'But you told him about the needle house, didn't you?'
Ronnie fiddled with the old wedding ring on his finger. 'Sorry, love, I forgot.'
'But I offered to write out a list of questions and you told me not to be stupid. You promised me you'd remember!'
Ronnie looked at his granddaughter; there was no mistaking the disappointment on her face. Bloody useless he was. 'Oh, hang on,' he fumbled in the pocket of his old jacket and pulled out a card. 'He asked me to give you this.'
She nearly removed two of his fingers as she snatched for the card. It had Fossey's name, home number and email address on the front. She flicked it over and there was his mobile number scrawled on the back; this was just so unreal, so perfect.
She slipped the card into the back pocket of her jeans as if it were a winning lottery ticket. 'I wonder what he thought of the house?'
'You know, Jenna; I've been thinking, maybe this isn't such a good idea.'
'What!'
Ronnie winced at the shock and outrage in her voice. 'I mean, what if he wants to put us in his next book?'
Jenna squatted in the dust. 'Well, that would be fantastic.'
Ronnie pursed his lips. 'I'm not so sure.'
'Of course it would. I mean, do you have any idea how many places he visits?'
'Not a clue.'
'Like dozens,' she spoke as if talking to a small child or, worse still, an idiot. 'In his last book he talks about how many of these places are simply a con. You know, some of these people would kill to get into print.'
'But why the hell would they do that?'
'Think about it, a lot of them are manor houses or stately homes. Places that would really benefit from having Patrick Fossey write about them, it's like a glowing endorsement.'
'And it brings the punters in?'
'I suppose so.'
'I see, so it's a money-making scam?' Ronnie sniffed.
She glared at him, unsure if he was being deliberately stupid or perhaps he'd been out in the sun too long. 'Patrick Fossey isn't interested in that kind of thing.'
'Made his money, has he?'
Jenna could feel herself becoming exasperated. 'Look, he doesn't even rely on writing to make a living.'
'What do you mean?'
'I know Dad thinks he's just some weird 'new-age' writer, but what none of you realise is the fact that Mr Fossey is a psychologist,' she paused, 'an expert.'
'Really,' having met the man, this piece of news didn't really come as a surprise to Ronnie.
'He's helped the police on more than one occasion,' her voice was slowly rising in anger.
Ronnie held up his hands in an effort to placate his granddaughter.
'All I'm saying is, that if he is interested and decides to write about this place then it could open the floodgates.'
'What floodgates are we talking about exactly?'
'Well, think about it, we could end up with all sorts of nutters turning up, thinking they've got the right to go where they please.'
She couldn't believe her ears. 'You're worried about people trespassing?'
'You've already said these places get overrun with folk. It's all right for them in their big bloody houses; they're probably making a fortune out of the whole thing. All we'll get is owd hippies tramping through the wheat, leaving their crap everywhere,' he paused, 'or God knows what else.'
Jenna was gobsmacked, when she'd first considered contacting Fossey, her grandad had been behind her one hundred percent. The old man had even defended her against her dad when he was raising his 'over-the-top Dad concerns'. If it hadn't been for him, she would never have bothered with the research in the first place.
For as long as she could remember he'd told her stories about the farm and the surrounding land, he'd planted the seeds that had led her to this.
Instead of hanging around on street corners, getting pissed and building a drug habit, she had spent her time at the local library and history shop trawling through old microfiche films, digging out pictures and studying old maps. All with the aim of learning about the farm and the Radfield family who used to own great swathes of the Pennine moors, including the farm they now called home. They'd spent countless afternoons together searching through the ruins of the old manor house, crawling through thick undergrowth to search out the remains of the ancient mosaic floor.
She had it all in her head, the layout of the place as familiar to her as her own home. In addition, there were still reminders of the grandeur of the place. The needle house remained intact, perched on top of a nearby hill, like an ancient stone rocket primed and ready to blast off and the exotic gardens that tumbled down the hillside at different levels, a testament to one man's determination to manipulate and change nature.
Now he was getting cold feet, well sod that!
'Look, Grandad, we are not a stately home,' she tried to keep her voice level, tried to keep calm.
'I know that but the principle's still the same.'
'Don't be a bloody snob!'
The old man dropped the unlit cigarette back into his top pocket. 'Well, love, I've been called a lot of things in my time but ''snob'' has never been one of them.'
With a deflated sigh, she looked towards the horizon, a buzzard drifted by on a current of warm air.
'Have you talked about any of this with Mum and Dad?'
He pushed his thumb and forefinger under his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. 'No, love, I've said nowt.' When he looked up again, Jenna was kneeling down in front of him and he had to lean back on the bucket in order to focus.
'Look, we're getting ahead of ourselves; chances are he won't really be interested. At the end of the day I'm a seventeen-year-old kid and perhaps he's just being kind.'
'You mean patronising?'
'God, I hope not,' she paused, the thought too horrific to contemplate. 'But you never know.'
'Listen, when you get to my age you can smell 'patronising' a mile off, stinks worse than owd chicken shit it does, and he weren't like that.'
Jenna's eyes narrowed. 'Are you sure?'
'Positive,' he sighed. 'Though in a way I wish he had been.'
'What do you mean?' It was as if a complete stranger, a doppelganger had been beamed down into the chicken pen while she had been at college.
'He was the exact opposite, focused like; he wanted to know everything about the place. I suppose I were expecting some sort of mad professor type, you know all wild hair and thick as two short planks.'
'Like I said, Grandad, he's a psychologist.'
'Well, the bugger's definitely on the ball, I know that much.'
'But that's good isn't it? I mean, we want someone who's going to take us seriously.'
Ronnie looked unconvinced. 'Aye I suppose so.'
She paused for a moment, and then the penny dropped. 'That's why you didn't mention the needle house isn't it? '
'You and this Fossey bloke have a lot in common, lass.' Ronnie replied uncomfortably.
'I'll take that as a compliment, anyway, let's just see if he gets in touch.'
Ronnie rose and stretched his back, a grimace on his weather-beaten face.
'Oh, I think he will. When he came out of the old house, he didn't say much. Well, to tell you the truth I didn't really give him the chance.'
'And why not?'
'I'm not really sure; he seemed quiet as if he were giving something some serious thought. Plus, you know what the old Land Rover's like, it makes that much racket you can hardly hear yourself think, let alone hold a conversation.'
'But what about when you got back here?'
Ronnie rubbed a hand over his face. 'When I dropped him off he looked like he was going to start asking a load of questions.'
'And?'
Ronnie hesitated for a second. 'I made myself scarce.'
'Bloody hell, Grandad!'
Ronnie's wiry eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. Jenna swearing was unheard of, it was testament to how annoyed she really was, and the sad t
hing was he didn't blame her.
Maybe for the first time, Ronnie became truly aware of how much this whole business meant to her. To his granddaughter, having Patrick Fossey take an interest in her research was like having the second coming arrive on the farm complete with wellies and a scruffy little mutt.
She had relied on him to ask the questions, to be her representative, her gatherer of information and he had let her down, as she knew he would.
Yet despite this dawning bitter knowledge, Ronnie felt a deeper unease. By saying too little, maybe he had inadvertently said too much.
'Look, Jenna, let's wait and see what happens. I mean, he might ring tonight or tomorrow even,' he tried a smile of reassurance and came nowhere near to pulling it off.
'Yeah and he might not.'
'Well, like you pointed out, we're no stately home; we've got nowt to gain.'
Patrick Fossey would be back all right and when he did return he'd want to look beyond the obvious. Ronnie swallowed, suddenly feeling a sense of creeping unease.
6
He opens the imaginary drawer and takes out the mental images, holding them in his non-existent hands. A trick he learned in the army, perfect if you wanted to distance yourself from the horror, but he isn't interested in suppression.
Everything is studied in intimate detail. At this early stage, the slightest oversight could prove disastrous.
The victim had been immaterial, though he prides himself on his ability to think on his feet, to adapt. When he spotted the boy scuttling down the hillside, he'd decided to use this unexpected intrusion to his advantage, besides there came a point in any plan where you had to move things from the imagined to the tangible.
He smiles as he recalls how it had nearly unravelled. When the older boy had entered the house, his quarry had already been dying in his arms. He'd clamped a hand over the victim's mouth, listening to the sound of shuffling footsteps in the other room, aware of the heat, aware of the blood as it seeped through his shirt. Seconds slid by, the body sagged, suddenly feeling heavier, as if the departing spirit had added weight to the corpse. He'd watched through a gap in one of the boarded-up windows as the three teenagers climbed back up the hill towards the dark mass of trees.
Satisfied he wouldn't be disturbed, he went to work, slipping the strap around his head and flicking on the powerful torch. He removed the boy's clothes and shoes, tossing them into the darkened corner and then he began to cut, quick efficient strokes, pausing only twice to wipe the sweat from his forehead. If he wanted the plan to succeed, then leaving the body intact wasn't an option, he wanted to lead the police by the nose, from A to B from one grisly clue to the next.
Fifteen minutes later, he had carried the boy's internal organs, encased in a plastic feed sack, down to the septic tank. When the bundle hit the stagnant water, it released a fetid stench, dark bubbles rising to the surface as the gruesome bundle sank to the bottom. Grinning in the moonlight, the thought of some unfortunate having to search the murky depths gave him a warm inner glow. He'd walked back to the house, taking time to flatten the grass as he went. Once inside he made a thorough sweep of the room, the beam of light like a third eye blasting away the shadows.
The van was parked two hundred yards from the house, hidden by a dark mass of trees; he opened the back doors and slid what remained of the body into the back. For the first time since he had spotted the boy he allowed himself to relax, he could feel the blood on his shirt, stiffening the fabric as it dried.
Not that it mattered; they would be disposed of thoroughly. He lit a cigarette, they never mentioned it in the brochure, but it was one of the benefits of having a wood-burning stove.
7
Jenna had found it impossible to sleep, tossing and turning, checking the digital clock on the bedside cabinet as if she were an excitable child waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. At half-six, she heard the familiar sound of the tractor starting up, the heavy rumble of the diesel engine shaking the glass in the bedroom window. Five minutes later, she was in the kitchen making tea and toast, trying to keep herself occupied.
She headed back to her room and spent the next two hours on the laptop, scrolling through the images, pausing frequently to check a point of reference.
Fossey would be here in less than an hour.
It was bizarre, but she couldn't shake the ominous feeling, that buried in her research, there would be an error of such magnitude that she would never live it down.
Over the past few months, she'd shown her work to no one, not even Grandad, though now she was beginning to regret the decision; chewing a fingernail in apprehension, she rubbed at her aching eyes.
Fossey had phoned at half-nine the night before, it was a moment she had fantasised about for so long, though in all that time, she had never allowed for the possibility that she would be lost for words.
There had been an awkward pause on the line as he waited for her to answer a simple question, she stood rigid gripping the phone like a sprinter grips the baton.
Her mum had hovered at her shoulder, a concerned look on her face. For God's sake, she didn't need her mother holding her hand. Miraculously she'd found her voice and began to talk and the great thing, the amazing thing was that he'd sounded like a normal person, not some 'stuffy expert'.
He listened patiently, asking open-ended questions, allowing her to explain the whole thing to him. When she did hesitate, he simply pointed her in another direction and off she went.
She looked out of the window again. The fields rolled away into the distance, levelling out at the valley bottom before rising to the shimmering horizon.
The house was empty, Dad was out on the tractor and her mum and grandad had headed off into Horwich to do the weekly shop. Grandad would have been dropped off at the 'Radfield Arms' for a pint and a game of dominos with some of his old friends, Mum would pick him up on the return journey.
It was weird, but she'd wanted them all to be here when Fossey arrived; it would have been embarrassing, but still pretty cool.
Before she'd left, Mum had double-checked she would be OK.
'I know I'm being over protective, but don't forget if you need your father, he's in the top field and he's got his mobile.'
Jenna had virtually pushed her into the car, Grandad had given her his customary small wave as they drove away looking like a wizened old gnome off on his holidays.
A flash of light sparkled at the window; Jenna dashed across the room and peered out over the fields. A Range Rover appeared in the distance, weaving its way along the narrow lane. She held her breath as the vehicle approached, when it turned onto the drive, she swallowed her nerves and bolted for the door.
By the time the car pulled up at the house, Jenna was standing by the front door, trying her best to appear nonchalant.
Patrick Fossey waved through the open car window, before vanishing in a cloud of dust.
A few seconds later, he climbed from the car, wafting both hands in front of his face, his eyes screwed up tight. 'Sorry about that, I should have slowed down a bit,' he smiled and coughed. 'Hi, Jenna is it?'
Mum had been right; he did look younger than the cover photo on his book.
'Hi, Mr Fossey.'
A scruffy terrier appeared at the side window, licked the glass, and disappeared from view.
'Pleased to meet you,' he thrust out a hand. Jenna shook it, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks. 'Is it OK if I let the dog out?' he asked.
'Yeah, yeah that's fine.'
'I promise he won't chase anything,' he pulled open the door; the animal looked at them both from the back seat. 'I'm afraid he's a bit on the lazy side. Come on, T, out you get.'
The dog remained rooted to the spot, as if pondering whether it was worth the effort. Then he shook himself and leapt down, cocking his leg against the tyre of the Range Rover.
'Would you like to come in and have a drink or something?' As soon as the words left her mouth Jenna cringed, what was the matter with her! All the nerves o
f the night before came flooding back like long lost friends. ''A drink or something'', she could not believe she'd actually said that.
Fossey smiled. 'A cold drink would be great, help me get rid of all this dust.'
'I think there might be a couple of cans of beer in the fridge.'
'Fruit juice would be better if you have it.'
'What, oh yeah, you're driving.'
'Well, yes, but it's a little early to be cracking open the beers.'
Jenna blushed bright red, he'd only been here a couple of minutes and she'd managed to convey the image that she was a young tart who was trying to pry him with drinks. Way to go, girl.
Ten minutes later, ensconced in the kitchen, she was beginning to relax.
He told her to drop the 'Mr Fossey' it was Patrick to his friends. Jenna beamed and poured them both a cold glass of homemade ginger beer.
'And you say your grandad makes this?' Fossey held up the glass, studying the dark-brown drink.
'Mm, apparently it's a very old recipe.'
Fossey took a long swallow. 'It's delicious.'
The dog wandered around the kitchen sniffing at everything before curling up at Fossey's feet and feigning sleep.
'I still can't believe you're here.'
'Why's that?'
'I just never thought you'd be interested in my…' she paused, suddenly using the word research felt wrong. Research was done by professionals not seventeen-year-old girls who were still at college.
'Let me tell you, Jenna, it's been a long time since I've read anything that interested me more than your correspondence.'
She looked at him in suspicion. 'Really, you're not just saying that?'
Fossey held up his hands. 'Believe me, if I wasn't intrigued then I wouldn't be here.'
Lifting a CD disk from the kitchen table, she held it out.
'What's this?'
'I didn't know if you'd be in a rush, so I transferred all the files from the computer and burned them to disk for you.'
'That's great, but I've left today free.'
The Needle House Page 3
