Miss Sarah coughs again, taking another sip of water.
‘D-d… Don…’ she says, tears filling her eyes, making them seem bluer than ever. She shudders.
‘It’s OK,’ Mel says, ‘you’re doing fine. Tell us what you know, Miss Sarah… Mum.’
‘Don… ald. Donald Bray,’ she whispers, as though the words are made of lead.
Mel turns to the others, her eyes huge as she glances between the three men, her mouth hanging open. Her eyes land on Tom’s, noticing his expression change to one of shock.
‘Oh, Christ,’ he says, his jaw clenching tight, a hand coming up to his brow. ‘Bray lives out that way, down Combrook Lane. We need to find Kate. And fast.’
Forty-Six
Mel dials PC Gordon’s mobile number. It takes a moment to connect but then goes to her voicemail service. Her heart sinks. ‘Hi, yes, this is Mel Douglas from Moreton Inn. Can you call me back urgently, please? I may have a lead about Kate. Thanks.’
She paces about, clutching her phone, praying the constable gets in touch soon.
‘Call 101 and get put through to the local police station,’ Michael says. ‘Don’t wait for her to phone you back.’
‘You’re right,’ Mel says, her voice wavering. She dials and waits to be connected to the nearby force, giving all the details to them yet again, including Donald Bray’s name, to the officer on duty.
‘He pulled up the original case file and is going to see what he can do,’ she says after hanging up. ‘Apparently they’re short-staffed, but he says he’ll try to get someone to look into this new information soon.’ Mel shakes her head. ‘What am I supposed to do meantime? I don’t even know if anyone’s actually out searching.’
Distraught, she leaves the others to discuss what the best plan is and heads out towards the toilets. But she stops in her tracks when she sees the back door open and Miss Sarah standing in the middle of the excavated site, staring down into the trench. She follows her out, wondering how she unlocked the door.
‘I didn’t see you leave the bar,’ Mel says, approaching her. But then she already knows Miss Sarah has an uncanny knack of appearing and disappearing around the place like an apparition. ‘Are you OK?’
Miss Sarah doesn’t say a word. Rather, she just looks down into the concrete-lined hole, staring at the place where the anthropologists removed the remains. They’d dug another, bigger hole around it in order to check and sift through the surrounding soil, in case there were any other relevant artefacts. Or more bones, Mel had thought.
‘So sad, isn’t it?’ Mel says. ‘I wonder what happened?’ She glances at Miss Sarah, whose eyes are dancing over the site, her mouth twitching and her shoulders tense as she stares into the hole. Mel spots a bunch of keys poking out from her cardigan pocket, unsurprised that she has a set if she’s lived here so long. It makes her wonder if that’s where the key to room seven has ended up.
‘Maybe we should have just left it well alone,’ she says. ‘It would all have been buried again once the trench was backfilled. Let the poor little mite have some peace. It’ll be in a lab now, being examined every which way, I suppose. I understand the police have to investigate, but—’
Miss Sarah lets out a noise – something between a sob and a growl.
‘Are you OK?’ Mel asks again, taking her hand.
Silence.
‘It’s pretty hard to take in all this stuff about mothers and daughters, right? Especially on top of everything else. I don’t know much about this DNA website, but maybe there was a mix-up.’ Though Mel knows the chances of a mistake by the DNA lab, as well as encountering Miss Sarah at the very place she’s inherited, are extremely remote.
She sighs, feeling the warmth of the sun on her back as the pair of them stare down into the trench. It almost feels like a funeral, Mel thinks. Only without a body.
Suddenly, Miss Sarah drops to her knees and swings her legs over the edge of the hole. Her feet and hands scuff in the dirt as she lowers herself down into it. Before Mel can do or say anything, she’s frantically tearing at the mud with her bare hands, clawing and scratching away at the side walls with her fingers. As she works, she lets out throaty little noises, her hair coming loose from its usual bun. Long, faded blonde strands of it fall around her face as she works.
‘Miss Sarah, what are you doing?’ Mel says, getting down on her knees. ‘What are you looking for?’
Miss Sarah doesn’t say a word, rather she sinks her hands into the soft earth on the inner side of the trench, to the left of where the anthropologists had excavated. Her hands move fast, more soil falling away as she works, her fingernails filled with dark crescents of mud. Then she spins around and tries another area, her breathing getting faster and the little moans getting more urgent. She swipes her hair out of the way, smearing muck on her face as the dirt mixes with the tears on her cheeks.
Mel climbs into the trench beside her, trying to catch her hands. ‘Miss Sarah, stop. You’ll hurt yourself. What are you doing?’ She finally manages to take hold of her frail wrists – though they seem anything but frail as she forces herself away from Mel, tearing into another section of earth. ‘Please, this is madness. Mum, stop!’
On hearing this, Miss Sarah slows, her hands leaning on the edge of the trench, her back hunched, her head hanging down. Her shoulders bounce up and down in time with her sobs. Mel pulls her into her arms.
‘OK, it’s OK,’ she says, stroking her hair, which feels surprisingly soft. ‘Let’s get you back inside and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Slowly, Miss Sarah looks up at Mel. She sniffs as she hauls herself out of the hole, brushing herself down as she follows Mel back inside.
‘Tom has been telling me about this Donald Bray character, Mel,’ Michael says, a concerned look on his face as she heads back into the bar with Miss Sarah. ‘He sounds shady and dangerous. I don’t like it.’
‘Me neither,’ Mel replies, agitated. ‘I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him,’ she says, remembering the newsagent, as well as last night, how he almost hit her when she was crossing the road. ‘I swear he’s got it in for me.’ She lets out a little whimper, forcing herself not to fall apart.
‘Bray is a nasty piece of work,’ Tom says. ‘But from what I know, he’s a bit of a recluse these days,’ he adds. ‘He must be well into his seventies by now, but still fit with it. My dad had a few ugly encounters with him back in the day.’
‘Recluse or not, I want to go up there, see if there’s any sign of Kate. I can’t just sit here and do nothing, especially if the police aren’t on it yet.’ Mel stands, zipping up her hoodie.
Miss Sarah is sitting in her usual window spot again, looking as though she’s been in a fight, but she manages a small smile when Nikki brings her a pot of tea. When they came back inside, Mel had pulled a stern face to the others, shaking her head to warn them not to ask questions about the state of her.
‘But I don’t see what Billy has got to do with Bray,’ Mel says impatiently, trying to work out some kind of link. ‘Billy doesn’t know this part of the country, as far as I’m aware, let alone any old men around here.’
‘Maybe it’s just coincidence, Mel,’ Michael says. ‘But I agree, and I think a scout around that area is worthwhile. I’m sure the police are out searching as best they can, but it doesn’t look as if they’ve got the resources to treat this as urgently as we’d like.’
‘Agreed,’ Angus chips in. ‘I’ll help search too. It’ll at least make us feel as though we’re doing something.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Tom says, standing up, the three of them gathering by the door.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Mel says. ‘Every second counts here.’ She glances at Miss Sarah, the early-evening light spilling in through the window around her.
‘Try not to worry,’ Michael says quietly, coming up to Mel and grabbing her wrist as she’s leaving. ‘I’ll stay here and hold the fort, in case the police come or Kate returns. And I’ll keep an eye on her,
too,’ he whispers, tracking her eyes to where Miss Sarah sits.
‘Thank you, Micky,’ Mel says, squeezing his hand before dashing outside, following the others to Tom’s pick-up truck.
Forty-Seven
Mel sits in the passenger seat with Angus behind her in the back of the large truck. She buckles up as Tom pulls away, obsessively checking her phone has enough charge in it and that she’s not missed any calls. ‘Is it far?’ she asks Tom as he pulls out of the car park, the wheels spinning on the loose tarmac.
‘Not too far,’ he replies, focusing on the road as he speeds down the hill. ‘Combrook Lane joins the village on the other side of the bay. It heads inland for a mile or so before petering out at a field gate. It’s a while since I’ve been down there.’
Mel acknowledges him with a nod, wishing he could drive faster but the road is narrow and winding.
‘I’m not trying to scare you, Mel, but a lot of parents stop their kids playing down there because of Bray. Even when I was a boy, Dad wouldn’t let me cycle out that way.’
‘Oh God,’ Mel croaks, not sure she wants to know any more.
‘Like I said, Dad had a number of run-ins with him. Axes were well and truly ground,’ Tom continues, his eyes fixed firmly ahead.
‘Over Joyce?’ Mel is aware that Angus is listening from the rear seat but he remains silent, not knowing about these people.
‘Mum died when I was young and Dad was very protective of me after that. He never met anyone else, but the poor guy always had a thing for Joyce. Maybe he saw a softer side to her or something, I don’t know,’ Tom says, his hands tightening on the wheel as the truck lurches around a narrow bend at the bottom of the hill.
For a moment, he concentrates on the road, speeding too fast through the village. Mel grabs hold of the door handle to steady herself.
‘When I went into the bar as a teenager, it was clear that Donald Bray had some kind of control over Joyce. He was always hanging around.’
‘Control?’ Mel asks, her eyes scanning around urgently in case she catches sight of Kate.
Tom shakes his head as if he doesn’t want to say.
‘If it’s got something to do with Billy and Kate, then you have to tell me,’ Mel says loudly, trying to be heard above the engine noise as Tom hammers through the gears, driving over the speed limit along the esplanade.
‘Bray was violent and argumentative, especially to any men who so much as glanced at Joyce. Word was that he used to knock her about a bit—’
When Mel suddenly turns, gasping at him in horror, Tom falls silent for a moment.
‘I never saw evidence of that, mind you. But Joyce never exactly seemed happy either. She could be as surly as the best of them.’
‘Not everyone who’s survived abuse is miserable, you know,’ Mel says, staring out of the window again, her eyes darting everywhere.
‘I know,’ Tom says, touching her arm briefly. ‘Bray liked to think he was Lord of the Manor. I once saw him hurl a tankard at a bloke just for chatting to Joyce. He was vile when he spoke to her, or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Dear God, please don’t let him have Kate,’ Mel mutters under her breath and the sound of the straining engine as they head out of the village and up a steep hill, mirroring the one on the other side of the bay.
‘So where does Miss Sarah fit into all of this?’ she asks, wishing they could go even faster. ‘The detective who came about the bones said that Joyce was her mother. Is that true?’
‘Everyone used to speculate. But Miss Sarah never said a word, and no one ever dared ask Joyce. Lots of gossip, but no one really knew.’ Tom steps on the brake as he swings the truck around a tight bend.
‘Do you think Bray is Sarah’s father?’ Mel continues, shuddering at the thought of being related to him.
‘Damn, missed the turning,’ Tom says, swinging round to look behind, one arm lashed over the back of Mel’s seat as he reverses back down the steep hill. The engine wheezes and grinds. ‘There, look,’ he says, putting the truck into first gear. ‘Combrook Lane.’
Mel sees a small sign half concealed in the hedge as they turn down the single-track lane, leaving the village behind. ‘Christ, I can’t stand to think of Kate all the way out here last night,’ she says, a sob tightening her throat.
‘Right, keep your eyes peeled,’ Tom says. A breeze comes into the cabin as Angus winds down his window to get a better view. ‘We don’t really know what we’re looking for and, of course, she could be long gone from the area now if she’s with her dad.’
‘Agreed,’ Mel says, leaning forward and peering out of the front window. She prays that Kate is with Billy. She doesn’t like the sound of this Bray character one bit.
‘You’ve got the campsite in there,’ Tom says, pointing to a faded sign in a gateway showing a tent and toilet symbol. ‘And further down there are a couple of farms.’
‘Campsite!’ Mel cries out. ‘Oh my God, of course. Why didn’t I think of that before? Quick, go back. Billy often camped in the back of whatever van or car he had at the time.’ Mel doesn’t mention that it was when he was either homeless or the court had banned him from coming near her. ‘I bet that’s where he’s taken Kate.’
Tom reverses and turns into the basic-looking site. He bumps along the track as they head into the field, driving around the dozen or so camps that have been set up. There’s one small motorhome and the rest seem to be two-man tents, apart from a couple of larger, family-sized ones pitched.
‘No sign of his van,’ Mel says, scanning around. ‘Look, there’s the office. Drive up and I’ll ask the owner.’
When Tom pulls up alongside the small office building, attached to the side of an old farmhouse, Mel leaps out and dashes inside, frantically ringing the little bell on the counter. ‘Hello?’ she calls out. ‘Anyone here?’ A moment later, a woman, mid-fifties, saunters in from outside.
‘Sorry, love. I was just hosing down the shower block. After a pitch?’
‘No, no. I’m looking for someone, actually. He may have camped here. Billy Morgan. He drives an old red Transporter. Have you seen him?’ Mel whips her phone from her pocket and shows the woman a picture. ‘It’s urgent.’
She takes a moment to look. ‘’Fraid not,’ she says, pulling off her yellow rubber gloves. ‘Not had anyone new in for three or four days now. And no one in a red van. Sorry, love.’
Mel rushes out and climbs back in Tom’s truck. ‘No luck,’ she says, deflated. ‘I was convinced I was on to something there. I can’t think why Billy would be down here with Kate otherwise.’
‘Unless it wasn’t Billy she was seen with,’ Angus chimes in, causing goosebumps to break out on Mel’s arms.
Tom steers the truck down the track that narrows even further as it veers inland, driving as fast as he dares. ‘There’s the Grangers’ farm on the right there,’ he says, pointing to a long drive with a white farmhouse at the end of it. ‘And a bit further on is another farm, though I can’t recall who owns it now. At the end of the lane, there’s a collection of old barns and an old cottage, if I recall rightly.’
‘Bray’s place?’ Mel asks, glancing across at him.
Tom nods, focusing on the road that’s now so narrow it has grass and weeds growing down the middle.
‘Let’s head straight there, then,’ Mel says, feeling fear creeping up her throat. ‘There’s no time to waste.’
It’s Angus who leaps out of the cab to open the rickety five-bar gate marking the end of the lane. Not locked, but not fully open either, he walks it back, holding it wide and pressing up against the brambly hedge as Tom drives through. He waits for Angus to get in before driving on again.
‘Creepy,’ Mel says, leaning forward and peering up at the canopy of trees that bear down overhead as they drive in. Nothing like the little grotto Tom made in the spinney the other night, she thinks. More like a sinister hawthorn-and-bramble tangled thicket with trees like gnarly fingers all around them.
‘There are
the barns over on the left,’ Tom says, pointing to another gateway off the rough track. ‘Falling down now, by the looks of it. And down here is where Bray’s place is.’ He steers round to the right, the land sloping downwards, still surrounded by trees and high hedges, making it dark and gloomy.
‘Dear God, don’t let Katie be anywhere around here,’ Mel mutters, suppressing a sob as they pass what looks like an old pigsty, half of its rusty, corrugated tin roof having fallen in with ivy strangling the weathered bricks. Beyond that are old livestock pens, rotting bales of straw fallen from what would once have been a stack, and a heap of manure up against a weathered grey shed of some kind.
Tom follows the track around the corner beside the shed, and Mel sees what looks like another half falling-down farm building – a part-brick, part-timber structure with a corrugated tin roof. Two small, dark windows are set either side of a flaking, dark green painted door, and it’s only the uneven chimney poking out from the low roof that makes it identifiable as a house.
‘Bray’s place,’ Tom says in a dour voice, peering around as he cuts the engine and unclips his seat belt. ‘I’ll go and give it a recce.’
‘I’m coming too,’ Mel says, getting out of the truck, with Angus following as they head across the uneven cobbled and weedy yard. She hears the distant screech of seagulls beyond the thick trees, and the air is still and chilled – almost completely devoid of light because of the heavy canopy of trees around them.
‘Did you hear that?’ Mel whispers, catching up with Tom and grabbing the sleeve of his check shirt.
‘Just a rooster,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Heard us coming probably,’ he adds as they draw up to the dilapidated house.
‘No wonder Bray is a miserable bugger living here,’ Mel says, turning to check Angus is still with them. ‘Do you think we should knock?’
‘No,’ Tom whispers, creeping up to one of the small, paned windows to the side of the door. Slowly, he edges closer, cupping his hands against the grimy glass and peering inside. ‘Empty in here,’ he says quietly.
Single Mother Page 25
