BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  "You knew the family well?"

  "Not really. My husband knew Mister Green, but perhaps not very well." She turned to her husband for confirmation.

  "Quite right, my dear. Knew him as a Rotarian, but not really otherwise. Not the sort of place where the neighbours call around for a chat, you know. Never a problem as neighbours, but didn’t really know them as such."

  "We knew Marcus though," Mrs Snape interjected. "He used to come round here all the time. Margaret, that’s our daughter, was about the same age and they were always off together somewhere or other. You’ve not met Margaret, have you?"

  "Of course she has. Who else answered the door?" Mister Snape smiled indulgently at his wife, whom Donna had already sussed out as being a tad vague.

  "Oh yes, silly me. Margaret is, well you’ve seen her."

  "A lovely girl," Donna said.

  Mrs Snape beamed. "Yes, isn’t she? We were devastated when her problems became apparent, but we wouldn’t swap her for the world. I had her rather late in life and was warned about the possibility of, well you know what I mean, don’t you?"

  Donna nodded.

  Mister Snape coughed. "I’m terribly sorry, my dear. Where are my manners? Would you like a cup of tea?"

  Donna shook my head. "No thank you, I’m fine."

  "Something stronger perhaps? No? Well, if you’re sure I can’t tempt you?"

  "Thank you, but I’m fine, really. I take it you wouldn’t have known of Mrs Green’s intentions when they left the area?"

  "No indeed. We weren’t surprised, of course. Not so much at the financial implications of her managing a big house like that after the unfortunate death of her husband, but the memories. They lost their little daughter a couple of years previously. Did you know about that?"

  Donna nodded. "Just the bare details, nothing specific."

  "Terrible business. The poor little mite wandered off somehow. Oh, there were police everywhere for weeks, stopping every car, asking everyone who lived in the area if they’d seen her, but nothing ever came to light. You hear of such awful goings-on these days, but back then it was almost unheard of for a child to be abducted."

  "Is that what happened?"

  "Who knows? She was never found. Her poor mother. I imagine that must be even worse than the death of a child. The not knowing. Then her husband died in a tragic accident. The only surprise to us was that she didn’t move further away. Go out of the district completely. We never kept in touch, I’m afraid. Perhaps we should have done, but as I said, we weren’t close at all. Just neighbours."

  They chatted a while longer, but it was evident that Donna was getting nowhere. The Snapes had nothing to add to her knowledge of Marcus Green.

  As Donna stood to leave, Mrs Snape surprised her by insisting that she would walk her out. She had seemed such a fixture in her armchair. They walked into the hall and the woman took Donna’s arm as she reached for the doorknob.

  "I didn’t want to say anything in front of my husband," she whispered. "He disapproves of tittle-tattle. It may be nothing, but I wanted to tell you something about that Mrs Green. As I said, we didn’t know her, not really, but one of the things I always noticed was how young Marcus treated her. It was as if he were the parent and she the child. I noticed it particularly after her husband died. It was as if Marcus was now the man of the house and he ruled the roost as far as his mother was concerned. I can understand it in a way. He was all she had left and she would give him whatever he wanted, but it was more than that somehow. Oh, you’ll probably think I’m a silly old woman, but I’d never really liked Marcus. Always so polite, so grown-up, even as a very small boy, but I wasn’t happy with what I saw going on between him and his mother."

  She stopped talking at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. "He’s on the move," she whispered. "All I wanted to say really is that I fear there was always more to Marcus than met the eye. Even when he was hardly more than a toddler, he had a way of looking at me sometimes that made me… well, I don’t know what it made me, but it was upsetting. Do you know what I mean?"

  Donna nodded, hand still on the doorknob.

  "If you want to know about Marcus, don’t take anything at face value. He was clever, too clever for me. I know that now. I’ve never told anyone else, but I saw him and Margaret playing in the woods once. They were both naked. Oh, I know how children are, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not as out of touch as I may sound, but this was something more than casual play. You know about my daughter. Even now she has the same innocence as a child. Up here, we can protect her from the wickedness of the world; give her the quality of life she deserves. She and Marcus were only six or maybe seven when this happened. I’m not putting this very well, but when I happened to see them from the top terrace, my blood ran cold. It was almost as if Marcus were torturing her, Margaret was struggling and trying to get away, but it was more than that. He was lying on top of her in the grass, his hand pressed across her mouth."

  She shuddered, glancing over her shoulder. "Please believe me, I’m not exaggerating. I ran down the stairs and across the garden as quickly as I could, but they must have heard me and were hiding. That’s another thing. Margaret would always come to me when I called her, and never try to hide anything. She has no sense of deceit. When she came in later, I could see that she’d been crying. I tried to ask her what Marcus had done to her, but she refused to speak to me. I said I thought it best that Marcus didn’t come round here any more and she burst into floods of tears."

  "What happened when you challenged Marcus? I assume you did?"

  "Well, I tried, but he denied everything. I got very angry. Told him that Margaret was upset and that he shouldn’t come round here again. He just looked at me, and then walked away. The next day, I found Timmy, our lovely little tabby-cat, dead in the bushes. Not a mark on him, but he was only three. Too young to just die of natural causes. I knew the minute I found him that Marcus was responsible. It was my punishment for attempting to curb him."

  Donna looked at her, shaking with emotion and leaning on the end of the balustrade for support, Mrs Snape was a remarkable lady. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but she kept a semblance of control, just barely.

  "You kept quiet about this at the time?"

  Of course. What would be gained by accusing a six-year-old boy of such things? I had Margaret to think of. I’d always tried to shelter her from things like that. I’ve never told anyone until now. Now I’m sure he’s dead."

  "He frightens you?"

  "Yes. He did even as a young boy. Always polite, always correct, but he frightened me just the same. Not for myself, but for what he might do to Margaret. She was devoted to him, you see? Cried for a week when he moved away. It made it all very difficult."

  "I’m sure it did, and thank you for speaking to me now."

  "You’re very welcome, my dear," she said, patting Donna’s hand. "Why don’t you call in to see us again? If you’re ever in the neighbourhood."

  "I’d love to."

  Donna walked outside and stood by her car, looking at the high fence dividing this house from the smart Retirement Homes block that had been erected on the site of Marcus Green’s former house. If Clive was telling the truth, there was a little girl buried on the other side of that fence.

  "Are you going away now?"

  Donna turned to find Margaret next to her. Lost in her thoughts, Donna hadn’t heard her approach, even over a gravel drive.

  "Yes."

  "What’s your name?"

  "My name’s Donna and I know your name already. It’s Margaret, isn’t it?"

  "Yes. Donna, would you like to see my den?"

  "I’d love to, but I haven’t got time today. Perhaps if I come again."

  Her face fell. "It’s very special and nobody else knows about it. I used to have a friend who showed me where it was, but he doesn’t come now."

  Donna had a sudden thought. "Would that friend be called Marcus?"

  She look
ed ecstatic. "Do you know Marcus?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Marcus is my best friend."

  "I’ll tell you what, Margaret. I think I do have time to see your den. Will you show it to me?"

  "Of course. It’s in the wood."

  She led the way, arms swinging as if she were marching, humming a tune that Donna knew but could not place. They reached the fence and walked in its shadow until well clear of the house. Margaret stopped at a fallen tree and indicated that they should climb up it and drop over the fence into the garden next door.

  "Don’t they mind, the people from that house?"

  "Why should they? They can’t see down here and it’s not their house anyway. This is where Marcus used to live. Before he went away."

  She climbed the fallen branch, clambered to the top of the fence and dropped out of sight on the far side of the fence. Taking a deep breath, Donna followed, rather less nimbly. They were in a wilderness of bracken and tall grass with a small copse of trees beyond.

  "It’s in the woods," said Margaret, marching off once more. As they entered the woods, it was dark and cool, but not unpleasant. Margaret squeezed easily between the trees and Donna followed as best she could until they reached a clearing.

  Donna stopped in astonishment. "It’s a house," she said.

  "Marcus says his Gran lived here once, but it must have been a long time ago."

  The house was a ruin, but had been a substantial property in its day. The brooding shadows of deeply recessed windows on the second floor were black holes in the grimy brickwork.

  Margaret led the way to a partly open door and ducked inside. The interior was musty and damp, empty of furniture, but with all the decorative fittings still intact – a lovely fire surround and ornate plaster cornicing in all the rooms. Still following Margaret, Donna walked up the dusty wooden stairs, stripped pine, pitted with the marks of innumerable stubbed-out cigarettes.

  Pale light spilled down on to the stairwell through a leaded roof light, red and blue squares of glass in a rusty iron frame. This place was straight off a Hammer Horror film set. Gloomy, dusty and festooned with hanging cobwebs, Donna half expected to see Peter Cushing or Christopher Lee standing in the shadows. Fifteen steps. She always counted stairs, even in her own house when she knew the total in advance. Maybe everyone else did it too; she’d never mentioned it to anyone so perhaps there were a whole army of secret stair-counters out there.

  "In here," Margaret called, skipping across the bare boards and entering a small room at the far end of the landing. Donna walked more circumspectly after her, not entirely trusting the floorboards, and stopped in the doorway, her mouth falling open. The corpses of numerous small animals were pinned to the walls, mainly squirrels, but a few mice or shrews, and two larger pathetic bundles of petrified fur and bone that had probably been rabbits. Or cats. Donna suppressed a shudder, thinking of the unfortunate Timmy. How close had he been to ending up pinned to this wall?

  "This is my den," Margaret called from the far side of the room. "No-one knows about it. You won’t tell, will you?"

  Donna shook her head.

  "Marcus used to come here all the time. I suppose he’s too busy on his island now to come here."

  "His island?" Donna thought at first Margaret hadn’t heard her as she was standing very still, her averted eyes fixed on the cracked windowpane. Donna surmised she was lost in a reverie of times spent in this very room. When she spoke, her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. Donna shuffled a little closer.

  "Yes, he told me about his new house before he went away. It’s got a lake and an island."

  Understanding dawned. "Oh, the island in the lake? The one with the ducks? Yes I know about that. I know the Park very well. It’s not far from where I live."

  "Not in a park, silly. A real lake and a real island with a house like this that nobody knows about. He told me all about it. Marcus never tells lies."

  Donna must have looked doubtful because Margaret sighed theatrically and moved past Donna to go into another room. "In here," she called. "See."

  The far wall was a painting, beautiful in its way, even allowing for the faded colours. It showed an island set in the centre of a large blue lake. An undulating grassy bank sloped gently down to a sandy shoreline. The island was covered in trees, each beautifully drawn, with the roof of a house just visible amongst the foliage.

  "That’s his house. He painted that picture for me so I’d always feel close to him. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but you’re a friend of his, so that will be okay, won’t it?"

  Donna nodded dumbly. "Marcus did this?"

  "Of course. The day he went away."

  Donna looked at the painting again. How old would he have been? Seven? Eight at the most. Donna couldn’t imagine a child of that age having such talent. The painting was superb. Good enough to hang in the Walker art gallery. Even more remarkably, Donna knew she was looking at the place where he had been hiding, perhaps at the place where Paula and Celine Dobson were at this very moment.

  ~ Chapter 20 ~

  An hour later, Donna sat waiting for Dexter on a bench down by the promenade. When she’d rung, he told her to meet him there in ten minutes and not to talk to anyone else. She’d left her car on the road and crossed over to the benches to get out of the wind. She looked around carefully, having had a vague suspicion all morning that someone was watching her, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Donna had decided against mentioning these feelings to Dexter. He’d already got her down as a bit of a waste of space after that panic attack business, and she didn’t want to make things worse.

  Dexter’s car pulled alongside hers. He unbuckled and walked swiftly across the road. He motioned for her to join him and they walked in perfect step through the gap into Coronation Gardens. As they walked the perimeter, Donna gave Dexter the details of what she’d discovered.

  "It’s definite. He’s on an island somewhere. That’s where he’s holding them."

  Dexter frowned. "How if he just drew the girl a picture? Some fantasy to impress her, make him look more important?"

  "I don’t believe you," Donna exclaimed. "I’ve got us a definite lead and all you can do is…" She spluttered into exasperated silence.

  Dexter held up a placatory hand. "Calm down, all I’m saying is what anyone else would say. What you’ve given us is a possibility, nothing more than that. A picture scribbled on a wall and the word of some poor girl who on your own admission –"

  "But, I saw it."

  Dexter sighed and took her arm as Donna wheeled away in frustration.

  "Just calm down for a minute and listen. All I want from you now are facts. Did you photograph the scene?"

  "Of course I did. And on digital, too." Donna reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew the digital camera that had revolutionised photography as far as she was concerned. Take a photo and see the results immediately. No more waiting until the film came back from the developers. Roper insisted on his team having access to all the best available equipment. Given the pace of technology, he was always one step behind, but Donna couldn’t fault him for effort. Mind you, most of it was wasted on dorks like her. The camera was different and she loved it. No films to load, a built-in zoom lens that focused all by itself and she could see the results of each picture immediately. Andy, a real techno-nut, told her how many millions of pixels it featured, whatever that meant, but she was not remotely interested in how it worked. All Donna knew is that was the camera she’d waited for all her life.

  "Look at this."

  Donna fiddled with the camera until the painting was on the viewing screen and handed it to Dexter. He squinted at the screen, turning his back to the sun to see the screen more clearly.

  "Bloody good, whatever his reasons for doing it. How old would he have been when he did this?"

  "Eight at most."

  "Bloody amazing. Can’t be anywhere around here. Never see blue water this side of the Med."

  "Oh come on, t
here’s a bit of artistic license with the colours, but look at the detail. That’s not made up. That island exists and we’re wasting time talking instead of trying to find it."

  "Right then. Back to the car," Dexter said, all business now he had seen the photograph. They walked in silence to the cars. Just in time to hear the telephone ringing in Dexter’s Rover. He opened the nearside door and switched on the speaker.

  "Yeah, Dexter."

  "About bloody time, Merlin."

  "Abbott," Dexter mouthed. Donna nodded. She could hear Abbot’s voice clearly.

  "Sorry Merlin, I’m getting no joy from the whatever it’s called. What we poor thick coppers used to call dental records."

  "Aodontology, I think they call it nowadays."

  "I reckon that’s it. Last resort forensics when we can’t get anything else off the body. Not much chance of that in a fire. I’m quoting some miserable old bastard I used to work for. Remember?"

  "Yeah. So what’s the problem? Haven’t you found any fucking teeth?"

  "Oh, we’ve got teeth. What we haven’t got is records. There are records, or there should be, but the useless prison service have lost them."

  "Oh fuck!"

  "Exactly. The prison hospital can't find them. It’s not the most modern system you’ve ever seen. Records are kept on a card index system in a filing cabinet, but Green would have been routinely examined every six months while in custody. His records are missing."

  "Are anyone else's records missing?" Dexter growled.

  "Just his," Abbott said. "They're still looking."

  "Convenient," Dexter muttered.

  "The dentist who used to treat him was injured by a patient last year and died a couple of months ago. His replacement only saw Green once and can't remember anything about his teeth. Apparently, Green had some kind of a fit or seizure. Kicked the chair over, nearly wrecking the place and the dentist had to fetch a couple of warders to restrain him."