by Luca Veste
‘How would you know what sounds they make?’
I shrugged my shoulders and took the defeat. ‘The son sold the farm to a guy called Jim Treador. I’ve just found his contact information. I think he’s our best bet to finding him.’
She walked over to me and looked over my shoulder at the screen. ‘He wouldn’t have sold it if he thought his father was still alive.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. A little later than I probably should have, but it’s been a bit of a hectic twenty-four hours.’
‘What should we do then?’
I leaned back in the chair and swivelled it a few times. Picked up my phone and held it in the air. ‘Call him.’
Alexandra left to put the kettle on, leaving me to dial the number I’d found. A man answered after a couple of rings.
‘Hi, is this Jim Treador?’
‘Speaking,’ a gruff voice said, the sound of traffic in the background. ‘I hope you’re not going to try and sell me anything.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ I replied, discarding lie after lie, before I settled on one. ‘My name’s David Clarke. I work for the BBC producing documentaries.’
‘Right . . . ’ Jim said, a hint of surprise and wariness in his voice. ‘You sure you have the right number?’
‘We’re currently making a programme concerning missing people,’ I continued, allowing the lie to spool out and take form. ‘I understand you have a connection to one of our main subjects.’
‘I doubt it. I don’t know anyone who is missing.’
‘Ah, I was under the impression that you now own the farmland that once belonged to William Moore?’
A moment of silence followed, which I allowed to go on for a few seconds.
‘Of course,’ Jim said finally, his voice lower and deeper. ‘I was approached by his son a few months back. I felt it was only right to make sure it was kept in good hands.’
‘Well, we’re hoping to bring some more publicity to the case, given it was a little overshadowed by a more high-profile one around the same time.’
‘The boy from the music festival. Yes, we know all about that one.’
‘Right, so that’s the main focus of the documentary – the missing persons cases that aren’t featured as prominently as they perhaps should be.’
‘I’m not sure how I can help out with this.’
I paused, hesitating on how to proceed. With caution, seemed to be the best bet. ‘Well, we’re trying to make contact with Mr Moore’s son, but we’re finding it a little tricky.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘So, we were hoping you might be able to help us out with tracking him down. He’s unaware of the documentary at this time and we want to make sure he’s happy with his father being featured and that he has as much chance to assist as possible.’
Another period of silence. I imagined Jim standing on farmland now – a big, burly man with arms that were bigger than my entire body. I had no idea where it came from, but the image stuck. He could have been a much smaller guy, sitting in a field wearing a tweed jacket surrounded by cows for all I knew. Behind me, I felt Alexandra’s presence again. I looked over and saw her standing in the doorway, holding a cup of tea in her hands.
‘I’m not so sure about this,’ Jim said, more than suspicion in his voice now. ‘We’ve had a few of you journalists sniffing around for the past year now.’
He said the word journalists like it was the worst insult you could say to someone. I ignored it. ‘Look, we have a vested interest in this project, hoping it brings a lot of publicity to cases that are overlooked.’
‘And get publicity for yourselves while you’re at it, no doubt.’
‘That is one of the by-products of these types of shows, I’m willing to admit,’ I said, guessing correctly – I hoped – that Jim Treador valued honesty above anything else. ‘We want to make a show that is watched by people, talked about on social media, the subject of much discussion. That’s how this business works, after all. Word of mouth and all of that.’
‘It was a shame what happened to William,’ Jim said, his voice softening now. He made a tutting sound before he spoke, as if he was talking about the price of something rising, rather than someone going missing. ‘He wasn’t exactly well liked around here – given he didn’t talk or mix with his neighbours. No one really knew anything about him. It was just bad timing, because of what happened to that boy. They couldn’t care less about him, when they had a fresh-faced lad to concentrate on. First time I met his son was after that. He seemed a good sort, if a little quiet. Older than I’d been expecting. The house is in a right state, but that was expected. We heard William’s wife died years ago, but that was all we knew really.’
‘That’s why we’re hoping to get in touch with him. I’m sure he’d like as much help to get details of his father’s story out as possible.’
‘I doubt you’re doing this for non-selfish reasons though,’ he said, a deeper tone coming over the phone. Mildly mocking, but a hint of menace underneath it. ‘Tell me, is this just another ploy to get more behind that young lad from the music thing on TV? Only, we had to deal with all kinds of underhanded stuff last year. Is this documentary going to really be about what you’re saying?’
‘You have my word on that.’
‘You know, I haven’t even got a TV licence. Couldn’t put up with the right-wing bias on your programmes.’
I frowned, catching a questioning look from Alexandra. I waved it off, but couldn’t hide my surprise at the political leanings of the man. I wasn’t exactly good at reading people and it turned out I was even worse when it was just over the phone.
‘I’m just asking for any help you can give to help us contact Mr Moore’s son,’ I said, trying not to sound too desperate. The more he talked, the less I was convinced he would actually tell me anything I hadn’t already heard the previous day. ‘I promise we will treat him with respect. If he doesn’t want to participate, then that’s our involvement over and done with.’
‘Good. The guy has been through enough as it is.’
I put a thumbs up at Alexandra, who nodded and handed me a pen. I noted down an address and checked it over with Jim.
‘That’s the forwarding address he gave me,’ he said, ready to hang up now, it seemed. ‘I don’t have any more than that. I paid him a fair price, we dealt with it between us without any other hassle.’
I paused, then wrote down underneath the address the words ‘paid in cash’ and underlined it. Pointed to it to get Alexandra’s attention.
‘Thank you, Mr Treador,’ I said, looking at the place name he’d given me. Something about it rang a bell, but I wasn’t sure what it was. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Just make sure you don’t cause any trouble for the bloke. He’s had enough of that in the past year, with his father going and leaving him behind on his own. I’ll see you.’
The phone went dead and I turned to Alexandra. ‘Well, that wasn’t as difficult as I’d been expecting.’
‘A TV producer?’ Alexandra said, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Some story that. Where did you pull that one from?’
‘I have no idea. Seemed to work though.’ I picked up the address I’d written down and studied it again. ‘I feel like I know this for some reason. Does it ring any bells with you?’
Alexandra took it from my hand and looked it over. Tilted her head, as if that might shake free a memory, but then shook her head. ‘Not at all.’
I took it back from her and opened Google Maps on my computer. Put the address in and was none the wiser. ‘It’s about an hour from here.’
‘What do we do?’
I thought about it and knew I’d already made a decision. I had no doubt Alexandra would disagree with it, but it didn’t make any difference. There was only one way out now.
Well, two, if you didn’t discard the more sensible idea of going to someone a little more professional.
‘What’s our thinking about going to the police n
ow?’ I said, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it one last time. ‘Do we have enough to make them see things from our perspective?’
Alexandra gave me wearied look and leaned back against the wall. She mimicked holding a phone to her ear. ‘Hello, officer? Yeah, we killed a bloke a year ago who we think is a serial killer that you don’t believe exists. Buried his body in the woods and remember that missing lad from Brock Hope? We moved his dead body and then it disappeared. We think the serial killer’s son is now trying to get revenge on us.’
‘I take your point. It doesn’t mean we couldn’t tell them a different story though?’
‘Is there any version where we’re not carted off to an institution?’
I thought about it and couldn’t come up with anything. ‘If you need an idea about how to trick some bloke into thinking I work for the BBC, apparently that’s the only lie I have.’
‘Then what do we do?’
I wanted to tell her what I was going to do, but that way would only lead to arguments and division. Instead, I picked up my phone and tried to call Chris. This time it rang a few times before it went to voicemail. I placed it back down and looked up at Alexandra. ‘Remember that place we stayed at in Blackpool?’
‘The place we stayed one night and then came home because it was so bad?’
‘Exactly,’ I said, standing up and feeling stiffness in every joint. My muscles ached, but I didn’t feel as tired as I had been. ‘Who would think to look for us there?’
Alexandra smiled at me and I wanted to scream with anger at myself for lying to her.
For pretending I would be there with her.
Forty-One
It’s only an hour’s drive across the M58, north on the M6, then the M55, before Blackpool reveals itself in all its nostalgic glory. The B&B was somehow still standing. I pulled up outside and it took us five minutes to be shown to a dingy room. It overlooked an alleyway and was possibly last redecorated in the seventies.
We had gone there a few years earlier – a weekend break that we had a voucher for or something of that sort. We probably should have looked at the reviews for the place before going – we would have learned that the B&B, which boasted about having colour TVs, wasn’t exactly rated all that highly. Still, we had stayed for the experience. And the stories we could tell about it for a long time afterwards.
‘I’m going to go find some stuff for the room,’ I said, after we had settled in as much as we could in a place like that. We had twin beds, but I didn’t expect to have to sleep on them. Alexandra had brought nothing with her, deciding against going home before the journey north. She had her phone and I had a spare charger. That’s all she needed, she’d said. Now, she gave me a list of things. When she was done, she seemed to change her mind.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I said quickly, eager to leave. ‘Probably best we don’t walk around together all that much. Just in case.’
‘What? In case we were followed?’
I grimaced, biting down on my lower lip. ‘We need to be careful. Until we work out what we do with this address. Agreed?’
Alexandra thought for a little longer than I’d have liked, then nodded. I hesitated, then crossed the room and embraced her.
She pulled me tighter and I could have stayed there forever, terrible online reviews be damned.
Instead, I left her sitting on the bed, switching on the television and flicking through channels.
Once outside, I prayed that I would get the chance to hold her again.
I got back in my car and pulled out my phone. I didn’t want to go alone, but with Chris not answering I didn’t have much choice. I tried again one last time, but after a few rings the same voicemail kicked in.
I was about to pull the car away when my phone trilled its song. I half-expected it, so my shoulders sagged in resignation as I pulled the phone off the cradle and looked at the screen.
Not Alexandra.
‘Chris?’ I said, hearing relief and fear mixed together in my voice. ‘Where are you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ he replied, and I could hear only despondency in his. Resignation. ‘I can’t find her.’
‘But I’ve found him,’ I said, unable to keep the excitement hidden any longer. Of approaching an endgame. Of finally taking control of our story. Of not being alone when it happened. ‘Chris, we’ve got him.’
‘Who? The son?’
I nodded enthusiastically, then realised he couldn’t see me. ‘Yes. Some place near the Peak District. Not that far away. He sold the farm to a guy and left a forwarding address and has apparently been in touch since. He’s going to be there, I can feel it. Where are you? We can go together.’
‘I’ll come over to yours and meet you, I just need a little time . . . ’
‘I’m not there,’ I said, pulling the phone away from my ear and placing it back on the cradle with the speaker turned on. I turned the engine over and put on my seatbelt. ‘Me and Alexandra decided to hide out. Remember that terrible place we went to in Blackpool—’
‘How could I forget? It’s all you talked about for weeks.’
‘I’ll come get you. Whereabouts?’
I drove away from the kerb, signalling left and turning into a side street that led me back towards the main road. ‘Chris?’
‘I’ve got call waiting,’ he said, then disappeared for a second. When he came back on, his voice was different. ‘That’s Nicola, I’ve got to go. Listen, don’t go there. Stay in Blackpool.’
‘Nicola, is she okay?’
‘I’ve got to go. Stay where you are. I will sort this out. Don’t go anywhere. I can handle this. Wait for me to deal with it. Don’t go alone.’
‘Chris?’ I shouted, but he was already gone. I pulled the car over again, waited a few minutes and tried to call him back. It rang and rang, but eventually went to voicemail.
I took the address from my pocket and looked at it again. The odds were that it was a bogus place – either it didn’t exist or he wouldn’t be there.
Still, there was the feeling that I had come this far. I couldn’t turn back and hide in a bed and breakfast, waiting for it all to blow over.
It never would.
I had lived for a year with the weight of what we did in those woods.
I couldn’t do it any longer. I didn’t like the way Chris sounded and had a vision of him going off on his own, walking into a situation he couldn’t control. All in the mistaken belief that he could handle it.
That’s not how things would end. He didn’t know what he was dealing with.
I plugged the address into the satnav and drove off.
*
Blackshaw Moor was on the outskirts of the Peak District, a ninety-minute drive from Blackpool. Halfway through the journey, I stopped at the same services I had met Geoff Welsh in Charnock Richard. Picked up a coffee and messaged Alexandra.
I’ve gone to finish this. I’ll try to come back. I can’t live in fear anymore. The silence has to stop. I love you. Always have and always will. X
I switched my phone off for the next hour after the calls and messages wouldn’t stop. I didn’t look at any of them.
As I drove into the countryside, the A roads narrowing and nature trying to claw back what man had lain, I felt my insides begin to churn. My heart was beating fast, as the road dipped and bent round, as I left the main carriageway and moved into denser and denser forest.
I had been there before.
I thought hard as I turned the radio down to try and hear my memories. There was something there at the periphery of my mind, but I couldn’t grasp hold of it. A bird swooped down past my wing mirror, just as the tree line fell away and my ears popped as I went uphill.
The view was spectacular. Green and bronze fields as far as I could see. The hills turned into mountains it seemed, as the land opened up and nature won its battle. Trees in the distance swayed in the wind, as the road became smaller and stone walls bec
ame its border.
It was like nothing I’d ever seen before.
Only, I felt like I had. I felt like I had driven this same road and had the same reaction.
I continued on the narrow road, passing cows in the grasslands around me. Further up, I noticed sheep on the hills, red numbers marked on their bodies. A few cars had pulled over, people in walking boots and hefty coats readying themselves for treks through the countryside.
I had seen all of these things. It was possible that I was simply merging it all with other places I’d visited over the years, but with every moment that went by I couldn’t shake the feeling of flashing back rather than forward.
Remembering rather than foreshadowing.
I had to slow down for a couple of riders to trot past on horses. The quintessential English country pursuits on a single stretch of road. The sky turned darker overhead as a few spots of rain fell on the windscreen. The clock on the dashboard clicked over to 4 p.m. and I could feel the night drawing closer.
I didn’t want to be there without daylight.
The satnav told me it was less than mile to my destination, as I took a right-hand fork in the road and entered a lane that didn’t seem to exist on the map. I could see the route on the map change, but the place was still marked. Driving became more difficult as the disused ground beneath me became more unsuitable for the car. Potholes and broken concrete. Gravel replaced normal tarmac, as the satnav decided I’d arrived without anything in sight.
Only, I knew where I was going.
I followed the path only travelled by those who knew the place existed. The tree line returned, broken branches littered the way and I felt myself ducking down every time I passed the thicker forest.
The road climbed higher over the final hundred or so yards of the journey, until it came to a stop.
I knew where I was.
I guided the car through a gap in a stone wall, along a narrow entranceway until an old farmhouse was revealed. You could barely see the windows for the ivy which was overgrown – creeping over every available surface. It clung to the brick, twisting and squeezing its prey.