BURIED ON THE FENS a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Joy Ellis

  ‘But he does have his family to consider.’

  ‘Don’t forget that Joseph wouldn’t have a family at all if it wasn’t for you. It was you who brought Tamsin home, wasn’t it? And you who made her see her father as he really is. Don’t underestimate Joseph’s feelings for you, Nikki. He cares very deeply and he won’t let the drama queen have her own way for too much longer.’ She paused. ‘Joseph’s only problem is that he’s too nice. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, not even that witch Laura.’

  Nikki didn’t ever remember Eve being so emphatic. ‘Thank you. I’ll hang onto those words. But before you take up work as an agony aunt, I have a little job for you, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Oh, bring it on! Is it dangerous? I do hope so!’

  ‘Eve! It’s just a little bit of covert ferreting, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, the best kind! Can I wear a disguise?’

  Nikki laughed. ‘No, I want you to be your charming self and get friendly with one or two members of a certain private club.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘There is a downside . . .’ Nikki told Eve what she knew about the Briar Patch.

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard all about that place, dear. In fact, there’s a good chance I may be “invited” to attend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A friend of mine, Grace Campion, from the art club is a member. She said she’d sign me in if I ever wanted a women’s night out.’

  Nikki tensed. Grace Campion was one of the Briar’s elite women. Who better for Eve to become friendly with! ‘Well, sod that for a game of soldiers! Here I am, struggling to find scraps of info about the place, and you’ve already been invited! I don’t believe it!’

  ‘It’s not what you know, my darling, but who.’

  ‘So it seems. Grace is one of the women I’d like you to talk to.’

  ‘Interesting. So how can I help?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to speak to Joseph, and also to a woman called Spooky. I want to use her to liaise with you.’

  ‘Spooky? How fascinating.’

  ‘Her proper name is Sarah Dukes. She’s an IT boffin, a friend of mine and a member of the club. Oh, and you never call her by her real name, okay?’

  ‘Then Spooky it is.’

  A few minutes later Nikki rang off. What a stroke of luck! All at once she felt drowsy, and decided to have an early night while she could. And tonight she would not look across to Knot Cottage, but simply pull the curtains. She hoped that Eve was right, and she and Joseph would have their old life back before long, and the red 4x4 would be gone.

  * * *

  For the second time in half an hour, Rory picked up his duvet from the floor.

  He was worried. The late news had mentioned guerrilla fighters taking hostages in the area where David was working. There had been no phone call from him for two days. This would not normally have unsettled him. After all, it was a nasty little cesspit of a country and mobile phones were almost useless there. Even a three or four day silence was not unusual. But the news report had worried him. Moreover, the Lawson girl was still on his mind. It would take days to complete a full post-mortem report.

  He got up, wandered to the window and stared out. Their top floor flat afforded him breathtaking views across the town to the fenlands beyond. It was especially beautiful after dark. Tonight, though, it was sinister. The fens looked bleak, dark and almost frightening. Why had David chosen a job that took him to such dangerous places? Trying to banish thoughts of David from his mind, Rory returned to Louise Lawson. She had shared a flat with two other girls, which was open house for dozens of hedonistic, fun-loving, unhygienic students. Rory and his team had collected samples of every type of secretion, fluid, hair, fibre, flake and general detritus that human beings could possibly shed. It was proving a nightmare to analyse all this, and it would take time. Sadly there were no short cuts, because their last visitor had been a particularly unpleasant one.

  Rory wasn’t a drinker. His father had been a violent alcoholic.

  Louise Lawson had been drinking. He wondered if she had been drinking with her killer. What was it that disturbed him about the Lawson girl? Rory could not think.

  He returned to his dishevelled bed and lay down. He would have to wait. Wait to hear that his lovely David was safe, and for reports about the gregarious Louise Lawson to filter back in. For once, Rory was as edgy and impatient as his friends in the CID room. He snuggled down, absentmindedly reaching across to David’s side of the bed. He conjured up an image of himself driving happily down a leafy lane, in a bright pink van with a motif of a red rose on the side. Flowers by Rory.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nikki walked into her new “murder room,” her arms piled high with files, to be greeted by the hum of a large photocopier and a four-foot-high plant that looked like a small palm tree.

  ‘Where the hell did they come from?’

  Her only answer was a series of shrugs, and a chorus of, ‘No idea.’

  ‘When are we expecting the three piece suite and fish tank to arrive?’

  No response.

  ‘Yvonne, how was your old friend, Sergeant Ron Barnes?’

  ‘Fine, ma’am, except he’s crippled with arthritis. Between us, we recalled one hell of a lot about the old case. He was chuffed to hear that Gordon hadn’t drowned. He always swore he’d only believe it when he saw the fish-nibbled toes!’

  ‘Lovely! So what did he tell you that we don’t know already?’

  ‘He was living in Yorkshire for quite a few years, ma’am, and lost touch with most folks hereabouts. But he did say that the case of the abused children had upset him a great deal. When he came back to Greenborough earlier this year he saw one of the girls, now in her forties, working in a local cafe. He tried to speak to her, but she pretended not to recognise him. He didn’t press her as she seemed very strange. It set him wondering about the other kids. Had they been permanently damaged, or had they left it behind and got on with their lives?’

  Dave smiled. ‘Once a copper, always a copper, huh? He must be nearly eighty by now!

  ‘And still as sharp as a stiletto, believe me,’ said Yvonne. ‘But here’s the thing. He found four of them living right here in Greenborough, one is still in Quintin Eaudyke, one lives in Skegness, one in West Salterby, one had taken an overdose, and one he cannot trace. He’s given me a list of the names and addresses. Reckons he’s really glad to hand it over to the professionals! He’d started to ferret around in a very limited way, and he didn’t like what he was digging up.’

  ‘Added to the one provided by the doctor and his wife, it’ll be enough for us to start making some enquiries.’ Nikki took the handwritten sheet and stared at it. ‘The child he could not find was Millicent Cartwright, of course, and we’re having a spot of bother finding her ourselves.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not used to being handed information on a plate. It’s quite disconcerting.’

  Nikki told them what Linda Draper had overheard. ‘We will check out the four names and addresses in Greenborough first, then we’ll go check the outlying ones this afternoon. We’ll work in pairs. Cat and Yvonne, and Joseph and myself. Ben? You keep hunting for the Cartwright girl, and Dave, you can run the office and give Ben a hand if he needs it.’ She turned to Cat and Joseph. ‘I’ve copied the Draper notes for each of you. I suggest you read what they say about your particular witness, and I don’t have to tell you to be tactful. Cat, you take Lucy Clarke. According to this, she works for the Tasty Toasty in Herring Lane. Her home address is there too. You can also try George Ackroyd. We only have a home address for him, so play that one by ear, okay? Joseph? We’ll look for Delia Roberts and Terry Harvey.’

  * * *

  The woman stared at Cat and shook her head. No, no, she could not possibly talk to them. She was far too busy, her manageress would not like it one bit, she could lose her job. Her skin was pasty, and her eyes were wide, the pupils too large for the bright lights of the
cafe.

  Cat spoke calmly. She had done nothing wrong, they simply wanted her help with something. While Cat talked, Yvonne took the manageress aside and asked if she had somewhere quiet where they could talk to Lucy privately. She assured her that they only wanted some information regarding an old case. Lucy was not in any kind of trouble. The cafe manager offered the use of her sitting room above the cafe.

  Finally they all managed to coax the frightened woman upstairs.

  Lucy Clarke sat opposite them, looking tiny and frail in the big wing-backed armchair. Her hands fluttered continually, and her pupils dilated.

  Yvonne adopted her very best motherly tone and began the questions.

  Yes, she was indeed Lucy Clarke, daughter of Anne Clarke of Quintin Eaudyke. She now lived in permanent accommodation in Five Gate Lane in Greenborough. When Yvonne asked her why she had left home, Lucy stuttered, and finally said that she and her mother didn’t get on.

  ‘Now, Lucy, we don’t wish to distress you in any way, but we need to talk to you about a family who lived in Quintin when you were a child. Would you please help us and tell us what you know?’

  Lucy wrung her hands together. Her knuckle bones showed white beneath her skin and her eyes darted about the room as if she were looking for a means of escape.

  ‘The family were called Hammond. Do you remember them?’

  She nodded and chewed on her bottom lip.

  ‘Was Avril Hammond a friend of yours? She must have been about the same age as you, maybe a little older?’

  Lucy swallowed. ‘We weren’t friends. She wasn’t in my class.’

  ‘She disappeared, didn’t she?’

  ‘They said her father killed her and buried her out on the fen, then drowned himself.’ She spoke in a monotone, as if the words had been learned by rote.

  ‘Gordon Hammond did not drown, Lucy.’ Yvonne paused. The tiny woman began to shiver. ‘It’s all right, Lucy, he is dead, we know that for sure. The thing is, he was murdered and we need to know everything we can about him.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, he can’t hurt anyone anymore.’ Yvonne waited a moment. ‘Did he ever hurt you, Lucy?’

  She leapt up so fast that Yvonne and Cat jumped.

  ‘I have to get back to work! I can’t answer your questions, it was too long ago, I don’t remember! Go away!’ Spit dribbled down her chin. ‘Please? Won’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘It’s all right, Lucy. You go back to work. We only wanted you to know that he’s gone, okay? We do need to find who killed him, so if you think of anything that could help us?’ Cat handed her a card. ‘Just ask for Cat, and we won’t hassle you, I promise.’

  * * *

  ‘That went well.’

  ‘She’s on something. Some heavy prescription drug, I reckon. Her nerves are shot to pieces,’ said Yvonne.

  ‘I had noticed, Vonnie. I nearly had a coronary when she jumped up like that! Phew. I’m not sure what to make of it, are you?’

  Yvonne shook her head. ‘Frankly, no. And we don’t even know if her condition is due to something else, an illness perhaps, or is it directly related to having been abused?’’

  ‘Well, I can hardly wait for our next interview, can you? Who is it, George Ackroyd?’ Cat looked at the list.

  ‘Yes. Let’s hope he’s out.’

  * * *

  George Ackroyd was in. He was always in.

  ‘Agoraphobia, Mr Ackroyd? I’m sorry to hear that. How do you manage? You live alone, don’t you?’ Yvonne looked genuinely concerned.

  He spoke so quietly that Cat had to move closer to hear him.

  ‘I’ve managed for fifteen years now. It happened after my father died. My mother passed away when I was very small and my dad was everything to me. I had a breakdown when he went.’

  ‘What about shopping? Do you have friends that help you?’ Yvonne asked.

  ‘I go out when it’s dark and quiet. I can face empty streets, although I can’t go far. The minimart on the corner of Churchill Avenue stays open until midnight. I get my food there. They are very nice people. Ravi even delivers if I have a bad spell and can’t get out at all.’

  Cat looked at his clean but faded and unfashionable clothes. No browsing the menswear departments for George Ackroyd. ‘Do you work? From home I mean.’

  ‘No, I get some benefits, enough to live on. The rent is low and I don’t spend much.’

  You can say that again, thought Cat. The flat was little more than a bedsit and the furnishings were basic to say the least. ‘What happened to your father’s house? Did you sell it when he died?’

  He looked at her sadly. ‘Our home was a tied cottage, belonging to the Bromley Estate. It’s the big farm on the seaward side of Quintin. As I wasn’t employed by the estate, the cottage was forfeit and it was returned to the Bromleys.’

  ‘Mr Ackroyd, can we ask you some questions about Quintin Eaudyke? You see, a man that we have identified as a Gordon Hammond has been found murdered. We believe that you lived in the village at the same time as he and his family did?’

  Cat watched for his reactions while Yvonne spoke. Apart from a slight quiver of an eyelid, he remained impassive.

  ‘There was some trouble in the village back in the late seventies, early eighties. Hammond apparently abused some children. There were other things, like missing and dead pets, I think. Luckily I was not involved. It ended when his daughter died and we all thought that he had killed himself. You’re saying that we were wrong?’

  ‘Avril went missing, and is now presumed dead, and someone murdered Gordon.’

  The tic made him rub his eye but he said nothing.

  ‘You were, as you say, very lucky.’ Yvonne’s voice was almost as soft as George Ackroyd’s.

  ‘Indeed. Very lucky.’

  ‘Have you any idea who might have killed him, Mr Ackroyd?’

  ‘No. But as he was the most hated man in Quintin Eaudyke, I should think you will find a lot of suspects.’

  George’s pallor reminded Cat of some of the prisoners she had interviewed. She supposed this man was almost a prisoner too, in his way. His only privilege was a five-hundred-yard nocturnal walk to Ravi’s minimart. Some of the scum inside had it better.

  Yvonne handed him a card. ‘If you think of anything, Mr Ackroyd, anything at all, you can contact us on that number. WPC Collins or DC Cullen.’

  George Ackroyd took the card. With a bitter smile he said, ‘I try hard not to think about Quintin Eaudyke, Constable.’

  * * *

  The door closed behind the two policewomen. George leaned with his whole weight against the door. Then he straightened up, locked and bolted it, and fastened the security chain.

  He had thought it would happen one day, but as the months had turned into years he had dared to believe that it had gone away.

  He trudged heavily to his bedroom and fully clothed, he slipped into his bed and pulled the duvet over his head. No, he couldn’t hide from the memory. It was already crawling back into his mind.

  George gave a little whimper of anguish.

  It was too late to hide.

  He was crying, and his face was smeared with mud. There was an ugly red welt scorched into his wrist.

  ‘I’ll never tell! I promise. I’ll never tell!’ He knew his voice came out tremulous and fearful, but there was no way he could be brave any more.

  He tried to pull himself up, but he was kicked back into the wet ground. His face was pushed down into the muddy soil and his words were lost. He swallowed earth. A sharp, flinty stone sliced into his cheek, but he was so afraid he hardly felt it.

  ‘Oh, you won’t tell, my lad. Because you know what’ll happen to you, don’t you?’ A hand took hold of his hair and yanked his head back, so he had to look up. ‘You do know, don’t you?’

  He spat the earth from his mouth and choked out the words. ‘Yes, yes I know, I know.’

  Then his attacker knelt down beside him and, still gripping his hair, whispered into his
ear. He’d never forget those words.

  He felt sick, he thought he was going to faint. Blood was running down his cheek.

  He must have fainted for a moment because he found himself alone. He dragged himself further into the bushes at the edge of the field. He just curled up and rocked backwards and forwards. He couldn’t do anything else.

  Then he realised that it was getting dark, so he found his way back to his bicycle. It hurt to lift the old black bike from the thorny hedgerow. He went slowly down the track towards the main road, wondering what to tell his dad. His school blazer was torn and dirty, and there was blood and muck on his white shirt. He just couldn’t think. His mind was numb. He only had one pair of school shoes, two pairs of uniform trousers, one short and one long, and one blazer. He tried to stop himself from crying again. Even if his dad clouted him, shut him in his room, stopped his pocket money for ever, nothing, nothing would be as bad as what had just happened. And the worst thing of all, apart from that voice in his ear, was the dark stain on the front of his torn and dirty pants.

  George curled into a tight ball beneath the duvet and sobbed until he could hardly breathe. The nightmare was back. Now he knew that he couldn’t ever make it go away.

  * * *

  Cat and Yvonne arrived back at the murder room not long after Nikki and Joseph.

  ‘I hope your interviews went better than ours, ma’am.’ Cat pulled a face.

  ‘Well, that depends. You had no luck with either of them?’

  Cat stared at her notebook, ‘One is strung tighter than a guitar, and the other one is an agoraphobic with bad clothes sense and a nervous tic. How about you?’

  Nikki looked at Joseph and raised an eyebrow. ‘We were just wondering how Delia Roberts — divorced, no children and a workaholic — managed to answer every question put to her, and tell us absolutely nothing at all.’

  ‘Was she a flake?’

  ‘Not at all, Cat. She came across as a well-groomed, well-spoken, hardworking career woman. She was just totally uninformative!’

  ‘In a verbose and helpful manner,’ added Joseph. ‘It was weird. I thought it was me until I saw Nikki’s face.’