‘There is something else,’ Tom says. ‘We’ve had a report in from the railway station. The ticket office isn’t manned after six o’clock, but we have a witness who claims they saw a boy answering Ben’s description buying a ticket from the machine. About five minutes before the train to Manchester.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘Florence, I know you said you didn’t have a row, but is it possible there may be something going on that you don’t know about? Some reason why Ben suddenly had to get back South?’
I can only stare at him.
‘West Coast Trains run south every hour from Manchester,’ someone else says. ‘There’ll be CCTV at Victoria Station, and at Piccadilly. I can get on to Greater Manchester, sir, request someone go through footage.’
Tom nods and the idiot who thinks my son caught a train to Manchester tonight gets up and leaves the room.
‘They did this before,’ I say. ‘After every child vanished, we had sightings at the bus station, at the railway station. They tried to make us think the children had run away, had left the area; then we wouldn’t look for them here.’
‘Who did?’ someone says. ‘Who is “they”?’
I ignore him.
‘The dogs picked up a trail,’ the uniformed officer at Tom’s side says. ‘Leaving the Black Dog.’
I raise my voice. ‘Why am I only hearing this now?’
‘The trail left the Black Dog, turned right along the main road and followed it for two hundred yards,’ Tom tells me. ‘Then it turned right again along Old Sabden Road. They lost it towards the end of that.’
At the end of Old Sabden Road is Station Road. The trail the dogs supposedly picked up was heading towards the station.
I get to my feet.
‘Florence, sit down,’ Tom says.
I ignore him.
‘Brian, go with her.’ Tom raises his voice. ‘We’ll keep looking, Florence. We’ll look all night. We’ll find him.’
They will keep looking. I believe that, at least. But they will not find him.
65
I let Brian Rushton drive me back to the hotel and then I tell him to leave me. I tell him I will be fine, and that the best thing he can do for me now is join the hunt for my son. I remind him that he still has the envelope with the photographs.
When he is gone, I go in through the front door and out at the back. No one sees me as I climb into my car.
My first stop is the Glassbrook house, where I let myself into Larry’s workshop. It takes me five minutes to find what I need, and there is an old rucksack that will help me carry everything. Before I leave, I take one last look at the hives. Thirty years ago, they were alive and buzzing, full of tiny creatures, and Sally attended to them regularly. Larry could not have put the effigy of me in the hives before his arrest. Which means someone else did, within the last few days, knowing there was a chance that I’d find it. The question is who.
Maybe easier to answer why.
To intrigue me. Frighten me. Anger me. Possibly all of these, but most of all to keep me here, to make sure I don’t leave town. No officer involved in the Glassbrook case would walk away from a discovery of fresh evidence. Someone knew that. Someone has deliberately manipulated me into staying in town. I planned to anyway, but they wouldn’t know that.
John and Tammy would have known. I booked into the Black Dog for two nights. They would have no need to lure me with effigies. According to the police, John and Tammy almost certainly didn’t leave the pub tonight. The police don’t believe that John and Tammy abducted Ben, and I may be starting to agree.
Luna? The family can access the house. If Luna had left the effigy for me, I’d have found it sitting on the pillow of my old bed, not in the garden. Dale Atherton is dead. Richie Haworth emigrated. My certainty that the children were responsible for the deaths of their friends seems to be leaving me as quickly as it came.
Leaving me with nothing.
I get back in the car, reach open countryside and keep driving. The Hill looms in front of me and I carry on. I drive to the furthest point I can and park. I am about to get out when the worst thought of all hits me.
Why do they want me here? Why do they want to keep me in town?
I am the last person they should want reopening the old case. And why on earth go after my son when they know I will stop at nothing to find him? Why, of all the police officers in the country, would they throw down the gauntlet in front of me?
I can think of no reason but revenge and, if I am right, Ben will be dead already.
No, I cannot give up.
There is no moon tonight, but there is an astral energy on my side that is keeping the sky cloud-free, and the starlight seems extra bright as I leave the car and start to climb. I am thirty years older than when I last climbed Pendle Hill, and anxiety is robbing me of breath, but I press on. Half an hour is all it should take me. I think it takes me less.
I will not give up.
At the small plateau where the witches used to meet, I stop. There is a ring of stone, ash and even some charred wood where they last had their fire, and I am encouraged by the knowledge that this is still a sacred site.
This may or may not be the site of Malkin Tower, but it hardly matters. It is the place where for decades my sisters have practised their craft. There are energies here that I can harness.
I use the wood I stole from Larry’s workshop and build a fire. It need not be large, but it must burn brightly and for some time. When I think I have enough, I take matches from my bag and light it.
Long ago, Daphne and Avril taught me that witchcraft has three disciplines: healing, divination and magic. I have studied all three, and I practise all three, but they spoke the truth when they said that witches are always drawn to one in particular. I am a diviner, one who practises the art of foreseeing future events and discovering hidden knowledge through omens. I have tarot cards, Viking runes and hanging crystals, but scrying has always worked best for me, and my favourite method is fire.
The kindling catches quickly and within minutes there are golden flames licking the wood and embers forming. When I’m confident the fire has taken, I scatter the herbs. Lavender, sage, mint and rose petals have powerful protective qualities. The yarrow and the camphor enhance psychic abilities. The anise will help me sink into a trance. I settle down and let my mind drift towards the empty, receptive condition that I need.
‘My son is here. My son is alive. My son is in danger.’
I watch the smoke spiral up and the heart of the fire grow hotter. I see Ben’s face but know it to be nothing more than a manifestation of my fear. I need to go deeper. I lean forward and inhale the smell of the burning herbs. After a few moments, I can feel the calm settling over me. When I reach the stage of being aware of my surroundings but feeling quite separate from them, I will start to see.
The wind builds. The Hill begins to moan and sigh, and the scented smoke wraps itself around me.
I see chains. I see my son lying on darkness and darkness surrounding him. I see a small, scurrying creature that is predatory and afraid at the same time.
My son is underground, but he can move and breathe. I see thick, strong walls around him. I see flashes of locked doors.
I cannot see him moving. He lies perfectly still, like a—
A fresh scent comes to me then, not the bitter smell of burning herbs but one sickeningly sweet. It is the smell of buddleia. I can’t remember if there is a bush here, and I don’t want to break out of my trance to look. I see heads of men, angry men. A crowd. High walls. Bright lights.
Am I seeing where my son is being held or just remembering where I was? It hardly matters. Either way will take me to him.
Talk to me, Ben. Tell me where you are.
A piece of wood shifts in the fire, sparks fly up, and the picture shifts. The shapes I can see form themselves into upright spikes, a high tower, a soaring bird.
I can’t hold the vision. It breaks apart before my eyes and I have no choice but to look away.
Staring up at the star-speckled sky, I come back to the present. I am high on the ancient hill and no longer alone. Dark figures surround me. My scorched and strained eyes struggle to make them out, but after a second or two, I can count twelve people. Some young, some old. All women. The witches have come for me.
I get to my feet, unsteady at first, and Avril Cunningham catches me.
‘Take it easy,’ she says. ‘Step away from the fire. Deep breath.’
In the starlight, she seems hardly to have aged. Her hair is still black, although possibly a little thinner. She is still tall and angular, her eyes huge in the darkness. Only when she smiles do I see the deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
‘Darling girl,’ she says. I turn to the others, recognising Marlene Labaddee and a younger, very similar-looking woman, whom I assume must be Unique. At the sight of her something clenches inside me. Unique was one of the gang.
‘One of us.’ The warning is clear in Avril’s voice. ‘You must trust somewhere, Florence.’
Unique stares at me with big, chocolate-brown eyes. She is as lovely as I remember her mother being.
‘Did you steal Patsy Wood’s body?’ I demand of Marlene. ‘Did you burn her?’
‘We all did,’ says Avril. ‘Florence, you must be calm. You must trust us.’
I spin back to face her. ‘Daphne?’ I say.
‘In the car,’ says Avril. ‘She wanted to come up, but I told her to save her energy for the important stuff.’
I step away and look down the hill. I cannot see the cars in the darkness, but I think I can make out a glow that might be an interior light. I lift my hand in greeting.
‘We don’t have much time,’ Avril says behind me.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask her.
‘We went to the Black Dog when we heard you’d left the police station,’ she says. ‘You weren’t there, so we tried the Glassbrook house, and the churchyard at St Wilfred’s. Then we saw your fire.’
One of the women I don’t know has brought more wood and she builds up the fire.
‘This is Jenny Ogilvy.’ Avril gently pushes forward a very small, slim woman of about my age. ‘Dwane’s wife. And did you ever meet Lorraine his sister?’
‘My husband’s been in love with you for thirty years,’ Jenny tells me.
I am in no mood for apologies. ‘I love him too,’ I say. ‘He is my very dear friend.’
She nods at me without smiling, as Avril introduces the others. I remember Brenda, who operated the switchboard at the police station, but most of the names go into my head and leave it without so much as an echo. Last of all steps forward Mary, the Glassbrooks’ housekeeper, who has been hovering at the back. She greets me with an unsmiling nod.
‘Did you see anything?’ Avril indicates the now roaring fire. I tell her what I saw, but when I add that I might just be remembering the place where I was kept, she inclines her head.
‘The police think Ben left town,’ I say. ‘They’re blinkered, like we all were thirty years ago. They still think Larry killed those children. He didn’t. The real killer’s still out there.’
‘We know,’ she says. ‘But the important thing now is to find your son.’
‘We’re going to do a search spell,’ Jenny says. ‘We’ll split up and go to the four corners. We know he’s somewhere in town.’
The four corners are simply the most northerly, southerly, easterly and westerly points of town. The coven will have worked them out years ago, will know exactly where they are heading and what to do when they get there. They will work with smoke, or possibly dust, watching the way it drifts as they say the words of the spell. Then they’ll compare results, try to pinpoint the area of town where Ben might be.
Avril lifts a chain from round her neck. In the fire’s light, I see a teardrop-shaped crystal. She passes it over my head and I feel its cool smoothness against my neck. ‘Marlene is going to stay here with you,’ she says. ‘She has much to tell you.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m done here. I need to be back in town, looking for my son.’
Avril holds up both hands, as though she might physically stop me leaving. ‘Florence, you must stay. You need to know about the Craftsmen.’
66
The others leave us. As though we have agreed in advance how it must be, Marlene and I take our places on the hard ground and look at each other through the flames. My anxious body is demanding movement, and sitting feels like a form of torture, but I wait.
Marlene stares into the fire as though she too is scrying and I know I will have to work hard for whatever she has to tell me. She doesn’t want to be here any more than I do.
If I have to be calm for Ben, I will be calm.
‘The Craftsmen?’ I say. I have never heard of such a group, and yet something about the name feels oddly familiar. As though I have been waiting many years to learn about them. ‘Who are they?’
‘We don’t know,’ Marlene tells the flames. ‘That is the first thing. We do not even know for certain that they exist. But there was always talk, over the years, about another group in town.’
‘Another coven?’
I see her head bounce gently through the smoke. ‘Yes. But different. Very different to ours.’
‘In what way?’ Already this is feeling agonisingly slow.
She picks up a stick and pokes the fire. ‘There were signs, through the years, signs we couldn’t ignore. Graves disturbed, but the damage blamed on foxes. Churches vandalised. Animals stolen or maimed.’
What she is describing are classic signs of dark magic. They are also things that happen, from time to time, with nothing sinister behind them at all.
‘There is power in this town, concentrated upon a few people,’ Marlene says. ‘Men on the town council, officers of the law, factory owners, rich businessmen. They do what they like and the law cannot touch them.’
‘Sounds more like Freemasonry than witchcraft,’ I say, and even as I speak, I’m remembering Larry’s warnings from long ago.
‘Maybe the two are not so very far apart. Or maybe one is a cover for the other.’
‘You’re saying all Freemasons are witches? That’s impossible. There were so many of them, around here especially.’
‘No, not all. Of course not all. Maybe an inner circle. Maybe the wider brotherhood protects them, even if only by not questioning, not challenging.’
She stabs at the fire again. Sparks shoot upwards and piled wood at its heart collapses. ‘Years ago,’ she says, ‘when the children started vanishing, we feared it might be the work of the Craftsmen. We did what we could: protection spells, trace spells. It was a relief when Larry was arrested, when he confessed. A sick, twisted killer? We told ourselves that’s not so bad.’
She keeps her eyes shielded, and I wonder if there was anyone in town who really, deep down, believed in Larry’s guilt.
‘Was Larry a Craftsman?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Impossible. They would have protected him. Larry was alone. Whatever else he was, he was alone.’
‘Tell me what you know,’ I say.
She takes a deep breath. ‘They were men,’ she says. ‘No women ever joined this group. We only spoke about them among women because you never knew whether the man you were talking to was one of them.’
‘There were men in your coven,’ I say. ‘I remember seeing them.’
She nods. ‘Not any more. A long time ago, we stopped trusting men who were interested in the craft. Men who would join us to learn our skills, then use them for the wrong ends.’
I remember Roy Greenwood, Larry’s partner. David Milner, the teacher from school.
‘What else?’ I say, because she has given me nothing so far.
‘They needed us. They needed me. Men never make good healers. Every so often I would be asked about cordials. Asked to supply them. But always through messengers. Never directly.’
‘You were a herbalist – of course you were asked about cordials.’
There is something fearful in her face.
‘Did these cordials send people to sleep?’ I ask, knowing there are many herbs and plants with soporific qualities. The common poppy, for one.
‘No,’ she tells me. ‘They were interested in a cordial that keeps people awake but completely immobile. These people can see and hear, but they can’t move.’
I feel something tight grabbing hold of my chest. She is talking about an induced state of paralysed wakefulness. Possibly the most frighteningly vulnerable position anyone could find themselves in.
‘If you believe the Craftsmen were responsible for the children’s disappearances,’ I say, ‘what did you think was behind it? Why did they want to bury children alive? Were they sadists?’
‘No, I don’t think it was for pleasure. I think it was about power. A very bad power.’
‘What do you mean?’
Her face twists, looks ugly for a second. ‘My people have a way of making slaves from the dead.’
I look at her gleaming black skin, her bright eyes and say, ‘Zombies?’
She lifts her upper lip in a sneer. ‘No. Zombies are slaves in body only, their minds dead and gone. My people made other slaves from dark magic. Slaves in which the body is dead, but the mind still lives. Only in chains.’
I’m not following. A mind in chains?
‘I have no knowledge of this, you understand,’ she says. ‘It is just stories I heard.’
Marlene is starting to protest too much, but I cannot challenge her. I need her. ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘I understand that this is speculation on your part.’
Marlene says, ‘If you take a person, a living soul, and trap them in a place of death, and the rituals are performed, so that as they are dying, the energy is leaving them and coming into you, if you do all this, the body dies, but the soul does not.’
I say to her, ‘Many people believe that anyway. Christians talk about the immortal soul.’
‘But these souls do not move on,’ Marlene says. ‘They are trapped, the slaves of those who performed the binding spell.’
The Craftsman Page 32