The Needle House

by Robin Leslie Roughley

'Really?' she tried to keep the silly grin off her face and failed.

  'Well, yeah, I was hoping you could show me around?'

  'That would be brilliant.'

  'I checked with your mother to make sure it would be OK.'

  Jenna frowned, she'd kill her, all that fussing and yet she'd gone behind her back, checking up on Fossey.

  'I was concerned you might be doing revision, your mother mentioned you had exams coming up.' Fossey explained.

  ' I don't have another for a couple of weeks and anyway I have revised enough. I can afford to take time off.'

  'And how are they going so far?'

  'OK, I think.'

  'It's a while since I did any exams, but I remember the nerves well enough.'

  She smiled, the thought of him sweating over an exam seemed bizarre, but the admission made her warm to him even more.

  'So, where would you like to go first?' she asked.

  'Well, if it's OK with you I'd like to take another look at the old house.'

  'Gamekeeper's Cottage?'

  'Is that what they were? I did wonder.'

  'My great-grandfather lived in one of the houses.'

  Fossey placed the glass into the sink. 'Right well, if you're ready we can get off.'

  'Oh right, just hang on a sec,' crossing the room she opened the fridge and pulled out a small basket. 'I've put up a few sandwiches and a couple of cold drinks.'

  'More ginger beer?'

  She smiled in embarrassment. 'He always makes too much, we've got about four crates of the stuff left from last year, but he says the longer you leave it the better it tastes.'

  'A wise man, your grandad'.

  8

  Ashley studied the painting of his father with barely concealed loathing. It had been commissioned when he'd been in his early fifties and even then, his jowls had started to sag, the hair receding, the shoulders stooped. Hardly a flattering image, not that his father would see it as such.

  At forty-three Ashley had long ago given up any form of pretence, his father might have a title, but he was still a fool and an arse. He looked around the oak-panelled room, he'd never liked this house, and every time he was forced to come back here he despised it even more. Too many bad memories of growing up in a home that felt more like a boarding school. He noted that the room hadn't changed in over forty years; the grandfather clock still ticked away in the corner, the large, open fireplace contained a pile of dust-covered logs stacked in the grate. Yet Ashley knew the tray of decanters would be filled with the finest malt whiskies, the grate littered with the stumps of expensive cigars, no expense spared by his father especially when it came to life's little luxuries.

  The drive down from Scotland had been tiring and uneventful, giving him the perfect opportunity to finalize things in his mind. He had no doubt his father would be outraged when he learned the truth; he would see it as a betrayal. Not that Ashley cared. He heard the front door slam, a few seconds later the man himself entered with his usual bluster; unaware of his son standing in the corner, he headed straight for the decanter. Ashley watched as he filled his glass to the brim with single malt.

  'Good afternoon, Father.'

  Malcolm turned his head in surprise. 'Didn't see you there, my boy.' he replied, before tossing his head back and swallowing the contents of the glass.

  It had been eight months since he had seen his father and he could feel the instant animosity coming from the old man in waves. When he'd been younger it had bothered him enormously, this strange reticence that titled families seemed to possess. However, now he was glad of the fact that they hardly ever communicated, it made it easier to twist the knife.

  Malcolm poured himself another glass. 'And where the hell is Roberts? When I went out I distinctly told him to mow the front lawn.'

  'I've had a word, dispensed with his services.'

  Malcolm slammed the empty glass down on the table.

  'You've done what!'

  'I've let him go.'

  'Sacked him?'

  'Not as such.' Ashley pulled out a cigarette. 'I explained the situation and he was very understanding.'

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes, for the first time his only son was beginning to make him feel nervous. 'Situation, and what situation are we talking about, Ashley?'

  Ashley raised an eyebrow in surprise, he couldn't remember the last time his father had used his Christian name, as a child he had always referred to him as 'boy' or if he was feeling particularly paternal 'son'.

  'Look, Father, you seem to be labouring under a misconception.'

  'What are you waffling on about?'

  Ashley was beginning to enjoy himself; his father was a weak, pathetic specimen of a man. In any other circumstance, he would have been a failure, probably drinking his life away in some godforsaken inner-city slum.

  ''Lord Malcolm Radfield' sounds impressive doesn't it and looks good on the letterheads.'

  The vein in Malcolm's temple began to throb, his mouth dry, the need for another drink growing.

  'Though being a Lord becomes laughable when you have no money in the bank.'

  Malcolm refilled his glass, the decanter tinkling on the crystal and then he wandered over to the ox-blood Chesterfield, sitting down with a grunt.

  'You were always one for over-egging the pudding.'

  'You think so?' Ashley watched as the old man fumbled in the cigar box.

  'Look, there's been a Radfield in this house for over a hundred and fifty years; we've had the odd blip before…'

  'Talking of houses, I have a buyer.'

  Malcolm snapped his head around, his jowls flapping. 'I thought I told you, this house is not for sale, not now, not ever!'

  'Oh, I agree,' Ashley smiled when he saw the look of befuddlement plastered on the old man's ruddy face. 'I'm talking about the house in Fife.'

  'Certainly not, that house has been…'

  'Spare me the history lesson, we have no money, do you understand the consequences of that fact, Father? You,' he pointed a finger at his father, 'have squandered almost all of it.'

  'I…'

  'Look,' he pointed at a portrait on the wall, there were some similarities to Malcolm, the same bulk and stooped shoulders, but the eyes spoke volumes as to the determination of the man. 'It took that man a lifetime to build up this family's name and when I look at you I find it impossible to comprehend you are of the same stock. Now, I'm here to inform you that the house in Scotland will be sold whether you approve or not.'

  'You can't do that!' Malcolm blustered.

  'Do you honestly think I would have come all the way down here just to discuss this with you, the deal's done and while we're on the subject of 'done deals' I've taken over the directorship of the company.'

  Malcolm's hands shook, the cigar crumbling between his grasping fingers.

  'The other members of the board are in agreement,' Ashley smiled. 'So, how does it feel, Father, to be officially known as a liability?'

  It took a massive effort on his part, but Malcolm brushed the tobacco flakes from his trousers, picked up the whisky, swirling the amber liquid around before draining it.

  As the spirit burned down his throat, his rage blossomed into outright hatred for his son, the damn audacity of the bastard. Yet despite this, he managed to drag up a smile. 'So, my boy, what are your intentions, what will you do with all this new-found power?' He spread his arms wide, his voice dripping contempt.

  'You have no idea, no concept of the position you've left us in, do you? You talk about ''power'' but what you fail to understand is that there is no ''power''. We have tenant farmers who have more money in the bank than we do!'

  Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. 'And how is the great Ashley Radfield going to stop the rot?'

  'You forget, Father, I've already dispensed with the services of one luxury we can't afford and getting rid of another shouldn't prove too problematic.

  9

  Fossey shook his head. 'It's hard to believe it used to be three ho
uses.'

  They were standing twenty yards from the property, directly above, the sun raged in a sky of perfect blue.

  'If you look closely, you can see where the other front doors used to be.' Jenna pointed towards the house.

  To Fossey, the house resembled a huge slab of black butter left out in the sun, making the roof sag; even the stone walls appeared bowed, as if straining under some huge invisible weight.

  'Did your great-grandfather have a family?'

  'According to the records, he had two girls and four boys, though two of the boys died when they were children.'

  He tried to imagine what it would have been like raising a large family and having to share the small space with two others.

  Somewhere up high, a skylark began to sing.

  'My dad keeps talking about knocking it down.'

  'So, it isn't used anymore?'

  'Not really, when I was a kid they used to store sacks of grain and stuff up here, but that was when we kept cattle.'

  'Do you have any idea when the place was last occupied?'

  'Nineteen fifty-six,' she replied instantly.

  Fossey looked at her and smiled. 'That's very precise.'

  'It's all on the disk,' she explained. 'My grandad remembers it back then, he said the place always gave him the creeps.'

  'Did he say why?'

  'Not really, he can be kind of vague at times, but he did say the house was always cold even in the middle of summer.' Jenna bent down and ruffled the dog's ears.

  'And what do you think?'

  'Sorry?' she looked up and frowned.

  'Well, you're the expert here.'

  Jenna chewed at her bottom lip, all the things she knew about the area were specifics, hard concrete facts dug up over a two-year period. Now he was asking for her opinion, and opinions and facts were very different animals.

  'Well, I've been up here a few times on my own and I know what he means about the place being cold. The last time I couldn't even go in,' she paused, 'I remember standing at the door telling myself I was an idiot, but it didn't make any difference, I still couldn't force myself to do it.'

  'I noticed the chill yesterday.'

  'Really!' she looked up, her excitement mounting.

  'Mm, I mean, it's not uncommon in empty houses, they're open to the elements, there's no heating and half the slates are missing off the roof.'

  'I guess,' the excitement evaporated.

  'The thing is to keep an open mind; I mean, none of this is an exact science.'

  Jenna nodded. 'Of course.'

  'Right, I'm going to take another look around, do you want to come?'

  'Is that OK, I mean, I don't want to get in the way or anything?'

  'Look, if it wasn't for you then I wouldn't even be here.'

  She felt a rush of pride. 'If you're sure?'

  'I'm positive.'

  They moved towards the house along a path of flattened grass. The dog ran ahead, sniffing at an old gorse bush, flush with yellow blossom. Fossey could tell that at one time the garden had been looked after, forget-me-nots mingled in with the tall grass, there was even an ancient piece of trellis with a rose wrapped tight around the structure, fighting a battle of supremacy with the dreaded ragweed.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small Maglite. 'I should have brought this with me yesterday, it would have made things a lot easier.' Flicking on the torch, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

  Jenna followed close behind. 'God, it smells worse than ever in here.'

  Seemingly oblivious to the stench, Fossey shone the torch around the room. In one corner, an old chair, bristling with mildew, had been tipped onto its side revealing the rusting springs beneath. The floor was littered with fallen plaster and yellow sacks with 'Warburton's quality feed' stencilled onto the plastic. He flicked the beam towards the ceiling, revealing places where the wooden latticework had become visible after the plaster had become dislodged and dropped to the floor. Moving the beam to the right he picked out a door, the black paint peeling off in long curling strips.

  He could hear Jenna following as he crunched across the room. The dog had its nose to the crack at the bottom of the door, its sides puffing in and out as he gave a brisk yap and backed away, hackles rising.

  For the first time Fossey began to have doubts about having Jenna with him. This place didn't feel right, the night before when he'd committed his experience to the computer he'd read it back a few times and an uncertainty had set in. Perhaps he had embellished the experience, yet now he was back, those doubts were beginning to diminish.

  He looked over his shoulder; Jenna looked wide-eyed and nervous in the gloom.

  'You OK?'

  She nodded in response and tried to smile.

  Turning back to the door, he made a decision, twisting the end of the torch the light began to fade and he heard Jenna draw a sharp breath.

  'It looks like the batteries are on their way out,' he turned, 'Come on, I've got a spare set in the car,' he watched the look of relief sweep across her face as they retraced their steps.

  'I'll leave the door open; it might let some of the stink out,' she said, as they crossed the threshold.

  Once outside, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun and looked towards the hills. He could see dense woodland, a dark-green mass contrasting with the purple of the heather. Deep in amongst the trees he spotted the top of a conical tower, the slate roof shining gunmetal grey in the sun.

  'Is that the needle house?'

  Jenna followed his gaze. 'Yeah that's it.'

  'If we have the time, I'd like to take a closer look at it.'

  'No problem.'

  He sighed. 'It seems a long way to go back to the car just for some batteries.'

  'I can go if you like.'

  'No, it's OK, I'll nip back inside and have a quick look around, are you OK out here for a few minutes? It's just that if the torch does give up the ghost then I think it's best if we're not both in there at the same time.'

  'You mean you want me to like stand guard or something?'

  'Would you mind?'

  'No, that's fine,' she replied a little too quickly and then blushed.

  'Right, I'll be as quick as I can.'

  'Don't worry there's no rush.'

  Fossey smiled. 'Come on, T.'

  She watched as they disappeared back into the gloom.

  This time he didn't bother with the preliminaries, heading straight to the door he pushed it open.

  Cool air swept out to meet him and he reminded himself not to get carried away, the front door was open, and the air was being drawn through like smoke up a chimney, a simple explanation. He moved into the kitchen as the light picked out various objects. A large table stood in the centre of the room and on its surface stood an old, cracked mug that was almost unrecognisable, cocooned beneath a thick spider's web. A handful of discarded, six-inch nails had been scattered across the dusty surface and an ancient transistor radio stood upright, its innards trailing behind on the table top like some small dismembered animal. Shining the beam to the left, he could see the black bulk of an ancient Aga. Yesterday, Ronnie's trousers had been held in place with a length of baler twine and yet here, rusting away in the dark, was an appliance which was probably worth a couple of grand of anyone's money.

  'T, where are you boy?'

  Silence, then a scratching sound coming from the far corner of the room, he strode forward and found the dog hidden behind the bulk of an old Welsh dresser, the wood swollen with damp.

  'What have you got there?'

  The dog whined and backed off, Fossey crouched on his haunches, the clothes had been screwed up into a bundle, he could see the pale blue of the jeans and a washed-out, red T-shirt. He looked at the dog, its ears were plastered close to the head, panting, wide-eyed as if he had just spent an hour chasing the neighbour's cat. Fossey reached out and the animal scuttled backwards, a low whine building in its throat, tongue lolling. Foss
ey shifted his feet and the sole of his shoe came up with a tacky, stretching sound. He trained the light onto the floor; he was standing in the middle of a pool of dark liquid, his fingers hovered over the stain, his eyes drawn back to the clothing. T barked once, a sound full of urgent panic, his claws scrabbled on the stone flags as he tried to gain a hold, then he bolted for the door.

  A few seconds later, he heard Jenna; her voice muffled by the thick stone walls.

  'Are you all right, Mr Foss…Patrick?'

  'I'm fine, Jenna, I won't be a minute!' he shouted, before turning back to the stain.

  Fossey dipped his finger and brought the torch to bear on his fingertip, even in the gloom he could see the crimson colour, turned almost black.

  Rising quickly, he headed across the room, as he reached the door he flicked off the torch, dropped it into his pocket and pulled out his mobile.

  Jenna was still standing about twenty feet from the house, a look of puzzled concern on her face, the small dog held tightly in her arms.

  'Are you OK?'

  Fossey swished through the tall grass, punching in the numbers as he walked towards her. 'I think we have a problem, Jenna.'

  10

  Ten minutes later, Lasser pulled into the station car park, a frown of confusion creasing his brow. Usually at this time of day, you would have to drive around a few times until you found somewhere to park, yet today the large square of tarmac was deserted. He parked in a bay, climbed out and headed towards the main entrance, half expecting to see a tumbleweed blow past. The building itself was relatively new, built on the edge of town, but in Lasser's opinion it looked more like an industrial unit than a police headquarters.

  Pushing through the door, he stopped to enjoy the air-conditioned atmosphere before walking across to reception. Desk Sergeant Colin Meadows sat behind the front desk, his nose buried in The Enquirer.

  'Glad to see you're keeping abreast of current affairs, Colin.'

  Meadows had the decency to blush; the magazine vanished into an open drawer.

  'Sorry.'

  'Don't apologise, it makes a refreshing change to see someone reading a quality piece of investigative journalism. When Barry's on duty it's the Times or the Daily Mail,' he looked around at the empty room, normally you'd expect to find at least one thug slouched in one of the lemon-coloured plastic chairs.