No, it was time to look at the other links.
He took a break. Coffee and a pee. It was nearly half past seven now. The CID office was quiet, the minimum staff on duty. Budget cuts again.
Only slightly refreshed, he returned to his desk. He picked up the folder marked ‘Gates’.
Perhaps it was the tricks of the brain again, but he was drawn to the brief references to Colin first. Another copy of the statement by Norma Fuller and a comment by another resident who Oakes had interviewed. By coincidence, that resident had been in the pub when Colin had been abused, so her story was corroborated, though there was nothing in Oakes’s notes to indicate why he had picked on this particular resident. The final reference to Colin was in a statement from the other brother, Matthew Gates. According to the accompanying notes, Oakes had spoken with him and his father after seeing Martin. Matthew had also made reference to the incident in the pub, but suggested that Martin might have been behind it. Collins re-read the other two statements to make sure he’d understood them correctly. Both indicated that, far from starting the abuse, Martin had put a stop to it.
So he studied the rest of Matthew’s statement, ignoring the comments about Colin. Then he reviewed the father’s statement. Both were filled with remarks that were damaging to Martin. They had expressed no surprise at Oakes’s suggestion – Collins guessed it wasn’t a particularly subtle suggestion – that Martin may be implicated in the theft of the van. He didn’t need a degree in psychology to understand that Martin was the black sheep of the family.
Unfortunately, although his family had been more than willing to put him in the frame, his alibi from the McLeans was enough to keep him out of it for the time being.
He made a few more notes. Sipped the cooling coffee.
The contents of the ‘Gates’ folder were spread out in front of him. The statements from the father and brother; the statement from the person who’d witnessed Colin’s bullying; Martin’s own statement, which he could practically recite; photocopies of Brian Oakes’s notes from his interviews at the Post Office. That was where Martin first came into the picture. He read it again. Because he was tiring, it was tempting to skim it, but he knew that if he was going to do that, he might as well go home now and start again in the morning.
It struck him that Mrs Payne had seemed even more disturbed at the news that Martin was back in the village. He wondered what the history was there. Was he the black sheep because he caused a scandal by screwing Mrs Payne before he left? He guessed from the notes that she was probably in her fifties, but fifteen years ago she’d have been in her thirties. Wasn’t it every teenage boy’s dream to get off with an older woman? He smiled wryly to himself. Or was that just how he’d felt when he was that age?
And then there was Norma Fuller again. She had plenty to say on the subject of strange things happening in the village. It was her comment that had thrown the spotlight on Gates. But she’d also referred to other things. Peter Salthouse’s accident, the tension and friction in the village, and even the appearance of another stranger...
Another stranger? He sat up and drank the last of the coffee as he re-read the tiny handwriting. It was little more than a scribble, which was probably why he’d missed it before. There were a couple of words there that he realised now were names, though he hadn’t read them as such before.
He spent two minutes flipping through the files, looking for a particular statement. He was sure it wasn’t there, but he wanted to double check. Satisfied he was right, he reached for the phone. The reception from Oakes wasn’t any warmer.
“I need to ask you about Hawthorn and Kindness.”
“What?”
“The full written statement doesn’t refer to it, but your notes mention someone called Hawthorn. Mrs Fuller brought him up.”
“Is that the woman from the pub?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. It looks as if, after you’d discovered the dog, you spoke to her some more.”
“Oh, yeah, that rings a bell.”
I know what I’d like to wring. But he kept the thought to himself.
“And that’s where you’ve jotted down the name Hawthorn.”
“Oh, is this the bloke from the farm?”
“You tell me.” He let it slip out without thinking. Wincing, he braced himself for the backlash. It wasn’t that he was worried about the relationship. He was the superior officer, after all. It was just that he wanted Oakes to cooperate willingly. The last thing he needed right now was a stroppy copper with a chip on his shoulder.
Fortunately, Oakes must have realised what an arse he was making of himself. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly. “Let me think.”
That’d make a pleasant change.
“Yeah. She mentioned a farmer. I’m pretty sure that’s who you’re talking about. The farm had a funny name, though.”
“Kindness?” Collins offered. He guessed Oakes hadn’t been paying attention when he mentioned the name earlier.
“Yeah, that’s it. Bloody odd, don’t you think?”
“Yes. What’s even odder is the fact that I can’t find a statement from anyone named Hawthorn.”
There was a hesitation, but Collins sensed it wasn’t only from the PC thinking. “You know, that was bloody odd too.”
“What was?”
“Well, I did look for the farm. Although the real fuss seemed to be about this Gates bloke, I wanted to visit this Hawthorn chap and get a statement from him. But I couldn’t find the farm.”
“What?!” Collins said incredulously. “How can you miss a farm?”
“I know. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But I tell you, sir, it wasn’t there.”
Five minutes later, Collins had an Ordnance Survey map spread out on his desk. It was a few years old, but he was sure it would be current enough. Forest Farm was clearly marked on the map, though he suspected the boundary represented the pre-McLean days. So too were Blackthorn Farm, Lodge Farm and Wharton’s Farm, but there was no sign of Kindness Farm. From the directions Oakes had been given, he’d expected it to be on the eastern side of the village, but the map showed only forestry.
As if things weren’t strange enough, how could a whole farm disappear?
Twenty
Night had fallen by the time he returned to the house. The kitchen was illuminated only by the light that came through from the annexe. Hours had passed since he’d left the farm. He hadn’t intended to leave Tanya on her own for so long. But there were things he had to do, and they’d been more time consuming than he’d anticipated.
Still, he hadn’t expected to walk in on this.
Martin’s jacket was lying on the floor, discarded carelessly. His shoes lay nearby, the jacket separating them. One lay on its side, the other upside down. They’d clearly been kicked off, and possibly in a hurry. Tanya’s boots had been abandoned in a similar manner.
He leaned back against the door, letting out a loud sigh. Suddenly he was very weary. It had been a long night, and a long day. And now this. The betrayal he’d suspected would happen one day – if it hadn’t already. But he’d grown to trust Martin. For reasons he couldn’t properly explain to himself, he’d felt confident that Martin wouldn’t do this to him. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the reactions from Matthew and Patrick. Having said that, the most telling responses had been this afternoon. By then it was probably too late.
The Barns had been his first port of call when he’d gone out. His explanation to Tanya had at least been partly truthful. He wanted to see how they were getting on. But he also wanted to find out how much they’d seen this morning. After all, military vehicles had been driving up and down the track that passed the houses, so they couldn’t have been oblivious to it all. Ever practical, he was also thinking ahead. There may be a major investigation happening at the moment, but in time things should return to normal. What he wanted to know was whether today’s events wou
ld have an impact on the already difficult task of selling the houses when they were finished.
There was no one at the site when he arrived, so he spent a short time looking it over to see how they were progressing. As ever, the workmanship was good, though the pace they were working at seemed slow compared to the last time he’d been to visit. It was only as he was returning to the Land Rover that he realised his mistake. In all the confusion of the day, he’d forgotten that it was Saturday. If they had been up to work, the chances are they would have only put in half a day.
They were at home when he called in. He’d never been past their front door, and Anne Gates didn’t invite him in this time either. Waiting on the doorstep while she went to retrieve her son, he could hear the TV in the background. A steady even voice reciting something he couldn’t make out. The football results, he guessed.
Matthew ambled down the hallway. Ian hoped the puzzled look on his face was a good sign.
“Evenin’, Mr McLean.”
It was only a little after five, so Ian wasn’t sure if the greeting was intended to remind him that it was a bit late to be calling.
“Matt.” He nodded his own greeting. “Sorry to call at this hour. I don’t know if you’re aware, but we’ve had some trouble up at the farm.”
Shaking his head, Matthew’s puzzled expression became more intense. “Is it something to do with Martin?”
Good question. Ian pushed that thought aside, saying only: “I doubt it.”
But Matthew picked up on the lack of conviction in his voice.
“What’s he been up to?”
Ian smiled good-naturedly. “Really. Nothing.”
Turning his head, Matthew called back into the house. “Dad! Come here a minute.”
A moment later, Patrick Gates lumbered into view, his pools coupon in one hand and a biro in the other. “What is it?” He obviously didn’t like being interrupted, but the curiosity in his voice suggested he’d recognised something in Matthew’s tone.
“Have you heard about anything going on up at the farm?”
“What, the Sullivans’ place?”
It seemed that the Sullivan family had owned the farm for as long as anyone in the village could remember. Ian had long since given up on it ever being referred to as “the Mclean place”. He pasted a smile on his face to reassure Patrick that he wasn’t offended by his remark. Though from Matthew’s grunted “Yeah,” it seemed that neither Patrick nor Matthew had spotted any potential offence anyway.
“What’s he done now?” There was no doubt in Ian’s mind which “he” Patrick was referring to.
“Er, nothing as far as I’m aware,” he said, surprised at how defensive he sounded.
Both men looked at him sceptically.
“He’s trouble, you know,” Patrick said. His tone was very matter of fact. “You should get shot of him as fast as you can.”
“Why do you say that?” Ian was shocked that a father could be so cold towards his own son, and his question was as much a reaction to that shock as it was a need for the truth.
But Patrick’s response was even more disturbing. He stared at Ian for a long moment. It was as if he was trying to read whatever was going on in Ian’s head. Then he flapped a hand, the pools coupon making the gesture seem more pronounced than it really was. “Get shot of him,” he repeated, but there was viciousness in his tone this time. “He’ll be the ruin of all of us.”
Matthew had turned to look at his father. Ian couldn’t see his face properly, but something clearly passed between the two men. Looking down, as if ashamed, Patrick turned away and disappeared back down the hallway.
There was an awkward silence on the doorstep for a moment. Ian opened his mouth, wanting to fill the void with words, but still searching for something appropriate. Matthew beat him to it.
“I’m sorry you’ve had trouble, Mr McLean. I hope it all sorts itself out.” Then he was closing the door.
As he returned to the Land Rover, it struck him that neither man had been particularly interested in what the trouble at the farm had been. A more suspicious person might have assumed they already knew what it was. But they seemed to be more concerned about their own family problems. And it was clear that Martin was central to those.
Pushing away from the door, he started to cross the kitchen, steeling himself for what he was going to find. Unwanted images flooded into his mind. Limbs intertwined, naked flesh, thrusting and grunting. He’d always had a vivid imagination. When he was a child, he’d excelled at English, and his teachers had told him his imagination was a gift. Right now, it felt like a curse.
Maybe this was what Martin had done before he left the village, he thought. Fucked the wrong women; brought shame on his family.
He stepped into the corridor. The door at the end was pushed over, but not completely closed. Light shone around the edges. It wasn’t bright, so Ian guessed it must be coming from the bedside lamp. He couldn’t hear anything. Hope rose within him, but it lasted only a moment. There may be no sound, but that didn’t mean nothing had happened. It was after eight. He’d been gone for nearly four hours. Plenty of time for them to...
The thought was unbearable. It was tempting – so very tempting – to just walk away. But he fought the urge, moving forward purposefully. The floor was carpeted, so they wouldn’t hear him coming. He expected it to seem like an age before he got there, and was almost disappointed to find himself only a few feet away from the door. His pace slowed as he edged over the final foot or so. Then he was resting his hand on the door frame.
Last night, in the darkness, not knowing what he was going to find, he had been frightened. The possibility of finding someone who was capable of mutilating and killing a dog had filled him with fear. But he’d fought that off, determined not to show it in front of Martin. Not that Martin had seemed sanguine about the exercise. This was different, though. Out on the track, he’d faced the risk of physical harm. This was going to be much worse.
Taking a deep breath, he let the air out again as quietly as he could. There was still no sound coming from the bedroom, and he didn’t want to warn them of his presence. But he needed the deep breathing, needed to regain some control.
Very slowly, he pressed his fingers against the door, gently pushing it open.
He’d been wrong about the light. It was coming from the shower room. The bedroom itself was illuminated only by the light that shone from that room and the corridor. Martin lay on his back, angled across the bed as if he’d just dropped there. His eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Ian stepped quietly into the room. There was no indication that Tanya was there. He checked the shower room in case she was hiding, but it seemed that Martin had been in there then come out and collapsed on the bed.
As Ian headed back for the corridor, Martin continued to sleep. Still wearing the clothes Ian had last seen him in.
Twenty-One
There is a school of thought that says that, if you believe in God, you must believe in the Devil. Simon Cantor had never fully subscribed to that idea, though he could understand the rationale behind it. Many of his colleagues within the Church would be able to put forward a well structured argument for it. And the chances were that some of the more forceful in their beliefs would incorporate that argument into some of their sermons.
Simon, on the other hand, was less convinced. His faith in God was unquestioning, though he liked to think he was open enough to appreciate why others might have strong doubts. The atrocities that had been perpetrated throughout history by man against man were enough to give any person with a brain pause for thought. Ironically, the colleagues who believed strongly in the presence of the Devil would point to such events as evidence of Satan’s existence rather than it being cause to have no faith in God.
But those individuals were fighting against a growing apathy towards religion. And their strongly held views would only alienate their parishioners. Or so Simon thought. It was m
ore important to him that they keep the church doors open, and a part of keeping the doors open was to keep minds open. Starting with those of himself and his colleagues.
He had been the vicar at Ravens Gathering for six years now, and he had been adopting the open mind policy there throughout that time. It was hard to point to any definite results he’d achieved with it. The people who turned up regularly for Sunday services were pretty much the same as they had been when he’d started. The couples who married in his church might make an effort in the weeks running up to and just after the service itself, but he couldn’t think of any long-term converts. Even the grieving, who might seek solace in the idea that their loved ones had gone to “a better place”, showed little interest in the help a man of the cloth might be able to provide. Still, he had told himself many times, there was no rush. After all, God wasn’t going anywhere.
Some people who are trying to sell a product, will do so on the basis of fear, rather than on the merits of the product itself. So a disinfectant might be sold because it will save your children from being killed by the deadly germs you leave around the house, or a certain brand of beer should be drunk because you don’t want to be ostracised by the “in crowd”. When Simon did get those rare opportunities to talk to parishioners, he certainly didn’t feel that scaring them was a useful way of making them believe in God. So talking up the Devil wasn’t part of his sales pitch. Besides, how could he talk convincingly about an evil that he didn’t believe existed?
At least, that was how he felt two days ago. Now, he could probably put a compelling argument forward.
Huddled in a corner of the living room in the vicarage, he watched as his tormentor dressed. The blue trousers were fairly lightweight, particularly in comparison to the tweed jacket he was putting on. It was odd that he wore no underwear or socks, but compared to the other experiences Simon had gone through over the last forty-eight hours, this barely registered on the strangeness scale.
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