrating this, are you?’
Georgie holds up her hands. ‘Honestly I’m not. Though I wish I’d thought of it!’
‘Well, you’re here now,’ Pamali smiles. ‘Come on through. What lunch can I get you and what news can you tell me?’
It’s amazing how thirty seconds with a friend make Georgie feel better; she should have called in earlier. That darkness, it’s retreating again, she can feel it slipping away as she follows Pamali round to the back room and sits herself down, nodding at the offer of a cup of tea and starting to fill Pami in on the case. Not her case, not the racist notes, but the other one. The murders. Without the specifics, of course.
‘We were hoping to keep things quiet, but since Bobby was found yesterday…’
‘Everyone knows there’s something going on, Georgie. Folk have been in here asking what I know – not that I told them anything. Telling me all their theories. Ricky Barr’s pretty high on their list of suspects. Most people think it must be an outsider, though. Mrs Dover’s counting the cars coming into the village and keeping a list of number plates. And folk are talking about the new constable you’ve got helping out.’
‘Detective Sergeant,’ Georgie says. ‘From the city.’
‘And I think… I think there’s some whispering about Simon, too.’
‘That sounds likely.’
‘How is he?’
Georgie shakes her head. ‘Staying home today, at least. He needs to get some rest. He’s been trying to hold it together, you know, but…’
‘It’s worse for him than anyone.’ Pamali gives the tea a stir. She turns back suddenly, though. ‘Oh, and there was someone in with a camera, asking about the playground.’
‘Well, they’ll not find anything there now.’
‘What about the derelict flats?’
Georgie looks up: the smell, thick as it was this morning.
‘I heard some of the school kids daring each other to go in… They’ve decided it must be haunted.’
‘That’s all we need.’
Pamali passes a mug of tea to Georgie and sits back down next to her.
‘But at least they all seem to be a few steps behind us. I’m planning to head out to the old church after this,’ she says.
‘Why the old church?’
‘I’m not totally sure, to be honest. I’ve got this feeling…’ She shakes her head. ‘We’ve got a missing person…’
‘The sister, Dawn.’
Everyone knows, then.
‘Yes, exactly. And it seems like the old church might be a place to hide, I guess. The birds keep circling out that way, like there might be something out there. Food or… It’s just a hunch.’
The image of birds pecking at something on the ground; she pushes it away.
‘I’m not sure, Georgie. If I wanted to hide somewhere it’s not the old church I’d go to. Talk about creepy.’
Georgie tries to laugh, but it comes out more as a shudder. ‘We’ve got no shortage of haunted places round here.’
‘My mum used to call this a thin place.’
‘Thin?’
Georgie stops, mug held halfway between the table and her lips.
‘She thought the boundaries of the world were thin here. The boundaries between the Earth and the skies. The living and the dead.’
‘And between the past and the present?’
The front door jangles, but neither Pamali nor Georgie move.
‘The ghosts and the living,’ Pamali says. ‘There is something ancient about this landscape. So many people have lived here before us.’
Trish, standing by the door to the back room, snorts.
‘This is not about ghosts, you two,’ she says. ‘That’s the kind of talk that has DS Frazer sneering at us. It’s about bad people who need locking up.’ She glances at Georgie. ‘And I’m not afraid of Ricky Barr either. Now I know it’s lunch break and all, but I’ve got a problem.’
‘What is it?’
‘Uncle Walt’s gone missing.’
‘When?’
Pamali asks.
‘Today. I think. Maybe late last night.’
Georgie shivers.
‘He was in here yesterday,’ Pamali says. Well, he’s in most days really. I think he likes to check in on me, have a chat, you know?’
‘Aye, sounds like Uncle Walt.’
‘But he kept saying yesterday they were coming for him.’
‘He’s said that to me too,’ says Georgie. ‘He said the Others were coming.’
He said a child’s tooth were a good offering, too.
‘He’s gone a wander,’ says Trish. ‘He’s done it before. And we need to find him before he becomes a danger to himself. Gets run over or catches hypothermia or…’
Georgie suddenly realises Trish is upset.
‘Of course we’ll help,’ she says.
‘I’ve checked his house, and I’ve checked the fountain.’
‘I’m going to call Fergus. Walt likes to pop round and see him sometimes.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘And then… Well, maybe we should try the old church, just in case. He mentioned it the other day to me as well.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes. No, not exactly. He said he was going to follow the birds. And then he went wandering up Church Street. We were planning to check it out anyway.’
‘That sounds like the place to start then,’ says Pamali. ‘And I’m closing the shop for lunch and coming with you.’
Georgie opens her mouth to protest, but she doesn’t get very far.
‘I know I can’t interfere with the case,’ Pamali says. ‘But at least this is something I can help with. Georgie, you phone Fergus. I’ll get some sandwiches. Let’s see if we can find Uncle Walt.’
12:45, BARR FARM, BURROWHEAD
DS Frazer arrives at the Barr farm and leaves the engine running as he gets out to open the gate – he’s not walking along that mud track to the house, he doesn’t have the appropriate footwear with him. Next time he’s sent somewhere like this, he’s going to be better prepared at least. And now it’s raining again. Of course it is. Silver lining: maybe it’ll dampen down the smell of fertiliser coming off the fields. No sign of a tractor out, though. No sign of anyone, in fact.
He’s got an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, had it there since he played the recording in the police station, like he’s blundering in on something he shouldn’t have. He’s got friends in HQ, maybe that’s the difference, he feels part of a team at work in the city, makes the violence of the job bearable. Easier to face a fight if you know someone’s got your back. Feels more like a battle up here just to get through the day, and he could swear there’s some kind of tiny insect forming swarms around his head, biting him in all kinds of places they shouldn’t be able to reach.
The track is muddy and potholed but gravelled enough to prevent his car from getting stuck, so that’s something. After a bumpy five-minute drive at another tedious five miles an hour, he notes the lack of any other vehicles – except for the wheel-less car bodies dumped alongside a corrugated-iron shack – and parks in front of the main door to the house. No lights on inside, despite the darkness of the afternoon. He’s pretty sure the place is empty before he even rings the bell.
Hard to tell, having rung it though, if it actually made any kind of noise. There was nothing audible from out here, that’s for sure. He tries again, knocks a few times. Even pushes the letterbox and calls through. The place seems deserted. Wherever Ricky Barr is, he must have his car with him – so he could be some way away. They could alert all police forces in the area, keep an eye out for that vehicle. He pulls out his phone to call DI Strachan then decides to be a bit more thorough in his inspection of the farm first, while he has the time and space to do it.
He walks a circuit of the house, stepping carefully around the mud and the puddles and what looks like a splat of slurry. A flutter of a net curtain in one of the first-floor windows: he freezes, stares up, waits. No one’s there. The window has been left wide open – no wonder there’s a draught blowing through. Leaving windows open in this weather, the carpet inside will be soaked by the time the rain’s finished. Still, that’s not his problem. It makes up his mind that the place is empty anyway – if there were anyone in, they’d have closed the window from the chill. Must be bitter, living out here all through the winter. The pang of sympathy catches him by surprise; they chose this life, after all. Well, some of them. He’s thinking of putting a word in at HQ for that work experience kid. Help him get some real experience, and maybe a way out. It feels to him like there’s something off here, something he can’t put his finger on, whether it’s just the relaxed attitudes of country police, the grating familiarity between them all, or something worse altogether.
He’s following a muddy track out towards the field to the side of the house now, where there’s a large outbuilding. Looks derelict to him at first, but the door’s locked and he finds buckets stacked up against the far wall that make him think maybe it’s being used for something after all. He’s not sure what. Truth be told, he couldn’t say what any barns are used for on farms – hay? There’s a window. High up. He upturns a bucket, climbs on so he can look inside. The shed houses the tractor, a bunch of rakes and spades and farming equipment. It looks legitimate enough to him, despite the sense of unease he’s getting. Thick wooden beams run the length of the room inside, with ropes and hoses dangling over them. The tractor itself is caked in mud, the huge wheels, the dark red body of it. He’s clasping onto the wooden sill of the window, shifts his hand to get a better grip and feels the sharp prick of a splinter lodge itself in the crease of his finger. He lifts his hand, steps back with the pain of it and falls backwards off the bucket, landing awkwardly on his ankle and grabbing on to the sill again to regain his balance. Damn, that stings. He tries to pull out the splinter but can’t get a grip with his nails, tries with his teeth. No good. He’s going to need tweezers, it’s in so deep. Keeping his fingers as still as possible, he continues on the path, peers into the field – muddy, brown, parallel lines of soil leading to the fence at the back, leading on to more brown fields – before retracing his steps and returning to the farmhouse. His ankle’s aching; he pauses, gives it a flex. Round the back there’s a garden, or what was a garden, overgrown with nettles and weeds, and what was once a wooden trellised archway now cracked and rotten, its climbing rose all thorns and twisted wood. What a place to live. That poor kid.
Back in the car, he thinks about calling the DI to see if she wants him to arrange that alert on Ricky Barr’s vehicle. But instead he pulls up another number and makes a call. Gets the answerphone.
‘It’s me, love. Wanted to hear the sound of your voice…’ He pauses, his head leaning against the steering wheel. The sting of his finger. Pain in his ankle. He feels a bit nauseous too, but maybe that’s just hunger. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’
With a sigh, he phones the DI. Her number’s engaged. He starts the engine. He’ll head back to Burrowhead, type up a report. Andy’s in the village, after all – at the police station, no less – and his farm is a working farm; Ricky Barr will be back.
HIGH GROUND
Fergus stands at the foot of the motte and looks up. It is steep right enough. It’s a steep motte. That’s what mottes are. The mound, now entirely grass-covered with no sign of the burial site below except the shape of the land itself, is over ten metres high. But this is the spot – and he’s got this unshakable feeling there’s more here to be found. Hence the metal detector. Heavy thing to bring all this way on his bike, the handle sticking out the top of his rucksack, but he managed it.
The path is a muddy track running up the side, with a rope strung between posts in the ground for people to pull themselves up with. There’d be no getting up without the rope, that’s for sure – it’s too steep to climb by quite some way. He’s even got his climbing boots, for grip, and for the ankle support they offer. And that’s where he is, standing at the foot of the track next to the soggy rope, when his mobil
e rings again. Someone’s been trying to call him – he couldn’t answer when he was on his bike.
‘Georgie, how’s it all going? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, love. Everything okay?’
‘We’re looking for Walt,’ she says, a slight note of impatience in her voice. No, maybe not, that’s unfair.
‘I’ve not seen him since last night,’ he says. ‘But I’m not at home just now. I was cycling when—’
‘So he could have popped round to the house?’
Fergus swallows.
‘It’s possible, I guess.’ And then he keeps on going, filling the silence and talking it through. Can’t help himself. ‘Seems unlikely, though. A long walk, for a man his age. And we said we’d drive him over at the weekend for visiting anyway—’
‘That’s true.’
‘Aye.’
Silence again. This time he lets it linger.
‘Where are you?’ There is something in her voice now, for sure. He doesn’t want it to be suspicion, but what else can he call it?
‘Just preparing to climb the motte.’
‘What for?’
‘See if I can find any artefacts. Coins, figurines. They only dug the one trench when they excavated. Could be much more out here. I’ll be getting photos too, a full aerial survey of the area…’
Georgie is quiet for a minute.
‘I thought it was worth a try, that’s all. Be great to find some actual archaeological evidence left by the people who lived here before – I could bring it to the fair to show folk. But I know it’s a long shot, don’t you worry about me,’ he says. And maybe that’s all it is – concern. She’s looking out for him. Doesn’t want him to be disappointed.
‘I’m not worried about you,’ Georgie says eventually. Then she’s quiet for another breath.
When the Dead Come Calling Page 19
