She Is Gone

by Ben Cheetham

  There were several bulging hessian sacks under the bench. Butterfly stooped to look inside one. A sickly sweet smell tickled her nostrils. The sack was full to the brim with dead moles. She looked in another sack and found a fox staring blankly back at her, its curved yellow-brown teeth exposed in a rictus of death.

  “The gunman wore a hessian bag with eyeholes cut out,” Karl quoted from Tracy’s police statement.

  A search of the garage revealed nothing else of interest. They hastened back to the car. Butterfly was relieved to see that Charlie was still sleeping soundly. “Where to next?” asked Karl.

  Butterfly gave the only possible answer. “Dale Sutton.”

  As they drove back the way they’d come, Karl said, “And what if we don’t find the necklace at Sutton’s place? How far are you willing to go?”

  Butterfly made no reply. But as the car bounced over potholes, the question kept rattling around in her head. Just how far was she willing to go?

  Chapter 18

  Eric squatted down to examine the indents of tyre prints in the soft turf at the roadside. “Someone was parked here recently.”

  He rose to follow Jack along the arrow-straight bridleway. The ground was too dry for footprints. Jack saw no further signs of anyone having been there. After forty or fifty metres, Eric pointed to a patch of flattened nettles at the edge of the woods. “Could be someone went into the trees here.”

  “If they’re retracing Tracy’s steps, they would have gone through the woods to Bray Farm.”

  “But what could they hope to find by doing that?”

  Jack thought about Butterfly’s hands on his throat. The coldness in her eyes. “Butterfly’s been having these episodes recently. I don’t know if it’s memories trying to come back or… or something else. Maybe she hopes that being here might somehow spark her memory.”

  “They’re a good hour ahead of us. That would give them enough time to walk to the farm, talk to the Brays and come back here.”

  “No way would Karl risk letting Butterfly talk to the Brays.”

  “There’s only one way to find out if that’s the case.”

  Eric didn’t need to say any more. They hurried to their vehicles. With Eric leading the way, they drove towards Leagate Brow. Eric turned right onto a rutted farm track that followed the western fringe of the woods. Beyond a hedge on their left, a field of grazing sheep sloped down towards the trees that flanked the river. Somewhere amongst those trees, Jack knew, was Phil Beech’s cottage. The track curved into the woods, terminating at a closed wooden farm gate. A few hens were pecking around a farmyard carpeted with dry mud and straw. At the centre of the yard stood a dusty white farmhouse and stone barn. A Landrover and a tractor were parked between the buildings.

  Jack and Eric got out of their vehicles, opened the gate and made their way across the yard. The air was heavy with the musky smell of sheep. From inside the barn came a symphony of bleating. A black and white collie sprinted out of the farmhouse’s open front-door. “Hello boy,” said Eric, holding out a hand for the dog to sniff.

  The collie was followed by a sturdy woman with a broad weather-beaten face and bobbed black hair shot through with grey. The woman looked at them with dark, cheerless eyes. Her flour-stained hands and apron suggested she’d been disturbed in the midst of baking. “Hello, Mr Ramsden. What can I do for you?” Her tone was polite, but with a hint of wariness. No wonder, reflected Jack. Eric had been the first responder on the day of the Ridley murders. That had been twenty years ago, but those kinds of things stayed with you no matter how much time passed.

  “Who is it, Mother?” inquired a deep voice from within the barn.

  “It’s no one, Neal,” she replied in a rolling Cumbrian accent. “You just get on with tending to those ewes.”

  “Sorry for bothering you, Mrs Bray,” said Eric. He motioned to Jack. “This is Detective Inspector Jack Anderson from Manchester. We were just wondering if you’ve had any other visitors today.”

  Jack’s stomach squeezed in anticipation of Pam Bray’s response. If she’d spoken to Butterfly, it would surely confirm that Butterfly was with Karl of her own free will. He held in a breath of relief as she said, “Not that I’m aware of.” Creases spread from the corners of her eyes. “Why?”

  “It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” Jack assured her. “We’re looking for these two people.” He brought up the photo of Butterfly. No hint of recognition showed in Pam’s eyes. Butterfly obviously hadn’t visited Bray Farm when she was living at Hawkshead Manor. It was also obvious that Pam paid little attention to what was going on in the world beyond her farm. He swiped to the photo of Karl.

  “Never seen either of them before. They look like strange birds. Who are they?”

  “Like I said, Mrs Bray, you’ve no need to be concerned. Would it be possible for me to speak to your husband and anyone else who’s here?”

  “My husband’s bedridden.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Me too,” put in Eric. “Nothing too serious I hope.”

  “Forty-odd year of farming these hills is what’s wrong with him.” There was a note of dour resentment in Pam’s voice. “They romanticise this life, but I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  Eric glanced towards the barn. “But your son Neal still works here.”

  “He’s forced to. What with his dad being in such a state. Besides, what else would he do around here?”

  “We need to talk to him.” As Pam pursed her lips reluctantly, Eric added, “I promise you we’ll only keep him for a few minutes.”

  Heaving an annoyed breath, Pam called, “Neal!”

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in wellies and blue overalls emerged from the barn. Neal Bray’s granite-featured face was weathered beyond its years from working outside come rain or shine. A floppy mop of black hair hung down almost into his eyes. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms corded with veins and muscle. “What’s up, Mum?”

  “These policemen want to talk to you.”

  Neal eyed Jack and Eric with eyes as dark and deep-set as his mum’s. Jack showed him the photos. “Have you seen either of these people?”

  Neal shook his head. “I’ve not seen anyone today besides Mum and Dad.”

  Pam treated Jack and Eric to a there-I-told-you-so look. With a swipe of her hand, she ushered Neal back to the barn.

  “Thanks for talking to us, Mrs Bray,” said Eric. “If you do happen to see the people in the photos, could you please contact Whitehaven police station.”

  Pam nodded. She stood watching with folded arms as Jack and Eric returned to their vehicles. “Not the most talkative bunch, are they?” Jack commented when they were out of earshot.

  “They keep themselves to themselves. Frankly I don’t blame them after what happened in ’98. Sometimes I feel like doing the same myself.”

  “Believe me, Eric, it doesn’t work.” Jack’s voice was weighed down by experience. “One way or another, the world always finds its way to your door.”

  “Seems you were right about Karl not letting Butterfly talk to–” Eric broke off as his mobile phone rang. He put it to his ear. His bushy eyebrows lifted. “When was this? OK. I’m on my way. Thanks Tim.” He hung up and turned to Jack. “Well, well, the plot thickens. That was the station. A call just came in from Phil Beech. Someone broke into his house.”

  Without another word, Jack and Eric jumped into their vehicles. They sped back along the farm track. Minutes later they were pulling up outside Beech’s stone cottage. The gamekeeper was pacing about the front lawn like a nervous greyhound. His eyes, still glassy from a liquid lunch, narrowed at Jack before shifting to Eric. “Someone’s been in my place.”

  “Have any doors or windows been forced?” asked Eric.

  “No.”

  “Has anything been taken?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know someone’s been in there?”

  Phil jutted his sharp
, stubble-flecked chin out in annoyance. “Because I can tell. Things have been moved. And my gun box won’t open.”

  Jack’s eyes scoured their surroundings. There was nothing to be seen other than trees and the river. He gave the gamekeeper a narrow look of his own. “Show us the gun box.”

  “Why are you here?” Phil’s eyes twinkled with suspicion. “What’s this got to do with Manchester police?”

  “Inspector Anderson was in the area working on a separate investigation,” said Eric. “He offered to help.”

  Phil made a phlegmy noise in his throat and turned to head into the house. He pointed to a pile of magazines on a table in the living-room. “Someone’s been through my magazines. This week’s Angling Times was under last week’s. I always keep them in order.” He led Jack and Eric to his bedroom. “And then there’s this.” He reached a key towards the lock of a rectangular strongbox.

  “Don’t touch that,” said Jack. “There might be fingerprints.”

  “I cleaned my guns only this morning,” said Phil as Eric and Jack examined the lock. “So I know the lock wasn’t broken before I went to the pub.”

  Eric pointed out some scratches on the lip of the lock. “Those could have been caused by someone tampering with it. Can I have the key?” Phil handed it over and Eric inserted it into the lock and tried in vain to turn it.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” said Phil. “Someone damaged the lock while trying to get my guns.”

  “How many guns do you own?” asked Jack.

  “A shotgun and a hunting rifle.” Phil added defensively, “You can see the licences if you want.”

  “Please.”

  Muttering something under his breath, the gamekeeper left the room.

  “What do you think?” asked Eric.

  “I think they were here.” Jack pointed to the lock. “But I think Beech is wrong about that. Karl Robinson makes a living out of breaking into far more secure places than this. He wouldn’t have had any trouble picking a lock like that.”

  A frown found its way onto Eric’s face. “So you’re saying he deliberately damaged the lock after opening the box. Which means the guns might no longer be in there and we could be dealing with an armed man.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but I’m going to have to call this in. I can’t risk one of my officers stumbling into a confrontation with Karl.”

  Jack heaved a sigh and gave another nod. Phil returned with the licences. Struggling to hide his distaste at the gamekeeper’s hatchet face and mean little eyes, Jack looked at the licences. Everything was in order. “Thank you, Mr Beech.” He handed back the papers.

  “This has got something to do with what you were talking to the lads in the pub about, hasn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  Phil scowled. “Don’t give me that. If there’s some sort of criminal gang operating in this area, I’ve got a right to know.”

  Jack stepped around him and headed for the front door, leaving Eric to do the talking. He suddenly felt that if he opened his mouth all the questions he’d been dying to ask the gamekeeper for months would come rushing out. Did Tracy make you angry talking to you like that in front of the lads in the pub? Did she make you feel small? You wanted to teach her a lesson. That’s why you and your rapist pal went up to Low Lonning and did what you did, isn’t it? Come on, admit it. That fat coward hid in the trees while you made the Ridleys tie themselves up. Then the pair of you had your sweet way with them. Isn’t that right?

  A flicker of uncertainty passed over at Jack’s face. But was that right? The way the attackers made the Ridleys tie themselves up had always bothered him. Surely it would have made more sense for one man to hold a gun on the family while the other tied them up. Then there would have been little or no chance of anyone escaping. And as for having their sweet way with them… One of the attackers – most likely Beech – had seemingly masturbated over Charlie. Her vagina had been penetrated by a sharp object, most likely post-mortem considering the lack of abrasions on her inner thighs. But no semen was recovered from her or Andrea’s bodies. Why hadn’t Sutton – someone with a history of sexual offences – attempted to rape either of them? There would have been plenty of time to do so, even after Tracy fled the scene. Had he been too panicked to get an erection? Was that why he’d mutilated Charlie’s vagina?

  Eric interrupted Jack’s train of thought. “I’ve put the word out. Two of my guys are on their way over here. The nearest armed police are in Carlisle. It’ll take them a while to get down here.”

  “What have you told Beech?”

  “Nothing yet, but he has the right to know if he’s in danger. So does Dale Sutton. You know that’s where they’re headed next.”

  “Just do me a favour. Don’t tell them who Butterfly really is or you’ll be putting her in danger.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack. I won’t tell those pair one word more than they need to know.” The curl of Eric’s lips revealed his dislike for Beech and Sutton. “Although they’ll soon cotton-on to what’s going on if they speak to each other.”

  “Then we’d better get to Sutton ASAP. How far is it to Seascale?”

  “Four or five miles. We’re the closest officers.”

  “So let’s get going.”

  Eric hesitated. “The guns have changed things. If we find Karl, I need to know you won’t go charging in and get yourself or anyone else killed.”

  “You needn’t worry about that, Eric. I’m not going to do anything stupid. I have a daughter to think about.”

  Reassured, Eric nodded and headed for his Landrover. Jack ducked into his car and rammed it into gear. Things were moving fast. He had to move even faster. Once the armed police arrived, the situation would be out of his hands. Sweat prickled his palms as he thought about how Dennis ‘Phoenix’ Smith had reacted when he realised the police were closing in. Karl was a different kettle of fish, but who knew what he would be capable of if he was backed into a corner.

  Jack’s wheels spat stones as he accelerated away from the cottage.

  Chapter 19

  The road descended gently between thick hedges that enclosed flat grassy fields. The craggy fells of Wasdale were receding into the distance behind the car. A few miles to the north, the nuclear chimneys of Sellafield sprouted like a towering forest of concrete and steel. Karl was humming along to the radio and drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel.

  “What have you got to be so chirpy about?” Butterfly asked with an edge of irritation.

  “Didn’t you feel it back there at Beech’s house?”

  “Feel what?”

  “That old buzz.”

  “I felt scared, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Nah, you didn’t. You were as steady as ever.”

  Butterfly’s fingers circled the depression on her forehead. Sometimes she felt as if she wanted to push her fingers through the scar, push them deep into the spongy brain and pull the bullet out. “Are you trying to kill me? Because that’s what’ll happen if you keep on doing this.”

  “I’m trying to bring you back to life.”

  “So you admit it. The woman you loved is dead.”

  Karl shook his head. “Oh she’s still in there alright. Lost in a maze. I’m going to show her the way out.”

  Butterfly pressed her fingers harder against the scar. Karl’s words were hitting their target. Her brain was drumming its painful rhythm once more. “It’s not a maze, it’s a prison,” she muttered. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her locked up.”

  “So you admit it,” countered Karl. “That bullet didn’t kill Io.”

  Heaving a sigh, Butterfly stared at the drab pebbledash houses on the outskirts of Seascale. The brooding blue line of the Irish Sea came into view as the road curved down into the village. Closer to Seascale’s centre, white cottages were dotted in amongst the almost uniformly grey houses. Unlike Gosforth, Seascale had the feel of a plac
e for locals rather than tourists.

  Karl thumbed over his shoulder towards Charlie. “He’s a good sleeper, isn’t he?”

  “So I’m told,” said Butterfly, glad for the change of subject. “He usually sleeps for two or three hours in the afternoon. When he wakes up, he’ll be hungry. I’ll need to boil some water for his formula milk.”

  “Maybe Dale will let us use his kettle.”

  Butterfly cast Karl an unamused glance. The Sat Nav directed them onto an estate of characterless council houses. Karl pointed to a little bungalow with a postage-stamp of grass in front of it. Net curtains hung in the windows. A rusty Ford Fiesta squatted on its axles in the cracked concrete driveway. There was nothing that marked the bungalow out as the home of a child molester and possible multiple murderer.

  Karl continued a short distance past the bungalow and parked alongside a scrap of grass with a swing and seesaw at its centre. There was no one using the play park. The end of the school day was still two hours away. Next to the park was a cluster of garages. Butterfly glanced uneasily at them and the nearby houses. “I don’t like the thought of leaving Charlie alone here.”

  “Why? There’s no one around and we’ll be quick.” Karl clicked his fingers. “In and out like that.”

  “What if Sutton’s in? He doesn’t work. He hasn’t been able to find a job since getting sacked from the school where he was the caretaker.”

  “If he’s in, we’ll come back to the car and have a rethink.”

  Butterfly considered Karl’s proposal for a moment, then took a baby blanket out of her bag. She draped the blanket over Charlie’s seat so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone passing by, taking care that the material didn’t rest on his face. “OK,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  Karl rested a hand on her arm. He pointed to an old man walking a dog across the street. They waited for the man to turn a corner before getting out of the car. This time, Karl didn’t loiter at the front of the bungalow. He led Butterfly along the side of it, past the car, a wheelie bin and a recycling box full of empty White Lightening bottles. He glanced into a window before moving swiftly on. Butterfly took a quick peek too and found herself looking into a pigsty of a bedroom. A duvet was screwed up on the bed. Clothes were strewn over the carpet. Socks lolled like thirsty tongues from a chest of drawers.