‘Whoever is doing this isn’t working alone, Marnie, so don’t make that mistake.’
Conway wiped a hand across his brow as the road continued to run arrow straight through open countryside.
‘Got you,’ Marnie replied.
‘Right, keep your phone on and make sure you answer the bloody thing.’
Before she could reply the phone beeped and died.
When she looked sideways, Conway had a bitter smile on his face. ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so smug, sooner or later, Reese will collar you for knocking him flat.’
Conway kept his eyes on the road. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t mind dying in jail as long as Rowan’s safe.’
Amidst all the chaos Marnie had forgotten that Conway was living on borrowed time.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, as their speed increased.
‘I probably look like shit and to be honest I feel the same way.’
‘What about medication?’
Conway shook his head. ‘I have some back at the house but I can’t afford to be drugged, not now.’
Marnie could see the pain making the sweat stand out on his face, his skin looked grey and clung tight to the bone beneath.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
This time Conway looked at her, his face registering surprise. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’
‘I know what it’s like to feel helpless, God knows I’ve felt the same way for almost sixteen years.’
‘Yeah but you got the sick fuck, you made sure he couldn’t kill any more kids.’
Marnie hands closed together, gripping tight. ‘SOCO found images of some of the kids at Boland’s house, they found one of my sister with the words “the one that got away” written on the back.’
Conway licked his dry lips as he absorbed her words. ‘And they never found her remains?’
‘No, but we have no real idea how many he murdered, there could be another burial site out there that we know nothing about.’
‘Jesus,’ Conway mumbled.
‘Turn right at the Star Inn,’ Marnie said.
Conway spotted the pub in the distance, the place was in darkness and he slowed the vehicle down before turning onto the narrow country lane.
The road was bordered on either side by tall trees, the branches swaying in the wind, the road coated with wet leaves.
Flicking on the main beam, he slowed down, Marnie lit two cigarettes and handed one over.
‘Thanks,’ Conway said, taking a long pull before cracking the window open. The engine laboured as the road started the long climb up Maypole Hill.
Conway dropped a gear, the cigarette clamped between his fingers. ‘Do you think Wold has anything to do with any of this?’ he asked, his voice laced with desperation.
‘Well, we’ll soon know one way or another,’ she replied absently, her mind full of images of her sister as Boland carried her away into the falling rain.
The trees ended and the wind slammed into the car from the left, Conway grunted and flicked the wheel to compensate. The road grew steeper forcing him to drop yet another gear. Thirty seconds later, engine whining, they reached the top.
‘There it is,’ Marnie said, pointing left.
Even through the heavy rain they could see the house standing in the middle of the field, a monolith of heavy grey stone and slate. The opening to the driveway appeared on the left and Conway turned onto it.
Leaning forward he peered at the house. ‘No lights on,’ he said, the disappointment evident in his voice.
Marnie didn’t reply. The house seemed to loom out of the night. Seconds later, Conway pulled up in front of the property.
‘Looks like something from The Addams Family,’ he said as he thrust the door open.
Marnie followed suit and then they were heading for the front door.
‘No doorbell,’ she noted, grabbing the heavy knocker and slamming it against the woodwork.
Conway went to peer in through one of the mullioned windows.
Feeling her heart sink, Marnie knocked again, harder this time, but the house remained in darkness.
She stepped back just as Conway hurled the rockery stone through the front window, the sound of breaking glass muffled in the savage wind.
With a sigh of resignation, she moved right as Conway hauled himself onto the sill, she heard more glass fall to the paved flags and then he leapt inside before vanishing into the darkness.
Seconds later, the front door opened and Conway looked out at her. Seeing the look on her face he shrugged. ‘I think a bit of breaking and entering is the least of my problems, don’t you?’
Marnie didn’t reply, stepping over the threshold it felt colder in the house than it did outside and she rubbed her hands together in an attempt to generate some heat. She looked at the bare bulb dangling from the twisted piece of flex above, the meagre light making no attempt to illuminate the long dreary hallway.
Conway closed the door and they headed back into the lounge area, Marnie could see the curtains billowing from where the glass had been shattered, the chunk of rock lay on the bare oak boards. Looking past at the black maw of the huge fireplace, the two battered-looking sofas in the centre of the room made the rest of the space look even larger.
‘Looks as if Wold isn’t interested in home comforts,’ Conway commented as he looked around the bleak room.
They backtracked into the hall before heading up the stairs, side by side, each step creaked with age. Reaching the top, Marnie spotted the light switch on the wall and flicked it on. Again, another sickly splodge of light seeped out as Conway pushed open the first door on the left. A single bed without a mattress was the only furniture in the room, the springs looked ancient and bloomed with rust. A pair of heavy, moth-eaten, brown drapes hung from the dirt-encrusted window, the room itself had a faint odour of mildew and damp.
‘I don’t get it, I mean, look at the size of this place and yet it looks virtually derelict,’ Conway said as they came out of the room.
‘Polly Hardy said she used to be married but her husband died and let’s face it, this is a big house for one person to cope with,’ Marnie offered as she pushed open another door to reveal a huge, freezing bathroom, the once-luxurious room still had an enamel tub with clawed feet. Now, though, the tub had green copper stains from the dripping tap, the old-fashioned sink and toilet bowl tarnished and coated in dust.
They continued their search, each barren room left Marnie feeling more and more disenchanted.
Once the last room had been looked into they headed back down the stairs in silence, both feeling the tension in the air as they realised there would be no instant conclusion to the puzzle of finding Rowan.
On the way to the kitchen Marnie paused as she spotted five short stairs leading down to a black door. Conway carried on walking, shoulders slumped in exhaustion he entered the kitchen.
Moving left Marnie reached out and turned the handle, pushing the door open. Her hand fumbled left on the wall until she located the switch and pressed it. Blinding white light assaulted her eyes and Marnie had to screw them shut, sparkles danced behind her closed lids.
When she cracked them open she gasped – seeing the cellar laid out before her – it resembled some medieval torture chamber. Her eyes widened as she saw the racks attached to the wall, whips and chains hung from hooks, four cages took up the space beneath.
‘What the fuck!’ Conway appeared at her shoulder, his eyes blazing with anger.
Pushing past her he stormed into the room, Marnie followed, her eyes taking in everything, and the more she saw the more the fear and disgust grew inside.
Conway looked at her. ‘You said she was in her bloody sixties—’
‘What the hell has age got to do with anything?’ Marnie bit back.
They stood glaring at one another, then Conway turned away, his hands clenched, his face pinched with anger.
Marnie sighed as she took in bondage equipment, she pictured Wold in the phot
ograph her face stern, back straight, eyes shining out from a narrow face. Hardy to her left and the pervert Phelps to her right, like minions in service to some ice queen, a woman with not an ounce of warmth in her soul, a dominatrix in the true sense of the word.
She thought of Polly Hardy telling her about the little girl who had approached Wold armed with a small collection of flowers, and instead of a smile and a thank you the girl had been left in tears by the head of the board.
‘Fucking look at this!’ Conway spun around, in his right hand he held a small denim skirt, in his left an equally small T-shirt with a colourful unicorn printed on the front. Marnie felt her blood run cold at the sight of them.
‘We have to find her,’ Tom Conway said, his face torn with the horror of what he had found.
Marnie pulled out her phone and then Conway took a step towards her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘We need help, we—’
‘You can’t risk it, if you get your mates out here and she finds out then—’
‘I’m not calling in the cavalry,’ she dragged up Bev’s number and tapped the screen, when she failed to get a signal she scowled and headed for the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ Conway shouted after her.
‘I can’t get a signal down here, you keep looking while I make the call,’ she said as she ran up the wooden steps before vanishing from the cellar room.
Conway looked down at the clothing in his hand, fear erupted through his mind as he stood in the torture chamber, the despair closing tight around his mind.
90
Clarisse Wold wandered through the house, going from room to room, her face blank as she looked into yet another empty space devoid of furniture.
Her husband had owned this house, been brought up here but as soon as they got married Clarisse had insisted they move.
Marvin Wold had known better than to refuse her demands so they had moved the short distance to the house on Maypole Hill. The truth was she had liked this house better but getting her husband to move had been a way to reinforce her control over the marriage, over her husband, over every single thing in their lives.
Besides the house on Maypole had an extensive cellar ideal to be transformed into a play room for the wealthy. For those with money and certain tastes in life that they had to keep hidden.
She walked through a set of double doors into the kitchen, the place looked barren, the floor warped with age, a smothering of cobwebs covered the sink and taps. Part of the plaster coving had fallen to the floor and smashed, leaving smears of white dust on the floor.
Closing her eyes, her mind raced through the facts, she had made her plans and now all she had to do was wait. She had sent the letter and no doubt the bitch was trying her hardest to follow the clues. The trouble was, did she have the brains to work things out? No doubt she would know that Phelps had vanished, she would have made the links between Rae and the solicitor, gone to the house and seen the cellar where Phelps had kept the girl.
The woman opened her eyes and sighed as she realised that the one named Hammond may not have the wherewithal to discover the truth. A scowl settled on her face, her brow knitted together.
She had no doubt the sergeant would be working alone, she would not have risked involving others, the stakes were too high, too close to home. The smile leached onto her face as she pictured the hated woman kneeling in front of her, the horror on her face as the truth was revealed. She would make her kneel as she cut young Rowan Hall to shreds in front of her terrified eyes. Then she would make the cunt really suffer, take her time, make her scream and beg for death.
Clarisse Wold shivered at the imagery and then she looked around the kitchen one last time before making her way back along the hallway to the front door.
Opening it, she stepped out into the rain, her face tilted to the black void, her eyes closed as the hammering rain washed the blood and gore from the wax coat.
She knew she had to be patient though it was proving more difficult than she imagined. When you lived a life of control you became accustomed to getting what you wanted at all times. She had plenty of people under her sway, people who would move mountains to do exactly as she said when she said, because to refuse would mean ruin or worse.
Opening her mouth, she felt the rain on her tongue and sighed, her moment would come and then Hammond would die in a way that would make even the devils wince.
‘Come on, whore, shape yourself,’ she hissed into the downpour.
91
Marnie sighed in relief as she ended the call, to find a signal she’d had to go into the kitchen and then through into a large conservatory, standing in the window at the furthest point. She now stood and looked around the room. Unlike the rest of the house it had a sofa, TV, and a large chest of drawers over to the right, an oasis of normality amongst the empty rooms that showed a sad, neglected history of dust and grime.
Hearing the sounds of footsteps, she turned to find Conway striding towards her.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, his face still locked in a scowl of disgust and fear.
‘I’ve asked Bev Harvey to find out if Wold owns any other properties.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she isn’t here and we need to find her.’
‘I realise that but she could be anywhere for Christ’s sake.’
She could see the concern in his eyes, the fear that the clock was ticking and every second counted. ‘OK, what do you suggest?’ she asked.
Conway scrubbed a hand across his face, his mind still in the dungeon room with the human-sized cages and whips and chains handing from the hooks on the wall. The box with the scattering of clothes in, children’s clothes.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he gasped and started to cough, bent double as his chest heaved.
Marnie looked concerned when she saw the blood speckling into his cupped hands. After what seemed like an eternity he looked up, his eyes streaming, his face ragged. He had aged in seconds. Wiping a hand across his lips, he gulped a mouthful of air.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to rest?’ Marnie asked.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he lied just as the pain in his guts twisted, only just managing to keep from groaning out loud.
Turning away, she made her way to the dresser and pulled open one of the drawers. The space was crammed with papers and Marnie lifted out a handful, flicking through them she could see most were utility bills, she checked the dates and frowned, some dated back over ten years. Grabbing another handful, she looked through them; disheartened, nerves jangling she only found more bills and junk mail.
Slamming the drawer closed, she moved to the next and yanked it open, the frustration turning to anger as she desperately searched for a clue, anything that would shine more light on Clarisse Wold.
Dumping more useless bits of paper onto the top of the dresser, she looked down at a mess of elastic bands and safety pins, pushing them to one side she spotted an envelope and lifted it out before flipping it open.
A sliver of negatives slipped out and fell back into the drawer as Marnie pulled out the pictures. The first two showed Wold as a younger woman; she looked to be in her thirties, sporting the same close-cropped hair, though this time it was black rather than grey. Her face was still narrow, her eyes piercing, her mouth set in the usual thin line of disapproval. Both images had been taken in front of the house that Marnie now stood in. Though back then the place was festooned with colourful pots of flowers, the windows open as if to let in the light and warm summer breeze. Wold was dressed in dungarees, her feet encased in green Hunter boots her hands on her hips, chin tilted slightly as if in defiance.
Slipping them to the bottom of the pile Marnie moved through the next three, two showed Wold sat on a thoroughbred horse, dressed in immaculate hunting gear, the crop held in her right hand, in the third she was surrounded by dogs, her hair looked a little longer, her face tinted by the sun.
When she looked at the next image in her hand Ma
rnie hissed in a sharp breath, it showed a young girl no more than eleven – twelve at the most – her hair corkscrewed around her head, she wore a dress and her face was set in a sour scowl as if she hated the fact that she was being made to look like a girl. Marnie lifted the image closer, her eyes studying the girl who glared back at her over the decades, the same hardness in her eyes even back then, she even had her hands on her hips, mirroring the picture taken years later.
Marnie looked at the house in the background and felt something in her brain start to strain as she concentrated on the building. It looked to be another large property with the same sort of mullioned windows that Conway had smashed.
Shaking her head, Marnie slid it from view and then her heart seemed to stall as she looked at the next picture in her hand.
It was almost a doppelganger of the first, young Clarisse Wold looking petulant for the camera. But this time Marnie could see a face through one of the window panes in the background, a young face with dark hair and matching eyes, his pallor pale as if the boy rarely saw the sunshine.
Marnie felt the door in her mind swing open and heard the rumble of thunder mixed with rolling laughter, laughter so dark and full of foreboding that she felt her flesh crawl.
‘It can’t be,’ she whispered, her eyes quickly scanned the image, trying to see every detail at once.
Her hands shook as she moved the image to one side revealing the last one, it showed the house from a distance and Marnie felt her mind start to crack.
The last time she had seen the property it had been in flames, and Luke Croft had been banging on the glass of the small window set high at the top of the old house.
Marnie’s fingers sprang open and the images fell to the floor, as all the horror swept back into her mind. Dropping the child through the smoke, hoping Luke could catch her, the flames roaring at her back, the monster Boland screaming in frustration, the sirens screeching …
‘Your phone!’ Conway shouted.
Marnie jumped, the sirens faded, the phone took over, sounding loud in the glass conservatory. Dipping a hand into her pocket she pulled it out, her eyes blurred with tears, her mind so fogged in confusion she didn’t bother checking the number.
Cut The Threads: A Serial Killer Thriller That Will Keep You Hooked (DS Marnie Hammond Book 2) Page 30
