Shadows

by Thorne Moore

‘No! I just – come on Mike, you’re a scientist.’ Science was good. Science would steer him back to safety. ‘How would a scientist define me? A delusional hysteric?’

  To my relief, he managed a smile. ‘That’s the last way I’d describe you, Kate. But what is it you think you have? An ability to sense corpses?’

  ‘I never told Peter there was a body in the bog. I merely told him I could sense something terrible had happened there. I could feel emotions. Very intense and distressing emotions. We were standing in a bog. There was one fairly obvious explanation.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us about it.’

  ‘Tell you what? That I didn’t like the feel of the place? I never, for one moment, imagined that people were going to poke around there, any more than I expected us to uncover a forgotten priest’s hole.’

  ‘So you have no idea why they were there?’

  ‘No. Truly I don’t. I am surrounded by mysteries and I don’t have the key to any of them. Why would someone be left to suffocate slowly in a priest’s hole? A murder? An accident? I’ve no idea. Why would somebody have been deliberately drowned in that mire? Your guess is as good as mine. I could sense such animal savagery up there. A lynching maybe?’

  He nodded. ‘That would make sense of the way they found him. Face down, bound, stones piled on him.’

  ‘Not a sacred altar of sacrifice, just a place of vengeful execution. That’s what I felt.’

  Michael smiled bleakly. ‘Justice calling out to you?’

  ‘That’s dangerously close to theology. I’m looking to you for a scientific explanation.’

  ‘I don’t want to dissect your sixth sense, Kate. Whatever it is, it must make your life bloody difficult. It’s not for me to believe or disbelieve. At least, I’d say, you have an intuitive awareness of what might have happened in a place. You instinctively noticed that the end wall in the hall was exceptionally deep, as if something might be concealed inside. You recognised the bog as a likely place for a lynching. You observe and your subconscious interprets.’

  ‘I’ll happily settle for that.’

  ‘And you have no instinctive thoughts about what happened to Hannah?’

  ‘Only the same instinctive thoughts as everyone else.’

  ‘No clues where to find her?’

  ‘None. I know there’s been a death, but—’

  ‘You know?’ His head shot up.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and wished I hadn’t, but it was too late. ‘Instinct or whatever, I felt death, the night she vanished. But that doesn’t mean I have any idea where to find her body.’

  He started to speak, stopped, looked at me with bleak, dead eyes. ‘Hannah’s body.’

  ‘Who else?’ I couldn’t help him. The girl was dead and there was no hope of shielding Sylvia from the certainty that her son was a murderer.

  ‘Then let them just find her,’ he said, barely audible. ‘Is there nothing you can tell them?’

  ‘Michael, I promise, if anything I felt would help them in their search, I would tell them. Whatever the cost. But just sensing death – how could I begin to explain that to the police?’

  ‘No,’ he said dully, throwing back his brandy and staring into space. ‘How could any of us begin to explain?’

  Chapter 23

  ‘I’ve made all this toast,’ complained Tamsin. ‘Aren’t you going to eat any of it?’

  We tried to do better. We’d gathered, more to draw up the wagons, than to eat breakfast.

  ‘It’s wonderful toast.’ Sylvia seized a piece and buttered it enthusiastically. ‘And Meg’s quince jam. Lovely. Have some, Mike.’

  ‘Yes of course.’ He helped himself and sat looking at the charred crust.

  ‘This bit’s not so burned.’ Tamsin swapped the slice in front of him.

  He nodded, then pulled himself together, smiling at her. ‘Thanks, Tammy.’

  She opened her mouth to correct him, then changed her mind.

  ‘Thanks, Taz,’ I said, spreading butter. We were going to eat if it killed us. ‘I…’ Find a topic, any topic except corpses, suspicions, destruction and an overwhelming sense of doom. ‘I wondered if we could do with a shopping trip. Are we getting low on anything?’

  Silence.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sylvia.

  I wouldn’t give up. ‘Maybe we need to get out. Walk on the beach? Something?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sylvia forced enthusiasm. ‘That would be lovely.’

  A tentative knock on the kitchen door put paid to any attempts at normality. What now?

  Now was Mr and Mrs Pretty from the lodge, nervously supporting each other at the mouth of the dragon’s den.

  ‘We didn’t want to interrupt your breakfast;’ said Mrs Pretty.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Sylvia. ‘Would you like coffee? Tea.’

  ‘Oh, er, no, that is—’

  ‘How can we help you?’ I enquired. As if I needed to ask.

  ‘Well, the fact is.’ Mr Pretty, under his wife’s anxious gaze, sounded desperately reasonable. ‘We’re in a bit of a difficult position. It’s a lovely cottage. We’ve enjoyed it very much. But now—’

  ‘Oh I know, that poor missing girl,’ sympathised Sylvia. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? Oh dear, it must all be an awful disturbance for you.’

  ‘Well it’s not very nice, is it?’ Mrs Pretty came to the boil. ‘Police everywhere. Questioning us! I mean, of course we heard things, shouting and doors banging and people roaring off in the middle of the night, but it’s nothing to do with us. We don’t want anything to do with it.’

  Mr Petty hastily toned down her outrage. ‘The thing is, we don’t know what to think, who to trust. There’s all this talk of murder, and drugs – and we have children to think of.’

  ‘So you’d like to leave?’ I suggested, to save time.

  ‘I know we booked until the weekend, but we think we’d rather go now.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sylvia, tears welling.

  ‘We quite understand,’ I assured them. ‘This can’t be at all pleasant for you. Would you like us to find you alternative accommodation for the rest of the week?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, we don’t think so,’ said Mr Pretty.

  ‘The weather’s going to be turning, according to the forecast,’ put in his wife. ‘So we thought we’d just go home.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And there’ll be a refund? Compensation?’

  ‘I’ll write you a cheque now,’ I said. ‘For the whole two weeks. Is that all right?’

  ‘Oh. Well, yes. We… Yes. Thank you.’

  Tamsin followed me to the office. ‘You know that’s all crap? They’ve been loving it, filming it, asking to talk to the police. And they’ve had nearly two weeks already. I don’t see why they should have all their money back.’

  ‘Believe me, Taz, I’ll gladly give them twice as much if it gets rid of them.’

  She watched me writing the cheque. ‘I bet they only want to go because of the weather forecast.’

  ‘Quite likely. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got enough on our plate, without having guests to worry about. Best for all of us, if they just go away.’

  I returned to the kitchen and handed Mr Pretty the cheque. He looked apologetic, but his wife smiled triumphantly, as she led him away.

  ‘Of course they want to leave.’ Sylvia gave way to her tears. ‘Who’d want to stay here? Not safe for children. Everything’s ruined, isn’t it? We might as well all just curl up in a corner and die!’

  ‘Oh come on, Mum.’ Tamsin chivvied her. ‘It’s not that bad. We’ve got other guests coming, haven’t we?’

  ‘But will any of them want to come now?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Michael, his head in his hands.

  *

  We were still clearing dishes when Fran Garrick arrived, her Range Rover blocking the light from the kitchen window, her dogs erupting into the courtyard.

  ‘Sylvia!’ Fran boomed. ‘Terrible business. Heard all about it.’

&
nbsp; ‘Have you? Well it’s lovely to see you, Fran. Come in and—’

  ‘Can’t stay. Just wanted a quick word with Ronnie. Thought I’d better mention this business though. Expect it will all be cleared up in no time. I was saying to Clive, at the post office, nobody believes half this nonsense about Michael. Absurd, of course.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Sylvia. ‘Both halves, whatever they are.’

  ‘And you know, when this is all over, you’ll be quite welcome at The Manse. Now, where is that brother of mine?’

  Sylvia watched her stride away, then looked at me. ‘Probably gone to make sure we haven’t murdered him.’ She sounded more bitter than distressed. ‘Someone tell her to move that bloody truck.’

  *

  We abandoned the idea of a walk on the beach. We abandoned the idea of doing anything except waiting for the next piece of bad news. I took three phone calls from the press about the police search. There was nothing I could say to feed their rapacious appetite for sensation, but if I said nothing, my silence seemed to confirm all the most sinister rumours. I was running out of noncommittal nonsense, desperate to decamp, but that would leave Sylvia to cope with them. Again the phone rang. I sat watching it malevolently for a moment, while it trilled and screeched and nagged. I could just hurl it out of the window. Instead I picked it up.

  ‘Good morning, Llys y Garn.’

  ‘Kate! That is you?’ Peter.

  ‘Hello,’ I said calmly.

  ‘Kate, I’ve heard. About the missing student. Have they found her body yet?’

  ‘No. No they haven’t found her, because they’re too busy crawling over Llys y Garn, destroying everything they light upon, instead of getting out there and searching properly.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she is, Kate?’

  ‘No! For the last bloody time, I’m not a clairvoyant. If you want to know where she is, ask Christian. Which is something the police can’t be bothered to do.’

  ‘Christian? You certain?’

  ‘She left, Christian left, neither have been seen again, so what do you think?’

  ‘Good God. I’m coming down.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to come down here, Peter?’

  ‘I can’t just leave you to cope with this.’

  ‘Yes you can. I am coping perfectly well. How is Gabrielle?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, brushing the subject off hastily. ‘But you need—’

  ‘Is she having the abortion?’

  He hesitated. ‘No. No, she isn’t.’

  ‘Well then. You’ll make a lovely couple.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment, but if you want to arrange the divorce, I’ll just sign on any dotted lines. Give you time to make sure Baby Lawrence bears your name.’

  ‘Kate! Please—’

  ‘Now just bugger off, Peter.’ I put the phone down.

  There was a knock on the office door.

  ‘What!’ I snapped.

  ‘Hi.’ Jo Taverner put her head round the door. After Peter, it would have to be Al’s wife. ‘You okay? Well obviously not. Who would be?’ She came into the room. ‘This probably isn’t a good time, but when is?’

  ‘Come in, sit down,’ I said. My mouth tasted like battery acid. I could feel the disorientating onset of a migraine creeping up on me.

  Jo sat and looked at me with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Shitty world. Al’s giving the fuzz an earful about their vandalism, so I came to see if there was anything I could do.’

  The phone rang again and I automatically answered. ‘Yes… yes it is. … No, that is incorrect… Yes, as far as I’m aware… No, sorry, I have nothing to add.’ I put the receiver down and turned back to Jo. ‘You fancy dealing with the press?’

  ‘Easy.’ She reached down and tugged the phone connection from the socket.

  ‘That won’t keep them at bay.’

  ‘It will for five minutes. You just need five now and again to regain your balance. Next time, offer an exclusive. Negotiate. Nothing less than six figures.’

  ‘We don’t want their money!’

  ‘You don’t have to keep it,’ said Jo, cheerfully. ‘Give it to charity, and tell them whatever hogwash they want. You don’t think the press want the truth, do you? Make it up.’

  I smiled. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Right, so that’s the press sorted. I really meant, can I help with the police? I do know how these things work, you know.’

  ‘We’re all beginning to learn. They’ve got Michael pegged as an East End gangster, I think. It’s so…’ Words failed me.

  Jo nodded understanding. ‘The thing you have to understand about the police, is they’re all gits.’

  ‘Is that your professional legal opinion?’

  She grinned, her freckles dancing. ‘Of course. So what are your thoughts about this girl, Hannah? Molly says she was unbalanced.’

  ‘Plain crazy and obnoxious is what I would have called her. But I can’t say that now, can I? Yes, she was seriously unbalanced, poor girl.’

  ‘It sounds as if the fuzz are really gunning for Doc Bradley. Al assures me they’re totally out of their tree and it’s inconceivable that Bradley could have murdered anyone. I take it you concur with that?’

  I covered my eyes, my migraine preparing its sharpest knives. ‘Truthfully, I’ve begun to realise that all of us could commit murder if we were pushed into the wrong corner. But Michael? Al’s right, it’s inconceivable. He could never, in any circumstance, have murdered Hannah. It’s not in his DNA, and anyway, he had no motive. If he were the overlord of a drug empire, then maybe, but he’s not. He’s just Michael, a sweet man who loves Sylvia and wanted a quiet, polite, creative life, and now—’

  Jo patted my arm. Was I really getting that worked up? ‘Just what Al said, but his judgement’s always skewed by anyone who can handle a chisel. I just wanted to be sure. So basically, it’s your nephew, isn’t it? Is he your nephew?’

  ‘Technically, my second cousin. But, yes. It’s Christian. He drove off the same time Hannah quit the camp and he was every bit as unhinged as she was. He must have met her on the road, they fought, she was hurt, he drove off with her and killed her. God knows where he dumped her. He could be anywhere in the country.’

  ‘Well, the police are looking for him. Not only on suspicion of murder. They’re just longing for a big drugs bust.’

  ‘Oh yes, we’ve figured that one out! And Christian can deliver, I’m sure. I try not to imagine what he’s mixed up in, but he’s probably the lynchpin to an almighty international racket.’

  Jo grinned, shaking her head. ‘Lynchpin? No way. He’s a small-time dealer and courier, and it’s no surprise he’s gone underground. It’s not just the police. There are some seriously nasty guys on the war path.’

  ‘I think I’ve spoken to some of them. They keep calling. I’m terrified they’ll descend on Llys y Garn and knee-cap Sylvia, if she refuses to give him up.’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past them. They’ll get him in the end, you know, if the fuzz don’t.’

  ‘How did you find all this? The police won’t tell us a thing.’

  ‘Nor me. They’d choke on it.’ Jo shrugged. ‘But Al has contacts. Through the clinic.’

  ‘Clinic?’

  ‘The Taverner Clinic? Battersea? He more or less finances it. You’ll have heard about Kim’s troubles, I suppose. She was destined for the RCM, poor kid. Instead, she finished up in rehab. Al was so preoccupied with his bloody restoration work, he didn’t realise the problem until too late. He’s never forgiven himself. It’s why he’s so dead set on covering her back, even now. I tell him, he can take it too far.’

  ‘The police claim he put someone in hospital with a fractured skull.’

  Jo sniffed. ‘Tracy Miller? And whose fault was that? She was Kim’s supplier. Al told the Bill and it turned out they were running her as an informer. They wanted him to keep quiet, not rock the boat, wo
uld you believe? Al was so mad. He tried warning her off, then he came home one day and found her, cool as a cucumber, in our kitchen with Kim. So he marched her to the door and threw her, well, pushed her out. Wouldn’t you? She went flying, hit her head on the steps. He was the one who took her to hospital. And then we made sure she was outed, big-time. The police had to whisk her off to some safe house when she came out. Wouldn’t forgive Al of course.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s why he sticks like a limpet to Kim. Doesn’t trust the authorities to protect her. It’s what the nomad lifestyle is all about, of course. Where Kim goes, he goes. I keep telling him, she’s on her feet now, and if he doesn’t stand back, she’s going to run and he’ll never see her again, but you know Al. Anyway.’ She beamed at me. ‘It’s nothing to your problems, all this shit happening here. So let me help.’

  I cursed inwardly. On top of everything else, why couldn’t Al’s wife be a sour bitch? Why did I have to like her? ‘Please do,’ I groaned. ‘Everything we say to the police just makes things worse. We got off on a lousy start with them earlier in the summer, with the bog body.’

  ‘Yeah, the bog body. I heard. And bones in the crypt. You do seem to have had an extraordinary run of stiffs. Molly will tell you it’s the ley line.’

  ‘No, I think it’s me.’ I tried to smile.

  Jo laughed. ‘I bet every place as old as this has half a dozen grisly secrets buried away, but no one thinks of looking. Restoration work, then archaeologists, now the fuzz. If they keep digging, you’ll probably finish up with a load more.’

  ‘Don’t! I don’t think we can take any more.’

  Jo glanced at the window, wrinkling her nose as rain began to patter on the panes. ‘You’ve taken more than enough already, I think. The doc must have been pretty cut up about the panelling.’

  ‘Cut up is putting it mildly. I’m really worried about him. All that work destroyed for sheer spite, I swear.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, Al is really sweating the police about it. It was way out of order. They could have used radar if they were genuinely suspicious. Didn’t have to rip the place apart. He’s got them grovelling.’

  ‘Al’s the last person they’d grovel to. They’ve been itching to lock him up and throw away the key, ever since they found him here.’