The Needle House

by Robin Leslie Roughley

  'That still doesn't mean the Fotheringays have…'

  'Listen, I don't know them the way you do, and I'll admit that they seem like a nice normal family…'

  'That's because they are, a nice normal family.'

  'Fine, and like you said earlier, all families have things that they keep hidden from the outside world.'

  Fossey picked up his can but didn't take a drink. 'Go on.'

  'Now I'm not saying that they've knowingly done anything wrong and to be frank I don't really care how they came to own the farm,' he paused. 'I do care about catching this maniac. Now, I could be ''misguided'' in wanting to find out if Ronnie had a child. I might end up looking like a complete dickhead but believe me at this precise moment I couldn't give a toss.'

  Fossey drummed his fingers on the arm of the bench. 'I just don't want this family dragged through the mill, they don't deserve it and I've seen it happen before.'

  'Yeah and Billy Jones didn't deserve to be gutted and left to hang from the rafters. I didn't have much time for Hopkins, but some animal opened his throat and left him to die. Now, I admire your loyalty but come on, pal, you're taking it too far.'

  A silence fell between them, broken only by the screech of a magpie as it strutted across the lawn. Lasser thought about his own rabbit-hutch home, with its back garden that looked drab, the lawn covered with anaemic grass, the tiny border a hotbed of weeds.

  'What do you want me to do?' Fossey asked.

  'Have a word with Susan or maybe Jenna, they might be willing to talk to you…'

  'I don't think Jenna knows anything, when Ronnie was talking about the farm she was distraught, it was obvious that she couldn't believe what she was hearing.'

  'Is that why he did a runner, because of her reaction?'

  Fossey took another sip from the can. 'When Ronnie tried to justify what had happened she became very angry and felt he was somehow holding out on her.'

  'And was that how you saw it?'

  'Well, wouldn't you, I mean, he did his best to explain that for years he knew nothing about any of this.'

  'But she didn't believe him?'

  'She believes that once he'd discovered what had happened, he should have gone to the police.'

  'So, because he kept his mouth shut, she thinks he was guilty by association.'

  Fossey pursed his lips and nodded. 'She couldn't get past the fact that Sam Wickham's wife had come to them for help and that they'd somehow used that fact to profit. It didn't matter to her that Ronnie only found out after the event, she still thinks he should have tried to set matters straight.'

  It was starting to make sense. 'And if it was true about Ronnie having a child with this woman, then coming clean would be the last thing he would want to do.'

  Fossey's face slid back into impassive mode. 'Possibly.'

  'Poor sod.'

  'Look, we still don't know if any of its true…'

  'Fair enough, but it's obvious Ronnie was devastated when Jenna blew up at him. If he had intended telling her more, then her reaction to the blackmail would have convinced him to keep his mouth shut about any other secrets he was keeping to himself.' Lasser licked his lips, wishing he had another can to get stuck into. 'Look just try and have a word with Susan, maybe she might feel like unburdening herself.'

  'I won't badger the woman, especially not at a time like this.'

  'I don't expect you to, she might have been telling the truth, maybe she knows nothing about her father and Emma Wickham.'

  'But you don't believe that do you?'

  He pictured Susan at the hospital, the way she had tried to avoid giving him a straight answer. 'To be honest, no,' he checked his watch. 'Look, I'd better get going, I'll give you a ring tonight if that's OK?'

  He stood up and stretched, wincing at the sharp pain in his back, maybe falling asleep on the sofa hadn't been such a good idea, then he headed off across the immaculate lawn.

  'Don't expect a miracle, Lasser.' Fossey shouted at his disappearing back, Lasser waved a hand in the air and kept on walking.

  88

  The battered old suitcase was the colour of a weathered house brick, Jenna found it tucked away beneath the bed. At first, she thought it was full of nothing but ancient copies of the Farmers Guardian, dating back to the mid-sixties. It felt strange, but she hardly ever went into her grandad's bedroom. Then again, she never really had reason to, he was never one for lying in bed, he was always up by six and never ill. She felt the sting of tears, he should be home where they could fuss over him, where he could have the window open to let in the warm summer air, not lying in some sterile room where he was just a name scrawled on a whiteboard. She found the photographs tucked away at the bottom, lifting out the envelopes she hesitated for a moment before pulling open the flap and sliding them out. Jenna rifled through the first pack, black and white stills showing herds of cows and farm implements, one showed a collie in mid flow, tongue lolling. Pushing them back into the sleeve she reached for another, the first one had her grandad leaning on the five-bar gate that led to the top field. It must have been taken in the summer months, because he was dressed in a check work shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. She flicked through a few more and then stopped; frowning down at the image, a woman with long, dark hair was standing by the same gate. This time he was sitting on the top gate, his wellies dangling, arms draped around her neck, a wide grin splitting his face. She flicked the photo over, but the back was blank, so she turned back to the image. Grandad looked to be in his late twenties, it felt weird seeing him as a younger man, back then he sported a full head of dark hair, slicked back and wavy. The woman looked to be about the same age, though unlike Ronnie she had a frown on her face as if she wasn't enjoying the experience of having her photograph taken. She placed it on the bed and carried on shuffling through the photos. The last one showed the woman again, but this time she was on her own, sitting in a meadow that Jenna didn't recognise, her legs stretched out in front of her, leaning back on her arms. Jenna could see the pastel blur of wild flowers surrounding her. Unlike the last image, this showed her laughing, head tilted, highlighting the long slender curve of her neck, black hair spilling across her shoulders and down to her breasts. Jenna could see the shadow of the picture taker patterned on the grass. This time when she looked on the back she could a faint scribbling. 'Emma. Nineteen sixty-eight,' she picked up the photograph from the bed and held them together, looking at each in turn, a nervous feeling prickling at her senses. The woman had to be Emma Wickham but if that was the case then why was her grandad draped all over her? She looked again at the picture of them together, concentrating solely on his smile. After a few seconds, she dropped it onto the bed; it was like looking at a stranger, someone capable of keeping secrets, telling lies. She tried to push the thought from her mind and found that it had lodged there. When he'd been talking about Emma Wickham, there had been no hint that he had actually known the woman. It had all been about what his father had done, a blatant attempt to force the blame onto someone else. Jenna stood up, feeling agitated, aggrieved at the deceit. Her mind pulsated with images of her grandad collapsed on the hot tarmac, the anguish she'd felt when she thought he was dead had been unbearable, all her anger towards him had vanished. She would have forgiven him anything just so long as he didn't die. Now she felt the anger flare, a heady concoction threaded through with guilt. Crouching, she closed the suitcase and pushed it back under the bed.

  When she turned, she froze, there was a man standing in the doorway, her heart reared, her eyes flicked towards him and then away, taking in nothing, her mind splintered with fear. She gasped and took a hurried backward step her legs hit the bed and she stumbled, throwing out a hand to stop herself from falling on the mattress. When she looked up he was moving across the room, two strides and he was nearly upon her. Jenna sprinted to the left, her eyes fixed on the doorway, if she could just… Savage pain exploded inside her head, sending her sideways into the dresser, the corner slamming int
o her ribs forcing the air from her lungs. She tried to scream but the air was locked in her throat, her vision twisted, the room reared and tilted around her. Her right arm flayed out sending the photo frames on top of the dresser crashing to the floor. She felt a hand close over her wrist and looked up just as the fist slammed into the side of her face. She slumped to the carpet, her legs jerked. Jenna felt her bladder empty before the darkness swallowed her.

  89

  By the time Susan made her last delivery she was running an hour late. Old George Crabtree had grilled her for over twenty minutes. Asking her what had happened to her dad, how was he, what hospital he was in?

  As soon as she said her goodbyes, she knew George would leap into his electric wheelchair and head straight down to the post office to spread the gossip. In a few hours, all outlying farms would know what had happened.

  On the way out of the village, she found herself stuck behind a caravan that crawled along at a snail's pace. She could imagine Jenna sitting at home becoming more agitated as the clock ticked by. She knew her daughter was trying hard to remain calm, though Susan knew her well enough to recognise the signs; it was all bubbling away beneath the surface, the anger, and frustration.

  When the caravan turned into Jim Woodman's field, Susan breathed a sigh of relief and got her foot down. Ten minutes later, she pulled onto the long lane that led to the house. Parking in the shade of the barn, she climbed out and headed to the back of the house. The first thing she did when she entered the kitchen was flick on the kettle before making her way into the lounge.

  'Jenna!' When there was no reply, she frowned; perhaps she'd fallen asleep again. 'Jenna love, are you awake?'

  Starting to feel uneasy, she moved quickly up the stairs and tapped lightly on her bedroom door, after a few seconds she opened it and poked her head inside, the room was empty the bed neat and tidy. A shimmer of anxiety crawled along her spine, turning, she went back to the top of the stairs unsure of what she should do next. When she looked down the long landing and saw the door to her father's bedroom standing open, she felt the panic bloom and dashed towards the open door.

  'Oh Jesus, no!' she looked around the room, the photo frames that Dad always kept on the dresser were scattered on the carpet, a chair had been overturned, the bedside lamp yanked from the wall and thrown into the corner of the room, the flex curled on the floor like a question mark.

  'Jenna?' she whispered her name before taking three unsteady steps to the bed. The photograph lay crumpled on the duvet. It was as if time ground to a halt, she watched as her hand reached out and picked it up. When she saw the image of her father, his arms draped around the neck of the dark-haired woman her hand made a fist. She must have been searching the bedroom, Susan felt a sudden burst of anger, that was why she'd declined to come with her, she'd wanted her out of the house, so she come up here and ransack the room like a common thief. Jenna had found the photograph and then trashed the room, Susan spun on her heels, seething with anger and outrage.

  When her eyes fell on the stain she simply stopped and stared, her mind suddenly full of confusion, then she saw another a few inches to the left, then another, small droplets leading to the door. Susan crossed the room and onto the landing, following the trail. The word, 'Blood' erupted in her mind. She ran down the stairs, her frantic eyes scanning the floor, the drops diminishing as they led to the front door. When she saw it hanging open, the wood casing splintered, she started to scream.

  90

  Lasser was in the process of ordering a Big Mac meal when his phone began to chime, handing over a tenner he scrambled in the pocket of his jacket.

  'What drink would you like with that?' The girl smiled at him through the tiny window.

  'Strawberry milkshake, please.'

  'And would you like…'

  'No thanks, love,' he pulled the mobile free. 'Patrick my man, what can I do for you?'

  Thirty seconds later he slammed the car into gear and screeched off the car park, the young girl stood perplexed with the brown paper bag in hand. He shot out in front of a white transit and slapped on the siren before hurtling past a line of queuing traffic. Fossey had said he was on his way to the Fotheringays. Apparently, Susan had been unable to get in touch with her husband, according to her, he was out on the combine and not answering his phone. Lasser edged his way through the traffic lights and then crashed through the gears, the car bulleting forward.

  Once clear of the town centre he opened the taps, surging over the Canal Bridge and heading out into the countryside.

  Three cigarettes later, he pulled up in front of the farmhouse. Fossey must have made good time; his dust covered Range Rover parked at an angle. The front wheels had slid onto the lawn, the driver's door hanging open. He climbed out just as Susan came around the corner of the house, Fossey had his arm around her shoulder. As soon as she spotted Lasser she broke free and ran towards him.

  'You have to find her, please God, you have to look for her,' her eyes were frantic, her face twisted in anguish.

  He glanced at Fossey who looked back at him with a bleak expression.

  'Try and stay calm, Susan, and tell me what happened.'

  'Just look at the door,' she pointed a shaking finger at the splintered woodwork.

  Lasser bent down for a closer look, he could see where the wood had been pushed back, whoever had gained entry had used a narrow jemmy to force the door.

  'You're sure she isn't with her father?' It always paid to get the stupid questions out of the way.

  'She isn't there, I've just spoken to David,' her voice trembled with emotion. 'I found blood in the bedroom and some on the stairs. I was only gone a couple of hours,' she started to cry, twisting the crumpled paper in her hands, her breathing irregular, laboured.

  Lasser moved through the open door and into the lounge. Inside, the room was cool, a haven from the blistering sun. He weaved his way around the furniture and started to climb the stairs, halfway up he spotted the first small bloodstain. He strode over the step and continued to climb. When he reached the landing, he turned right and followed the irregular pattern, small droplets no bigger than a five-pence piece trailed into the bedroom. Standing in the doorway he looked around the room, the shattered photo frames on the floor, the lamp in the corner, over near the dresser the stain was much bigger, yet somehow paler than the others. Lasser crouched to his knees, the blood had seeped into the weave and spread, dipping his head he sniffed at the wet patch, the copper smell of blood mingled with the tart scent of urine. He pulled the phone from his pocket and rang the station, the cavalry would be there within the hour but with the way things were panning out, the cavalry might consist of nothing more than a couple of constables on mountain bikes.

  Walking over to the window he looked out, it must be nice to wake up every morning and look out onto an ever-changing landscape that somehow never changed at all. It appeared the lies told four decades earlier were finally coming home to roost. Turning, he spotted the crumpled photograph at the side of the bed.

  He remembered thinking it had been hard to picture Ronnie as a jack the lad after all he was an old man lying in a hospital bed, his face devoid of colour, the flesh hanging from his skinny frame like an ill-fitting suit. However, the man in the photo belied that image; here was Ronnie in the prime of life, a wide carefree smile splitting his suntanned face, hair black and glossy. He had his arms draped around the woman's neck, the left hand brushing her breast. When he looked up Susan was standing in the doorway, Fossey behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.

  'He's got her, hasn't he?'

  Lasser walked around the bed and held out the photograph. 'Is this your mother, Susan?'

  She didn't look at the image, her eyes staring away into a world filled with pain.

  'Susan?' Lasser prompted.

  Her eyes refocused. 'No, it's not my mother but you need to be out there looking for my daughter, not standing here trying to dig up dirt.'

  'I understand how you
feel but…'

  Anger flared in her eyes, sweeping away all other emotion. 'You can't understand how I feel, how dare you stand there and tell me that!'

  Fossey rested his hand on her arm. 'Take it easy, Susan, he's trying to help.'

  She spun around, her hair whipping over her shoulder. 'He isn't interested in Jenna; he doesn't care about what happens to her. All he's bothered about is some bloody old photograph, how is that helping my daughter?'

  'So, you don't know who she is?'

  She turned slowly. 'It's Emma Wickham, so how does that help you, what difference does that scrap of knowledge make to all this?' she spat the words at him. 'You're no different to those bastard reporters. All you're interested in is trying to twist things, so you can make ludicrous links that don't exist.'

  'I'm sorry you feel that way but believe me I do care, I…'

  'Don't lie to me!' she screamed. 'As far as you're concerned this is just another piece of evidence, she's not a human being to you, she's just another piece in the puzzle.'

  Lasser looked down at his shoes, trying to keep his own anger in check. 'Just tell me one thing; do you have any idea why someone would want to target your daughter?'

  Her eyes sprang wide. 'Target?'

  Fossey moved into the doorway. 'You don't know that for sure.'

  Lasser ignored him. 'When we were at the hospital I asked you if you knew about Emma Wickham and you said no.'

  'What are you talking about, what has any of this got to do with anything?' she looked at Lasser as if she couldn't comprehend the stupidity of the man standing before her.

  'It has to do with this woman,' he held up the photo. 'And your father.'