by Nina Milton
Gloria had disappeared under my breakfast bar and humped the box of veg from Middlesprings Farm onto the surface. “What in heck is this?”
“A freebie. I haven’t managed to eat much of it yet.”
“Eat it? You haven’t even put it away!”
“No, well, I have been busy.”
“It’s going off, left in this box. Look, the curly kale’s yellowing.” Gloria bustled around, stuffing vegetables in the fridge and filling my empty fruit bowl.
“Take some with you,” I said, coming over to help her. “There’s too much for me.”
“They’ve left a load of flyers in the bottom,” said Gloria, pulling out a sheath of notices and shuffling through them. “Craft Fayre, dog training classes … Lordy.”
“Trevor must be going to those,” I said, smiling. “He’s the reason I got the free food.”
“Farm open day, Stone-Age Centre …” Gloria dropped them into my hands. “You want to put them in the recycling?”
A word caught my eye. My body froze. I stared down at the paper in my hand.
“Garibaldi,” I whispered.
I had found my missing word.
THIRTEEN
I realized I was holding my breath. In my head, I heard Trendle chuckle. You never listen to me, he said. It’s enough to make an otter despair.
I must’ve looked very strange, because Gloria came over to me. “What’s wrong?”
I passed her the flyer. She could see I wanted her to read it aloud. I needed the confirmation.
“Stone-Age Visitor Centre,” she began. “Great for all the family! Sit by the fire inside our rebuilt Neolithic roundhouse, have your face painted with woad, make stone-age musical instruments, walk the replica Garibaldi Way—the oldest man-made path in the UK. Tea Rooms and children’s play area. Great idea, Sabbie, we could take Rudi and Kerri.”
I was no longer listening. The smell of that gas hob was in my nostrils, the steaming kettle, the tea, and Garibaldi biscuits. Bloody squashed flies. Makes you puke to think of it. I’d asked Trendle if they were a gift. For you, dear, he’d replied. And I’d ignored him.
My heart beat like a crazed drummer at a festival. It seemed that the Somerset Moors constantly revealed things hidden within their black heart, both fair and foul.
Garibaldi. A plate of biscuits and an ancient track. Probably nothing more than a silly coincidence that would turn me into a fool, but shamanic journeying thrived on such connections. I could not ignore the clue that Middlesprings Farm had handed me.
“Sabbie?”
I blinked. Gloria was gripping my hand, making me feel like a screwed-up thirteen-year-old again. “Nothing,” I said. “Could I borrow one of your walkers’ maps?”
She sniffed. “Not coming back to the caravan, then.”
“I can’t let this go. That cottage where Cliff was kept has to be somewhere.”
“You think you’re gonna find this poor snatched baby inside?”
“Am I mad? The police aren’t going down that road at all. If there’s even a chance that …”
“You’re as crazy as chicken and banana pie. Not that that’s ever stopped you before.” But she grinned and fetched her collection of Ordinance Survey maps for me.
I smoothed out the appropriate map while Gloria did a bit of light dusting and pretended not to be interested in what I was searching for. It took me a while to pinpoint the road where the Old Mill stood. Only a few miles away, the Stone-Age Centre was marked by a little tourist legend. All around these two landmarks lay the enormity of Somerset moor and fen, mile after mile of low-lying land. Somewhere within their damp acreage was a vile tomb that had held four children twenty-three years ago and one small boy only months ago.
I had to find Brokeltuft Cottage before another child could be buried in bogland like a dog.
The doorbell chimed as I was poring over the map, and before I knew it, Gloria was letting Ivan in.
“I do believe you’re Rey, aren’t you?” I heard her say, in a motherly voice that made my stomach squirm.
“No,” said Ivan, his face clouding. “I’m Ivan.”
“Sorry!” Gloria grinned. “I’m that bad at names. But you are the detective, isn’t that right?”
“I’m not the detective,” he said. “I’m Sabbie’s boyfriend.”
It struck me that everyone wanted me for their girlfriend—or their son’s girlfriend—except the one man I had the hots for. “Sorry Ivan,” I began. “I thought we said—”
“I’m sorry too, babe. I just had to see you.” Ivan took a couple of wide strides past Gloria the doorkeeper. He took my chin between a tight thumb and finger and kissed me on the mouth.
“Yow,” I said and pulled away so fast that I fell onto the staircase behind me. I badly needed to toss out some sassy line that would tell Ivan that he (a) couldn’t keep turning up like this, (b) was not allowed to pinch me, and (c) had never made promotion to boyfriend. But I was sprawling over the bottom step in a glow-yellow coat and odd gloves. All that came out of my mouth was a sort of low-grade swearing, as I struggled to get up.
Gloria stepped into the breech. She reached for her jacket, which happily was hanging on the banister knob, and dragged it on. “Time to go, Sabbie.” She turned to Ivan. “We’re just off to a family lunch.” She cast a glance at my appearance, clearly stumped. “And then a walk along the coast.”
“Brean. Very nice there, but windy.” I’d found my cool again. “I’m sure we were supposed to meet up this evening, Ivan. Eight o’clock wasn’t it?” I turned to Gloria. “Ooo, we must go. Don’t want the meal to spoil.”
I tucked my arm in Ivan’s, and he had no option but to come with me up the garden path until we were in front of his Audi S4, a sleek silvery model less than a year old. I suppose financial advisers have to walk their own kind of talk. I let him give me a peck on the lips, but only because I didn’t want to explain things right that minute.
Ivan looked at me oddly but let it go. “Pick you up later, then,” he said and drove away before I could argue.
“Where did you find him?” asked Gloria.
“Out clubbing,” I said, trying not to sound like a sullen teenager.
“Isn’t twenty-eight a bit old for clubbing?”
“No more than almost sixty is a bit old for walking.”
“He’s a trophy collector, Sabbie.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t have to, girl. I’ve met his sort many a time.”
I exploded. “What d’you mean, sort? He’s just a guy, Gloria. He’s fond of me, is all.”
“The wrong kind of fond.”
“Come on. I know my way around bloke territory.” I’d temporarily forgotten that I was planning to ditch Ivan. I’ve never liked interference in my social life, probably because it didn’t hold up under close scrutiny. “I’ll see who I please.”
“Of course you will. You always have.” She began the march towards her Daihatsu.
“Mum!” I had to call after her. She was the one person I needed to love me unconditionally.
As if she realized this, she came back to take me in her marshmallow embrace and plant a kiss on my cheek.
“That guy’s sniffing round you like a fox sniffs round a rabbit.” She has to have the last word, does Gloria, but I wish she hadn’t reminded me about the hens.
I waved until her car was out of sight.
It was still not much after ten a.m. as I drove clear of Bridgwater. Mini Ha Ha was soon navigating the narrow bridges that crisscrossed the waterlands of Somerset. Everywhere water shone like mercury—from rivers, canals, and rhynes, reflecting the light covering of clouds above. Reeds and withies bent in the breeze as if to acknowledge my presence.
I would only be satisfied that Brokeltuft Cottage was nothing more than an illusion when I�
�d exhausted all avenues. I grinned. I was starting to sound like a police officer. In that fine old tradition, I gave myself the third degree as I wound round the country lanes. I was searching for a cottage that I’d only seen in the spirit world of a man now held for murder. Even if it did exist, what was I hoping to find there? Was the malevolent mind that had buried bodies of children on the Somerset Moors so long ago beginning all over again? Was he using the same house to hide in? Was he inflicting his sadistic techniques on a new generation of children? Was that the reason the police had not released the details of how Josh had died? Or had a sick killer got off on a sick joke by burying Josh in the same place as the Wetland Murderer victims?
The B roads became narrower as I drove deeper into the countryside, and I dropped my speed. Signs for the Stone-Age Centre were beginning to pop up at turnings, and I doggedly followed them until I could see the gateway. My tyres crunched over gravel as I pulled up in a little car park. The centre was not very big, and from where I stood I could see the thatched wattle and daub roundhouse and the slightly more contemporary tearooms. Despite the greyness of the day, the place was teeming with weekend visitors. Kids streaked about, dipping into the dark interiors, their faces painted an alarming blue. Gloria was right—this would be a lovely place to bring Charlene’s two.
I paid my four pounds fifty for a ticket and a site plan and began to drift around. It didn’t take me long to find the Garibaldi Way. In a corner of the site was a plot of peaty grass, and beside it stood a cave woman having a bad hair day. She was chillily clad in hand-sewn leather tunic and shoes, and in her hand she held a stone-tipped spear.
“The Garibaldi Way?” I asked, as I squelched through the peat.
She shook her spear at the bog. A run of cleverly fashioned wooden trackway led through it. “More than six thousand years old. Constructed before humans had begun to properly farm. Around here, the Neolithic people exploited the reedswamps for their natural resources. They relied on wild food, and the staves you see halfway along the track is a weir they built to catch fish.”
“Gosh,” I said, surprised. “It really doesn’t look thousands of years old.”
The woman laughed. “It’s not. It’s a model.”
I nodded, feeling rather daft. “Of course, you can’t have kids storming over the real thing.”
“It’s not just that. The actual remains had to go back under the bog, or they would’ve rotted away.”
“Right. But those are around somewhere, I suppose?”
“They’re actually not far from here.”
I should have guessed. The spirit world never makes things easy. “Could you direct me?”
“I can, but you won’t see anything. Though there is a plaque, just to commemorate the discovery. In fact, the track runs for over half a mile through the marshes.”
“But you can’t see the track.”
She dazzled a smile. “You can see it here.”
“I’d really like to see the plaque.” I pulled Gloria’s map from my pocket and rested it on the glass-covered display board. The woman tapped at it with one woad-painted finger.
“Turn off this road at the next left-hand junction and follow the signs for Bartonbeck Tip. The Garibaldi Way is down a little lane immediately after the turning for the waste tip.” She looked up, keen to impart more wisdom. “It was when they extended the waste tip that they found the causeway. You’ll have to follow the lane on foot, it’s not passable, it peters out into bog, so go carefully.”
“I will,” I said. I meant it. These were truly uncharted waters. As I negotiated Mini Ha Ha out of the car park, rain started pattering against the windscreen and all the families disappeared into the tearooms.
I kept below twenty. The soft brown of bulrush heads and the glint of water followed me on both sides of the unmarked road. I pulled into the side just after the turning for the dump and doubled back on foot. The lane had been almost invisible from the car, but it did have a sign saying Garibaldi Way, 200 metres, nailed to the fence. I set out, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that might resemble a plaque.
When I found it, I felt a real thrill, as if I’d completed a quest. A quaint plaque of slate attached to the trunk of an old oak. It told the story of the discovery and detailed the items that were now being displayed at Glastonbury, as well as directing me back to the Stone-Age Centre. I nodded to myself as I read, but the thrill that had run through me was seeping away, until it felt like the words were mocking me. I rammed a fist against the tree trunk. It might as well have been a brick wall.
I closed my eyes, in the hope that Trendle would speak to me. A robin sang, but nothing came. I didn’t even have any idea which way the half-mile of track led—it was invisible under the boggy soil. But I couldn’t admit defeat. I strode into the trees in what I hoped was the right direction. After only a few metres, my walking boots sank into reed bed. I yelped. Water was oozing over my socks. I scrambled out and went back to the road. The wetter the ground became, the less likely I was to find a cottage.
For the first time, I looked at the narrow junction across the lane, where lorries had left a mire of churned mud as they turned up to the waste tip. I stared at the shape the track formed with the lane. A stillness settled. The robin stopped singing. I had been so intent on finding the plaque that I’d walked right past a little triangle of green grass. And from it, like a bare tree with just two branches, rose a wooden signpost.
For several minutes I could go no closer. I could only gaze and wonder. I had witnessed this place in a trance. Logically, I knew that this was because it had got lodged somewhere in Cliff’s forgotten past, and that Trendle had led me to it as a good spirit guide should. But I couldn’t help being dumbfounded at its sheer reality.
Finally I stumbled over to the grass triangle. The signpost pointed two ways. The first indicated the road to the waste tip and read: Bartonbeck Tip: ½ mile. The second indicated the way back to my car and made me bark with laughter: Middlesprings Farm: 2½ miles. Sandy Guilding probably did know this place, at least vaguely. But that didn’t matter, because she’d tossed the information I needed into my box of free veg.
I looked about me again. The only path not signposted was the continuance of the lane I was on. I remembered the cave woman’s words: it peters out into bog. As if to prove this, a Road Ends sign stood as warning, half tucked into the scrub.
My boots were stubbornly refusing to move. “Oh, Trendle, Trendle.” I repeated his name for comfort. Go on, then, I heard him say into my head. I’m with you.
I began to walk. I felt as if I was returning to a place I’d visited long ago. The memories from my journey at the prison were not perfectly accurate, but the general impressions were there. The sun was bright behind its canopy of altostratus, as if trying to burn a hole in the clouds. The previous rain had left large puddles that smelled, as I splashed though them, of iron and rotting weeds. Catkins softly swayed in the slight breeze.
Slowly the cottage came into view. It grew from imagination into memory, from distant miniature into full reality.
The tensing in my stomach surprised me. Every tiny hair that lined my neck and spine was standing to attention. My flesh felt covered with scales. My pace slowed to nothing. The relic of a building stood before me—a country cottage.
I had done something I’d always known was possible but had never quite believed in: I had used my spirit paths to locate an object on the physical plane.
FOURTEEN
There was no doubt this was Brokeltuft Cottage, but it was hardly more than the empty husk of the original house. The black paint of the front door was entirely gone. The iron nameplate was missing, the screw holes where it had once lived torn and rotting. It looked as if it might crumble if I touched it. Although touch it was the last thing I wanted to do. I looked longingly to where the track led onwards, the path to the north, as Trendle called it in my last journey. In
the spring light it looked almost welcoming in comparison to this malevolent dwelling.
“Trendle?”
You found it, Sabbie!
I walked up the short front path. I laid my gloved hand in the centre of the door and pushed. It was not locked or bolted from inside. It screeched over a stone-tiled floor and then stopped. I leaned my shoulder on it, then my back against it, but the gap, just enough for me to get my hand through, would widen no more. I put an eye to the opening. I could see grey light, like a fog that hangs around in abandoned places.
Some time ago, someone had come here with planks and nails and a pot of paint. The downstairs windows had been boarded up and the words Danger—Keep Out painted across the boarding. Whatever was in the way of the front door must have been there even at that time, as they hadn’t bothered to board that up. I stared at the words for a moment or two, waiting to see how they affected the more rule-abiding side of my nature, then shrugged and traced the path around the side of the house.
I had to scrunch through a wasteland wilderness. Brambles were the predominant feature, but the thorns couldn’t get a purchase on my plasticky coat—it was like wearing steel plating. The high swathes of nettles had more success. They seemed to lean forward and deliberately brush the thin sliver of skin that showed between my coat cuffs and my gloves. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and took steady step by steady step. A smell of fungus rose as I walked, as if the pathway had become mouldy with lack of use.
I turned the corner of the house. I was in the back garden. I pushed through the thigh-high weeds until I reached an ancient back door. You could see the plank work in it. This door did not budge at all. It must have been bolted from the inside.
I beat my fists against the wood, then turned and leaned on it, frustrated to the point of tears. I hadn’t taken in the rest of the garden; I was too caught up my desire to gain entry to the house. But after a moment or two, I realized that a strong presence was in this place. I stepped out onto what was once the lawn.
