Pushing her husband ahead of her, she moved out into the shop. John Payne was shaking his head in disbelief, though Brian was pretty confident this wasn’t because he was being shoved around. He guessed the shopkeeper accepted that as a normal part of his life.
As they came to a stop in front of him, Brian could hear John muttering: “Why would they do that?”
“What do you want to know?” Although he suspected that he would need to use kid gloves with John Payne, there was clearly no need for that with his wife.
He fought back a sigh, and raised his pen. “I know your husband has already given some details to my colleagues at the station, but I always think it’s best to hear it from the...” He hesitated as he glanced up to see Mrs Payne’s bared teeth. Suddenly the words ‘horse’s mouth’ didn’t seem terribly tactful. “...source,” he finished. “Perhaps you could tell me everything from the beginning.” He looked at each of them in turn, though that was more on the off-chance that he might see some reaction from John than any expectation that he might contribute anything verbally.
“Just so unnecessary...” His voice tailed off as his eyes seemed to focus on a spot just over Brian’s shoulder. The policeman knew there was nothing there.
In contrast to her husband’s ramblings, Mrs Payne spoke clearly and precisely. Her tone gave him no cause to doubt her annoyance at the theft of the van, but she was clearly not affected by it in the same way as John.
“Something woke us up in the night. There was a scraping sound.”
“Like something being dragged?” Brian suggested, wanting to give his notes more clarity.
“No, like fingernails on a blackboard.”
He looked up sharply, but she ignored him.
“It actually sounded as if it was coming from the bedroom window, though obviously it couldn’t have been as it’s upstairs and there’s no way to get up to it. Still, when it’s the middle of the night and it wakes you up, you don’t think straight, do you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It was scary, though. Like something from a vampire film.”
Brian had a flashback to a film he’d seen: a deathly white teenager with barely concealed fangs floated outside a bedroom window demanding to be let in. He had to make a conscious effort not to shiver. Fortunately, Mrs Payne was oblivious to this as she carried on.
“We were both frightened by it, though he probably wouldn’t admit it.” Brian couldn’t help thinking that John Payne looked as if he’d be hard pressed to hide being frightened. “So we did the only thing we could. We pulled the covers over our heads and tried to pretend it wasn’t there.” She spoke in a very matter of fact way, yet she was talking about acting like a child who was afraid of the monster in the cupboard. “It must have worked eventually because the alarm woke us. Don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember the bloody alarm going off.” She smiled at that. It didn’t last long, but Brian caught a glimpse of a different woman for a moment, a woman who had enjoyed a sense of humour once. “Anyway, we came downstairs for breakfast, and it was gone.”
“The van?”
“Well of course the van. We haven’t reported anything else stolen, have we?” The sarcasm seemed to thicken her accent, and he recognised it as Welsh, though identifying which part of Wales would always be a gap in his skills.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Payne. I just want to make sure I don’t miss anything important. It doesn’t pay to make too many assumptions.” Not sure she was convinced by his explanation, he went on: “So how did you know it was gone?”
“Well, it wasn’t there,” she said, looking at him as if he was a complete idiot.
“What I meant was, what were the circumstances in which you discovered it wasn’t there?” Honestly, some people needed spoon-feeding.
Not looking particularly satisfied, Mrs Payne said: “The van’s always parked just outside the kitchen window. When we came into the kitchen, we could see it was missing.”
“And what did you do then?”
“John went outside and had a good look around. There was no sign of it.” She gestured in the direction of the driveway that ran alongside the shop. “You can go and have a look yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that I didn’t believe you,” he assured her, starting to wonder if both husband and wife were a bit light in the marbles department. Trying to keep her on track, he carried on with his questions. “Was there anything of value in the van itself?”
“No. We use it for picking up stock from the wholesalers, and the last time we were there was the end of last week. It’s been empty for days.”
Ordinarily, he would ask what type of van it was at this point, but he didn’t want to be subjected to more sarcasm. Instead he checked his notes. “I see it’s a navy blue Sherpa. Nineteen eighty-four model.” As he confirmed the registration number with them, he was aware of one of the shoppers heading for the counter. Mrs Payne cast an anxious glance in the direction of her daughter.
“No need...” John muttered. “Evil...” He shook his head slowly, marvelling at something he didn’t seem likely to share with them.
Choosing to ignore him for the moment, Brian asked Mrs Payne: “Have you had any similar incidents in the past?”
“No.”
“Anything unusual happened recently?”
“No.”
From her attitude so far, he’d expected her to give him some stick over this line of questioning, but she was distracted, her eyes flickering rapidly back and forth between him and the counter. The customer, an old woman – Brian guessed she must be at least eighty – had lifted her basket on to the counter top at the side of the cubicle. Helen had disappeared from view, and the door was opening.
“Do you count what happened to Peter as being unusual?” The question came from behind him, taking him by surprise. Turning, he saw the second customer. She was a lot younger than the first one, probably about the same age as his mum – fiftyish. Not bad looking if you liked the older woman. Brian didn’t particularly, but he was happy to look at times. And she was certainly easier on the eye than Mrs Payne.
“Peter who?” he asked.
“Peter Salthouse. He was badly injured by a plough yesterday.”
Oh, that Peter. He should have realised.
“Well, I’ll grant you that was unusual,” he said, “but it was an accident.”
“Are you sure it was an accident?”
That stopped him in his tracks. No one at the station had suggested there was anything more to the incident. He made a mental note to make sure he checked in with them before he paid a visit to the farm.
“You may have a point, and I’ll take it into account. Even so, I was thinking more along the lines of things going missing, strangers being around, that kind of thing.”
“Patrick Gates’s son.” The woman said it as if she’d experienced a sudden revelation.
“I’m sorry?” He was beginning to feel as if he was making enquiries in Wonderland. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Helen putting some cans into a shopping bag for the elderly customer. It was just a glimpse, but something there seemed surreal as well. Before he could take a proper look, his attention was caught by Mrs Payne’s strident tones.
“What do you mean, Norma?” she was asking. There was concern in her voice. Brian had been standing almost directly between the two of them, but she had stepped forward and was now on his right side.
“Not Matthew or Colin,” Norma said, as if by way of explanation.
“Martin?” The name was spoken in a hushed tone, which surprised Brian.
Norma thought for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what he called himself.”
Before he started to feel like a Wimbledon spectator, Brian decided to re-enter the discussion. “Who’s Martin? And what’s so unusual about him?”
“Well, he just turned up yesterday. From what I’ve heard, he’s been gone from the village for a long time. I don’t think anyone expected to see him again.”
Mrs Payne had turned to her husband and gripped his hand. Her anger had been replaced by something else. Fear? Maybe that was too strong a word for it, but this news had obviously shaken her. Though what comfort she thought John could offer her was beyond Brian.
“Has anything else happened since he turned up?”
“Apart from Peter nearly dying under a plough?”
“Are you seriously suggesting...”
“Who knows? But he’s been in my pub twice already and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife both times.”
“A knife...” John muttered.
Brian had hoped he could ignore Payne’s ramblings, but there was something quite painful in the way he had spoken. “Are you all right, John?”
The shopkeeper looked up at him through watery eyes. “How can I be all right?” He sounded astonished at the question. “After what they did to Charlie?”
That sense of the surreal struck him again. As he collected his thoughts, he let his gaze run around the shop. Behind the counter, Helen was closing the till. The old lady was lifting her bag down. It caught on the corner of the display where the mints were. Helen reached forward and helped to release it. And seeing her hands clearly for the first time, Brian thought he really must have fallen down the rabbit hole.
“What’s happened to Charlie?” Norma asked, bringing his attention back.
“Who is Charlie?” His training must have kicked in, because he hadn’t consciously thought the question.
“He’s their dog, a black lab.”
He looked at John and it finally dawned on him that his distress had nothing to do with the stolen van. Something else suddenly occurred to him. Earlier on, John had said they hadn’t heard anything. And yet his wife had talked about the scary sounds at the window. He had assumed John was talking about the van and had just been confused.
“What did they do to Charlie, John?”
But the shopkeeper just shook his head, unable to say the words.
“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Mrs Payne said. Her voice was tender now as she held her husband’s hand, comforting him. “He’s at the back of the house.”
Brian found the dog covered by an old blanket. He’d left the others in the shop. The shape under the blanket didn’t look particularly dog-shaped, but then he didn’t have a lot of experience of dead ones. Bending down, he lifted a corner of it and peered under. Bluebottles buzzed out and back in again. The smell that came out with them caught in the back of his throat. He wrinkled his nose and pressed his lips tightly together. It didn’t make much difference.
Lifting the blanket hadn’t really allowed him to see much. Just the pads on the base of a paw. They looked as if they had been cut. Blood was smeared across them. Standing up, he lifted the blanket aside so he could see properly.
And immediately regretted it.
Three
Martin had grown used to constant sunshine. He’d lived in the Canary Islands for the last ten years, and before that he’d travelled around the Med, going where the work was. The camper van he’d bought and fixed up had lasted long enough to get him to Rhodes before it gave up the ghost. It had served its purpose - a means of transport, and a place to sleep, so he didn’t have to pay for accommodation. He had money, but he didn’t have loads of it.
In those early years, he’d lost count of the number of times people had expressed their admiration for him. “That’s such a brave thing to do,” they’d say – or words to that effect. “Just leaving home and hoping for the best. What if the money runs out?”
That wasn’t an option. He found work wherever he went. It didn’t matter what it was, or how badly paid. He could save money by sleeping in the van, but he still had to eat. As for bravery? He hadn’t felt brave. When you don’t have a choice, bravery doesn’t come into it.
But he’d settled into the new life, and it had served its purpose. Shortly after the van died on him, he’d been offered the chance to help crew a yacht. The owner had retired and was sailing wherever the fancy took him. He’d arrived in port with some friends, but they’d abandoned him for some reason. Martin never found out for sure, but after a week of listening to him bragging about how he’d made his money, he had a pretty good idea why. When they moored at Puerto del Carmen, he followed their example.
It was the beginning of November, and the temperature was in the high seventies. The Med had been warm, but not that warm. He’d stayed. Not in one town – or even one island – for long, but he liked the climate, and he rubbed along well enough with the locals, including all the other ex-pats who had settled there. For variety, he occasionally joined sailing trips to Morocco or, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, up to Madeira. But he had everything he needed. A place to sleep – always plenty of choice on holiday islands – enough work to allow him to feed and clothe himself, and heat.
He’d expected it to be colder here in England, but the weather was more tolerable than he’d anticipated. The clouds were few and far between, and there was no breeze today. Not that he was reliant on the weather to keep him warm. He’d been walking for the last four hours and had already stripped down to a T-shirt, his jumper tied around his waist.
This morning he was getting his bearings. He’d made his presence felt in the village yesterday, though whether that was a good or bad thing, he wasn’t sure. Today, he needed to remind himself of the lay of the land. He usually had a pretty good sense of direction. You needed it when you were at sea, but the advantage there was having the sun to guide you. In the woods, it wasn’t always easy to get a clear view of the sun.
He’d started in the clearing again. When Ian had quizzed him last night about what had happened, he’d offered to show him.
“But that was this afternoon,” Ian had said. “What are the chances of it happening again in the morning? I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“The ravens’ll still be there,” Martin assured him.
So they’d gone together first thing. Ian had explained about his meeting, so he’d have to go early or wait until the afternoon. Martin was happy with early. He knew he’d got a lot of ground to cover. They’d travelled most of the way in the Land Rover. Ian had taken a different route that meant the walk was shorter. More importantly, it meant he could head straight off for his meeting.
This time, Martin didn’t go right into the clearing. He remained ten feet or so outside its perimeter. As he’d predicted, the trees were filled with ravens, and more arrived while they were there. There was an eeriness about the scene. He sensed that Ian was aware of it too. The pair of them stood stock still for more than five minutes, just absorbing what they could see.
When it was time for Ian to go, he seemed to do so reluctantly. Martin knew they would talk about it again later.
They had hit it off well last night over their whisky. That had surprised him. The meal at The Oak had been pleasant enough, but he hadn’t really gained much of a sense of his unwilling host. He realised now that the reason for that was Tanya. With her out of the way, a different Ian emerged, and Martin found that he liked him. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to cause him any pain.
Left alone, he had started walking. He took no obvious direction. At times he meandered, picking up trails when he came across them. Sometimes he would emerge from the woods. If there was a pathway, he might follow it. If not, he would walk along the tree line until he came to some other boundary – a hedge or fence – and use that as his guide for a while. In either case, he would be drawn back to the wood before long, and within it he would pass randomly from one side to another. By doing this, he was able to explore the land that lay all around the village.
When he crossed from one side of the main road to the other, he made sure he was on the western edge of the village. A few yards to his right was a T-junction. The signs showed him which way to turn for Thornberry and Woodhead. He ignored them. Instead, he re-entered the woods and used them to conceal his route as he circled around the othe
r side of the village.
The countryside around Ravens Gathering was still dominated by trees. Sherwood Forest was generally considered to be about ten miles south of here, but in times gone by it had covered a large part of the county, and even stretched up into Yorkshire. The woods around the village had undoubtedly formed part of Sherwood at some time in history. Trees had been felled to make way for farmland or housing since mediaeval times. So the village was effectively surrounded by the wood.
It was shortly after eleven when Martin reached the other end of the village, crossed the road again and began to circle back. At that point, he’d guessed he might be another couple of hours before he returned to the farmhouse, and he was becoming aware of the fact that he hadn’t had breakfast yet.
Half an hour later, he stumbled into a different farmyard.
Naturally, any landowner makes sure there are boundaries clearly marked out. Martin had been ignoring these markers – even barbed wire fencing – as he’d walked. The reality with farm land is that there is generally a lot of it. As a result, the chances are that you can cross it at many times of day without seeing a soul. Very often even cattle will steer clear of you. So he hadn’t really been too concerned about what he considered to be his minor acts of trespass. He just made sure he kept far enough away from the buildings to be out of sight. Until he found a farmyard where he wasn’t expecting one.
He was caught out because the farm house and farm buildings had been built in a natural bowl in the landscape. There were three openings in the surrounding slopes. One presumably led to the main road, a second must have gone out into the farmland itself, and the third led into the woods. That was the one Martin was on. It curved downwards, concealing the presence of the farmyard until the last possible moment. The instant Martin could see the yard, anyone in it would be able to see him well enough to make out his features.
Motion attracts the eyes, so he stopped moving as soon as he realised his mistake. Very slowly, he turned his head, taking in the view in front of him.
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