Ben cannot be right. The house was searched. Thoroughly. Anything that was there to be found would have been found. I’ve stopped arguing, I realise. I’m actually thinking about it.
‘Or maybe they didn’t stop.’ Ben is on a roll. ‘Maybe they chose their victims better. Teenage runaways. Homeless kids. Who’d miss them?’
‘You have a very warped mind, you know that?’
‘What can I say? You taught me everything I know.’
I force myself to smile, although it’s the last thing I feel like doing. ‘But not everything I know,’ I say. ‘Come on, it’s getting late.’
He makes no move to close his door. ‘We’re not going home, are we?’ he says, and he looks so worried that for a moment I’m tempted to head straight for the M6.
‘One night,’ I say, instead. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
58
Sabden Police Station is in the same building, but I’d barely have recognised it. A new extension has been added to the front, all glass walls and revolving doors. The fluorescent lights glow softly, and not even those in the corner of my eye flicker. The scuffed tiles have been replaced by a spotless blue carpet. Huge, professionally taken photographs of the police in action hang around the walls: men in high-vis jackets helping pensioners from flooded homes, a pretty young constable visiting a primary school, a young black copper chatting to some kids on the street.
The desk sergeant and his team live in a glass box in the corner. The uniformed officer behind the glass looks up without interest until I hold up my warrant card. Then he practically jumps to his feet.
‘Good afternoon, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?’
I explain that no, I don’t, but I have new information about the Glassbrook case and I’d like to speak to a senior officer about it.
He disappears for two minutes, and when he comes back, Ben and I are escorted through to an interview room on the ground floor.
‘The cells used to be on this corridor.’ I speak to Ben, but am conscious of our escort listening too. ‘I was kept here overnight once. Cell next to this one, I think.’ I smile at the sergeant, as though to show there are no hard feelings, even though he is far too young to have been on duty back then.
‘Before my time,’ he confirms. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
I decline. Ben asks for black with three sugars.
‘What?’ he says, at the look on my face, when the door closes.
‘Since when do you take sugar? Or drink coffee?’
He gives me his full-tooth grin. ‘I know. It just seemed like a bad-ass cop thing to do.’
The coffee appears, faster than expected, and a glass of water for me, which I didn’t ask for but appreciate. And then, in the corridor behind the attending constable, he appears.
He isn’t in uniform but in a dark suit with a black tie, which he’s pulled loose. He waits for the constable to vanish, then steps inside and lets the door close. He looks Ben up and down, and I’m proud as punch that Ben gets to his feet, and then he turns to me.
‘Florence Lovelady, as I live and breathe,’ says Tom Devine.
I’d seen the odd photograph in thirty years. I’d read reports of cases he’d been involved with. Stalking old flames has become a whole lot easier with the dawn of the Internet. Nothing, though, could have prepared me for the smell of Tom. For the way that while his skin has aged, and his dark hair assumed a silver sheen, his eyes are still that same deep blue.
Shorter hair and a clean-shaven face suit him, making it easier to see the shape of his head and his jawline. I hadn’t realised before what a perfect face he has. He is bigger than I remember, but solid with muscle rather than running to fat.
Neither of us seems to know what to do. Old friends kiss and hug when they meet, but the idea of Tom and I doing that seems absurd. Then he turns to my son. ‘I’m Tom.’ He holds out his hand and they shake. ‘Your mother and I worked together years ago.’
By unspoken agreement we all sit. I put my bag on my lap like a nervous middle-aged woman. Which I am, I guess.
‘I’d heard you were in town,’ Tom says.
I say, ‘I thought I might see you in church.’
‘Events.’ He gives a little shrug. You know how it is.
Ben has his book, but it sits unopened on the table. His eyes are flicking from Tom to me. Tom is staring at me across the table.
‘Well, didn’t you do well?’ Tom says.
‘Likewise,’ I counter, although I far outrank Tom. I am currently the most senior serving policewoman in Britain. The nature of my role at the Met keeps me out of the public eye, but few in the force won’t have heard of me.
‘How’s the family?’ I ask.
He nods his head. ‘Good, thanks. Kent teaches at Lancaster University. Charlene’s a nurse.’
I wait.
‘Eileen and I divorced ten years ago. Job hazard, as you know. She’s fine, according to the kids.’
I don’t know how I feel about Tom’s marriage breaking up. Thirty years ago, barely any time at all after Larry Glassbrook’s arrest, Eileen announced that she was pregnant. I’d never seen Tom so uncertain, totally thrown by a decision he didn’t feel remotely able to make. So I’d made it for him.
People assume I left Lancashire because I was traumatised by the Glassbrook case, and I’ve always been happy to let them. The truth is, I left because I couldn’t bear to be around Tom.
‘So what can I do for you?’ he says, and I realise Ben is looking puzzled, and that I might have drifted away for a few seconds.
I reach into my bag and find the effigy. When I pull the wrapping off, I watch Tom’s face. I see the shine leave it, his eyes lose their spark.
‘Where did that come from?’ he asks, and all the joy has gone from his voice.
‘I found it in the house this morning,’ I tell him. ‘Or rather, in the garden.’ I reach out and, without touching it with my bare hand, turn it. ‘It’s me,’ I add. ‘And somehow it doesn’t look thirty years old.’
‘Can I ask why you thought it necessary to visit the house?’ Tom’s face twists, his eyebrows shoot up, and for a second the old Tom is staring right back at me. ‘Oh Christ, you didn’t break in, did you? Tell me you didn’t break in.’
‘I went out of curiosity,’ I say. ‘And no, I didn’t break in. Sally’s old housekeeper was there.’
‘So what do you think?’ Ben says, and for a moment we are both surprised, almost as though we’d forgotten he was with us. ‘Was Larry Glassbrook guilty?’
‘Of course he was.’ Tom’s eyes drop to my hand on the table. My left hand.
‘So how do you explain a clay picture of my mother in a garden that he hasn’t set foot in for thirty years?’
‘I can’t, Son,’ Tom says, and I know that Ben won’t like that. ‘But if you ask me to guess, I’d say practical joke. There are a lot of journalists in town. Maybe it was a ruse to get a comment from her.’
He looks at me again. ‘Anyone who’s done a bit of digging over the years will know you were in touch with Larry. You’re the obvious one to go after for a story.’
That makes sense. It seems odd, I know, but simply being in the same room as Tom is making me feel calmer.
‘It was hidden in a beehive. How could anyone have known Mum would look there? She couldn’t have been supposed to find it.’
Tom lifts his head, like a hound picking up a scent, but his eyes catch mine. ‘“Tell it to the bees,”‘ he says, and we smile at each other.
Ben pushes his chair back noisily.
‘If you leave it with me, I’ll have it checked for prints,’ Tom says. ‘See if anything crops up. Maybe have someone compare it to the originals. Although God knows where they are now. We’ll have to use photographs.’ He bends closer. ‘It doesn’t look that similar to me. Darker clay.’
He’s right. I’d have spotted that myself if I hadn’t been so spooked. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
Picking up on my improving moo
d, he smiles. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘We’re booked into the Black Dog for two nights.’
‘Do you have a free evening for dinner?’
Ben says, ‘I’m too young to be left on my own. And she’s married. To my dad. Who will be joining us as soon as he can get a flight.’
Tom’s eyebrows are high with amusement. ‘You were invited too,’ he says.
I stand up. ‘It’s probably not a good idea. But it’s been great to see you. And I’m sure I can leave this in your capable hands.’
Tom starts to get up too. Ben stays exactly where he is. ‘You’re going to leave it here?’ he says to me.
I shrug. ‘Not my case, angel. Not my patch.’
‘Mum, it’s a voodoo doll. If someone damages it, they damage you too. You can’t just leave it with this lot.’
I’ve never seen my son quite so anxious. Even Tom looks surprised.
‘We’ll take good care of it,’ he says. ‘Nobody hurts your mother on my watch.’
Tom walks us to the door.
In Reception, I say, ‘I was talking to Cassie Glassbrook earlier, up at the nursing home where Sally lives now.’
Tom gives an exaggerated sigh. ‘You’re not going to make me put a tail on you, are you?’
‘She and John Donnelly were dating back then. When he told us he thought he was gay.’
‘Lots of kids are confused about their sexuality. You said so yourself.’
‘He wasn’t confused. He was lying.’
We’ve reached the exit. Tom gives another heavy sigh. ‘Florence, it’s over. Let it go.’ He holds the door open, and as I step past him, I hear him mutter, ‘I let you go.’
When I see Ben’s face, I know he heard it too.
‘Did you shag him?’ he says.
We stare at each other from one side of the station entrance to the other, and I know anyone passing will think, Mother collecting her wayward son after a police caution.
‘What happened fifteen years before you were born is none of your business,’ I tell him.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
I wait. We continue to stare.
I ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’
His face goes from angry to sad in a split second. ‘I don’t like this place. It’s giving me the creeps. I want to go home.’
‘First thing in the morning.’
I see his leg twitch, as though he might actually be about to stamp his foot.
‘No, now. I don’t like the way people are looking at us. I don’t like the way you were conned into coming here, and I don’t like that smooth twat in there.’
I set off, leaving him behind, but he is only fifteen and of course he follows. As I beep open the car, he says, ‘Sorry, Mum.’
He looks it, so I let it go. Ben rarely gives me any real grief. I’m about to start the engine when he speaks.
‘You’ve still got those keys, Mum.’
This time, I don’t even pretend to be annoyed with myself.
‘It was thirty years ago. I don’t care if he was guilty or not. Please, Mum, let it go.’
59
John Donnelly is waiting in the bar when we get back. He offers us both a drink, on the house, and because I want to talk to him, I accept a Diet Coke. So does Ben, although he’s fallen uncharacteristically silent.
John is forty-five now, still good-looking, but with an odd, sly manner. He has a way of looking at people sideways, of smiling to himself when they speak, as though entertained by some mean private joke. Maybe he was always like this. Maybe I see more now.
Like the wedding ring on his left hand. ‘Did you marry a local girl?’
‘Yes, he did,’ says the barmaid, and I turn to look properly at her. She is plumper, especially around the face, and her hair is dyed dark brown now. I know that because I can see a half-inch of grey roots close to her scalp.
‘Hello, Tammy.’ I let my eyes drift back to John. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Why?’ she asks, stepping forward.
‘I wasn’t sure you were the marrying type, John,’ I say, knowing there is a limit to how far I can go with this. ‘But if you were, I thought you’d marry one of the Glassbrook girls. I was never sure which one.’
He smiles to himself as he polishes a glass. Tammy glares.
‘I saw Cassandra earlier,’ I say. ‘She was unusually talkative. I learned a lot.’
At that very moment, a black whippet appears from the back room. In that delicate, light-footed way they have of moving around, it steals behind John and makes for the hatch. John turns to see what I’m looking at. When he looks up again, he’s grinning.
‘Some dogs live a long time,’ he says.
No dog lives for thirty years. Even so, this one looks eerily similar.
‘Who’s the potter?’ says Ben.
I turn, to see what he has seen. A set of shelves to one side of the fireplace holds a collection of pottery. Each piece has been turned with some skill, and the similarity of style suggests a single craftsman.
‘I am,’ says a voice behind me.
The man who has come into the lounge is in his late fifties. His coarse skin is lined, and his thick hair grey as dust. He is much better dressed, though, than I remember, and gold rings gleam on his fingers.
‘They told me you were back,’ he says, as I step towards him, drop to my knees and hold out my arms. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’
‘Oh, Dwane,’ I say. ‘I’m so pleased to see you.’
The hug goes on, longer than it possibly should.
‘My knees aren’t really up to this,’ I mutter, and at last he lets me go.
‘This is my son, Ben.’ I get to my feet awkwardly. ‘Darling, this is Dwane. Do you remember? I told you about him.’
I’ve told Ben that I was once good friends with a dwarf, and I’m really hoping my son will be tactful enough not to mention that.
Ben holds his hand out to Dwane. ‘Good to meet you. Will you join us?’
Dwane looks pleased, and picks up his pint glass from the bar. As we find a table, I wonder at my son’s sudden social maturity, but as he opens his mouth, I suspect a motive other than friendliness.
‘So you’re into pottery now, Mr Ogilvy? As well as making model villages?’
Dwane speaks to me. ‘I started after you went. After all that fuss. You know, with the kids and that. I wanted to see how it was done. I wasn’t bad at it, so I took a course at night school.’
‘You’re very good,’ I say, ‘but you were always very talented.’
‘I did a sculpture of you,’ Dwane says. ‘From memory. And that poster from the time you went missing.’
Ben and I stare at each other.
‘A sculpture of me?’ I say. ‘Dwane, why would you—’
‘We found it,’ says Ben. ‘Up at the Glassbrook house.’
Dwane’s face clouds over as he nods up at the shelf. ‘No, you didn’t. It’s up there.’
He stands up, but doesn’t move. ‘I can’t reach it,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to get it. John won’t mind. They’re still mine unless he sells them. I put yours at the back, Florence, so it won’t get sold. I used to have it at home, but the wife didn’t like it.’
Ben is already up, standing on tiptoe, peering towards the back of the shelf.
‘Careful,’ I say.
He comes back with the clay sculpture of a head. About ten inches high, it is of me as a young woman. My hair flows over my shoulders, and I’m smiling, in a way I never see myself smile.
‘It’s great.’ Ben has cheered up visibly. ‘It really looks like you, Mum.’ He turns to Dwane. ‘Can we buy it? Dad would like it.’
‘It’s not for sale,’ says Dwane.
‘No,’ I say, ‘it belongs here. I was that woman here.’ I smile at Dwane.
Ben coughs under his breath. ‘The one we saw today was different,’ he says, and when I frown at him, he ignores me. ‘We found one at the Glassbrooks’ old house. Stuck with
wooden pins. Know anything about that one?’
Dwane stares at Ben, then looks at me for confirmation. I nod.
‘Like the ones found with the kids?’ he says.
I nod again.
‘That’s not good,’ he says.
‘Did you do that one too?’ asks Ben.
‘Hell, no,’ says Dwane. ‘Florence, when are you going home?’
‘I just got here,’ I say. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me already?’
‘Yes.’ He gets up, leaving his half-finished pint. ‘You should go home, lass. There’s nowt for you here.’
He walks away and leaves the pub.
‘He seems nice,’ says Ben.
We look at each other and try to smile. We can’t.
60
After dinner, surprisingly good given what I remember of Lancashire food in the 1960s, I tell Ben I have to pop out. He knows where I’m going. He knows me better than to try and persuade me otherwise. He makes sure I have my mobile and tells me to drive carefully and to let him know if I’m running late.
The gravel of the drive crunches beneath my feet, and the windows of the house stand dark and empty before me. It is an unwelcoming house, especially as the sun fades, but I do not feel like a trespasser. I have a sense that the house has been expecting me. Even looking forward to my coming back.
It is a little after nine o’clock and light is fading. Overhead is the deep turquoise of summer twilight, and the remains of the day’s sunshine run across the horizon like the flimsiest shawl of gold and pink. In another hour, it will be fully dark.
Daylight gate.
There will be no moon tonight. Wherever the invisible astral body is, it is setting. It won’t rise again until early tomorrow morning. This will be a dark night. A time for dark magic.
I’m almost at the house now.
I have never performed dark magic, but there is a darkness in this house that I will lift if I can. Thirty years ago, I took away the evil at the heart of it, but the energy that Larry and his deeds left behind is still here. I felt it earlier today. I can feel it now as I walk up the drive. This house needs help, and so do all those bound to it. Cassie, Sally, Luna – wherever she is – even Mary. And me. Finding the clay picture has spooked me more than I care to admit. I had no choice but to hand it over to Tom, for all that my giving it up freaked Ben, but I’m not going to wait calmly for whatever is brewing.
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