“I want to talk to you about Sara Johnson,” I said.
Binchley smiled. “The dog attack. That’s what you’re here for.”
“No disrespect, but what did you think I was here for?” I asked him, frowning.
Binchley looked away, his face an implacable granite carving that gave nothing. The steel gaze of his small, cold eyes pierced me as he sat in silence for a few seconds.
“Never mind,” he said finally. “So...Sara Johnson. Ask ahead.”
“First of all, how is she?” I asked.
“Recovering at home.”
I wrote that down. I already knew better than to request a contact number. I’d ask around town later and try to get hold of her for an interview.
“How badly was she hurt?”
Binchley shrugged. “Not too bad. She was only in hospital for two days.”
That doesn’t mean anything, I thought. They get you home a day after having an appendix out.
“So where was she found?”
“In the early hours of Wednesday morning. Down by the slip road that connects the Whearity farm with the east-bound out of town. Coca-Cola delivery truck driver found her, would you believe.”
“Really,” I said, writing notes.
“Yep. Delivering to the pub down the hill. The Lighthouse. A local watering hole for all the old drunks and washed up seamen. The driver saw her by the side of the road, called it straight in. I turned up about half hour later, met the driver and the ambulance there,” Binchley said.
“Right,” I said. “Okay.”
He crossed his hands over his paunch and leaned back into his chair.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Anything on the dog that attacked her?”
“Like what?” he asked me. “Have we caught it yet?”
“Uh...yeah,” I said.
He shook his head. “No. Not yet. But I hope to have some results soon. Now if you don’t mind,” Binchley said. He stood up and I did the same. “I have to get going.”
We shook hands before he led me back out front.
“Well, thanks for your time, I really appreciate it,” I said.
He held the door open for me with a false grin etched onto his face. “A pleasure.”
I thanked him again and left the station. I was glad to get outside, into the open air. To say the Chief Constable’s accommodation of my questioning was misleading would be an understatement. He was pissed I was there, intruding, asking questions. And he knew what I knew.That Sara Johnson’s injuries were a little bit worse than Not too bad. My editor told me that a young woman had been mauled. Hospitalized.
“They’re calling it a bloody dog attack,” he said with a shake of his head.
I walked back down the hill. The town was coming alive now. I could smell the bakery that had just opened. Fresh bread on the salty air.
It’s a nice town, I thought. Too nice for something like that to happen to someone.
* * *
The Lighthouse pub overlooked the harbour, and looked a little worse for wear. I tried the door but it was still shut. I wanted to talk to whomever ran the place, to see if the Coca-Cola driver had said anything about the accident. I decided I’d come back later, in the afternoon. The wind picked up as I walked back to the B&B, pushing me up the hill. About a half hour later I was in my car and navigating my way East searching for the Whearity farm.
* * *
I left the town behind and crawled along little country roads that seemed to go on forever and to lead nowhere. I managed to stray a fair ways from the main road headed East, and it took for me to stop and ask directions from a passing vehicle to get myself pointed back in the right direction. Eventually I found myself on the main road, and then I saw it, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sign that said WHEARITY FARM next to the turning for a slip road. The car tires crunched over uneven tarmac and stray stones, and I drove slowly. The bushes pressing in on the road on either side were overgrown and hid any view of what lay ahead. Eventually I met with a metal gate. I got out and opened it till it stuck fast in the dirt, which held it propped open. Driving on, I came over a little hill and saw the farm.
I parked up a little ways from the main house. There was a large barn on the left, and other structures to the right and behind the house. Before I could get out of the car, the front door opened and a man stepped outside.
I waved hello.
“Morning,” I said.
The man drew on a cigarette and nodded in greeting.
“Mr. Whearity is it?” I asked him. He shook the hand I offered.
“Yuh,” he said. He was tall, broad, and his pant legs were covered in dry dirt and mud. His face was handsome but craggy and lined from the weather. His skin was dark from exposure to the sun.
“I’m Robert Dent,” I said. “A reporter for the Hopton Herald.”
“Oh yuh,” he said. I sensed agitation, but I couldn’t tell you if I got that from the way he stood there, looking at me with his hard eyes, or the way he spoke. I didn’t know if there’d been other reporters around, asking questions. I doubted it. I hadn’t heard anything about other papers picking up on the story. “A reporter.”
“Is it okay to talk, Mr. Whearity?”
He drew on his cigarette again while looking me over.
“Yuh, come in,” he said and led me inside. I followed him through a large kitchen to a living room where he offered me an armchair to sit in. A woman came in, her brow wrinkled.
“Who’s this then, Frank?” she said. Her face had gone red.
He put a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s all right, he’s just a reporter ...”
“A reporter!” she said, startled. “I don’t want ‘im ‘ere, nosing about!”
He fixed her with a stare. “I said it’s all right. I’ll sort it.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by sort it. The woman went into the kitchen, huffing and puffing, and Frank sat down opposite me with a sigh.
“Sorry ‘bout the wife,” he said in a low voice.
I didn’t say anything. Instead I made a show of reaching inside my jacket pocket for my notebook. Frank shook his head.
“Look, I know yuh a reporter an’ all, but I can’t have anything on record, yuh know?” he said.
I paused, taken aback, then pushed the notebook back inside my pocket.
“Okay,” I said.
Frank looked around before he said. “You’re here ‘bout that girl. The Johnson girl.”
I nodded. “Yes. By the way has anyone else come by here yet to talk to you?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Not yet anyway.”
That was a good sign. Everything so far had played to my sense that there was more to this story than met the eye. That it was more than a simple dog attack. And so far nobody else had picked up on it.
Yet.
“So it’s just you and your wife who live here?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “No, my two boys live here too. They’re nineteen and twenty-three.”
“Ah.” I said. “So, this Johnson girl. I hear she was found at the end of the lane?”
“Yuh. Right on the verge as you turn out. I hear she was in a awful mess,” he said.
“Yeah I think she was.”
Frank sat forward. “Listen. You’re probably gonna ask me next how she got to be at the end of the lane, right?”
I nodded. Frank looked over his shoulder. He must have sensed his wife hovering in the doorway, watching us converse.
“Well, it’s like I told the coppers. I didn’t even know she was ‘ere. He snuck her in,” Frank said. “It weren’t till they found her that I knew.”
His wife went to say something but held her tongue.
“Who snuck her in?” I asked.
“My oldest. Waited till we were all in bed and then took her in the barn. Yuh know. For a roll in the hay an’ all that,” he said with a smirk.
I couldn’t help but smile myself, despite the ci
rcumstances and what happened to her afterward.
“Obviously, none of this can get out. I don’t want people in town thinkin’ it was my boy what did it. D’you know what I mean?”
I said I did and promised him I’d make no mention of it.
“So how did she get here in the first place? Drive? A lift from a friend?” I asked Frank. He shook his head.
“Nah. Bicycle. Her Ma and Dad live outside the Cove. About ten minutes from ‘ere. From what the boy told me, she’s been riding out ‘ere quite a bit the last few weeks,” Frank said.
So that explained why his son was quite happy to have his fun with her and send her on her way in the dark on her own. She did it all the time.
“I found their...love nest in there,” Frank said gravely. “Just young lovers, courtin’ an’ all. They weren’t hurtin’ no-one.” He shook his head, fumbled for a cigarette. To my surprise his wife came into the living room and stood with her hand over his on the armrest.
“I understand. So have the police questioned your son?” I asked carefully.
His wife said, “He didn’t do anything. How could he? Have you seen the state of her?”
Frank looked up at her. “It’s all right love. He’s only askin’.”
“I’m not making accusations, Mrs. Whearity. Believe me. I’m just trying to get all the facts together. That’s my job. I don’t print lies, and I don’t print what people tell me not to print. You have my word.”
She seemed to accept what I said. I stood up to go.
“I’d better get a move on,” I said. “I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”
They showed me to the door. Something occurred to me, however, before I left.
“By the way, did they find her bike?”
Frank and his wife looked at each other.
“The police took it. They said they found it lying in the road,” Mrs. Whearity said. “Why?”
I shrugged. “Just asking. Was it still in good shape? I’m just wondering if it was some kind of hit and run or something. You know, a possibility the police might be playing with.”
Frank shook his head. “Nah. You don’t get it Mr. Dent. This weren’t no hit and run. You’ll understand when you see her. If you do. And that bike? Weren’t a single scratch on it.”
He opened the door for me and I stepped outside. From the direction of the outbuildings came the sound of chickens clucking.
“Nice farm,” I said as I walked to my car.
The Whearitys watched me go but didn’t say anything else. Frank stood there with a cigarette burning in his mouth, his wife’s arm around his waist. As I backed the car up, they both waved me off. I waved back before I left.
* * *
I drove back into town. This time I just followed the east-bound in the opposite direction, and cut through two country roads. I don’t know how I got myself so lost the first time. I found a space down by the sea front, parked up, and walked along to The Lighthouse.
It was open. I went in and found it virtually empty save for two old-timers in the corner nursing half a beer each. They looked in my direction as I entered and I nodded. They nodded back.
The bar lady, a thin woman with lots of blonde hair and thick lips looked at me, her brow raised. “Hello stranger.”
I smiled. “Hello.” I took a seat at the bar.
“What can I get you?”
“Just a coffee please,” I said. “Still too early for me.”
She laughed as she set about fixing me a coffee. It wasn’t a fancy machine job. No frothy boiled milk in this establishment. Just instant coffee with full fat milk.
I thanked her and asked her if she could help me.
“Yeah...what with?” she said, friendly enough.
“I’m a reporter with the Hopton Herald, and I wondered if you knew anything about the young woman found by the side of the road the other night,” I said.
I showed her my ID. She looked at it like she approved.
“We don’t get a lot of press ‘round here. No need I s’pose,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
I sipped my coffee. “I understand a delivery driver found her. Did he come in here after?”
She nodded. “Well you see, what he does is he stops outside and gets a few hours sleep. We’re out of the way here. You understand. So he has a layover before we open.”
“So what time does he normally get here?” I asked.
She bit her bottom lip. “About...two in the morning? Obviously he can’t unload at that time. So he has his sleep in the cab, right outside, and waits till seven when I come down to open the doors. He’s been doing it a while now.”
“How often does he come here?”
“Twice a month? Something like that. The truck wakes me up when it pulls up outside, that’s how I know he’s there. But I go back to sleep because he cuts the engine. He’s pretty good,” she said.
“But that night was different I suppose,” I said.
She nodded. “Yeah, you could say that. For one thing he didn’t turn up until about six. And he was wide awake. Shaking.”
My eyebrows rose. I sipped more coffee. “Oh?”
Her eyes grew distant as she remembered. When she moved her hand on the bar top, her clusters of gold rings clapped against the solid, varnished wood.
“He banged on the door for me to open. I knew it was him when I came down the stairs. I let him in and he asked for a drink. I knew he didn’t mean a cup of rosy lee, you know what I mean? So he sat where you are now, at six in the morning, with a glass of brandy to calm his nerves.”
“And did he say about the accident? How was the Johnson girl when he found her?”
“In a bad way. She spoke to him. He said her back was torn open. He called 999 and waited with her,” she said. “He told me held her hand the whole time, telling her she’d be okay.”
She studied her own hand then.
“His hands were covered in blood,” she said.
A shiver ran down my spine.
“Uh... Chief Constable Binchley says they’re hunting for a dog of some kind,” I said.
The bar lady looked me in the eye.
“Honey, if it was a dog that did that, it had to be a big one. If you’d seen the state of that delivery driver, you’d think the same.”
* * *
I wandered outside. The sky was a mottled grey, the wind tore in off the sea where it left waves that rolled and crashed against the natural arms of the harbour. The boats bobbed back and forth as I walked.
There was some kind of cover up going on here. It was obvious. My suspicions that it was more than a simple dog attack were proving to be well founded after all.
Her back was torn open, the bar lady had said.
I dug my hands into the pockets of my jacket. It was cold anyway, but I was suddenly colder.
His hands were covered in blood.
I realised that I needed to talk to Sara Johnson, if I could. I found a newsagent’s and asked them if they had a local phone book I could borrow. I waited a few minutes whilst the woman behind the counter went and fetched one. I thanked her and stood to one side as I leafed through it. I ran down the J’s and found two Johnsons in the nearby area. I scribbled the numbers down, handed the phone book back, and thanked her.
There was a pay phone on the main street. I walked back there and popped a few pounds into the machine. The receiver was ice cold against my ear. The first number was a no go. The second number rang and rang, and I was about to hang up when a woman answered.
“Hello?”
I cleared my throat. “Hello, this is Robert Dent. I’m with the Hopton Herald. The newspaper.”
“Oh...” she said. “Oh, I don’t think we’re interested in talking to reporters.”
“Please, I’m not after a front page photo or anything like that. I was just wondering if I could speak to Sara.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Are you her Mother?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Ah right. Well, you see, Mrs. Johnson...”
“Miss.”
“Oh sorry,” I said.
“It’s Miss,” she said again.
“Right. Miss Johnson. I don’t want to impose but I’d really like to talk to her, get her side of the story.”
“Uh... I don’t know,” she said.
“I want to know what happened,” I said, a little earnestly. As soon as I said it, I felt embarrassed.
“Well, I suppose you could come by tomorrow.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “When would be convenient?”
“Midday would be best. But you can’t ask her too many questions. She’s not up to it,” she warned me. “I don’t even know why I’m agreeing to this.”
“Because I think you want to know the truth as much as I do,” I said.
* * *
I stayed out most of the day, looking around. It was a nice town but there was something odd about it. Something strange I couldn’t put my finger on. At about six o’clock the streets filled up with townsfolk ready to watch the Halloween parade. I stuck around for the first half hour or so, but then slipped away to head back to the B&B. I realised I hadn’t eaten any dinner, so when I passed by a little Fish ‘n’ Chip shop on the way I bought battered huss, a small chips and mushy peas and had it wrapped. It was luke warm by the time I got back to my room.
I ate it on my bed, without the TV on, listening to the sounds of the parade drift through my window.
Tomorrow I’d go and see Sara Johnson. Then I’d see for myself if it was a dog attack or not. I wondered if there was some human element to all of this. What if Whearity’s son was involved after all? Stranger things had happened. What if someone else in town was responsible? It made my blood run cold to think of anyone doing that to another human being. But God knew how many stories I’d covered that ended up that way.
People were wary of me because I was a reporter. A journalist. But I considered myself a writer first and foremost, chasing what every writer chases: The Story.
I switched on the TV and sat looking at it but not really watching it.
One thing I was sure of, no matter what I might learn the next day, was that I was near the heart of this particular story. I was so close I could feel it beating.
Carnival of Cryptids (Anthology to Raise Funds for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children) (Kindle All-Stars Book 2) Page 2