The Bone Hill

by James D Mortain

  Denise leaned back slightly in her chair. Deans picked up on the gesture.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  Denise shook her head. ‘I don’t know – what was she doing?’

  Deans blinked his heavy lids. ‘She was grinning.’

  Denise shook her head. ‘I can’t help you there, other than to say it’s okay to be interested in somebody else—’

  ‘I’m not interested in Gold.’

  ‘I see you both together. There’s energy.’

  Deans shrugged. ‘I disagree.’

  He finished his breakfast and thanked Denise again.

  ‘Go on…’ Denise said. ‘There’s something else bothering you.’

  Deans smiled. Denise was good. He twisted his mug a couple of times to give him some thinking time.

  ‘Ever heard of auric photography?’ he asked after taking a measured sip of his drink.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Do you believe in it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So, it’s real?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Can it show…’ he coughed behind his hand. ‘…if somebody was… different?’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘Can we use your laptop; I want to show you something?’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, reaching for the laptop charging on the kitchen worktop behind her.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Denise opened the laptop, tapped in a password and turned the screen towards Deans.

  He placed a memory stick into the USB and found the sequence Palmer had used in Sarah’s home. He found the still image he was hunting for and turned the laptop back towards Denise.

  She looked at the image. Deans studied her reaction and she looked over the top of the screen at him, stood up and left the room, returning with a smile and her spectacles on the end of her nose. She sat back down and looked closer at the screen.

  She carefully removed her glasses and placed them down on the table between herself and Deans.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘It’s time to believe.’

  Deans looked down at the old oak table and his fingers traced the line of the grain in the wood. ‘I know,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know you know. So, what’s next?’

  ‘I need to go through each of these memory sticks and see if I can find something.’

  ‘There must be a dozen sticks. That will take forever.’

  ‘Thirteen. It will take as long as it takes. Welcome to police work.’

  ‘Should I be seeing any of this?’

  ‘Why not, you are part of the team now. On that note, I need you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s a briefing at the station with the DI at nine-thirty. That gives us over an hour and a half to get to Ruby Mansell’s house.’

  ‘What? Why do you need to go back there?’

  ‘Unfinished business.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Deans looked at his watch. It was just passing the right side of eight a.m. A black void on the horizon loomed large ahead of them. It was the silhouette of Ruby Mansell’s Victorian manor house. The place known locally as the ‘haunted house.’ The place where unspeakable acts of torture and violence took place in the dim and murky depths of the cellar. The place where Maria undoubtedly took her final breath.

  The rising winter sun was unable to penetrate the heavy granite sky. They did not speak. What could they say? Deans knew this house held the secrets to his wife’s murder, and possibly that of Amy Poole and Archie Rowland. From the first time he was drawn towards it, he somehow knew that the once home of Ruby Mansell, would define him.

  They were now just metres away and Deans was already feeling cold to his core. He looked over at Denise who continued looking ahead as she drove. He was certain she felt the same. After all, they were the same.

  She pulled slowly to a halt facing the front of the property, now boarded on all windows by half-inch plywood. Police tape gently quivered in the breeze across the entrance to the derelict archway.

  ‘Are we going inside?’ Denise asked without looking at Deans or taking her hands from the wheel.

  ‘Yep.’

  Deans cut her a look. Denise was blinking fast, still staring ahead through the windscreen. He dug a hand into his go-bag and removed a bunch of keys on a royal blue Devon and Cornwall Police key-fob. He held it up between them and rattled it.

  ‘Where did you get those?’ Denise asked, finally looking his way.

  ‘I acquired them from the office.’ He winked. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I…’ Denise hesitated and gulped air. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling.’

  Deans’ eyes turned to the house. ‘I know. I feel it too.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to do any of this.’

  Deans tipped his head. ‘My wife died in that house. I will find the killers. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ Denise looked up at the tall crumbling walls of the house and then at Deans. Her features were strained and alert. ‘There’s a powerful energy inside,’ she said.

  Deans could feel his heart beating faster beneath his jacket.

  ‘I’m not saying it’s necessarily bad. In fact, spirits aren’t inherently evil. They are here to help us, to guide us.’ She paused. ‘It’s just, the energy inside those walls has grown since the last time we were here and I fear it’s greater than our combined abilities. If things don’t work out as expected, I don’t know if I could control it.’

  ‘I hope you can’t,’ Deans said. ‘I need to know what I’m facing.’

  Denise fixed her gaze back on the building.

  ‘You can’t beat this energy,’ she said.

  ‘Denise. I’m not afraid to die, since…’ his voice tailed away. ‘…I’m afraid to exist without living.’

  She looked at him again.

  ‘Everything happens for a reason, remember?’ Deans said. ‘This is now my reason.’

  He tugged on the door handle and the bitter air nibbled at his ankles. He stopped with one leg out of the door. ‘And if that means taking a few risks. That’s the way it has to be.’

  He looked up to the tall, boxy chimney stacks and stood motionless, just as he had done several weeks before, but this time he wasn’t fuelled by anticipation; this time, he was filled with revenge. Fingers of super-chilled air penetrated his jacket and tickled his spine. He shivered and shrugged off the unwelcome attention.

  ‘It’s here,’ Denise said. She was behind him.

  ‘Yes,’ Deans breathed.

  Denise came alongside his shoulder. ‘Are you certain about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else that we are coming… just in case?’

  Deans shook his head. ‘Nope.’ He stepped forward and raised the police tape above head height using his walking stick to gain further leverage. ‘After you,’ he said to Denise.

  She walked below the tape without needing to duck and passed him with a concerned frown on her face.

  Deans went to the front door, jiggled with the padlock and unlocked it. The door handle mechanism was removed and been replaced by two heavy steel finger-sized loops for the chunky padlock. He pushed firmly and the door creaked inwards creating a space large enough for them both to walk through. He took a tentative step inside the darkness. The hallway was even blacker than before, on account of the wooden boards shielding all external light. Thick cables criss-crossed the floor ahead of them and ran to a six-foot high tripod with four halogen lamps; leftovers from the forensic search. Deans could hear the throb of a nearby generator. The house had been left without electricity for a decade, since Ruby Mansell had passed away.

  ‘Let’s shed some light on this, shall we?’ He moved to the lamps and switched them on.

  Light carved through the dust-filled air with an incandescent hum, illuminating the hallway with a billion floating
particles.

  Deans suddenly felt aware and vulnerable, as if the light was screaming, awakening the unthinkable. Denise rushed beyond him and quickly shut them down.

  They stood motionless, blinded by the darkness.

  ‘What is it?’ Deans whispered, attempting to introduce light from the torch on his mobile phone.

  ‘We’re not alone,’ Denise uttered.

  The hairs on Deans’ scalp began to move in an upward motion like iron filings to a strong magnet above his head. He felt the air around his face begin to move and shone the narrow shaft of light at Denise. Her hand was covering her mouth and she turned abruptly and faced him.

  Deans grabbed his throat with both hands. Air was locked in his windpipes. His stomach and neck muscles heaved to clear the blockage and free his tubes for a desperate intake of air. He stumbled backwards and his walking stick slammed onto the floorboards with a loud echoing crash. His eyes bulged and he squeezed his neck trying to open the airwaves. There was no sound. Time was frozen. Effort turned to panic as his lungs began to burn. He reached out for Denise, his fingers inches from her face. She rushed at him and shovelled him towards the partially opened front door. Deans fell to the floor on his back, his head outside in the cold sticky dirt of the derelict archway. He felt no air on his face as if his head was bound tightly in plastic sheeting. He could see Denise screaming, but he heard no words. His eyes rolled upward and saw ravens circling above him from the rooftop. There was nothing more to give – nothing more to fight.

  I’m coming, Maria.

  His body softened, his hands slackened, and Denise’s terrified face faded out to blackness.

  CHAPTER 21

  He opened his eyes with a start and lashed out wildly with his arms and legs as he tried to back away quickly from the door. He was lying on his back and facing the sky.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Denise said. She was leaning over him. ‘Andy, everything’s okay.’

  He gulped the air. It tasted good. The front of Ruby Mansell’s house was just feet away.

  ‘You blacked out,’ Denise said placing a warm flat hand onto his forehead. ‘My God! You’re burning up.’

  Dribble trickled down one side of Deans’ chin. He sucked oxygen into his lungs and rubbed the skin around his neckline.

  ‘Have I got any marks?’ he asked.

  Denise leaned in and shook her head.

  ‘I couldn’t breathe,’ he said.

  ‘I know. You fainted.’

  ‘How long was I out?’

  ‘A few seconds, nothing more.’

  Deans brought himself up to a seated position, his legs outstretched. He gawped in through the open front door and regulated his intake of air, until he was breathing normally again.

  ‘They were here,’ he said.

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘Not who: The sacrifices… the sacrifices were here.’

  Denise gave him a long hard stare. ‘Come on,’ she said reaching beneath his arms. ‘Enough of this talk. We’d better get you checked out at the doctors.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You need help.’

  ‘I’ve got all the help I need, from you.’

  ‘Andy, the energy inside that building is powerful and I don’t think we should—’ she faced away from the house and whispered, as if the walls could hear what she was saying.

  ‘I don’t think we should go back inside, and I don’t know if I can help you. This is beyond my understanding.’

  Deans looked up at the face of the house. The coos and crackled calls from the ravens sounded more like laughter.

  ‘That’s exactly why I need to find out who is behind all of this, because I know who will be next.’

  Denise took Deans back to her house to clean up before his briefing at Torworthy nick with the DI. He had suffered no lasting effects from his encounter at the old manor house, other than a significant dent to his confidence. They were back in the kitchen, Denise behind her laptop, Deans with a steaming mug of black coffee.

  ‘I already researched Ruby Mansell,’ Deans said as he watched Denise type her name into the search bar. ‘She died in the house from an unspecified source of asphyxiation.’

  Denise peered up over the top of the screen at him.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t been there with me I would have suffered the same fate.’

  He sipped from his drink watching Denise. Her brow furrowed as she absorbed information from the screen.

  He rotated his mug back and forth. ‘You know…’ he said, ‘for a moment… just a moment… I was going to give up.’ He met Denise’s gaze and slowly lifted his mug to his lips. ‘But that would only end my pain.’

  ‘That’s not the answer,’ Denise said.

  Deans clenched his teeth.

  ‘I’m going to end this. Not just for Maria, but for all of the victims.’

  ‘How?’ Denise asked. ‘How can you possibly end it?’

  ‘We give them what they want.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A sacrifice.’

  CHAPTER 22

  The DI and Jackson spoke closely in muted tones. Deans sat between Denise and Sarah Gold in front of the white board like eight-year-old school kids on detention.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Sarah asked quietly in Deans’ ear.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose we are all about to find out.’

  Jackson turned away from the DI and locked eyes with Deans. There could be no doubt; they were talking about him.

  The DI stepped forward of Jackson and looked at the trio seated before him. ‘There will be no investigation into Annie Rowland—’

  ‘What?’ Deans spat rising from his seat. ‘That’s a crazy decision.’

  ‘It is my decision. And it is final, Detective.’ The DI glared at Deans until he sat back down in his seat.

  ‘Sergeant Jackson has provided me an investigative update and I do not believe the threshold has been met to arrest Annie Rowland, search her premises, or have reason to suspect that she has any involvement in these crimes.’

  Deans looked at Jackson in disbelief. ‘What about The Raven Banner, the means and know how to mutilate the victims, the obvious connections to Ranford and Babbage?’

  ‘You heard the boss, son,’ Jackson sneered.

  Deans looked to Sarah Gold to give him support. She sat in silence and gripped her knees.

  ‘We won’t get another chance to do this,’ Deans pleaded.

  The DI raised his eyebrows. ‘If new evidence comes to light implicating Miss Rowland, then of course I will reconsider—’

  Deans snorted sarcastically and shook his head.

  ‘You disagree?’ the DI questioned.

  You fucking novice.

  Deans looked again for Jackson to instil some common sense. Instead, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the DI, wearing a smug grin.

  ‘You don’t get it. You just don’t get it.’ Deans stood up and stormed out of the room.

  Sarah found him with his head in his hands, sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Hey, come on. They’re wrong,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t believe how stupid that DI is. How are we supposed to get results with our hands tied like that?’

  ‘We’ll have to find another way.’

  ‘Why didn’t Jackson back us up?’

  ‘You know what it’s like…’

  Deans wiped his face. ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Of me?’

  Deans nodded.

  ‘Of course, what is it?’

  ‘Can you drop me off at Hemingsford?’

  Sarah’s eyes skipped around his face for a moment.

  ‘What are you going to do there?’ she asked.

  Deans ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. ‘I’m going to do something I should have done days ago.’

  She dropped Deans on the Quay at Hemingsford, the picturesque North Devon fishing village nestled into the hillside at the mouth of the estuary. He f
ound his bearings and walked up the steep hill to the high-stoned wall that flanked the impressive property that was ‘Trade Winds’. A once happy home that was now broken and shattered.

  He crunched along the wide shingle pathway and banged on the large ornate wooden door, just as he had done before. To his mind, it seemed like an age ago, but the reality was much, much sooner.

  The door opened after a couple of minutes and before Deans stood Mr and Mrs Poole. They looked older than he remembered. They all did. How tragic death could sap the soul from the living.

  None of them spoke for an extended moment, and then Mr Poole turned and walked back into the home.

  Deans looked deeply into the eyes of Amy’s mother. The determination and fight that had burned so brightly, was now just scorched embers.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Poole.’

  ‘Good afternoon, officer,’ she softly replied. She noticed his orthopaedic boot. ‘What have you done?’ she asked.

  ‘A little accident,’ Deans replied, surprised that she had not seen the deluge of news reports following the train derailment.

  ‘May I come in, please?’ he asked.

  Mrs Poole dropped her head and gently nodded.

  Deans hobbled through to the large reception room with the spectacular views across the estuary towards the sailing club. But this time, he didn’t stand at the bay window and gawp. Instead, he stared at Amy’s parents seated together on the sofa.

  ‘How are you both?’ he asked.

  Neither spoke. Mr Poole faced away with a tight top lip.

  ‘I lost my wife,’ Deans said. ‘She was murdered not long after Amy.’

  Both tracked their hopeless eyes back in his direction.

  ‘The same group who killed your daughter, murdered my wife.’

  He saw a tear glistening on Mrs Poole’s cheek. He shook his head. ‘I’m not here for sympathy.’

  She reached out with a clawed hand and he took it. Her skin was cold and dry like paper.

  ‘I’d like, if possible, to see Amy’s room again, if I may?’

  Mr Poole scowled and turned away again.

  ‘Has it changed?’ Deans asked Amy’s mother, her hand still clutching his.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’