Rae looked up from her notebook. ‘What’s it like now?’
‘Derelict. I don’t know of anyone who goes up there much. I expect some of the local kids wander around the place, breaking things up even more, but that’s just me being old and grumpy. They’re probably not as bad as us oldies think, not most of them.’
‘So there were reports of violence?’
Babs shrugged. ‘There’s always gossip, isn’t there? But it wasn’t obvious. Just before they all left, there was a rumour that a young woman had gone missing. But then someone said she’d turned up. It was all hearsay and rumour, and we never knew what was true and what wasn’t. Then all of a sudden, one morning we heard that the place was empty. As far as I know, it’s been empty ever since and has gone to rack and ruin.’
‘Did they ever come over this way? Maybe to the pub or the local shop?’
Babs shook her head. ‘It was just as easy for them to get to Bishops Lydeard from where they were, and it’s always had a good minimarket, better than what we had along here. But I don’t think they used that much either. It was easier to drive into Bridgwater and get it all from the cash and carry, or Tesco. From what I heard they all ate together, so it would make sense to buy in bulk. In the summer and autumn, of course, they’d be eating their own produce so they wouldn’t need the shops.’ She frowned. ‘Though there was one of them I did see a couple of times in our local bookshop, along in Nether Stowey. A young woman. Quiet, she was. Never said much. I used to work part-time in the bookshop, you see. I did afternoons.’
‘Would you be able to pick her out in a photo?’ Rae asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Babs replied. ‘It was ages ago and my memory’s not what it was. I can’t even remember what some of my old neighbours used to look like and I spoke to them most days.’
‘How long have you lived in this area, Mrs Atkins?’
‘All of my life, just about. We moved into this house after our older two children left home. That’s about twenty years.’
‘You must like it, living in the Quantocks?’
Babs nodded. ‘Oh yes. It’s lovely. Mind you, the hills are a bit Jekyll and Hyde. The weather’s usually good enough for the visitors. But just occasionally, when the weather turns, it can get a bit nasty up there. People have died.’
*
The smallholding was exactly where Babs had said. A narrow lane threaded into a valley at the south-east corner of the Quantock Hills. This soon became an overgrown, muddy track curving into a deeply shadowed dell. After half a mile Craig was forced to pull over at the edge of a field. He and Rae got out of the car and set off on foot. There had been a light shower of rain as they had driven across the high ground and the overhanging trees were dripping water onto the track, which was pitted with potholes, some of them pretty deep. Rae could imagine how dark and dreary it would be here on an overcast day in winter. The thought made her shiver.
‘It’s a bit brooding, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Normally I like walking in woodland, but this place seems to have a peculiar atmosphere. It’s so quiet, so silent. Or is it just me being over-imaginative?’
Craig shook his head. ‘No, I feel it too. Sort of sinister, though I was half expecting that from what you told me in the car.’
‘Are you pulling my leg?’ Rae asked.
He grinned. ‘Would I ever?’
At that point they rounded a corner and the valley opened up in front of them into a pretty, sheltered coombe, about half a mile across. In the middle lay Heathfield Farm, a collection of ramshackle buildings, most lacking a serviceable roof. The whole place was overrun with brambles and weeds. Doors sagged, tilting at crazy angles, and only a few of the windowpanes were still intact.
‘What a sorry sight,’ Rae whispered.
They drew nearer.
‘Hallo?’ she called out. ‘Anyone here?’
A group of rooks, startled by the sound of her voice, flapped away, cawing in protest. There was no other sound and little movement, other than the gentle swaying of branches in the slight breeze. They entered the farmyard.
‘Don’t we need permission for this?’ Craig asked.
‘I couldn’t find who owns the place. But there’s no need to worry, Craig. Technically, we’re within our rights to be here because a public footpath runs through the yard. While we’re on that path there isn’t a problem. Anyway, I’m an officer of the law, concerned about reports of rural theft across the region. This place is totally insecure.’
Up close, the small farm was in an even more pitiful state than had been apparent from a distance. Nettles, brambles and other weeds seemed to spring out of every crevice and even the remaining bits of gutter were weed-infested. The very air carried an aroma of mould and mildew. Everything made of iron or steel was broken and rusted. Bits of rotten wood were hanging off the outhouses, covered in a coating of slimy green.
‘Surely someone could have made something of this place?’ Craig said. ‘It looks beyond repair now, but ten or twelve years ago it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as bad as this. Why didn’t the owner do something while there was still time? The area’s a favourite haunt of walkers, so why not do it up for holiday letting? It makes no sense to let it get into this state.’
‘Maybe that’s one of the things I need to find out about,’ Rae said. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t add up. I’m going to have a poke around inside. You stay out here and keep watch.’
The ground floor of the main farmhouse was divided into two large rooms, one a spacious kitchen and the other an equally large room that ran the length of the building at the back. Both were empty of furniture and fittings, although a broken sink hung off the kitchen wall beneath the window.
Part of the upstairs area showed signs of having been partitioned into small sleeping cubicles, although there was also a larger room that could have been a dormitory for children, judging by the odd bits of bed and cot frames that were spread about. Rae poked around the remains, all broken, filthy and damp. Just as she began to descend the stairs she spotted something that caught her attention. Set high and flush in the hallway wall opposite the stairwell was what appeared to be a small cupboard, discernible only to someone standing on the top two stairs. It lacked a handle or doorknob, and it was set too high to be reached without standing on something. She went blinking out into the sunshine.
‘Craig, have you spotted a stepladder or anything that I could stand on? I need to reach a cupboard. And I’ll need a thin bit of metal to lever it open. Something like a screwdriver?’
Craig went into one of the sheds and returned with an upturned crate, some three feet high, that was not too rotted with damp. He had also found a rusty screwdriver. He helped her manoeuvre the crate into position on its end and held it while she clambered onto it.
‘Okay?’ he asked.
‘I think so. Can you pass me the screwdriver, please?’
At first the cupboard door refused to budge but, after an extra strong push, it swung open on stiff hinges. Inside were several small, thin folders, stacked on top of one another. Rae pulled them out, passed them down to Craig, and then jumped off the crate.
‘Well, who would have thought it? All the trespassers who must have been through this place over the years, and none of them spotted that cupboard in the wall. I was lucky. The light was bright enough for me to see the edge when my eyes were level with it. The sun just caught it. It’s impossible to spot from down there, isn’t it?’
‘Can’t see a thing,’ Craig said.
Rae put on some thin latex gloves and sifted through the contents — an assortment of letters, notebooks and several pamphlets. ‘I’ll wait until we’re back at the pub before going through it properly.’ She put the folders into her shoulder bag. ‘Let’s wander round a bit before we head back to the car.’
There was little else of interest on the farm. They could make out the small fields that had once been worked for vegetables and other produce, although all were now overgrown and weed-infeste
d. A couple of pigsties were situated at the edge of the yard, but with their timber sides largely gone.
‘The place needs to be demolished and rebuilt from scratch,’ Craig said. ‘Except for the house. That looks okay — a new roof and some basic work and it could be a nice place.’
Rae looked at her watch. ‘Let’s get back to the car. I’ll need to report what we’ve found to Barry. Then we can visit Taunton, pop into the library and get a quick lunch. Alright?’
Craig nodded cheerfully. ‘Sure thing, boss.’
*
The assistant librarian at the county library in Taunton couldn’t have been more helpful. ‘We do keep an archive of local interest material, some of it dating back almost a century, so you might be lucky. Let me have a look.’
He spent several minutes at the computer going through lists of titles before pausing at one. ‘According to this, there was a small booklet published locally about fifteen years ago, entitled The Commune in the Hills. It’s only thirty pages long. We’ve got a reference copy downstairs in a storeroom. Do you want to see it?’
‘Please,’ Rae said.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes,’ he said, ‘that’s if it’s where I expect it to be. You never really know.’
He was away for more than fifteen minutes, returning without the book but with a perplexed look on his face. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea who’s taken it out.’ He looked again at the computer record. ‘No. Sorry. No record of anyone borrowing it.’
‘Do you know if the author, this Timothy Brotherton, ever wrote anything else?’ Rae asked.
He spent a few minutes searching the catalogue. ‘It doesn’t look like it. Nothing’s showing up here.’
Rae and Craig made their way back to their car. ‘There is somewhere else we can try,’ she said. ‘As we drove through Nether Stowey this morning, I noticed an old second-hand bookshop. I wonder if it might be worth asking in there to see if they know anything about it?’
Towards the end of the afternoon they entered a dimly lit shop that smelled of old paper and musty books. Once again, Rae explained what she was looking for. The bookshop owner, an elderly, stooped man wearing a grey cardigan with patches on the elbows and a bow tie, listened with a glint in his eye.
‘I know exactly where you mean,’ George Biddulph said. ‘That place was somewhat notorious. Maybe Babs Atkins didn’t tell you but there were all kinds of rumours doing the rounds about drugs and wild parties and the like. I don’t know whether any of it was true. But I did used to have a leftover copy of that booklet. It was written by one of them, I seem to remember. One of the leaders. Let me have a look.’
He rooted around in some low cupboards at the back of the store and finally emerged with a look of triumph and some dusty smudges on his face.
‘The last copy,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit grubby and it’s got a tear in the cover, so it’s yours for half price.’
‘When did you sell the previous one?’ Craig asked.
The bookseller screwed up his face. ‘About five years ago?’
Soon they were back in the car, heading towards the motorway and the trickiest part of the visit. They had to investigate the cleaning company where Trent Baker worked — without giving the game away.
Chapter 13: What a Day!
Friday Morning
Several days after Tuesday evening’s escapade, Trent Baker was still cheerful. He’d been back on the night shift at work, but his tasks weren’t exactly onerous, and he’d had plenty of time to scheme, plan and plot while flicking a damp mop across floors that were already perfectly clean. He was back in the premises of the company in Bath that employed Russell Poulter, so he’d need to be careful. Not that there was much chance of the poor sap coming in to work this early, and he would be finished by seven, before the first workers turned up. It was very useful knowing the entry codes for the various office doors. He’d managed to slip Poulter’s phone back into his office drawer early on Wednesday morning, having deleted all trace of the text messages he’d sent to dear Catherine Templeton. The guy probably hadn’t even noticed that it had gone missing.
It still gave him a thrill to recall the way Catherine Fuckface had stormed out of that restaurant, slamming the door behind her. What a display of rage. What a picture she’d been in full flight! It was hard to resist the temptation to follow her into the wine bar. When she reappeared several hours later, she was looking extremely pissed and wobbly on her feet. It had taken all of his self-control not to approach her. ‘My, my. If it isn’t Catherine. What a coincidence, meeting you like this. And with you looking your usual cheerful self!’ He probably wouldn’t have escaped the encounter intact. Not only was Catherine a good six inches taller than him, but she had made her feelings about him perfectly clear during the court case all those years ago. The parole board would have a field day if he confronted her.
He laughed. Had she really thought that his ten-year spell in prison would cool his hatred of her and the others? He felt even more bile than before. He intended to dedicate his days to making her life a misery. The restaurant incident was only the beginning, but it wouldn’t do to follow it up too quickly. No, he’d let things settle for a while. Once she had recovered and was back enjoying her usual social life, he’d pick his moment and strike at the bitch again. Of course, what he really wanted to do was to smash an iron bar into her face but, sadly, he’d have to forego that pleasure. The cops would know it was him. Hadn’t he already done ten years in a stinking cell for the earlier assault? Maybe he should have killed her when he’d had the chance. He’d fucked up big time by holding back. But he could still make her suffer. She’d pay. Over and over again, for the rest of her measly life. But it would need a lot of careful thought to do it right. Just like chess, this game was totally absorbing.
Meanwhile, as soon as this shift was over, he needed to make a trip to CleanStyle’s offices in Weston to sign his end of week timesheet and collect his payslip. After all, there were more important things in life than a simple need for simple revenge. A complex need for complex revenge, for example. He laughed.
*
Something was going on. Tim Brotherton knew it. It was as if the smooth flow of the universe had shifted, just slightly, but nevertheless it felt significant. He sensed that he was no longer in control and it worried him. What worried him more was that he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had changed. What had managed to free itself from his influence?
He looked down irritably at the magazine cover designs he’d been working on for the last few days. They didn’t look right somehow. They seemed to jar slightly, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. He stood up and walked to the window. Maybe he needed some fresh air. A short walk and a light lunch in a café somewhere, rather than working solidly here and getting nowhere. He really couldn’t face beans on toast in the silent kitchen. Pity Judy was out at work. He missed her presence on days like today when he was feeling out of sorts. In her own way, she was kind of inspirational. Maybe part of the tension he felt was the fact that his work-related problems were so trivial compared to hers. If he made a mistake, a magazine might sell fewer copies. If she made a mistake, people died. He felt inadequate in comparison, and he hated feeling that way. It just wasn’t him to feel less important than the people around him. He’d gotten used to being top dog early on in his life and felt uncomfortable in any other social arrangement. But Judy was such a good person, and she had an awe-inspiring sense of judgement. He’d never yet known her make a duff decision. Him? Even as a child he’d believed he was indestructible. Well, events had proven him wrong, big time. Quickly, he grabbed a jacket and made for the door. Rain or not, a walk along the seafront would do him good.
Two hours and several pints of beer later, he emerged from a town centre pub and made his way back to the seafront, woozy in the warm sunshine. He got as far as an empty bench and sat down. His head drooped, and he fell into a deep sleep.
*
&n
bsp; Trent Baker couldn’t believe his luck. Having left the CleanStyle office, he decided to take a short walk along the promenade and plan his next move when he spotted a familiar figure fast asleep on a seafront bench. He stopped dead. Tim bloody Brotherton! Unbelievable. The gods were surely on his side. Now, how best to make use of this chance encounter? Could he throw a rope over that nearby lamppost, slip a noose around Tim’s reptilian neck and haul him kicking and gasping into the air to die in agony? What a lovely thought. Too many people around though, and he did lack the all-important rope. Pick him up, sling him over his shoulder and throw him into the sea? Hardly. Tim was a good five inches taller and several stone heavier than him. Trent stood and thought. Come on! You have to do something. You can’t let this opportunity slip away. He noticed that one of Tim’s shoes had slipped off and was lying on the ground below a dangling foot. He lunged forward, grabbed the shoe, ran across the beach and hurled it as far as he could into the water. Small victory, but it was something. He hurried off towards the car park and set off up the M5 to his home in Bristol. What a day!
Chapter 14: Around Somerset
Late Friday Afternoon
Also in Weston-Super-Mare, Rae was sitting in a bare, functional office talking to the manager of the CleanStyle Contract Cleaning Company. She noted with some amusement that the carpet needed hoovering and the walls could have done with a wash.
‘Has there been a problem with Trent?’ the manager, Caitlin Beckett, asked. ‘Should I be worried about him?’
Rae shook her head. ‘No, not as far as we’re aware. We’re investigating a recent serious crime, but we have no reason to believe that Trent Baker was involved. His name just turned up in an old document that was found. We’d let you know straight away if we found something that connected him to it.’
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