When the Dead Come Calling

by Helen Sedgwick

  09:45, CRACKENBRIDGE

  That stag, that bloody stag he nearly hit on the way in, Frazer can still see its eyes – he’s anthropomorphising of course, but by God they looked human. Like the way the birds screech every morning and for a split second he hears it as a scream, a child’s scream at first light and then he pulls himself together, heads down for breakfast at his B & B and pretends not to notice all the pairs of eyes staring at him. He’s the only person in the breakfast room, of course, but then there’s the boar’s head on the wall, those china figurines they’ve got lined up on the bizarrely elaborate shelf unit, the woman who brings the breakfast, the dog always loping around her ankles. All of them, watching him, just like all the people he passed on his way into the station – he’s not imagining that. Everyone on the street looking at him, people peering out of car windows, the telltale flick of curtains in front rooms and all because he’s not from these parts. Even here in the forensics lab he can’t shake the feeling. There’s work to do, though, and he’s the one to do it. Maybe that’s exactly why they’re watching him. The fear of what he’s going to see, with his eyes that know how to look at things differently. Sometimes it takes an outsider. The fact everyone claimed to have seen nothing on the first door-to-door only makes him more convinced they know plenty. Here’s Cal though, here’s some evidence; here’s the bag which belonged to Dawn Helmsteading, and it smells of damp mildew and stale seaweed, a rotten fabric smell. Beside it, Cal has laid out the contents, each item labelled and a full analysis printed out for him. Finally, some professional work out here.

  There’s the mobile phone Cal managed to get into, where he found the hypnosis session recording. Next there’s a wallet with Dawn’s debit cards, ID from the GP’s, about £35 in cash, and a thermos flask that was apparently filled with milky tea. And finally a soggy pink rabbit with floppy white ears, its fluffy fur worn away to bald patches in places.

  ‘She kept it, all these years?’ he says.

  ‘Seems so.’

  She must have brought it with her to meet Alexis, to help with her memory – it’s very possibly the same one, the fluffy rabbit she talks about in the hypnosis recordings. Someone put it on her chest, out at the playground, one of the cloaked figures placed her favourite toy where she could see it while they wrapped a rope around her neck. She couldn’t reach it, though – she had her arms pinned down. What was it then, a threat? Part of the torture? Or something to keep her calm, keep her occupied? It suggested the attack was personal, the attackers known to her, just like she thought. Oh God, it was him.

  ‘The ID is genuine?’

  ‘Yep, the surgery have confirmed.’

  ‘And the cards?’

  ‘Not been used since before the weekend. £40 taken out from the machine in Warphill, last Thursday. Nothing unusual.’

  ‘But why did she dump the bag?’

  Cal shrugs. ‘Maybe she didn’t on purpose. Maybe she dropped it. Maybe she was running from the crime and it was slowing her down. Or maybe someone took it from her.’

  ‘You think she murdered Dr Cosse?’

  ‘Not necessarily. People dump bags when they’re running for their life, too.’

  It’s true enough.

  ‘Well either way, it’s time we find Dawn Helmsteading. I’m getting a fresh search going, leading it myself this time.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s still around here?’

  ‘Purse in the bag. She couldn’t have got that far with no money, and in a bad enough state she’d thrown this whole lot down the cliffs, whatever the reason. I’d say she might be in the local area. Could even be in the village.’

  ‘You don’t think someone’s hiding her?’

  Actually it wouldn’t surprise him at all, but Frazer doesn’t want to get into that right now – his suspicion of the villagers is something to keep to himself.

  ‘I’ll get her picture over to the train station,’ he says. ‘To local bus drivers—’

  ‘Have you spoken to Georgie?’

  Frazer takes a deep breath.

  ‘I need to get over there now. Fill them all in. See what latest theory Trish has come up with, too.’ He smiles, then regrets mentioning her when he sees Cal’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘Local girl, our Trish,’ Cal says. ‘We’re all very fond of her around here.’

  His gaze lingers on Frazer’s wedding ring.

  Frazer feels that familiar ache, the warmth of the gold band against his skin.

  ‘I bet you’ll be glad to be heading back to the city soon,’ Cal continues.

  Frazer straightens his shirt, stands taller again.

  ‘Not till we’ve solved the case,’ he says.

  But as he leaves he could swear the staff in the communal office are watching him; he can feel all those pairs of eyes, following him out of the building.

  RAIN, MORNING

  Simon’s standing at the top of the lane into the first field, and the sky has opened. It’s not just a little bit of rain, this, no spitting or drizzle. No calling this the ocean spray, like Alexis used to do. This is vicious, cold, heavy rain pelting him. This is drenching. The kind of rain Alexis used to stay indoors for. That Simon used to tease him about.

  Spot a rain never hurt anyone.

  He thinks of pulling up his collar but he leaves it where it is, rain forcing its way down his neck as he looks up the lane for Georgie’s car, but there’s no sign of it yet. Then he’s turning, looking at the gate, holding onto the post the way he held on to the swing’s frame three mornings ago. Christ, feels like three months. Three minutes. It hits him in his chest like this when he’s answering a phone call, when he’s cleaning his teeth, when he’s standing at a farm gate in the rain. He looks at his knuckles. Grazed, red from last night, a flap of skin just below his second finger. Such a stupid thing to do; unprofessional, brutish. He’s going to make things right today though. He rocks on his feet.

  Behind him, a car is pulling up the lane. That’ll be Georgie. God knows what went down last night, bunch of kids raiding the Spar by the sound of it. What was that, boredom? Frustration? Something worse? The racism of these villages, fucking inexcusable. But then some of these kids have never left. It is all they know, this closed little bit of world. Look at Ricky Barr, born here, bred here, buried his wife here, beat his son here if the rumours have got it right, and yet it was a struggle for him. Hard life, running a farm, no denying that. Hard life and often futile – the weather, the soil, the grants, the shops, the tax, all out of your control – and the Barrs had been running this one for generations. What was being passed down then, from his father, his father before that? Scared of change, aye, fucking terrified of it. But something deeper too. A need to feel like you got some power. A need to pick on someone else so as you don’t notice you’ve been handed nothing but struggle.

  ‘Si.’ Georgie stands beside him, the pair of them leaning on the gate in the rain. ‘Bit damp out.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘The lads, they broke into the Spar. Hurt Pamali. Dislocated her shoulder, left her tied up.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It was Andy.’

  ‘He was one of them?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Simon sees it all. Gangly Andy with his eager babbling and the way he cowers a bit every time someone shouts, the kids at the school, the bullying, the nastiness of them. He remembers it. Christ, he was one of them once. He wasn’t picked on in that school, but he’d seen it happening, he’d laughed along. They all had. He’d say he kept quiet because he had something to hide, but that’s a pathetic excuse. What’s Andy’s going to be?

  ‘I’ve sent Suze to collect the other one, bring him back to the station. Pamali recognised them both, despite their stupid balaclavas. The other one’s a kid called Lee.’

  Simon nods. He knows the one. The mention of balaclavas brings back the image of Kevin Taylor though, creeping outside Alexis’s flat in his black balaclava and hoody – where were all these kids getting outfitted?<
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  ‘And Trish is at the hospital, getting Pamali’s full statement.’

  ‘It’s not related to the murders, is it?’ he says.

  ‘Not likely. You wouldn’t de-escalate from murder to vandalism and assault.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘But we’ll make the arrests, see what they know. Forensics are checking the Spar too. I want to clean it up once they’re done. Pami shouldn’t have to…’

  She looks down, shaking her head, rain dripping from her tight curls.

  Simon sighs. ‘How’s she doing now?’

  Georgie pushes her hair back out of her face. ‘Seems okay. Determined. Might not have really hit her yet. Don’t know if she’ll want to be going back to the Spar…’

  ‘They keeping her in the hospital?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘That’s good. Give her some time to rest. I’ll pop by later.’

  ‘She’d like that.’

  Simon pauses.

  ‘This’ll be linked in with the racist notes though,’ he says. ‘Sent to Alexis. To you. Cal got prints off them, right? So good chance we can get forensic evidence to back up Pamali’s statement.’

  Georgie nods. ‘They weren’t even wearing gloves. And there’s a CCTV camera in the Spar too. We’ll have the idiots on film.’

  Nausea sweeps over him – Kevin Taylor, yesterday evening, ‘What time did they break in?’

  ‘Just after ten. Pami was cashing up.’

  Several hours after he was there. He might be okay. Christ, what a way to be thinking. He’s going to make it up to them though. To Georgie, to Pami. To Alexis. He hated dishonesty, did Alexis. Must have taken quite something to lie to him, to keep whatever was going on with Dawn a secret. Today he’s going to find out exactly what that was.

  ‘Si?’

  Georgie is reaching out for the gate but she’s stopped before opening it, turning to look at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says. Stupid thing to ask. Or maybe not. Georgie looks different. He’s only just noticed but she does, something’s changed – no smile in her eyes, a sharp edge to her jaw.

  ‘They left Pami there on her own, with a dislocated shoulder,’ she says. ‘She was all on her own. For hours.’

  NO GOOD TIME TO GO

  Walt throws the last of his feathers into the fire. It kept him warm through the night, but now the flames are silver blue, telling him the time has come, and for that he is grateful. His eyes flick from the dead leaves under his feet, through the matted cover of branches and up to the sky, where the clouds are deep and the light turning a hazy purple: something bad is up there, spilling its way down here, and there’s more to come. He doesn’t know what, exactly, but he knows where he’s going, through the dirt and the rotting ferns coating the ground, he does know that, at least – he’s been there before. The bite of the wind through his cloak, reaching his bones even as a young man, the shimmer of a full moon on stone, their voices carrying the chant from one world to the next and a knife, sharpened and glinting, though he doesn’t have his knife with him today. Doesn’t have anything he should have, does he? But somehow none of that seems to matter any more.

  He didn’t say goodbye. No point really – it wouldn’t make his going any easier, or the memories any better. His memories of Trish are as good as memories get, anyhow. Sweet girl that she is. So loving. Not many youngsters want to walk about with an old man, but Trish never grows tired of it. He feels bad, being all the family she has around – but then she’s all of his family too. The both of them, everything each other has.

  There was this one time, when she was about three or four, just a few years back – so clear is it – and she decided she wanted to go out camping. Surviving, she called it. A weekend away, surviving. Out in the wild, she meant, just the two of them out surviving in the wild. He never knew where she got the idea from, but he found his old tent in the attic and set it up in the garden, to make sure it was all there, all the necessary bits of it. Once he was sure it stayed up and kept the rain out, they went off for the weekend, out into the moors. Uncle Walt and Little Trisha, surviving together.

  She’d been good at it, too. Good at climbing hills. All that energy. Good at finding berries and making the fire. She’d never much appreciated his camping stove, she wanted the real thing. Build a nest of twigs and leaves and light a flame in the middle of it; tend to it through the night. Roasting marshmallows on sticks. She wouldn’t approve of him now, heading off without the tent, but she’d have appreciated the fire he made. Besides, he knew he wouldn’t be needing to survive too long; that’s not why he’s out here this time.

  Aye, he’d known it was coming. Not just the past few days either, he’s known this was on the way for years. Some things you can’t fight. The way it’s been seeping up through the paving stones, getting right into folks’ houses, right into their hearths. His foot sinks into a boggy bit between the clumps of bracken, sinks ankle-deep and some of the wet mud gets in over the top of his boots. He keeps trudging, though. It’s a longish walk where he’s going. Not too many flies about yet, too cold for that. At least his bees are taken care of.

  Poor Fergus. He’s still stuck at that place of trying. Walt knows that place – a place of trying to do something, of believing you are in control. Him and his archaeological society, reaching back to the past as though it can be touched, reclaimed, understood. No, Walt’s the only one who gets it, the only one who stands a chance of getting through to them. He stops for a moment. Turns back around, looks at the path of his own footsteps through the undergrowth. He’s wearing his dressing gown. Good thing too – chilly up here. Now where is he going? Overhead the sky is darkening where it should be getting lighter, but no matter; the pulling is back. Something is pulling at him, tugging hard on a string anchored somewhere deep in his stomach, and it doesn’t matter that he’s got no coat or torch or knife, no idea any more of the way home, he’s got no choice but to follow it. Besides, he’s been here before. He can feel it, he can smell it on the ground, in the peeling tree bark and the sodden grass and the low mist which hangs, out here, for whole seasons, for whole lifetimes – maybe just a sit-down, here on the log. The wind is brutal, it truly is, the way it bites at his bones, and his dressing gown keeps flapping open though he’s tied the belt in a special knot, in one of his Celtic knots. Got to keep going though, that’s a part of it, see, he’s got to keep on going until they’re ready. He stumbles and stops, walks on, circles back as the mist deepens and the trees thicken and the leaves whisper, and he follows their voices until the ground swells and the trees part and the clearing appears before him. The clouds descend and meet the low-lying mist as Walt lies back and lets the stone reach its ice-cold way through his pyjamas and to his skin, and the years dissolve and he’s back there again, back here, exactly where they were: him and Art and Jack, they’ve all been here before.

  ARREST AT 10 A.M.

  Georgie and Simon find Andy in the kitchen hanging up the washing. The farmhouse door was closed but not locked when they arrived – there was no answer to their knocking, so they’d just come on in. No sign of Ricky Barr when they passed, though his tractor was parked out in the fields. Spreading slurry first thing is her best guess. The mud sprayed up all over it, thick and dark, even from a distance. The gulls are brown out here, not white, not even grey – brown and dirtied, flying low over the land like a threat.

  ‘Where were you last night, Andy?’ Georgie says, standing in the door to the kitchen, watching him carry an armful of clean clothes to the drying rack hanging over the table. She takes a step closer. Gives him a second to think.

  Andy puts the clothes down. Keeps his eyes down, too. Shoulders hunched in that way of his, like he wants to shrink himself down a bit. Still at that age of being uncomfortable in his own skin. Mind you, Georgie’s not sure if Andy’s one to grow out of that. Some people never do.

  ‘I was here,’ he mumbles.

  ‘You were not,’ Simon fires at him, and for a se
cond Andy’s eyes are up and his face is hard and stubborn.

  ‘I was here!’

  ‘You’re a shit liar.’

  ‘Well you’re a … a…’

  ‘Yes?’ Simon’s got his arms folded and his face set and he’s twice the width of Andy, easy, and he’s blocking his only exit too.

  ‘Alright, Andy,’ Georgie says in that kind drawl of hers, standing next to him now. ‘Don’t say anything you don’t mean. I trust you, you know that.’

  ‘Trust me to clean your floors for free.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have let you into the station at all if I didn’t trust you, would I?’

  Andy looks down again, his hand picking away at the splintered side of the table.

  ‘And Trish, she cares about you a lot. You know that? But see, if you were here last night then we’ll need your dad to corroborate.’ She hears Simon shift his weight by the door. ‘So we’ll just wait till he gets back. Do you know where he is this morning? No? But he’s going to support your version of events?’

  Then she waits, the dim light barely picking out the colour of the clothes he’s been hanging. She hears the relentless screaming of those gulls outside, watches the way Andy’s opening and closing his mouth, pursing his lips, shaking his head; she was right not to bring Trish here.

  ‘Andy?’

  The rain battering the windows like that, the wind shaking the frames – there’s no warmth here, that’s for sure, but he’s got to make his choice.

  ‘It were…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It were never supposed to happen like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I thought we were going to paint the counter is all.’

  Simon steps closer to him, watching his hands, his eyes, ready for any movement, but Andy’s not running anywhere. After all, where’s he got to go?

  ‘Tell me what counter you were going to paint, Andy.’