The Needle House

by Robin Leslie Roughley

  When he reached the door, he removed a large key from the pocket of his camouflage jacket and slipped it into the lock.

  'I'm sorry the place is a bit sparse but then again I never imagined I'd be entertaining family,' his teeth flashed in the dark then he moved inside, and the darkness swallowed him. 'I've never really been one for home comforts, Jenna,' she could hear him moving around, looking over her shoulder the track that led from the property was visible, weaving its way down the hillside until it vanished into the night.

  'Come in, don't be shy,' he emerged from the shadows with paraffin lamp in hand.

  She hadn't known what to expect, the room was tiny, the stone flags swept clean. In one corner she could see a solitary chair, a pile of cut logs stacked against the open fire. The roof space was open; revealing the slate grey tiles above, interlaced with thick oak beams, the faint scent of pine disinfectant wafted on the air. A camp bed occupied one wall, a rolled-up sleeping bag placed neatly at the foot, the inglenook fireplace looked a black doorway leading straight to hell.

  It reminded her of the gingerbread house in the fairy tale, had he brought her here to fatten her up and then kill her, she shuddered and pushed the image from her mind.

  'I did my basic training at Preston barracks, we came up here on manoeuvres, and that's when I first saw this place. I was only a kid so the prospect of buying somewhere was out of the question, especially on a squaddies wage,' he smiled at the memory. 'Besides I wanted to see the world, I didn't give this place a second thought, not until ten years ago. By then I had some cash, so I decided to buy it,' he looked around the small room. 'The estate agent couldn't believe his luck, he looked at me as if I'd gone off my fucking rocker. The description said "quaint, in need of modernisation, ideal as a second home." He nearly snatched my hand off when I offered him the full asking price.'

  'So, you don't live here, permanently?' This was good, act nonchalant, chat shit; it didn't matter as long as it kept his eyes from clouding over, from changing.

  'Take a seat,' he perched on the end of the camp bed; she reluctantly moved over to the chair and sat down. 'Recently I've been living on the boat,' when he saw the look on her face he lifted up a hand. 'I know, you'd have thought I'd had my fill of living on the canal especially after the way things went with my mother,' he leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. Jenna eased herself back into the chair, a reflex action; he looked at her knowingly, missing nothing.

  'But, believe it or not, I missed the sense of impermanence that living on the water offers. I had money in the bank and as you can imagine I'm very self-sufficient. Of course, I can't go back there now which is a pity,' he pursed his lips, a sad frown settled on his face. 'By now, the police will know my name and I'd imagine they're slowly becoming aware of my links with your family.'

  'Why are you doing this?' she asked, a sudden burning need to understand ate away at her in the same way a rat nibbles its way through a live electric cable.

  He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and quickly rolled a cigarette, a moment later, he lit up and blew the smoke upwards watching as it curled its way through the rafters. 'Well, the first part you already know about,' she found herself nodding in response. 'As for the rest, let's just say I'm thinking on my feet. I mean, by now I should be well away from here that was the way I originally planned it. Malcolm or Ashley Radfield was to have been blamed for the murder of the boy; you see I left clues that pointed towards them.' For the first time a look of confusion flittered across his face. 'The trouble was, the thought of them being ruined by scandal began to lose its initial appeal. After all the Radfields were fucked years ago, they had no money, no self-esteem; people had lost any sort of respect for the likes of them.' Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a small tobacco tin and flicked his ash inside.

  Jenna swallowed. 'So, you decided to kill them instead?'

  'I thought the punishment should fit the crime, Radfield had killed the man I thought was my father, so why should he spend his remaining days on the hospital ward of some open prison where he could tend the roses and sit in his own private room listening to the Archers.'

  Jenna frowned, she had no idea what the Archers were, and she didn't think Radfield would have been allowed to grow roses, though she decided any form of contradiction would be like signing her own death warrant.

  She tried to think of something else to say, something that would keep him talking. 'So, what are you going to do with me?' It was as if someone had slipped into her body and usurped her will, a dumb puppet with some sadistic marionette tugging on the strings.

  He looked straight through her as if he were alone in the small room, then his eyes refocused, the madness flickering, the bush fire ready to leap into life again and go on the rampage, she pushed herself back in the chair, the fear clicking up another notch.

  'Tell me something, Jenna,' he paused, 'what would you do in my situation?'

  'I don't understand?' Although she did, she understood him completely.

  'You see, I always blamed two people for the way my life turned out. My mother who it later transpires was supposedly raped by Radfield and my father who I thought had run out on us.'

  Jenna could feel her heart racing, the cloying smell of paraffin seemed to suddenly fill the air, she knew where this was going, could almost see the words writ large in the smoky air.

  'I've gone from having a father who I thought had simply abandoned me, to thinking I was a child who came into life through the act of rape, none of which turns out to be true,' he gave a slight shake of his head as if he found the whole thing ludicrous.

  'I…'

  'I've already told you that I wanted to kill my mother, I had every intention of doing it, but cancer causes more pain than I could ever inflict.'

  'My grandad didn't know, I swear it,' she could feel the tears running down her cheeks. Everything was rapidly building to some horrific climax, the hatred this man had for her family was shining from his eyes. No amount of calm talk and wolfish smiles could disguise the fact, he wouldn't be satisfied until they were all dead, stamped out, wiped from the face of the earth.

  'And how can you be sure of that, Jenna?'

  'Because he'd have told me, we're close we tell each other everything,' she was aware that she was pleading but the time for bravado was rapidly slipping away.

  'I'm touched by your belief but save your breath. Malcolm told me some of what happened and just before I cut off Ashley's head from his shoulders he confirmed it.'

  The walls seemed to pulsate with a viscous life all their own; closing in around her like some filthy glove, her breath caught in her throat and lodged there, a rancid ball of fear that couldn't be denied.

  'It's like I said before, people will lie to you, Jenna, especially the ones you think you can trust, the ones closest to you,' he whispered as if he were confiding some great universal truth to her.

  'No!' she gasped, unsure if it was a denial or a response to the horror sitting on the camp bed; he appeared calm and composed like the grim reaper dressed for an activity weekend in the countryside.

  'Just think if your grandfather had been honest then maybe I wouldn't have had to kill the boy or the old man in the woods…'

  'Shut up!' she screamed, clamping her hands over her ears, anything to blot out his voice, suddenly she yanked them away terrified by her own thoughts. The small voice inside her head that said he was telling the truth; in some unfathomable way it was all true.

  'So, what would you have me do?' he repeated.

  'Please.'

  'Should I walk away, give myself up to the police, leave you in peace?'

  'We didn't know,' she sobbed, the last of her defences were crumbling like the remains of the wall outside, scattered and obsolete.

  'Why would he do it, Jenna, why would this man you obviously love so much, deny my existence for all these years?'

  'I don't know!' she was fully aware that she was shouting but the thick walls soaked it up and then threw it bac
k in her face.

  'When we were in the van, I asked you if he was still alive and you didn't give me answer.'

  'He's dead,' she snapped instantly.

  'Jenna,' his voice was full of reproach, like an adult chastising a small child, giving her the opportunity to tell the truth before he slapped her legs.

  'He had a heart attack two days ago, we got him to the hospital, but he died during the night.' She could feel the cold sweat drying on her skin, she held her breath and blinked back the sting of tears. In that fraction of a second the knife appeared in his hand, the blade looked oily in the flickering light, dull and lifeless, a harmless piece of metal. When he turned the blade, it caught the lamplight and flashed, tiny rays of light lancing from its surface.

  He stood up. 'Remember what I said, violence is the great leveller, it drags the truth out of people kicking and screaming. It loosens the tongue, so while you've still got one I suggest you start being honest.'

  She started to scream.

  99

  Fossey had said that Ronnie was drained; he hadn't said he looked like Old Father Time, on his last legs.

  When he opened his eyes and saw Lasser sitting at the side of the bed, he reached out a skeletal hand and grasped the sleeve of his jacket.

  'Have you found her?' his voice was little more than a wheeze.

  'Not yet,' he saw the despair in the old man's eyes, the agony of not knowing. 'Listen, Ronnie, we need to know everything we can about James Wickham.'

  He released Lasser's sleeve, his fingers plucking at the bed sheet in agitation. 'I don't know what I can tell you…'

  'You've got to think, anything you can remember could help us find your granddaughter.'

  Lasser was aware he was piling on the pressure, pushing Ronnie further down heart attack avenue, the cul-de-sac of no return, but if the girl turned up dead then what sort of life was left for the old man?

  'I've never even seen the boy,' his chest heaved and fell.

  Lasser patted his hand. 'OK, Ronnie,' he paused, 'tell me about Emma?'

  He turned his watery eyes towards Lasser and swallowed. 'I loved her, you know.'

  'I'm sure you did but what was she like, how did you two get together?'

  Ronnie licked his lips. 'The Wickhams worked on the farm, they helped us when we were gathering the corn and barley. Oh, there were one or two other families, but I always remembered Emma.' His eyes drifted away as he thought back over the years. 'I suppose you'd say I had a crush on her, she had this mass of jet-black hair and her eyes…' he fell silent for a few seconds and then sniffed. 'I'd never seen owt like her…'

  In any other situation, it would have brought a smile to Lasser's face, an old man reminiscing about the love of his life, touching stuff. 'She was a bonny lass?' he asked.

  Ronnie sighed, a sound full of regret. 'Aye, lad, you could say that.'

  'And did they ever do any work for the Radfields?'

  He managed a slight nod, the pillow making a scrunching sound as he rested his head. 'As soon as his lordship set eyes on her he wanted her.'

  Lasser sat further forward in the chair. 'What do you mean?'

  'Back then Radfield still owned plenty of land…'

  'Including your own farm?'

  'Aye, we were just tenant farmers, so of course we had no say in the matter.'

  'I'm sorry, Ronnie, you've lost me?'

  'Malcolm wanted her up at the house, he offered them a few bob extra. Of course, he had Emma working in the house and he stuck her husband out in the bloody field all day.'

  Lasser was starting to get the picture, a titled knob chasing Emma around the pantry while her old man worked his bollocks off. It sounded like a Dickensian novel or a pants-down farce.

  'I only found out what happened a year after we started seeing one another, she told me the bastard had raped her,' he wiped a quivering hand across his eyes.

  'I take it she didn't go to the police?'

  'And say what? I mean, back then folks that lived on the boats were treated no better than thieving scum. It's not like today when you see a barge floating by with some retired doctor steering it with his little sailor's cap on. They were second-class citizens and he was Lord bloody Radfield, justice of the peace, head of the local hunt, what chance would she have had?'

  Lasser could see the colour rising in Ronnie's cheeks, his breathing quickened, sweat coated his gaunt face. 'I get the picture, Ronnie, just try and keep calm.'

  'When her husband went missing she came to us for help, the police spent half a day poking around the woods and then they gave up.' he paused and swallowed. 'Half a bloody day, she was desperate, so we started looking proper, me and my old man and a few others who knew Sam and liked him.'

  Lasser unzipped the sweatshirt; the heat in the small room was stifling. 'This diary, Ronnie?'

  For the first time the old man looked cagey. 'What about it?'

  'Well, if it's OK with you, I'd like to take a look at it.'

  Ronnie turned his face, away the seconds ticked into infinity, Lasser kept his mouth closed; sometimes it paid to let the silence turn the screw.

  'I can't remember where I put it,' Ronnie mumbled.

  Lasser yanked the fleece shirt off and placed over the back of the chair. 'There is no diary, is there?'

  'I…'

  'Come on, you don't seriously expect me to believe that your father wrote all this down?'

  When he twisted his head around he was crying, an old man whose life had been turned into wreckage in a matter of hours. Ronnie the cider maker, a man who loved his family without question. Tethered to the memory of a woman he was once besotted with and trying to come to terms with the fact that he had a multiple murderer for a son and a granddaughter he would probably never see again.

  'My father told me what had happened,' he swallowed, his throat made a dry clicking sound.

  'When?'

  'I'd been with Emma for about eight months.'

  Lasser fiddled with the keys in his pocket. 'How did he feel about you and Emma being together?'

  Ronnie tried to push himself up on the bed and then gave up. 'We didn't tell him, at first.'

  'Why not, was it because Emma was still classed as a married woman or because she lived on a boat, a bit of a gypsy?'

  Ronnie glared at him.

  'Come on, Ronnie, I don't have all night, why did you keep your relationship a secret from your old man?'

  'Because he was a bloody snob, OK, is that what you want…?'

  'I want the truth, so we can catch the man who has your granddaughter.'

  Ronnie grabbed the sheet, wringing it as if he had his hands around the killer's throat. 'He didn't blackmail Radfield, my old man was close to Malcolm, he thought the old bastard walked on water!'

  Suddenly the bigger picture sprang up in Lasser's mind, links forming, merging from the fog. 'Your father helped Radfield didn't he, he didn't simply find out what had happened, Radfield told him what he'd done, and your old man helped dispose of the body?'

  Ronnie squared his narrow shoulders and nodded. 'Aye.'

  Bingo!

  'And Radfield gave him the farm for services rendered?'

  'Yes,' Ronnie whispered, his voice thick with shame and resentment.

  Bloody hell, it all made sense, the Fotheringays didn't have one skeleton rattling in the cupboard they had a graveyard full of the buggers.

  'When he found out you and Emma were having a relationship it would have been the last thing he would have wanted. Jesus Christ, Ronnie, he helped you look for Sam Wickham knowing he was already dead and knowing where the body was hidden!'

  'I knew nothing about any of that,' he gasped.

  Lasser saw the young doctor through the window; he smiled and nodded, receiving a sour frown in return.

  'So how did your father find out about you and Emma?'

  'I bloody well told him,' a spark of defiance lit up Ronnie's eyes, a second later it vanished. 'Emma begged me not to say owt, she thought
it was all too soon. Back then people could be cruel, and nobody knew that more than she did.'

  'Why didn't you listen to her?'

  'Because I was stubborn and young and thought I knew best,' he snorted. 'I thought I was my own man – biggest mistake I ever made.'

  Lasser could picture the scene, for a while the thrill of illicit love must have been a powerful emotion, a woman grieving for the loss of her husband. Young Ronnie sniffing around, playing the knight in shining armour while all the time secretly wanting more. Emma feeling weak and vulnerable suddenly finding herself in a relationship and maybe realising it was a mistake, heady times.

  'And what did he say when you told him?'

  Ronnie snorted. 'My old man was a hard bastard, he told me to 'get shut' as if she was some sort of bloody whore. I can remember standing there, struck dumb, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.'

  'Did you try and tell him how you felt towards her?'

  Ronnie snorted. 'Course I did but he wouldn't listen, he went berserk, told me straight that if I didn't end it then I could fuck off, I was no son of his, that kind of thing.' Ronnie shook his head. 'I should have packed my stuff there and then.'

  'But you didn't?'

  Ronnie laid his arms by his sides as if he was being measured for a pine box. 'I wanted to, but Emma wouldn't hear of it. We talked about it for hours; I tried to persuade her that we would manage but she bloody knew. I had no cash of my own, all I could do was work the land, it would have been hard,' he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself that he'd made the right decision, however his eyes told a different story.

  'So, she left?'

  'Mm, I went up to the boat one day and she'd moved on. You see I was a coward, I convinced myself that it was for the best, I towed the line but up here,' he tapped a bony finger to the side of his head, 'I always planned to go looking for her.'

  'So why didn't you?'

  'Four years after she went, my old man got lung cancer. I tell you, son, I couldn't wait for the old sod to die. The only thing I could think of was trying to find Emma,' he paused, 'trouble was he knew it.' Ronnie fell silent; the memories were falling through his mind thick and fast, like filthy, black rain.