by Neil White
Sam's look darkened. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing,’ I replied, my voice filled with innocence. ‘I just wondered how hard it would be.’
‘Very hard, is the answer,’ said Sam. ‘You win very little with an insanity defence, if it isn't true. Maybe it was useful when the hangman was still around, but not any more.’
‘So you wouldn't set out to fake it, to set it up before you hand yourself in?’
‘Not if it wasn't true and you had taken legal advice first. Which, of course, Sarah hasn't.’
‘Okay, thanks, Sam.’
As I turned away, I felt my phone vibrate against my leg. When I picked it up, I saw a message from Katie. ‘Meet me outside college in 10 mins. If no can do, ring. Kt.x.’
It looked like my next appointment had just made itself.
Chapter Thirty-six
Laura was once again in the queue to see the custody sergeant, the tapes of interview in her hand, the prisoner next to his solicitor, who held his file across his chest and looked at the floor. Not wanting to look at the exhibit bag, Laura guessed, filled with rocks of crack cocaine that had once been hidden inside the prisoner, a drop of his trousers and a touch of the toes revealing the secret, a knotted end of a plastic bag sticking out of somewhere that wasn't designed for storage.
Laura had handled the interview badly though, had bickered rather than questioned. It was an interview tape she would not want played in court.
She was angry with herself, although she knew what was on her mind: the Court Welfare visit. It had been all she had thought about during the morning, worried that the wrong word, a bad attitude, or just a clash of personalities, would see Bobby taken away from her, transported to London to live with Geoff, just so that he could get bored and pass Bobby over to babysitters.
Laura looked round when she heard a voice. It was her prisoner's solicitor, a young Indian man in pinstripes and gelled hair.
‘What did you say?’ she asked.
The lawyer looked at her, his eyes filled with arrogance. ‘I said, are we going to spend the day in the corridor?’
Laura clenched her jaw. She knew she had been distracted, thinking about Bobby, but there was no reason to be rude.
She stepped forward. ‘I've just got a few enquiries to make, so unless you want to share your client's cell, be quiet.’ Laura looked at Pete. ‘There's something I've got to do. Can you sort him out?’
She turned and walked away, not giving Pete any time to respond. She needed some fresh air, and so she headed for the exit, for a few minutes with the smokers. Her head was down, she was still berating herself for letting the stress of the impending court visit spill over into her job, when she heard a loud guffaw. As she looked up, she saw Carson stepping out of the Incident Room, heading for the toilets.
All her rage from the night before came rushing back at her. Her anger at Jack, at Katie, the memory of her drive to the moors with Bobby in the back.
She stalled for a moment, knew that she should walk away, but her anger was too strong. She marched after him.
As she pushed open the door, she saw white tiles and mirrors, and then, further along, three stalls. Then she saw his back in one of the mirrors. He was at one of the urinals, his concentration fixed downwards.
Laura marched over and stood right next to him. He jumped, startled, saw Laura looking down at him.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing in here?’ he shouted angrily as he tried to cover himself up.
‘I received a complaint, sir,’ she said. ‘A member of the public told me that he had been abducted, taken onto the moors and left there.’
Carson's eyes narrowed, and then he smirked. ‘Pretty boy upset?’ he said arrogantly. ‘I'll tell you what: you tell him to keep out of my case, and I'll keep away from him.’
Laura shook her head. ‘I don't think he's going to do that. You see, he's a journalist, so he thinks he's got a right to free speech. And free speech means that he can make a complaint about his treatment.’
Carson sneered at her. ‘I hope he earns good money, because his might be the only wage when you try and answer for being in here.’
Laura stepped even closer. ‘I'm sorry, sir, but I knew how serious the complaint was, so as soon as I saw you I rushed straight in. I should have realised that you would be … what's the word …’ and she looked down. ‘Embarrassed?’ Now it was Laura's turn to smirk. ‘I've spoken to the member of the public,’ she continued, ‘and advised him that it's not going to happen again, I'm sure of that. If it does, he'll take it further.’
At that, Laura turned to go.
Carson turned around and zipped himself up. His cheeks were flaming red, his mouth set in a scowl.
Just before she got to the door, Laura turned back. ‘You might want to get the dryer on that,’ and she pointed down to Carson's trousers.
Carson cursed when he saw the piss patch on his groin, and Laura was smiling when she slipped back into the corridor.
I saw Katie waiting for me outside college. She was on her phone as I approached, pacing up and down. When she saw me, she ended her call and smiled.
‘Glad you could make it,’ she said chirpily.
‘Your text sounded urgent,’ I replied.
Her hand brushed away her fringe. ‘It's not really urgent. The police didn't seem that impressed by the letter when I took it in, and so I thought some more about it. Then I had an idea.’ When I raised my eyebrows to suggest that she should continue, Katie said, ‘It was the language that made me think. Old-fashioned, almost Tudor.’
‘Go on.’
‘Have you heard of the Pendle witches?’ she asked.
I was surprised by that. I had heard of them, everyone had around Blackley. It was embedded in local folklore, tales of covens from four hundred years earlier, when two local families were in dispute and witch fever was at its height. King James had just come to the throne, and he'd brought with him a hatred of witchcraft. When one of the local families was accused of bewitching someone to death, members of both families fell over themselves to accuse each other of witchcraft. A number of local people went to the gallows at Lancaster Castle, and the Pendle witches passed into infamy.
‘Yeah, I've heard of them,’ I replied, ‘but what has that story got to do with Sarah?’
Katie looked around, at the students heading into the college building. When there was no one around her, she said, ‘Sarah is a descendant of a Pendle witch.’
I laughed. When I noticed that Katie didn't laugh with me, I asked, ‘How do you mean?’
‘Just that. One of her ancestors is Anne Whittle, the head of one of the main families involved.’
The wording of the letters started to rush through my head again. Old in style, with talk of murder and sin. And what about the angle for the story? Descendant of Pendle witch is a murderer? It would sell, I knew that.
‘How do you know this?’ I asked.
‘She told me. She's got the family tree on the wall, framed. It shows the line, from Anne Whittle right down to her.’
‘Why are you telling me?’ I asked.
Katie blushed. ‘Because you were kind to me last night, letting me stay. And you know what they say, that an act of kindness comes back at you threefold.’
‘And a bad deed?’
‘Threefold too.’
‘So that's the favour returned once over,’ I said. ‘What about the other two times?’
Katie looked back at the college. ‘I'll get you into the college library.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ she replied, smiling coyly, ‘if the letters have any connection with the Pendle witches, then maybe a search through the textbooks will find it.’
I followed her gaze, and then I thought about my next planned move. Or, rather, the lack of it.
‘I like the idea,’ I said. ‘Are you going to help?’
‘If you want me to.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘That's a threefold ret
urn. We're quits.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
Sarah's eyes opened, instantly awake, when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. They were slow and steady, as if he might be carrying something. Maybe more food. Her stomach grumbled at her, but she had to push her hunger aside.
She gripped the bedclothes tightly and closed her eyes, tried to keep her breaths low and steady. The bolt slid slowly across, creaking, and then the door started to open.
Sarah stirred, just to keep it natural, but her body was tensed, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. Wrap the edge around his neck, she thought, pull on it hard, and keep pulling until his struggles stopped. The blanket would be cumbersome, but she would get just one chance.
Her breaths were heavy, her stomach turning with nerves.
The footsteps came into the room slowly, deliberately, just soft crunches on the dirt. Sarah counted the steps, three paces, just like before. She was poised to run, but then he paused. Sarah listened keenly, and then she heard him exhale as he bent down with the food.
She jumped off the bed and ran towards him, the blanket between her hands. He turned, the tray falling to the floor, the clatter of cutlery lost in her screams as the blanket went over his head.
She pulled hard on the blanket, felt it tighten around his head, his hands scrabbling at her. His fingers clawed at her face, and then her hair. She pulled tighter and tried to pull him to the floor.
‘You bastard!’ she shouted. ‘I'm going to kill you.’
He tried to struggle out of the way. He was stronger, and Sarah could feel herself being thrown around. He caught a fistful of hair and yanked at it. Sarah lurched to one side but tried to ignore the pain. She pulled again at the blanket, tried to snap his head back, and so he dug his heels into the dirt and pushed at her. She was slammed against the wall, her grip loosening for a second as she felt her breath knocked out of her, her vision blurred as her head banged against a stone.
He elbowed her hard in the stomach. Her grip slackened some more, and so he used his weight to push Sarah against the wall again. As she grunted, he reached back and grabbed her hair, except this time when he pulled at it, she went with it, one hand letting go of the blanket.
He threw the blanket from his head and stood over her, the black hood billowing out in quick bursts as he gulped down air.
Sarah scrambled backwards, her feet kicking at the dirt, but he went towards her, faster than normal, his fists clenched hard, his control lost.
He reached down to her shirt and pulled at it, sending the buttons to the floor. Sarah could hear his anger in his growl as he pawed at her.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she screamed. ‘Leave me alone. Do you hear? Just leave me alone. Not this.’
He pulled at the shirt again until it ripped, his hard, callused hands clawing at her breasts, reaching down to his trousers, pushing them down to his thighs.
Sarah kicked out, but it just made him angrier, his hands grabbing at her, pulling at her waistband, the button on her jeans popping open. ‘No, no, no, no,’ she cried, and tears streamed down her face, but he yanked at her jeans, brought them down to her ankles, and then she felt the coldness of his thighs between hers. His hand was over her mouth, pressing hard, the hood near to her face as he panted in her ear like a dog. His hand tasted of oil and cigarettes.
She let out a cry when he put himself inside her. She went rigid, couldn't move. There was no fight left, no anger. She became limp, passive, her eyes stared at the ceiling as he moved on top of her, his hand pressing into her face, fingers clawing at her cheeks. But she stopped feeling the pain. It was as if it was happening to someone else, like she was a spectator. She didn't scream or thrash. She just stared at a spot on the ceiling, at the bright lights, but she was beyond tears.
It was over quickly. She became aware of his breaths as he lay on top of her, as he crushed the air out of her and pushed her head into the dirt.
He stayed like that for a while before he clambered off her, fastened his trousers, and stood over her.
Sarah didn't move. She could hear him panting, hoarse and angry. She wanted to turn round and scream, wanted to hurt him like he had hurt her.
She didn't do any of that. Instead, she wiped the dirt from her mouth and lay there on the floor, semi-naked, her clothes tattered, and stared at the ceiling. She knew his eyes were on her, but she felt lifeless, uncaring, unable to move.
He walked out of the room. When the door shut, she began to feel the pain. And when the sobs came, they sounded like a long scream.
Chapter Thirty-eight
As we headed towards the college building, Katie said, ‘Do you know what's funny? No one talks to me now. But I'm not the one that was killed, and I'm not the one who has disappeared. I pray nothing bad has happened to Sarah, but I want things to be normal again. I've assignments to complete. I found this tragedy, but I'm not part of it, and I want my life to go back to normal; there's a lot of it left.’
‘I can understand that,’ I responded. ‘Maybe once Sarah is found, you'll move on properly.’
‘What about you?’ she asked.
I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What does the story mean to you?’
I smiled and sighed. ‘I'm a reporter. I write the story, I get paid, and then I move on to another one.’
‘So this means everything to me, but as far as you're concerned, I'm just a small part of a story you'll soon forget.’
‘That's life,’ I said, ‘and I don't see how I can apologise for that.’
‘It's no wonder that reporters don't have a good reputation.’
‘I'm doing what I've always wanted to do. I've got plenty of free time, and I don't worry about what people think of me.’
‘Do you really not care what other people think of you?’ Katie asked.
I shook my head. ‘I'm a freelance reporter who lives in a little hillside cottage, and I'm happy with that.’
‘And Laura?’
I flinched at that. ‘What about Laura?’ I asked.
She stopped and looked at me. ‘Do you think you'll get married?’
I laughed too loudly. ‘That's too far ahead for us to think about,’ I said, and then wondered about her interest. ‘Did something happen this morning, between Laura and you?’
Katie smiled. ‘Just girl talk,’ she said, and then headed into college, holding the door open for me.
When we got into the college library it was smaller than I expected, just a room on the top floor with views over Blackley. Desks ran along the window, separated by partitions, and the college books were stacked in dark aisles. It seemed much different from my own university, where the library had occupied a whole building, with views through latticed windows. This was bright and modern, but it seemed like an afterthought, a space they had to find when the college grew.
Katie handed me a piece of paper. ‘I scanned in the letter that arrived last night, before I took it to the police. You take that, and I'll take the first two. Let's see what we can find.’
As Katie set off down one of the aisles, I wondered about her theory. If there was a link, Sarah might be sending messages, but it was too damn cryptic.
I set my coat down at a desk and walked to the same area of the library as Katie. There was a section devoted to local history, with books on the industrial revolution and religious strife. But there was a shelf devoted to witchcraft, and most books focused on the Pendle witch trials: perspectives on the trials, transcripts of evidence, studies of the reasons and the theories behind the reasons.
I returned to the desk with a few useful-looking tomes, including a verbatim account of the trials, or at least as verbatim as you could get before the days of stenography, and two books on the characters and personalities of the trials. I couldn't see Katie when I returned to our table, so I ploughed through the books on my own.
I reached into my pocket and put Sarah's letter on the table. I read it again:
There is no one alive more unwilling to pronounce this woeful and heavy judgement than myself: but the blood of that innocent child, whom cruelly and barbarously I have murdered, has brought this heavy judgement upon me at this time.
Sarah
I sighed. I wondered whether Katie had tried too hard to find a reason behind what Sarah did. But I remembered the name of Sarah's ancestor: Anne Whittle. At least I had a starting point.
The books were tough going and I found myself drifting as I read. I thought about Sarah's parents, no doubt wondering what Sarah was doing at that moment, as I sat huddled over dusty pages reflecting on events of four hundred years earlier. And I wondered what DCI Carson would say if he knew what I was doing.
I'd heard of the Pendle witch story, and I knew some of the names – Bulcock, Alice Nutter – but as I read, I realised that the story was more complex than just the trial of a few local women. The Pendle witches were just like any others accused of witchcraft: they were poor, uneducated, and regarded as outsiders. There were two families involved, the Southerns and the Whittles, each headed by two bitter rivals, Old Demdike and Old Chattox, who for years had sought to outdo the other in their outlandish claims of witchcraft and spell-casting. But when Demdike's granddaughter, Alison Device, was accused of causing the death of a passing peddler by witchcraft, the local Magistrate became involved, and that started it, the chain of blame. Alison herself blamed witchcraft, foolishly hoping it would excuse her, and then she accused others of witchcraft too, and so the accusations spread.
I began to flick, racing through transcript after transcript, page after page, my eyes glazing, and I was on the verge of giving up when I was stopped dead by words that seemed to leap out at me.
It was just a phrase I recognised. I had been making my way through the documents when I spotted words that rang familiar. I turned again to Sarah's letter and read the last part of it, my hands fumbling with the paper:
…the blood of that innocent child, whom cruelly and barbarously I have murdered, has brought this heavy judgement upon me at this time.
