by Martyn Ford
‘Hell of a trial.’
‘Expensive theatre. I’m guessing they’re finished at Orchard Court?’ Sam asked. ‘Is Anna going home?’
But before Isabelle could respond, her pocket lit up. She stepped into his kitchen to answer her phone.
‘Hello?’ She paused, her face changing, her eyes widening. Looking quickly at Sam, she pointed to her mobile, then put it on loudspeaker. ‘Diane,’ she mouthed, placing it on the breakfast bar, next to a framed photo of Freddie, proud in his football gear.
‘Is this Detective Constable Isabelle Lewin, of thirty-three Westfield Drive?’
‘It is.’
‘I understand you are hoping to speak to me regarding Robin Clarke,’ Diane said – her accent was unusual, well spoken, slow and deliberate. A far cry from the mad, enthusiastic preaching Sam had seen in her sermon videos online. ‘As you are probably aware, I no longer have ties with North Serpent. My quiet life is something I’d like to conserve if possible. Perhaps we can come to a civil arrangement?’
‘I’m listening,’ Isabelle said.
‘Through means of no concern to you, I have seen an artist’s impression of a gentleman with distinctive facial scars.’
Sam and Isabelle eyed each other, but neither of them reacted.
‘Call me paranoid, but I prefer to have meaningful conversations away from the telephone. I will text you an address and a time. Please, come alone. And I’ll know if you report this to anyone in your department.’
‘Come where?’
‘A discreet location.’
‘Why do I have to come alone?’
Diane hummed – a curious moment’s thought. ‘Are you concerned that I mean to lure a police officer to a secluded place in order to harm her?’ she asked. ‘Does this sound like the behaviour of someone pursuing a peaceful existence?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘In exchange for you respecting my family’s privacy, I will identify your suspect.’
‘I . . . I can’t control what the entire police force does,’ Isabelle said.
‘But you can control what you do. And, although no doubt to a lesser extent, you can control what Mr Maguire does. How are you, Samuel?’
Blinking, Sam turned to his kitchen window. Rooftops, empty streets, black telegraph wires. No birds. ‘Bit of a headache, but I’ll live.’ Isabelle tilted her hand and pouted. ‘Figuratively speaking,’ Sam added.
‘It is possible you are dehydrated,’ Diane said. ‘You must remember to drink water.’
‘That is good advice.’
‘Now, I understand how intrigue works. You may think, as I value my deliberate isolation, that I have something to hide.’
‘Do you?’ Sam asked.
‘Of course. But nothing pertinent to your investigation. Security is important. It is an issue of safety. There are forces conspiring against me.’
‘Why?’ Isabelle said.
‘You don’t spend your life accusing powerful people of demonic practice without accruing a few enemies along the way. As an agent of the establishment, I am afraid I must consider you potentially hostile.’
‘And what about your brothers?’ Isabelle said.
‘If you have any evidence that suggests they’ve committed a crime, it would be remiss of me to recommend anything other than your duty. May the Lord bless and protect you.’
And then the line went dead.
Isabelle and Sam stood in silence, both still staring down at the mobile.
‘What should I do?’ she eventually asked.
Thinking for a moment, Sam nodded. ‘Easy to obscure motives,’ he said. ‘What if we take it on face value? What if the doll wasn’t left there to bewilder, but put there by someone who actually believes this stuff?’
‘Then . . .’
‘Then Diane is serious,’ Sam said. ‘She wouldn’t volunteer herself into this position unless she was telling the truth. She knows who the old man is, and she’s going to tell you.’
‘But why?’
‘She told you why. She wants us to fuck off.’
‘Obviously not a close friend . . .’
‘A member of the church?’ Sam said. ‘All loyalty has its limits.’
Isabelle took a calculated breath and touched the back of her neck. ‘I don’t want to go there alone . . . Another option is plan A – bring her in properly. We know where she is.’
‘Do you believe her – that she’ll know if you report it?’
‘She saw the e-fit.’ Isabelle winced. ‘That’s not been released.’
‘Play it straight. Do exactly what she asks. Anything else risks silence.’
The text arrived. Sam put the postcode into his laptop and brought up a map. They zoomed in on the satellite image – a square building, a long dirt track, surrounded by fields, at least half a mile from any tarmac.
‘Some old barn? This doesn’t feel good.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘We’ll go a couple of hours early – I’ll find somewhere to hide.’
‘And if they do anything, you’ll what? Be a witness?’
No more secrets. He reached into his jumper and pulled out the Glock 17. It sounded heavy when he placed it on the counter, between the laptop, the phone, the framed photograph. He tried to blink away his headache. Dull pressure, just like brain-freeze.
Isabelle turned her face, like a child refusing food, as though even looking at it was a crime. He could tell every fibre of her being wanted to seize it and arrest him. Go back to the book, stop this flagrant disregard for the law he embraced so openly. And yet, the promise – the chance that just one more tentative step down this path might yield results. What if trouble wasn’t its only offering? What if she would play this dangerous game?
‘The second it’s over, you’re handing that in,’ she said, corrupted, polluted by the decision.
‘Of course.’
‘And, Sam, look at me. You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?’
‘Isabelle, I don’t intend to shoot anyone,’ he said.
She exhaled.
‘You know I can’t lie.’
He had no real yearning for violence. The Marston brothers would face consequences. But not today. Not at his hand. They’d traded far too much already. Further escalation wouldn’t benefit anyone – it’d be a cheap pill, a short buzz, a temporary distraction at best. The top prize was worth so much more. Sam wasn’t hoping for anything less than the truth.
‘And what about Freddie?’
‘Be honest,’ he said. His solution was effortless, elegant, simple. The truth is such a powerful animal if only we respect it. Just touch its warm skin, feel its fur, and you’ll see it’s like silk when stroked head to haunch, a coarse brush stroked any other way. ‘Odds are, they won’t even bring that up – why incriminate themselves?’
Isabelle retrieved her keys from the breakfast bar and, staring at Sam, she sighed again. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 29
Francis sat on the floor, knees up, fists clenched. It felt as though every time he closed his eyes his cell would begin to shrink. He’d look and catch it in the act and reality would put things right again. For now at least. The clock was running down. Indignant Francis did not have long left.
It ached so much to know it really was all her fault. Anna. Beautiful Anna. Lying to him again and again. He’d looked into her soul all those years ago, all those fucking years ago, and she’d looked right back through him as he asked if anything was going on.
‘Between me . . . me and Daniel? Are you serious?’
He heard himself growl, the sound dull and close against the concrete. As though he could scare these falling thoughts away. Keep these crushing walls at bay.
She had promised. Anna looked him in the eye and promised. Later, when drunk, Francis had asked her to swear on Ethan’s life. Anna shouted at him for even saying something like that. How could he? How could he?
In the morning, sorry, sober Francis had apologised.
&
nbsp; He was right though. Francis had always been right to punish her. Every cold shoulder, every short answer, every fucking moment he’d felt insecure and small. It was all justified. Everything was completely fucking justified.
But he had always known this. Even before the proof. He had known.
Above all the anger and fear he felt there was a delicate vindication. Because nothing he had seen or learned had surprised him. It was all right there. How could he? How could he allow himself to forget what she was?
The tooth slid, fractured and cracked as he bit down. He tasted blood.
Francis resting his face in his hands. We see his head rise from time to time. A series of images. Maybe a frame a second. It passes in silence. His head bowed. Then lifting. Bowed. Then up and looking at the door.
His head down again. An hour passes. His slight movements flicker. Low-resolution photographs with white pixeled text telling us the date, the time, the seconds rolling off the clock.
And like a ghost, he disappears between the darkness of these frames and he’s at the door. His arm up. Banging at the metal.
We can only imagine the noise. We have to assume he is shouting. Eventually the door slides open and guards in full riot gear fill the entrance.
Francis stepping backwards. Francis in the middle of the room. Francis in the middle of the room, side on. Ready. His mattress on the floor. Francis against his table. Francis reeling. Francis on the ground, tripped by his chair. Francis on his feet, that chair a blur in the air, a smudge against a guard’s helmet.
The actual encounter is fast, over within four of our short frames.
As he’s dragged, subdued and hurt, from the cell in silence, in the absolute stillness of these images, we see him. The guards at his spread-eagled arms. We see his wild eyes. The red around his teeth.
And in his face, twisted like a death scream, we see fury so pure, so livid, it shares a border with joy. Beneath all that fire and blood, there are surely glimmers of euphoria. Glistening there on the cathartic kiss of wrath, streaming from his lips.
Chapter 30
They arrived almost three hours in advance. The meeting place was at the top of a gradual slope, about fifteen minutes’ drive from the Hallowfield border. Around here, it was agriculture and woodland as far as Sam could see. All capped with clear sky, covered with clear sun – weather in high definition. They ascended at the edge of a wide, empty field – seeding grass, tall daisies, purple bellflowers all swaying gently in the wind, and a dusty, gravel track which led up to the old building.
The barn had two large doors on the front, both of which were spread open, wilting on half-buckled hinges – a rustic welcome. Isabelle parked the car on a concrete flat, between an overgrown mass of brambles and a stack of rotting logs. Sam climbed out, shut his door and took in the view. It was maybe three hundred metres to the fence at the bottom of this meadow, then patchwork crops, faded hills and rural lanes beyond. A wood pigeon sang somewhere nearby, above a hedgerow on the other side of the brown path. Its recurrent calls for a mate went unanswered.
Inside the barn, Sam turned full circle, looking up at the hand-carved rafters. The air smelled of dead plants, warm wood. Two rusted chains hung from an internal balcony and, next to a pile of empty pallets, an abandoned tractor sat on wheels bent inwards, as though it had fallen from the sky. A large hole in the roof, scabbed around the jagged rim with lichen and moss, made that seem possible. And, on the right-hand side, dry briars crawled through knotholes in the planked walls.
Nature, with all its spikes and berries, had breached this place. As had her mother, the sun itself, which beamed in through cracks, laddered limelight for the wasps buzzing overhead. Along with a cricket, they were the only things making any noise in here. The birdsong outside was gone.
Clambering across some rubble and bricks, Sam held the tractor’s bumper for balance. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘There’s a hatch here.’
They moved a few tyres off the trapdoor, then he kicked the rusted handle with his heel until it sprung free. It was rough, cold on his fingers as he lifted it open – creaking hinges, heavy timber. No treasure, only stairs – each sanded to a dull shine in the middle – leading into the gloomy earth.
Lowering himself, Sam put his full weight on one of the steps. When he realised it was sturdy, he climbed all the way down, brushing cobwebs from his cheeks.
The basement was about half the size of the barn, but narrow, propped up with whittled pillars and hammered pegs. Cool air radiated from every wall. It felt like the bowels of a galley – a shipwreck washed inland, left to bleach in the sun. Slits between the hard floorboards above were almost an inch in width – some packed with dried dirt and hay, but others clear and glowing.
This was an ideal place to hide, to eavesdrop on the meeting. And, to ensure no one would suspect Isabelle was not alone, Sam told her to close the trapdoor behind him and move a couple of tyres back on top.
They whispered to each other once or twice while they waited, but holding a conversation was difficult. They were tense, alert. On the way here, they’d spoken about Freddie, about Sam’s divorce, about Abigail. About the leather bracelet Isabelle wore on her left wrist, a gift from Richard, her only memento from that lawless adventure. And, of course, they’d spoken at great length about the Clarkes.
Now though, they hardly said a word. Now, in this silence, Sam could see her sitting on top of a barrel, he looked up at her dark grey jeans and black top, her hair tied back in a ponytail.
But, from her point of view, he was just a voice in the ground.
‘They’re here,’ Isabelle said.
It seemed the Marstons had employed similar caution, arriving thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Sam listened to the engine grumbling outside, a graunch of rubber on rocks and gravel as it parked. Then silence. A door slammed. Footsteps.
‘You’re early,’ one of them said, as a second door thudded closed.
‘As are you,’ Isabelle replied, stepping away from the barrel.
The floorboards groaned and creaked, raining flecks of dirt. Two figures. Two men. As Sam leaned to his right to see more of the barn, something landed in his eye – he blinked, rubbed it away.
‘You came alone?’ This voice was quieter, strained – it belonged to someone who’d had throat surgery, maybe a laryngectomy. Only partial though. Half digital, half human. A coarse whisper.
‘Can I ask who you are?’ Isabelle said.
‘Sorry, where are my manners? This is Henry, I’m Gregory.’
The large man directly above him was Henry Marston Senior. Moving lower, craning his neck, Sam saw the underside of his stomach. He was wearing suit trousers, a pale-blue shirt and braces.
‘I understood Diane was coming?’ Isabelle added.
‘Does it matter?’ Gregory said, standing at the front of the barn, almost a silhouette from Sam’s perspective – his backdrop bright sky, wispy clouds, a summer haze. He was wearing jeans, a plain white T-shirt and seemed, and this was an unusual thought, like a normal person. A bald, middle-aged man, in the supermarket queue, on the pavement – there was nothing overtly threatening about either of them. However, donning horse masks and swinging crowbars, Sam imagined these brothers carried suitable malice – especially in the wet eyes of a helpless child.
‘Understand the terms?’ Gregory asked.
‘You identify this man,’ Isabelle said, holding up the piece of paper.
‘Then you leave us alone,’ Henry croaked.
‘And what about Freddie Maguire?’
Gregory stared at her – his face blank. ‘I have no idea who that is,’ he said.
This was one of those textbook lies, lazy, half-hearted – essentially a confession. Although Sam’s doubt had been negligible, now it was all gone. Now he knew these men were responsible. He held the pistol low and indulged himself a silent moment of violent fantasy. But no. No sense in that. Like any parent would, Sam felt the need for vengeance, but knew it was a hollow promise. It wa
s an urge to dismiss, like all primal drives at odds with human decency. Retribution was not, irrespective of his heart’s relentless claims, a remedy for rage.
‘Do we have a deal?’ Gregory said. ‘This whole thing ends.’
‘If you’re telling the truth then, of course, we will stop investigating you.’
Good answer, Sam thought – she could have lied.
‘I need your word. Promise, once we tell you who that is, it’s over.’
‘I promise.’
Gregory strode forwards, out from the rectangle of warm sky framing him, and further into the shadow, into the barn. ‘OK,’ he said, taking the piece of paper, looking down into the electronic sketch of that scarred face, the man at the centre of it all. ‘The person you’re after is called Ju—’
The sudden jingle of a loud ringtone interrupted him. Henry Marston Senior held up a finger and apologised. As he answered his phone, he turned his back on Isabelle and Gregory and took a few steps across the floorboards – now standing to Sam’s left, near the slumped tractor. He repositioned himself to be directly below.
‘Max,’ Henry said, his fingers pressed to his throat for the gift of speech. And then he started to breathe heavily. Deep, seething gasps, air drawn into his lungs – hoarse and slow through the remains of his voice box.
Sam’s mobile also came alive – a faint, single buzz on his thigh. Shielding the screen with his right hand, still holding the pistol, he rested it at his hip and read a text message from Lei R.
Big scene unfolding at Hallowfield General, it said. Apparently Henry Junior’s just flung himself off the roof.
Carefully exhaling, Sam slid his phone back into his pocket. Here it was again. Modest information – changing his body, raising his pulse.
‘God, dear God.’ Henry was hissing above. ‘My boy. My . . . my boy.’
Alarmed, as she should be, Isabelle’s attention went to the floorboards. But she could not find Sam.
‘No, no,’ Henry breathed into his phone. ‘Wait for me. I want to be there, I want to do it myself . . . Sharp tools . . . and a tooth for a tooth.’ He hung up. ‘Deal’s off, bitch,’ he whispered, turning back to Isabelle. ‘My son is dead . . . You tell that fucking piece of shit—’
