by George Mann
“Is there anyone here from the police?” he said, quietly, although the words rang out in the sudden, eerie silence. “It’s Steve. I think he’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The dead man was slumped over the editing desk in the back of the TV crew’s van, which was parked just a little way up the lane from the village hall, close to the village green.
The victim, Steve Marley, had been struck across the temple with something heavy and blunt, rupturing his skull and causing him to slump forward onto the electronics, blood oozing from the wound.
They’d been too late – while the body was still warm, there was no pulse, and Peter knew the paramedics would confirm his worst suspicions.
A third murder. Elspeth had warned him as much. But how could he have predicted this? There didn’t seem to be any obvious connection between the victims. How could he protect people against a killer who seemed to choose their victims at random? Worse still, how could he identify who that killer was?
At least he knew who it wasn’t, this time around. Hugh Walsey, Jenny Wren and Daisy Heddle had all been inside the village hall, watching the events on stage.
He looked again at the body. The poor bastard. He’d come here to Hallowdene to cover a country fayre, which should have been an idyllic, quiet job, and now this. It seemed particularly incongruous.
He wanted to reach forward and close the man’s eyes, but he knew it was best to touch as little else as possible before the SOCOs arrived.
The dead man’s head was turned to one side, a look of startled surprise on his face. Blood had pooled in his right ear, running down the side of his throat; a stark red line against the pale flesh, as if the killer had drawn a marker across the man’s throat, picking him out for death.
He looked away.
The van was small, packed with technical equipment and monitors, forming a kind of makeshift studio for reviewing footage on the road. That way, they could check everything over to ensure they had everything they needed on site, before sending it back to the studio for editing.
They wouldn’t be filming any such footage today, although he suspected there’d now be even more attention lavished on the Hallowdene Summer Fayre than even Sally and Iain were expecting.
Outside, he could hear that the crowd from the village hall had spilled out, gathering on the village green. Elspeth and the others were doing a good job of keeping everyone back. He’d told everyone to stay close, explaining that the police would want to talk to them all individually.
Well, they could bloody well stuff it.
He sighed. The smell in here was appalling; it was warm, and the dead man had soiled himself as the tension had abandoned his corpse and his muscles had relaxed.
He chewed his thumbnail. One of the monitors was still on. Marley had been watching something when he was killed – he appeared to be logged into some kind of online storage account. Peter would have to check with the rest of the crew to find out what he’d been watching – the storage box onscreen appeared to be empty, but he decided not to try clicking on anything until the experts had arrived.
Had Marley seen something that his killer wanted to remain hidden? The footage from the missing time-lapse camera by the dig, perhaps? More secrets, thought Peter. Soon enough, someone was going to have to give one of them up.
The distant wail of sirens made him jump. He placed the camera back exactly where he’d found it and stood, returning the handkerchief to his pocket. He opened the sliding panel in the back of the van, relieved by the sudden inrush of fresh air, and then climbed out, sliding it shut behind him.
Avi Dhiri was sitting on the kerb nearby, still looking completely shell-shocked. He’d have the paramedics take a look at him when they arrived. Daisy and another woman he didn’t recognise were ferrying trays of tea and coffee back and forth from the village hall, dishing them out amongst grateful locals. The wooden gantry, with its makeshift gallows and surrounding pyre, made a gruesome centrepiece to proceedings on the village green, a reminder of the horror that had occurred in their midst. People had clumped together in small groups, and were giving it a wide berth.
He caught Elspeth’s eye as she ushered back another group of young men who’d edged too close to the scene, and she looked weary, worried. He was glad she hadn’t had to see the corpse. He thought the dead man’s stare would haunt him for a very long time to come.
He wondered if this would be the end of it, now. Three deaths, just like the legends had said. Lee Stroud had said something to Elspeth about history being cyclical. Maybe he could hope that the worst of it was over? Whatever the case, he had to break that cycle. The deaths in the 1640s had been left unexplained. He resolved that the same thing wouldn’t be true this time. He’d get to the bottom of what was going on. Whatever that was.
He glanced again at the gallows. Something told him that, despite all of that, there was something more to come.
He waved at the ambulance as it rumbled down the street towards him. The driver saw him and gave him a thumbs-up, before pulling up behind the TV van. He and his partner climbed down – a man who looked too young to be a qualified paramedic, and a woman in her forties – and collected medical kits from the back of the vehicle. They hurried over. Minutes later, three police cars came roaring up behind the ambulance, spilling an array of uniformed constables onto the scene. He recognised PC Chambers amongst them, and waved him over.
“All right, boss?”
“Not really, no,” said Peter. “Another murder. It’s as if the killer is just out to cause chaos. It makes no sense.” He sighed. “Anyway, get the others to round up all these people, and try to corral them in the village hall. We’ll have to see them all individually to take statements, just in case they saw anything useful. I want to speak to anyone who was on the village green. And see about getting a perimeter set up around the area.”
Chambers nodded. “Right you are.” He made his way back to the others, his high-vis jacket rustling as he walked.
Peter’s phone trilled.
“Shaw.”
“It’s Patel. I’m on my way down. Just wanted to give you a heads-up – I’m bringing Griffiths.”
“Thanks.” He cut the call.
That was all he needed. Griffiths breathing down his neck. He supposed it was only to be expected. Things were spiralling out of control, and one thing was certain – he could use all the help he could get.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Somehow, the village hall seemed even more cramped now that the police had arrived and shepherded everyone back inside. It was growing stuffy, too – they’d opened the windows and left the door propped ajar, but with no air conditioning it was quickly growing uncomfortable, and people were beginning to get fractious. She’d already seen a spat between two boys, presumably siblings, who’d started with an argument over something stupid and ended up pulling each other’s hair. The people nearby had showed a stoical level of toleration, but when one of the boys had kicked over a drink, soaking a woman’s skirt, there’d been fiery looks and a few harsh words. Elspeth felt sympathy for the boys’ parents, who looked as though the only thing they wanted to do was escape, but like everyone else, they were forced to remain here until the police were ready to see them. People had taken to sitting on the floor in small groups and helping themselves to drinks in the kitchen. Daisy had already been taken aside by Peter and questioned, and had presumably been allowed to go home.
Elspeth was sitting on the edge of the stage beside Avi and Robyn, tapping out a brief report of the situation on her phone to send to Meredith. Avi had been seen by the ambulance crew and given something to calm his nerves. He was currently wrapped in a foil blanket, despite the oppressive atmosphere in the hall, and the police had decided to give him a few moments before questioning him too.
“I just don’t understand,” said Robyn. She was balling her hands into fists in frustration, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. “Steve would never hurt a fly. He had nothing to do
with this village, or the witch, or the people who live here. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”
“I don’t know,” said Elspeth. “Perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“In the van? The killer must have known he was in there.” She visibly paled. “Unless it was just bad luck, and it could have been any one of us.”
“What was he doing in the van? I’d have thought you needed him here, filming the unveiling.” Elspeth glanced over her shoulder at the display case. Someone had covered it up again with the velvet shroud, and she was pleased not to have to look at Agnes’s eerie skull.
“That’s why I went to find him,” said Avi, quietly. “He was supposed to meet us here. He’d gone to the van after lunch to check out a hunch. He realised that the footage from the time-lapse camera he’d left up at the dig might have been automatically uploaded to his cloud storage box.”
“A time-lapse camera?”
“You know whenever you see one of those shots of scudding clouds or blossoming flowers, sped up to look like it’s happening in real time? That’s filmed on a time-lapse camera,” said Robyn.
“And Steve set one up at the dig?” said Elspeth.
“Yeah. He wanted a long shot of the sun rising and going down over the grave site,” said Avi, “to accompany some narration about the passage of time.”
“When was this?”
“A couple of nights ago. No, hang on. Today’s Saturday, right?” said Robyn. Elspeth nodded. “So it was Wednesday night when the camera was stolen.”
“So the camera was recording the night Lee Stroud was killed?”
Avi looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
Elspeth hopped down from the stage. “There’s your motive, then,” she said.
“What do you mean?” said Robyn.
“If the camera saw something that the killer didn’t want to be seen, and Steve was reviewing the footage…”
“Oh God,” said Avi.
“I’ll find someone we can talk to,” said Elspeth.
She wandered over to the door, where a female police constable was leaning against the brickwork, looking hot and tired. Outside, she could hear DCI Griffiths barking orders. “Excuse me, I wonder if you can get a message to DS Peter Shaw?”
The woman frowned. “Why do you want to speak to the detective?”
“I have some information that I think might be pertinent to the investigation.”
“What is it?”
“I think I know why Steve Marley was killed.”
The woman looked suspicious, but reached for her radio. “DS Shaw?”
Peter’s voice crackled over the radio. “Here.”
“There a woman here who says she’s got information pertinent to the investigation. Name of…” The woman looked at her expectantly.
“Elspeth Reeves.”
The PC repeated it into the receiver.
“I’ll be along in a moment,” said Peter.
It was ten minutes before he finally made it back to the village hall. Elspeth was waiting for him, sitting on a small wooden bench in a recess by the door.
“I haven’t got long,” he said. He looked exhausted. “What’s up?”
She told him what Avi and Robyn had said about the camera.
“I knew it,” he said. “He’d been watching something in the van, but the files look as though they’re missing. I’ll have to see if the tech boys can find a way to recover them.”
“There you are, then,” said Elspeth. “There’s your connection.”
“I could kiss you.”
“Later,” said Elspeth.
“Look, I’d better get back. I’ll send Chambers over to take your statement so you can get away. See you back at mine?”
“All right. I’ll stay over.”
Peter smiled. “I’ll call you when I get done here.”
He squeezed her hand, briefly, and then ducked out again, immediately swept up in the chaos of the scene outside.
Elspeth took out her phone. The battery was looking decidedly low again, but she reckoned she could just about squeeze in a couple of thousand words for the Heighton Observer website before it gave up completely.
By the time PC Chambers came to get her, the article was already live.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Kate Bush was singing about gaffer tape and God on the stereo; about the desperate search to understand the unknown, and how it was eternally obscured from mortal understanding. Daisy wondered if that were really true. Was there a way to understand?
She’d never been a believer. Or rather, she’d given up on God when her parents had died and she’d been left on her own to cope. And all the while she’d begged that if there was a God, couldn’t he just allow her one final moment with her mum and dad?
She’d soon given up, eschewing all notion of the supernatural. As far as she was concerned, life was short, and there was only one way to live it – to do what made you happy, and damn the consequences. Lucy was right about that. No regrets. That was her mantra.
So why, then, couldn’t she shake the notion that whatever had been happening to her recently had something to do with Agnes Levett, and the fact that her grave had been disturbed, apparently for the first time in centuries? It couldn’t really be a coincidence that the strange episodes had first coincided with the exhumation, could it? Especially when she considered the fact that, whatever it was, that dark presence she’d felt had seemed to pilot her like some mindless puppet, causing her to return again and again to locations relevant to Agnes Levett’s life?
Or was it just because she didn’t want to admit to herself that she was ill, and that her mind was somehow fracturing? She hadn’t dared go to the doctor in the end, for fear that he’d confirm her doubts and worse, inform the police about her blackouts. She hadn’t felt able to talk to Sally, either – the closest thing she had to family since her parents had died. It felt like too much of a burden to place on the woman. She was already dealing with so much – the shop, the fayre, the recent murders of people she might once have called friends… not to mention Christian and his objectionable attitude.
Then she’d gone and blurted out to Elspeth Reeves that she needed to talk. It was true, of course – she didn’t think any of her friends would understand, and there was no point trying to discuss it with Lucy. The girl was fun, but immature, and she’d probably just dismiss it, especially after what she’d said up at the graveyard.
There was something about Elspeth, though. It felt as though she had Daisy’s best interests at heart. It was odd, because she hardly knew the woman, but the other night they’d just clicked, and Elspeth genuinely didn’t seem to want anything from her. Almost everyone she met had an agenda, and she’d grown cynical over the years, trying to work out everyone’s angle. Even Lucy had an agenda, although she didn’t know it yet; she was using Daisy for the excitement, for the thrill, as a voyage of discovery.
Elspeth just seemed to want a mate. It was refreshing, and Daisy found herself wanting to trust the woman. She’d talk to her in the morning over breakfast. Of course, she’d still have to be careful about what she said – Elspeth was sleeping with the detective, after all – but somehow she didn’t think she had to worry.
The needle fell into the run-out groove on the record, and she got up to change it. As she did, she felt the now familiar blush of nausea, and the room spun. The floor came up to meet her, striking hard against her lip. She tried to push herself up, but the entire world seemed to be spinning.
“Without grace or remorse.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end.
She sucked in a breath of cold air.
She was standing in the woods.
Around her, the trees were whispering, susurrating prayers to an ancient God. Beyond them, the world no longer existed, not as she knew it.
She heard a sound, and turned to see a small group of people enter the clearing. Agnes Levett led the way, dress
ed in an old, patched cloak. She was young, and not at all like the way in which she’d often been portrayed. In the books, she was ghastly and deformed, with a crooked back and claw-like fingers, a monster from beyond the veil, a murderess who killed with impunity. Here, she was perfectly normal, with high cheekbones and raven-black hair, which fell loosely around her shoulders as she hurried across the mossy carpet, her face drawn in concern.
Behind her was the man from the manor house, Cuthbert Abbott, his white shirt stained with blood. He was distraught, tears streaming down his face. The woman she’d seen earlier was still draped in his arms, her head lolling with his every step, and Daisy knew beyond doubt – as if someone else were guiding her thoughts – that this was Lady Grace Abbott.
Daisy knew all of this with a certainty that frightened her. The scene had the texture of a memory, well trodden and often recalled – but it was a memory that didn’t belong to her.
She stood, transfixed, as events unspooled before her.
Directed by Agnes, Cuthbert laid the body of his wife upon the bed of moss, stepping back, his hands held together as if in prayer.
Grace was dead, or dying – she’d bled profusely from a wound in her side, her nightdress drenched in dark blood. Agnes stripped the prone woman of her nightdress, revealing a map of dark bruises across her milky white torso. Some had begun to fade, while others were ripe and fresh – the imprint of fists that had rained down upon her.
Agnes turned to glower at Cuthbert, who took a step towards the witch, brandishing a dagger he had pulled from his belt. He waved the tip of it inches from her face, encouraging her to go on.
Agnes returned to her ministrations, unfurling a roll of cloth, which she laid out upon the ground before her. The roll contained herbs and ointments, wooden tools and tiny bones, scraps of inscribed paper and sticks of charcoal. She took one of these blackened sticks and began making marks upon Lady Grace’s flesh, drawing swirls and motifs, ancient wards and patterns she’d been taught by the old woman who’d brought her up after her mother had died in childbirth.
