And now D.I. Ross was missing. His car found burned out and upside down on Bridestones Moor that morning. Pretty much the whole of the local police force was out looking for him.
Another coincidence!
Kristy’s hand shook slightly, a trickle of sweat running down between her shoulder blades, as she turned to the first page.
Linda Hedge. Diary. November 2nd 1995
‘I’m keeping this diary separately from my official notes. The reason being there are things to do with my latest case and I’m scared. Of what? I don’t know. I suppose I just want to document it all in case anything happens to me. Dramatic? Yes, and that’s exactly why this is in a private diary. You’ll find it, dear Rob, one day when you go through my things. If you aren’t doing that then I survived and put the whole thing down to experience, or wild hormones or something. Time of life, you might say, and time to do something else - it‘s getting to me! Or maybe simply a story to tell when I’m old and grey - there’s a book in me, ha ha! Anyway, I’m starting it and maybe it’ll fizzle out or maybe one day it will explain things. Let’s call it my ‘Woodsend Diary’ and DON’T give it to anyone else, Rob, because it’s politically incorrect….
Well here goes…
A few days ago I was asked to go and see a girl in Woodsend, at the farmhouse just off The Old Coach Road between Leeds and Doncaster. This isn’t my area - I’m covering for Martha Kind, who’s off with a slipped disc - and I didn’t know what to expect. The place is one of those forgotten relics - you pass an old mining village with the pithead wheel scarring the landscape to the left. Then there’s a fork in the road down to Woodsend, which you go past, until you see a long drive down to the farmhouse. I parked in the yard and was left standing by the door for a good ten minutes before this guy in a string vest eventually opened it. Because this is my private diary I’m going to say what I like - he looked like scum on the social! I really shouldn’t say that, should I? Ha ha … burn this, Rob! Really though - we’re talking fag-ash breath, a week of stubble, stained trousers and greasy hair. Ugh! TV on full volume. Big dogs jumping round the kitchen going ballistic…you get the drift. Anyway - here’s the thing - a teenage girl called Belinda Dean - he called her Belle - who apparently wouldn’t go to school, said the devil was out to get her and had started locking herself in cupboards, chanting to herself. The GP had been and said she was depressed, prescribed Prozac (oh please…) and guess what - not even referred her to a psychiatrist…great! What he had done though, and thanks a bunch, was manage to refer her to social services because she wasn’t going to school. So anyway, Mr Greasy, aka Derek Dean, asked me to ‘sort it’ because ’we’ve ’ad enough on ’er!’ Nice!
Fast forward to Belinda’s bedroom. No ‘Take That’ or ‘Backstreet Boy’ posters, no make-up, fairy lights or nice clothes. Belinda’s room was stark. Dirty lino, a bare bulb in the ceiling, grubby bedclothes and one scuffed set of drawers for her stuff. The cupboard in the corner contained an ironing board and a few mouldy blankets - this being where she’d taken to locking herself in at night. The girl herself looked like she was a lot younger than the said fourteen - small and skinny, so pale she was almost grey, with huge colourless eyes and black hair that hung down round her shoulders. Hair she kept pulling and twiddling while I talked and she listened. I’d say she was distracted and distant, almost like there was no one inside. She couldn’t recall ever going to school, she said. Couldn’t read and write. Didn’t have any friends. Hard going! I asked her about the devil preoccupation and she backed up against the wall as if she‘d disappear through it if she could, hyper-ventilating. I’ll be honest - the whole thing was way off beam. Confrontation followed with Mr Greasy, when I told him I was recommending she see the mental health crisis team with a view to being sectioned immediately. Suspect Schizophrenia t.b.h. Didn’t go down well with Mr Greasy, who went off on a major rant, but I think his old mother looked relieved. Looked like Mrs Dean was no longer around - can‘t say I blame her except for not taking her daughter with her. Neither the old lady nor Derek would say where she was.
Anyway, you’d think that would be that…and the girl would be taken away within hours…but no! Turns out nothing happened. The crisis team came, made a judgement after speaking to the father, and left her in the ‘care of her family.’ Absolutely unbelievable!
I’m livid. Will be having a private word with her GP to see if a psychiatric referral can be arranged as soon as possible. These things take ages though. I’ve got a really bad feeling about the whole thing. That girl’s room was stark! I mean devoid of a single personal object. And some of the things she said, in that vague other-worldly voice - about dark shapes in the night, a voice telling her to let someone or something ’in’ seriously concerned me….she’d started wetting herself and pulling out her hair and nails too. Definitely psychotic. Definitely needs help! I’m going to dig further on this!
November 11th
Massive case load (not an excuse but def a reason), which is why I’ve only just got back to Woodsend. Had a bit of a scout round the area - very deserted, dark and damp, reeks of misery although I can‘t say why or how. Spooky area at the back of the woods - an old cemetery and a pagan stone circle by the look of it. I didn’t hang around. Anyway, I was on my way to Woodpecker Cottage down the track. It looked overgrown and uninhabited but as the light faded a lamp was switched on downstairs and so I knocked on the door. No answer. Thing is - a boy called Thomas Blackmore lives there - nine years of age and goes to the local school. He came to my attention because on checking the local school records the other day after seeing Belinda, I noticed only two children were registered from Woodsend village - Belinda and Thomas - so I thought I‘d pay the boy a visit to see if he knew anything about Belinda, or had seen anything unusual, that kind of thing. Out of order, I know, I’m not a copper - but I am a bit of a terrier when I sniff out a potentially abused child. If my superiors (!) knew how much I dug around off-piste they’d fire me quicker than a starting gun at the races.
Anyway, I’ve tried several times now to find Thomas and can’t! Consider myself on a mission….
November 13th
Spotted a small boy running like the clappers through the woods. He shot past my car on Ravenshill just as I was getting out, and tore past me faster than a hunted fox. Couldn’t catch him - not a chance - middle-aged woman in trench coat and court shoes! Knocked on the door - no answer. I’ll tell you what though, that child was small and very emaciated, pasty faced and running for his life! Something wrong here…
November 16th
Paid another visit to the farmhouse - this time unofficial. Confronted by Mr Greasy again. Very angry man, who kept looking me up and down trying to intimidate me. The whole place stank of dogs and re-heated chip fat. Old lady looked worn out and wary - beady eyes flicking nervously from him to me and back to him again . Mouth working itself up for a row! I asked to see Belinda and was told she was sleeping, but what had I done about getting her taken off their hands? Explained I’d handed things over to the GP and she should be having a visit from a mental health professional very soon who would treat her at home. He threw a blue fit. I promised to follow up, push things through. Meantime would he tell me about next door’s boy because I was concerned there was a link between him and Belinda - i.e. it was a possibility that someone or something was scaring them both out of their wits. Mr Greasy went ’ape’ and told me I was barking up the wrong tree and it was my job to get Belle ’gone’. She was ill and that was it!
U-uh!
Something odd - note - no furniture in front room apart from a table and chairs and dresser all at one end. The rest was barren. Bailiffs in? Big 4x4 truck in the drive though so they can’t be that destitute…
Took another wander into Five Sisters Woods. Another scout round the cemetery…a lot of small graves with no markings. I don’t know if I should tell the police about two scared kids and a spooky graveyard… not enough to go on…just a feeling. Got flu coming on…
December
Don’t feel well - backlog to do…just heard Belinda was sectioned last night after two coppers were called out. Relieved in a way - hope she’ll now get the help she needs. They had to take her to Leeds children’s unit as she’s under 16. Well that should be the end of it. She’ll get anti-psychotics and hopefully recover nicely. Thomas is going to school each day, apparently, so between his parents and schoolteachers I shouldn’t hear any more.
Happy Christmas!!!!
January 1996
Decided to dig the Woodsend Diary out again…. bit of hearsay. Apparently Derek Dean’s estranged wife, Kathleen Dean, has been allocated the end semi at Woodsend. Don’t know where she’s been in the interim, but seems she went to a friend’s and just left her daughter to it!!!!! Wonder why she’s come back if her husband was violent to her, which it’s documented he was.
April 1996 - local invalided gentleman and his wife, Mr and Mrs Frost, recommended for re-homing on an urgent social basis. Mr Frost has chronic obstructive airways disease and a serious heart condition. Circumstances at Woodsend are significantly contributing to the couple’s distress. Alarm bells in my head. Local children and taunts of witchcraft. Nice lady - don’t believe she’s causing anyone a problem, more like the other way round. She’s had media intrusion, her name trashed, and when I arrived ‘Black Witch’ had been daubed across the door only spelled incorrectly - ‘Blak Wich!’
Recommended an immediate transfer on the grounds of their safety. Wish I had time to investigate further.
January 1997
Long time since I was called out to Woodsend, but Thomas Blackmore was reported as behaving oddly in school and the teacher asked me to visit his home environment. Fat chance. Can’t get in for love nor money. No answers. Try again!
Tried three times. In the end I saw him at the school gates - gaunt, frightened child. Refuses to speak, just shakes his head and stares at the floor. Won’t learn. Won’t integrate with other children. Big question - does he go into care?
March….Thomas taken into care in Doncaster. Police made contact with parents who handed him over without a quibble. He’d told one officer he’d seen hooded black ghosts floating through the woods past his house, holding fire-lit torches. I only got to see him briefly. For the record he will not speak AT ALL. My curiosity is piqued again. Two kids now safely removed. But two highly disturbed kids with no explanations as to why! I wish I wasn’t covering two posts, and had time to dig around a lot more on this. I always had a sneaky feeling there was something amiss in Woodsend but just no proof! Discussed with D.C. Ross. Shocked to learn that his Sergeant collapsed and died of a heart attack on the night they had Belinda Dean sectioned. Doubly shocked to hear about the circumstances in which they found the girl.
Anyway, all should be well now with the kids removed!
June 1997
I’m not keeping my diary very well but this is what I recall from this visit to Bridesmoor… Called out to Tanners Dell Mill. What a place - down by the river surrounded by thick foliage and hidden from view. You wouldn’t know it was there if you hadn’t sought it out. Tow path in front goes directly to Woodsend. Path behind trails up to Bridesmoor village through the woods. Carrions Wood to the West side.
Old guy - needs medical care but refusing to leave his home. Ought to have someone going in to him, says GP.
Hmm…all not as expected. Pale, unnerving blue eyes in an ancient, reptilian face, white widow’s peak, leering, lechery in manner. Scary old goat! He sat there in a string vest and boots, dirty, stained trousers…stank to high hell - urine ineffectively veiled with Brut aftershave! Ought to try soap and water once in a while! Coughs phlegm up in front of you. No hanky, no tissue… Nice!
Seen some sights but this is one of the worst. There’s a tree growing up the middle of the living room through to the floor above! Tin bath in the yard. Table in the kitchen covered with an oil cloth - milk bottle, loaf of bread, ketchup and brown sauce left out, sink full of greasy washing up. He won’t go upstairs, says no one’s been up there for decades. No heating. Sleeps on a dirty old blanket on the sagging sofa. If ever I’ve stepped inside a haunted house it would be this one. The walls seep with damp and the lights flicker on and off. You just feel relief when you get outside. Not a nice man, not a nice atmosphere. And here’s the spooky thing - I was there to help him get nursing and medical care delivered, yet all he was concerned about was what I was doing snooping about! What did I know? What had Belinda or Thomas said? Like I know! Put my hackles up though…It was like he’d had me summoned!!
July 1997
Came back to Woodsend on a hunch - just parked up with a sandwich lunch by the river. Nice day. Walked along the river and discovered a caravan park. School hols, so bit odd no one was around, yet there was washing hung outside one of them. Took a walk up the forest path past Woodpecker Cottage, then on up to the stone circle. There are some odd carvings etched into the tree trunks on the path to the old cemetery. Rusted railings, once white. Odd place… even on a hot day with bees buzzing and the light full and golden, the air in the cemetery was bone cold. Not a single butterfly or bird - yet the woods were full of them! I took another look at the little graves - so tiny - children were smaller centuries ago I suppose - that’s what I thought, was thinking, when this man appeared out of nowhere. Very similar in looks to the old guy at The Mill - same widows’ peak and pale, glassy eyes - but younger, middle-aged. Same unnerving aura of mockery and menace, though. Asked me what I was doing. I said looking for a place for a picnic…Didn’t like him - just a gut feeling. His eyes were on my back as I hurried away down the path into the forest. Felt like he was making sure I left, marking my card…
November 1997 -
Called out to the mill again. Old Mr Dean has taken a turn for the worse. Nurse refused to visit any more due to sexual harassment. Situation to be reviewed with regard to him being admitted to hospital. Won’t listen to the GP. Ambulance told to clear off!
On arrival I was greeted by a young woman with long black hair who was not exactly welcoming! I asked if she was related to Mr Dean and she said she was his niece, Natalie. She refused to let me in, said the nurse was ‘a lying bitch’ and they were considering suing for slander. Then she started laughing! Bizarre!
I asked if she was taking care of him and she said they needed cough medicine if I wanted to help. I tried to ascertain if they were refusing hospital admission. Mood changed. She looked me up and down before shutting the door in my face.
October 1997
First chance I got. Glorious blue-sky day. Crispy leaves and bonfire smoke in the air. Love it. Blackberries dying on the brambles now, but oh I don’t know - there’s a magic about this time of year. I just want to re-visit the cemetery - thing is, my curiosity is piqued again after doing a bit more research. There used to be a nunnery here, which also lends its name to the woods: Five Sisters Nunnery. That explains the ruins. I wonder if the cemetery belonged to them and the little graves were for orphans who were sent to the nuns? Infants who died in their care, perhaps?
Cutting to the chase because it’s getting dark and I’m dog tired; anyway this is what I did - I decided to walk back to Ravenshill via the car track, which runs past a house on the right, instead of down through the woods again, as it was getting too dark. Met the man with the widows’ peak. This time he was standing in the path barring my way. I could see a kind of trailer trash outfit over to the right, instead of the house I’d imagined was there - I’ll call it the gypsy camp - and a woman with the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen was dead-eyeing me from the doorstep. Now she really did look like a baby-boiling black witch if ever I saw one! Had to sidestep the man, who laughed in my face. Rancid breath.
Ashamed to say I felt fear. Real fear in the pit of my stomach. Next time I’ll be sure to come here in full daylight - if and when I get a chance. There’s something I’m missing. Not enough to actually report though….
February 4th 1998
&nb
sp; Cold, frosty morning. 9 am. Not what I expected to find - closer inspection reveals there are no dates on some of those tiny graves - while the older ones have dates between 1649 and 1901. These are the weathered ones with Celtic crosses and may have been from the nunnery. But the whiter ones are relatively recent and unmarked. Maybe animals? Surely not children with no engravings on the headstones? What about the bereaved parents? No flowers, no grass growing round them.
Something else - ash. Fresh piles of ash.
Just let me check something…
February 5th 1998
No, there are no records of any infant deaths or burials in Woodsend.
***
Kristy closed the book. Linda Hedges had collapsed with a brain haemorrhage on February 6th 1998, and never recovered.
She looked up, mulling over what she’d read. So there was a possible connection with old Mr Dean and The Mill in which Ruby had been haunted so badly in 2008. Had Ruby really picked up what had happened there because of psychic gifts? Or had she been a victim herself and remembered the trauma? And now the matter of tiny graves in that ancient graveyard -one which had not been used for centuries yet contained relatively recent, unmarked burial plots. Maybe they were animals? The remains of sacrifices?
Callum hadn’t known about either of those two pivotal facts before he went snooping, and neither had Martha. And now he was missing and she was dead - her desperately sad funeral held only a few days ago.
Kristy stared into the empty air of her friend’s spare bedroom, her mind concentrating on the facts, trying to pull them all together. She had to get a report to the police first thing tomorrow morning, and hand over Linda’s diary….see what could be unearthed…
Father of Lies Page 18