by Jack Benton
‘Correct.’
‘So what you’re after is some kind of device to get you through that bolt and chain?’
‘That’s right.’
There was a pause. Then Alan said, ‘I can courier you something if you’ve got money to pay and an address. Tomorrow morning. That work?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
Slim hung up, feeling satisfied. The shed might hold nothing of interest, but it was a lead until Slim’s curiosity was satisfied.
Liskeard was a pretty uninspiring place compared to some of the Cornish towns Slim had visited. With a couple of hours to kill before the bus back to Camelford, he headed for the town library. There, he logged on to a computer to do a little background research before his next meeting with Celia.
An old missing persons’ archive had nothing new on Amos Birch. Celia had mentioned a police investigation, so unless Amos had been declared legally dead, he ought to still be listed. Celia’s attitude suggested Slim was looking for a body, but the archive raised a question he would need her to clarify.
Neither was there a listing for Charlotte Birch. The poor little girl had come into the world and left it without leaving a single mark of her being.
Next, he attempted a search for unidentified bodies, but there was no publicly searchable database. He had a fanciful idea that Amos could be wandering around somewhere with no memory, while the only articles he found about famous amnesiacs were for people whose identity had eventually been traced.
As he retreated to a coffee shop to lick his wounds, he began to feel like a rat trapped in a corner. He needed a break or the wheels would come off his fledgling investigation.
There was Celia, of course, who had the most information. But if a police investigation had failed to find anything, what chance did he have?
Of course, he had the one clue they didn’t: the unearthed clock.
He had brought the papers Kay had sent him, and now he spread them out on the table, looking for something he had missed.
There was the message: Charlotte, your time is forever. I will wait for you, always, and the illegible second line which could have been a continuation. Then there was the initial A, which could possibly be an M.
Slim had sent some photographs to Kay and received Kay’s notes in return. The carved animals shared a connection in that they were all British wildlife: deer, foxes, badgers, owls, otters, rabbits. Now that Slim looked at it again, they all crowded around the clock face, looking up at the little door as though waiting for the cuckoo to appear. The door itself was a slightly darker brown to the rest of the clock, as though made of a different kind of wood. Slim had naturally assumed the wood had been bought from a DIY store of some kind, but now he wondered if it might not have a greater significance. It was the kind of thing a police investigation might assign a team to, but it could also be a long and arduous dead end.
Celia remained his key witness. There had to be something she knew which would prove a vital clue.
He glanced at a clock above the baristas’ counter: five-thirty. Celia, who had said she worked in Plymouth, was due off work at six, and she had offered to pick him up and drive him back to the guesthouse, giving him some more information during the round trip journey back through Liskeard to her home in Tavistock.
It was a short walk up to the town hall where she had asked him to wait. A light drizzle made everything damp and it was already fully dark.
The car that pulled up was a battered Rover Metro. He had expected something better of a woman who claimed to be a nurse, but as someone who had totaled his last car he could understand why a person possessing a reckless streak would go for something easily replaced without sentiment. In its tight interior they were closer than Slim felt comfortable, meaning he had to press against the door to avoid leaning against Celia’s arm. In the gloom cast by the dashboard lights she was patches of skin and occasional glitters of eyes. She smelled of cigarettes and flapped a hand as Slim plugged in his belt, as though to apologise.
‘I’m trying to cut back,’ she said.
‘Trying’s a good place to start,’ Slim said. ‘I do a lot of it.’
She pulled out into Liskeard’s late commuter traffic. ‘Have you picked up any leads yet?’
‘My best one just picked me up.’
‘I was afraid you would say that.’
‘I need you to tell me everything you can remember,’ Slim said. ‘Not just about the disappearances of your father and daughter, but other stuff too. Background stuff. Clues can hide in the most innocuous of places.’
‘Where would you like me to start?’
‘Your family. What other relations do you have? Anyone close?’
‘I was an only child. My father was too, I believe. I had an aunt on my mother’s side, but she died a few years before my father’s disappearance. She lived in Reading. I only met her once; I don’t think she got along with my mother.’ She chuckled. ‘Few people did.’
‘You know, in the vast majority of murder cases, the killer is a relative or someone known to the family.’
‘I’ve heard that too.’
‘Who was Charlotte’s father?’
The car jerked across the road, cutting into the path of an oncoming car before Celia got the vehicle under control. Slim let out a breath as the car passed harmlessly by, its horn blaring to remind them of how close they had come to a collision.
‘Celia?’
Her hands had tightened on the wheel. ‘Can’t we leave that question? He wasn’t on the scene at the time when my father and daughter disappeared.’
‘It might be important. I need to know, if you can tell me.’
‘Do I have to? I don’t like talking about it.’
Slim took a deep breath. ‘I heard a rumour. I’m sure it’s just stupid but … I heard it was your father.’
Celia coughed, jerking the car again.
‘Where’d you hear that?’
Slim shrugged. ‘I was asking around. There were rumours you dropped out of school because you were pregnant. One of them was that Amos was the father.’
Celia gave a bitter laugh. ‘I guess he could be, couldn’t he?’
‘What do you mean?’
Celia sighed. ‘The truth is, I don’t know who the father is. I’ve never known.’
28
The little Metro sat in a layby, other cars occasionally flashing past. Celia was on her third cigarette, while Slim, who had felt it polite to keep her company, was teasing down a Marlboro, wishing she preferred Lights to Reds.
‘I used to wash dishes in the Crown in Penleven,’ she said. ‘Mother was always against it, said the place was full of local riffraff, but I insisted. I just wanted to be out of that house sometimes. I was fifteen. The kitchens shut at eight back then and I usually got let out about half nine. Sometimes I’d stop into the bar for a drink with the regulars if there were any about. It was early March and a Wednesday, our quietest day of the week, and there was no one in the bar, so I just headed home. Sometimes a regular would give me a lift, but if not I just walked. I was halfway home, on the Penleven to Trelee road, when someone … jumped me.’
Slim closed his eyes. He listened to Celia’s soft draws on the cigarette.
‘I hit my head on the road,’ Celia continued. ‘The guy dragged me through this gate into a field and did what he wanted. I was dazed; I couldn’t easily fight back. He held me down until he was finished, then he was gone. I staggered home, crying. I wanted to tell my parents, but my dad was locked in his study, and one look at my mother’s eyes and I knew I couldn’t say anything. I knew what she thought of me.’ Celia started to laugh. ‘I was roughed up a bit, grazes down the side of my face. I think I told her I’d been hit by a car or something. She told me to go take a shower.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
Celia flapped a hand at him. ‘Don’t say anything. I like that you’re not saying anything. This is stuff I’ve told no one.’<
br />
They smoked in silence for a couple more minutes, Slim occasionally stifling a cough into his hand. He declined Celia’s offer of another cigarette, watching as she lit another, intent, it appeared, on smoking through the entire packet.
‘You must have had suspicions,’ Slim said at last. ‘It never got reported?’
‘Do you know how many rapes go unreported?’ Celia snapped. When Slim gave a half-shrug, more to acknowledge that she wasn’t asking so much as offering to tell him whether he wanted to know or not, she added, ‘Most of them. I’m this fifteen-year-old schoolkid with a mother who already thinks I’m a slut, and I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. I was no angel, Slim. I had a habit of sneaking the leftover wine off the trays of cleared plates when I took them down to the kitchen. Killed the boredom if I was half cut, you know? I’d had a couple of glasses’ worth that night, it was dark, and after I hit my head, I wasn’t sure what was going on. I knew I’d been raped, but I was no virgin, even then. I tried to forget about it, blocked it out however I could, figured I probably deserved it, that I ought to make sure to take a heavy torch or hold my keys like a knife next time. Figured it was because I was young and stupid, but the memory would fade if I let it.’ She sighed. ‘Then I found out I was expecting Charlotte.’
‘You’re sure she was a result of the rape?’
Celia gave a bitter laugh. ‘Jesus, Slim, I wasn’t some back alley hooker. I had boyfriends, but I knew about safe sex. I’m certain she was a result of the rape.’
‘Sorry,’ Slim said. ‘I’m used to dealing with insurance frauds and suspected affairs. It could be vital information, though. What you remember about the man.’
Celia started up the car and pulled back out on to the road. ‘Look, we’d better get a shift on if your landlady’s the miser you say she is. There’s more to tell you, Slim. A lot more.’
They drove in silence for a while until they reached the Penleven turning. Celia scowled at the first sight of the sign, reeling off a string of swear words that reminded Slim of his military days. He was beginning to like Celia. She was like a dying warrior; despite all the beatings life had thrown at her, she still had one knee off the ground, her sword arm raised, a defiant glare on her face as an unstoppable horde bore down on her.
‘I hated this little hole,’ she said. ‘It’s like Cornwall’s cesspit.’
‘I’ve found it quietly pleasant,’ Slim said.
‘You ought to have grown up here. Every farmer and his dog knew your business. My back would burn from the heat of eyes on it.’
‘Do you think it was someone from the village who raped you?’
Celia said nothing. Slim wished he could take back his question, but at the same time wondered what he could assume from her silence. Finally, she pulled into a layby for passing cars a short distance from the village outskirts.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, then handed him a bag. ‘Here. I thought these might be more useful than me telling you.’
He glanced inside the bag at a pair of VHS tapes.
‘Home videos,’ she said. ‘My father and Charlotte. Have a watch on your own, see what you make of them.’
‘Thanks.’
He climbed out. Celia pulled off without waiting for a goodbye, accelerating away as though desperate to get through Penleven as quickly as possible. Long after her lights had disappeared, he could still hear the strained growl of the Metro’s engine as Celia jerked through the gears like an aggressive drunk on a test drive.
Slim stared at the bag in his hand. Then, with a sigh, he headed for the guesthouse.
29
Mrs. Greyson had upgraded to a DVD player, but the TV was an old tube one with a built-in VCR. Slim slid the first tape into the slot then sat on the edge of the bed as the old TV flickered while warming up.
A grainy image of a farm appeared, static crisscrossing the screen, causing the picture to jump and jerk at odd intervals. A girl’s voice Slim recognised as a young Celia was narrating a monologue about the moor as the camera swung around, and he could imagine it had been recently bought and only just removed from its packaging. This was the test run, the experiment to see how it worked.
The camera panned again. A woman sitting in a wheelchair someway off appeared, but the camera jerked quickly past her, bringing into shot a tall man with a child in his arms. The child, shoulder-length hair curled neatly inward in a tidy bob, seemed reluctant to look at the camera, her head turned into the man’s shoulder, her eyes downcast. The man, though, tall and wiry with a downward-pointing triangular face and close-cropped hair, stared directly into the lens and smiled. He lifted the hand not supporting the child and gave a quick wave.
‘Hey, Dad.’
Amos Birch smiled then patted the girl on the shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut as the fuzzy rattle of wheels on stone announced the approach of the wheelchair. The camera dropped to show a close-up of cobblestones as a voice said, ‘Put that stupid thing away. Where’d you get it anyway?’
‘Not now, Mum,’ came a tired voice, and the view abruptly cut off.
Maybe hours or days had passed, but the view appeared again, this time of a closed outhouse door. Slim recognised it as the same door that still stood locked at Worth Farm.
‘Dad?’ came Celia’s voice, followed by an amused chuckle. ‘What are you working on today?’
The door swung open, and despite the graininess of the old camcorder image, Slim marveled at the grotto revealed within. It looked like a less colourful Santa’s toy factory. Pieces of wood filled every available space, clock parts and half-finished sculptures hanging from strings tied around ceiling crossbeams. And despite the fuzz of the old recording, the sound of ticking was unmistakable. Coming from dozens of clocks at once, it was like the roosting of a hive of mechanical bees.
Amos Birch sat with his back to the door on a wooden chair that was slightly too low for him. His spindly grasshopper’s legs were bent, knees in the air, back hunched as he leaned over a worktop. The little girl sat close by, on the worktop with her legs dangling down, stock-still, her face turned to watch her grandfather at work. One hand rested on the worktop, the other lay across her lap.
Neither initially noticed Celia, but as she took a few steps closer, Amos half-turned, folded a piece of paper he had been writing on and slid it into a drawer. The little girl didn’t move, but Amos twisted on his chair to look up at his daughter. A frown followed by a frustrated look crossed his face.
‘Celia. What are you doing in here? I’d prefer it if you could knock.’
It was the first time Slim had heard Amos Birch’s voice. He frowned, trying not to read too much into a single utterance, yet recalled training he had undergone during his years in the military for dealing with prisoners, and with hostage negotiations. Slim had never taken part in a real action, but remembered some of the information his instructor had taught about voice inflection, tremolo, and the authority with which an utterance was made. His immediate assessment of Amos Birch was that this was a shy man who preferred his own company and dealt poorly with stressful situations, struggling with social contact, even that involving his own family. As the tape continued with Celia entering the workroom and pointing the video camera over her father’s shoulder at the pieces of a clock he had hastily pulled toward him, every movement Amos made only reinforced Slim’s opinion.
This was a man who preferred to be left alone.
Was it any wonder then that he had got up one day and walked out of his workshop, never to return?
The main question Slim needed to answer now was why he had taken his granddaughter with him.
30
Slim awoke to knocking on his bedroom door. He sat up, dazed, looked around and found he was lying crossways over his bed, the fuzz of the TV still buzzing after the video tape had finished and switched off.
He didn’t remember how far he had got into the last tape before falling asleep, but he had been so engrossed in the
gentle home videos of the Birches’ family life that he’d continued watching well into the small hours. Now he had a hangover due to sleep deprivation worse than many he’d had on the bottle, and rubbed his eyes as he stumbled to the door.
‘Mr. Hardy, are you in there?’ Mrs. Greyson called through the door. ‘A package arrived for you.’
He opened the door to find her holding something large with both hands. It was irregularly shaped and wrapped untidily with packing tape.
Mrs. Greyson looked Slim up and down with a mixture of revulsion and distrust. She held out the package then snapped, ‘My house is not a postal service, Mr. Hardy. If you plan to have regular deliveries, may I suggest you set up a post office box in the village? I’m sure Mrs. Waite would enjoy the pleasure of your regular visits.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it from her, surprised at its weight. He put it down on the floor as Mrs. Greyson closed the door and stumped back down the stairs, muttering in that loud but inaudible way he was now familiar with. Turning back to the dressing table, he picked up the sheet of paper he had scribbled notes on the night before.
Ask Celia about the letters. Who is he writing to?
Did she talk to his materials suppliers?
What’s the logo at 37:23?
Is there any footage of Celia or Mary with Charlotte?
Why’s the girl so well-behaved? Discipline or disability?
The list went on, another half a dozen items to consider, most of which he doubted would amount to much of interest. It was all background, angles and aspects to help build a portrait of Amos Birch, but it was unlikely to lead to clues as to his whereabouts or final resting place unless Slim got lucky.
There had to be more, Slim thought, as he hauled the package up on to the bed, frowning at its weight. What had Alan sent him? He’d never known a lockpick to weigh so much, but when he ripped the package open, he understood.
‘You old bastard,’ Slim muttered, unable to resist a smile.