If It Bleeds

by Bernie Crosthwaite

  Annie flinched. “I hope her death was quick. I hope she didn’t suffer too much. I hope the son-of-a-bitch who did this rots in hell!”

  I’d given Father Thomas C minus for his performance. If Annie was simulating her grief and anger she was making a good job of it, B plus at least. Of course that didn’t mean Father Thomas was lying, or that Annie was telling the truth.

  “Did you know Lara had an abortion when she was fifteen?”

  Annie sank back on her chair. “No, I didn’t.” She sounded disappointed. “She never told me. But that was Lara.” Annie lit up and for a moment her face was lost in a cloud of grey smoke. “Why couldn’t she tell me? I was her friend. She could have told me anything. I’m unshockable, you know.”

  “You loved her?” I asked quietly.

  “Didn’t everyone?”

  “Maybe, at first. But Lara had been deeply hurt, and I suspect she left a lot of hurt in her wake.”

  “What are you saying?”

  I closed my eyes. Exhaustion and shock were taking their toll. But the troubling images I’d seen in Lara’s bedroom wouldn’t go away. I was too tired to think of a roundabout way to ask Annie what I needed to know. “Did you sleep with her?”

  “None of your business!” Annie stood up abruptly. The cat, reflecting her movements, reared up from my lap, and digging its claws in, prepared itself to leap on to the floor. But before it could let fly, Annie grabbed it from me and clutched it to her chest, her cigarette nearly singing its ear off. It set off a yowling so primeval it made my skin crawl.

  “She turned you down?”

  She hurled the cat on to the floor. “We were friends, OK? If I wanted more than that she never knew it. I never told her. And now she’s gone.” She scrunched her cigarette on to a plate. “Satisfied?”

  “Not till the person who killed Lara is caught and put behind bars, no.” I zipped up my jacket. “I nearly forgot. Here’s the key to Lara’s flat.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  I put it on the coffee table. “Nor do I.”

  There was no way I could ever go in there again.

  Twenty-one

  According to the estate agents’ brochure, Chapel House was in the village of Gunnerston, about ten miles outside Ravenbridge. There was no address but in a small village like that it wouldn’t be hard to find.

  The recent snowfall had blurred the outlines of everything except the trees, which were etched with white against the pewter sky as if a child had outlined them with a thick white crayon. The gritters had been out, so the road was clear. It looked like there would be more snow, but as I was going east rather than west where the darkest clouds were massing, I decided to go anyway. I reckoned I’d be there and back before it came on again.

  Once out of town I wound my window down to get a blast of fresh air to blow away the staleness of 15 Stonebeck Avenue. As the road climbed up into the hills I hit a patch of sleet. I shut the window quickly. The sleet was thick and wet, forcing my windscreen wipers to work overtime.

  As I drove, one image kept coming back to me — Lara’s body, lying stiffly on the park bench, the front of her T-shirt drenched with blood. There was something odd about that, not just the fact it wasn’t Lara’s blood. What was it? I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. There was too much of it all in one spot for the blood to be the result of someone else’s dripping wound. She was already dead when the cuts were made and the human body doesn’t bleed after death. But the way the pool of blood was concentrated on her chest made it look as if she had bled copiously from the wounds. The only explanation I could think of was that whoever killed her must have carefully added more gore to give that impression. But why?

  I reached a crossroads. The signpost had been obliterated with snow but I knew Gunnerston was off to the right. The narrow road led past Scowgill Reservoir. I pulled in at a layby just beyond the head of the dam. This used to be one of my favourite places. Ben Greenwood and I had come up here a lot, but I hadn’t been this way since we split.

  To create the reservoir over a hundred years ago they had drowned the village of Scowgill. In dry summers the spire of the church could be seen rising from the receding water like Excalibur. In very rare drought conditions the abandoned houses were exposed too.

  The sleet had stopped. Up here there were even a few breaks in the dark grey sky, the clouds broken up and pushed on by the icy wind. I walked along the concrete bridge so that I could look down on the vast sluice gates. The lake was full, but I couldn’t help peering into the water, trying to detect the submerged village. For a moment I thought I could see the spire, or was it the bell tower of the old schoolhouse? The light changed and the mirage was gone, a trick caused by scudding clouds reflected in water. When I first learnt about photography, it had reminded me of Scowgill Reservoir, the way something hidden can emerge from watery depths, as if by magic.

  I thought of going back to the car to get my Nikon, then remembered it was still in the stationery cupboard at work. In my haste to gather my few possessions together I’d forgotten all about my favourite camera. I cursed under my breath. Not having my faithful old Nikon with me felt like having a limb chopped off.

  I stared into the lake for another few minutes but it wasn’t giving up any secrets and I was freezing. I trotted back to the car and drove on towards Gunnerston.

  It was a beautiful village, built of mellow grey-gold stone, with a three-arched bridge over the river. In summer it attracted hordes of walkers and day-trippers. Even on an arctic day like this I wasn’t surprised to see a middle-aged couple striding out in heavy waterproofs and stout boots.

  I drove slowly past Gunnerston Mill, once a working mill powered by a great iron wheel. The wheel was still there, but motionless now, and the mill itself had been converted into holiday flats. I hadn’t been up here for so long I couldn’t remember exactly where the chapel was, but once I saw the stumpy church tower I turned round and drove back through the village. Anglicans at one end of the village, Non-Conformists at the other, that was the usual pattern in villages in these parts.

  And there it was. Unmistakably a Methodist chapel with its dour flat front, the windows covered with grilles, giving it the grim look of a Victorian workhouse. I parked further along, in front of a rusty field gate that looked as if it hadn’t been opened for decades, then walked back. There was a strong smell of pig slurry in the air, emanating from the farm opposite the chapel. A dead mole had been nailed to the farm fence, its fur dull like worn suede. With its spread-out limbs it reminded me of the way Hayley’s ferret had clung to the tree trunk. I wondered if Rob had cremated it yet, if its ash was blowing in the wind down Weaver Street.

  I crossed the road to Chapel House. A Kerwin and Black for sale sign was propped up against the railings. A stone slab set into the wall above the double front doors read Wesleyan Chapel 1849. I rang the bell and listened to it ring hollowly through the building.

  As I expected there was no response.

  I walked around the converted chapel, trying to peer in the windows, but they were set high in the walls and the iron bars made it difficult to get near. I cursed myself for what looked like a fruitless trip when I should have been back in Ravenbridge following up other leads. Leads? Who was I kidding? I had fragments, impressions, niggling uncertainties, but no clear picture at all. Out here at least I was doing something.

  Round the back the small garden was dark and neglected. I ploughed on through grass tall enough to poke through the layer of snow. I checked each window. At last I came to one that was at normal height and not covered by a grille, clearly a modern addition to the house to let more light into the dingy interior.

  Peering through the dirty glass, I could see the original chapel, stripped of its pews and pulpit to make one large downstairs room. In the corner a spiral staircase led to the upper floor, which must have been converted from the choir loft. If this was where Lara brought her men, she must have revelled in desecrating what had once been a place
of worship.

  Moving on, I nearly tripped over a ladder lying flat in the long grass. I was tempted to heave it upright and take a look through the upstairs window, but I didn’t fancy another ignominious fall. Having checked that the back door was locked, I returned to the front, rattling the handle on the main door, just in case I got lucky. It was locked too.

  I stood on the footpath wondering what to do next. The village had a good pub as I recalled, but it was well past lunchtime and I wasn’t sure it would still be open. There was only one way to find out.

  I heard an engine being driven too fast down the narrow street. It was a Land Rover, rattling its way towards the farm. I stopped to let it go by. But the driver pulled up beside me, braking hard. A tweed-covered elbow was sticking out through the window. The owner was a man with a square face and hard pink cheeks.

  “Is that your car up there?” He jerked a thumb behind him. “The daft-looking thing with the shark’s teeth?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “It’s blocking my gate. Get it shifted.”

  I was next to certain he never opened the gate. He was just enjoying being awkward. Strangers were always fair game. “Is it urgent? I thought I’d grab a sandwich at the pub.”

  “I need to get feed to my sheep.”

  “Right.”

  I started off in the direction of the Triumph Herald.

  “Hey!”

  I turned round and waited for the next round of Bait the Visitor.

  “I saw you poking round Chapel House. You interested in buying it?”

  I walked slowly back. “Might be. Depending how much they want for it, of course.”

  “Seen inside?”

  “No, I just noticed it as I was passing.”

  “I can let you in.”

  Now I was really interested. “You mean, I can look round?”

  “If you want to.”

  “How come you’ve got a key?”

  “My sister used to live there.”

  I wondered briefly about the number of spare keys floating around the world. First Annie, now this apple-cheeked farmer. It was quite worrying. But it also meant I could take a look inside Chapel House. My trip wasn’t fruitless after all.

  “I’d really like to see it. Is that OK?”

  He was already opening the door of the Land Rover and jumping down.

  “No time like the present.”

  Strange that the feeding of sheep was no longer the urgent priority it had been two minutes ago.

  *

  I’d hoped he’d let me in, then leave me alone to look round. But he tagged along just behind as I wandered around the big open living room. I made the appropriate noises as if I was really interested in buying the place. In fact it was the last place on earth I would choose to live. There was still too much chapel about it and not enough house. The farmer didn’t say much, just followed me like a shadow, towering over me as he dogged my every step.

  “Has there been much interest?”

  “A fair bit. They come and look but nobody buys. That estate agent, Gilmore I think they call him, the one with the bad skin, he brought a few people along, women mostly. But lately it was the girl, the one that was murdered.”

  I glanced at him. “Did you ever speak to her?”

  “Once or twice.” He looked uncomfortable. “There’s a downstairs loo.” He opened a door tucked behind the staircase.

  I peeped in at the tiny room. “Very nice. Very useful.” He followed me into the small kitchen down a couple of steps at the back of the house. “What kind of people have looked round so far?”

  His eyes narrowed in an unappealing leer. “Funny that, how Mr Gilmore seemed to specialise in women clients, but the girl always seemed to bring men here.”

  “On their own?” I asked innocently. “I thought estate agents were meant to work in pairs?”

  He laughed outright. “They did that too.”

  “Sorry?”

  He tapped the side of his nose. “They came here together a few times, without a client I mean.”

  “Checking on the property, I expect.”

  “That’ll be it,” he smirked.

  I shrugged, feigning lack of interest, but my mind was in overdrive. So Craig Gilmore had used this remote place to shag women, including Lara, and she in her turn had used it with her men. No wonder Gilmore had seemed so shifty.

  I ran my fingers along the kitchen units. “Solid oak, I’d say. Your sister had good taste.” I was lying. They were thinly veneered teak. I wouldn’t give the ugly things house room. “Did anyone come back here more than once?”

  The leer flitted across his face again. “Yep. Most of them seemed to want to take another tour. But like I say, none of them seemed interested in buying.”

  I left the kitchen and started up the spiral staircase. “I can manage up here. I won’t be long.”

  I scuttled up the steps. The upper half of the chapel had been boarded to create another large open space and a bathroom. I looked up into the rafters, which I could almost reach up and touch. An original round window let light in at the front, and a larger modern casement did the job at the back. The room was bare, apart from an enormous wardrobe that looked impossible to get down the stairs, and a tatty old sofa.

  Even though I had an antipathy for religious buildings I could see it would be a rather beautiful room when decorated and furnished. It was both spacious and intimate. As I walked around I could detect a faint smell, vanilla or jasmine. Drops of candle wax on the bare floor suggested perfumed candles. What the farmer had told me confirmed my suspicion that this was where Lara had had sex with a series of male clients. Then she met Daniel and put an end to such sordid liaisons. Had one of those men reacted badly to that? Badly enough to kill her?

  I idly opened the wardrobe door. As I expected it was empty, just a few wire hangers rattling together in the sudden draught. As I closed it, I noticed something on the floor, almost hidden under the wardrobe. I reached down and picked it up. It was the metal top from a beer bottle, a brand I didn’t recognise.

  I felt the presence of someone in the room. Looking round, I saw the farmer looking at me intently. How had he come up so silently? I glanced at his feet. He’d removed his wellingtons and climbed the stairs in his socks. I slipped the bottle top into my pocket, stood up straight and closed the wardrobe door.

  “What a lovely piece of furniture. Is it in the price?”

  He didn’t answer. He tugged his cap off and scratched his scalp. He was younger than I first thought. Mid-forties, I guessed. He came towards me slowly, still fixing me with his feverish stare. I stepped back.

  “Lara — the girl who died — you know why she brought men here, don’t you?” he murmured.

  “I assume they were prospective buyers.”

  He gave a high-pitched laugh. “You could say that. She certainly put her wares on display.”

  “How do you know that?” But I’d already guessed the answer. He liked to climb the ladder I’d found round the back and watch everything that was going on. There were no curtains at the window, and the candles must have lighted up the action like a stage set.

  “You women are all the same.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “My wife, for instance. She buggered off with a tractor salesman. Couldn’t take the life, you see. Not enough parties, having to go all the way into Ravenbridge to shop. That’s women for you, only interested in having a good time.”

  “That’s your opinion.” He came even nearer but I refused to give any more ground. “I’ve seen enough. I expect you want to feed those sheep of yours.”

  I tried to walk round him, but he stretched out and caught me by the arm.

  “Let go of me,” I said quietly.

  He pulled me near to him. I could smell whisky on his breath. I could see the open pores on his nose. With his other hand he grabbed my neck, then planted a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth. I pushed him hard in the chest. He stumbled backwar
ds, his legs ramming into the end of the sofa, and crumpled to the floor, flat on his back, a surprised look on his face. He tried to get up, but only managed to lumber on to all fours like a large arthritic dog.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “Excuse me?” I said incredulously. Perhaps Lara’s behaviour had made him think that sex was the normal payment for showing someone round a house. Or perhaps he regarded himself as lord of the manor and me as a lowly peasant, and he liked to keep up the old tradition of droit du seigneur. Or perhaps he was just crazed with loneliness and drink.

  He staggered to his feet, then fell against me, fumbling at my breasts. “You smell nice,” he whispered thickly. The strength in his hands conveyed his desperate need. He nuzzled my neck.

  “No!” I roared. But he wouldn’t let go, and he was bigger and stronger than me. I knew with terrible certainty that I was out of my depth. I pushed and scratched but his hands were everywhere, ripping my shirt and clawing at my jeans. A feeling of powerlessness began to overwhelm me. I cursed my stupidity. But how was I to know? He had seemed a bit creepy, but not a potential rapist.

  I thought as clearly as I could, even though my brain was beginning to go into panic mode. There was only one way out of this.

  I went limp in his grasp. “All right,” I whispered. “Shall we go back to your place?”

  “No,” he panted. “Let’s do it here.”

  His eyes glistened like shiny brown buttons as I slipped off his tweed jacket with its milk and straw odour. I loosened the shirt from his trousers. He stood dumbly, like a child, while I unhitched his belt and let his trousers fall. I made my actions measured and calm, trying not to show how frightened I was.

  I let my jacket slide down my arms to the floor, then started to undo the remaining buttons on my shirt, wriggling my hips lasciviously. He stared down my cleavage. Once his gaze was locked on to the dark line between my breasts, I brought my booted foot up sharply and kicked him in the testicles as hard as I could.

  He yelped with shock then cried out in agony, collapsing to the floor, rolling on to his side and curling up like a foetus.