by Mark Sennen
‘You were here then, at Woodland Heights?’
‘I was no more here than Hayskith and Caldwell. We were ghosts, all of us. Look.’ Samuel held his free hand out to the side, palm facing Savage. ‘You can see right through me. I’m nothing, a shell of a man.’
‘What went on here, Mr Samuel? You need to tell me, tell someone. There’s a case review going on and if any crimes were committed here we need to find the people responsible and put them away.’
‘A review?’ Samuel shook his head, half laughed, and then sneered at Savage. ‘We had those sort of things in the army too and they’re bollocks, right? You tick a box, make a comment and then shelve the file for another ten years. As for crimes, the crime was nobody took any notice and we weren’t believed.’
‘“We”? So you were a resident here?’
‘Resident? Prisoner, more like. Only prisoners had more rights than us lot.’
‘Things are different now. Post-Operation Yewtree, every agency is much more sensitive to historical abuse. Your story will be believed and if at all possible charges will be brought.’
‘No, love. My story won’t be believed and there won’t be charges because you’ll get nothing more from me. You think I want the tabloid press round here dredging up the past? No, it’s history. I bought the place a few years ago, mistakenly thinking owning the home would somehow make things better, but it didn’t. Now I’m selling. I want shot. I’ve discovered there’s other ways of dealing with my personal issues.’ Samuel knocked the iron bar against the banisters. One of the uprights shattered. ‘Now if you don’t mind I’d like you to leave.’
Savage nodded. ‘OK, but remember what I said. If anything happened here, then people will be charged, got it?’
‘Out!’
Savage slipped past Samuel and moved down the stairs. Samuel didn’t follow. She carried on down to the ground floor; she could hear Samuel raging up in the attic as she pulled the front door open and went out onto the porch. She nipped down the front steps and one of the dormer windows smashed as she did so, the sound of Samuel destroying the bedroom echoing from inside.
Riley took a bite of his bacon roll. Chewed for a few moments to stall Phillips. How the journalist had found out about the raft or why he was interested, Riley had no idea.
‘You know, four letters. Huck Finn’s boat.’ Phillips half turned towards the sea. ‘And it was found down on the beach, wasn’t it?’
‘Might have been.’ Riley followed Phillips’ gaze. ‘To be honest though, there’s not much of a story for you.’
‘Really? I think you’re wrong there.’ Phillips took a gulp of his tea. ‘But put that aside for the moment. There’s something else.’
Riley waited, but the journalist said nothing. ‘Go on.’
‘A Mr Perry Sleet. That name ring a bell?’
‘A US chat-show host?’ Riley said nonchalantly. ‘Or perhaps a Republican party presidential candidate?’
‘You’re either stupid or you think I am. Perry Sleet lives in Plymstock and his car was discovered abandoned on the moor on Tuesday evening, since when you’ve had people out looking for him.’
Riley sighed. ‘OK, so a bloke’s gone missing. Do you know how many mispers we deal with on an annual basis?’
‘Hundreds, I expect, but that’s not the point.’
‘So what is, Dan? I really haven’t—’
‘Listen, DS Riley,’ Phillips interrupted, his voice tinged with an edge of excitement. ‘I’ve got something on Sleet. You might even say I’ve been doing your work for you.’
‘OK.’ Riley put down his bap purposefully, wondering if Phillips was playing some sort of game. Riley nodded at Enders. Enders pulled out a pad. ‘Tell me. But if this is some kind of wind-up you’re in a lot of trouble. Bacon roll or no bacon roll.’
‘No wind-up, promise.’ Phillips had abandoned his food and now he pulled out a tablet. His fingers slid across the surface and then he passed the tablet across to Riley. ‘Read this.’
Riley took the tablet and peered at the image which filled the screen. It was the front page of a local newspaper – the North Devon Gazette. The paper covered the area around Bideford and Barnstaple. Phillips prodded a finger at a headline in the side bar: Concern for Local Vicar Missing for a Week.
‘And?’ Riley said. ‘What’s this got to do with Sleet or the raft?’
‘At first sight, nothing.’ Phillips took back the tablet and his fingers brought up a fresh image. ‘My editor alerted me to the story and asked me to write a piece on the stresses of being a vicar in a rural parish. Wanted me to show things weren’t always so green and pleasant. When I started researching I found something far more interesting. The missing vicar is a man named Tim Benedict. He’s in his sixties. The local police up in Barnstaple are working on the theory that pressure of work has got to him.’
‘I still don’t understand—’
‘Here.’ Phillips passed back the tablet. ‘There’s a picture you need to see.’
The screen now showed the raft. The image wasn’t a good one. Light flared in from the side and the angles were all crooked.
‘So you know all about this,’ Riley said as he started to hand the tablet back to Phillips. ‘Big deal.’
‘Not so fast.’ Phillips put out his hand and pushed the tablet away. ‘A bystander took this photo before you lot turned up, so I apologise for the quality. Never mind though, the picture’s good enough. Zoom in at the head end of the box, where the arm is. Tell me what you see.’
Riley took the tablet back and then placed his thumb and forefinger on the screen. Separated them. The wooden box swelled and the picture became pixelated. Still, he could see the engraving on the forearm of the mannequin, the letters which he and Enders had struggled to understand.
TB/PS/CH/BP
‘So?’ Phillips sat up and folded his arms, a smug grin spreading across his face. ‘Am I on to something, or what?’
‘No, I …’ Riley shook his head. Wondered what sort of mind Phillips had which could lead him to spot the connection. ‘Shit, I don’t believe it. This must be a coincidence, surely?’
‘If you say so.’ Phillips sat back. ‘Methinks not.’
‘Sir?’ Enders had stopped munching on his bap and craned his neck sideways to see the screen. ‘TB/PS/CH/BP. I don’t understand.’
‘Work it out, Constable, it’s bloody obvious,’ Riley snapped, wondering how he was going to explain to Hardin that the crime reporter had found something they’d overlooked. ‘The first pairs of letters stand for Tim Benedict and Perry Sleet.’
Thirty minutes later Savage was standing on the cliffs above Soar Mill Cove. She’d left Woodland Heights, driven to the nearby National Trust car park and walked along the coast path for half a mile. Now she was looking down on a rock-fringed sandy bay. Despite its inaccessibility, she imagined the little beach would be packed in the summer. This time of year there was no one to be seen. She took the path which zigzagged down to the cove, passing a rock outcrop and cutting through bracken and gorse. At the bottom she stumbled down a concrete ramp to where a mass of seaweed tangled with flotsam and jetsam had been deposited at the head of the beach. She stepped over the debris and onto the sand. The tide was low and at the mouth of the narrow bay white water frothed around rocks as the waves came crashing in.
Out to sea a yacht rolled in the heavy swell as the crew worked their way downwind towards Salcombe, while closer to shore a pot boat headed in the opposite direction, a column of gulls wheeling in the air above, the solitary fisherman aboard well wrapped up against the weather.
The two boys had gone missing in August. The water temperature would have been around seventeen degrees. Not the Arctic, sure, but survival time would have been only a few hours and that was without factoring into account the boys’ ability to stay afloat in what, according to the report, had been a rough sea. Was Elijah Samuel correct? Had they made some sort of suicide pact and waded out into the ocean under a night sky? If they
had, then why hadn’t the bodies been found? Of course tidal currents may have taken them far along the coast, but it seemed unlikely to Savage that nothing would ever have turned up. Plus there was the message inscribed in the bed frame to consider. That suggested a very different story to the one Samuel had told her.
She walked out to where the surf was gliding over the sand. A wave rushed in and Savage had to skip back a few paces. Her footprints filled with water and the outlines softened. She had a sudden notion. Memories of Jason Caldwell and Liam Hayskith had faded in the same way. Blurred at first and then ultimately wiped from the surface by time. They’d left nothing behind but marks in the damp sand, soon washed away. Dying young, they’d never got the chance to grow to adults nor to make anything of their lives or to have children. It was the same with her daughter, Clarissa, she thought. Her footprints only existed in a few people’s memories and one day they’d be gone forever.
Savage shook her head, frustrated and angry. This was why she should be part of the Lacuna investigation and not on some wild goose chase. Caldwell and Hayskith were long past saving, but Jason Hobb was another matter.
She turned to go. As she wheeled around she glanced at the marks she had made on the beach. Another set of prints bisected her own and ran parallel to the tideline. They led to one side of the cove and disappeared into the water, as if the person had rounded the rocks and was now trapped in the next bay by the rising tide. Savage’s heart quickened for a moment, but then she saw a figure standing on the cliff side, as if they’d clambered up from the sea. Savage stared hard at the figure, the shape black against the sky, features indistinct. A man though, she thought. Thin, definitely not the bulky form of Elijah Samuel. And he was watching her.
For several seconds nothing happened. Then the man raised a hand as if in greeting before moving away up the slope and disappearing over a ridge. Savage turned and raced up the beach. She stumbled across the seaweed and then went through the narrow gap to the coast path. She began to run up the hill, but within seconds her lungs were bursting and her legs depleted of energy. It was no good, he was too far away, too high up. Savage stopped with her hands on her hips, breathing hard, wondering exactly what she’d seen, what the mysterious man had been up to.
Jason had no way of keeping track of the time. Day and night went unnoticed. The only thing which marked the passage of the hours was the occasional sound of a car coming and going. At some point – two days, perhaps three days after he’d first been taken – the stone up top scraped once more and the voice called down.
‘Oh, Jason, are you down there?’ A glimmer of light came down the tube. ‘I’m up here with my old pal Smirker. We’re both hoping you’ll become my old friend too. You see, I’m all alone these days and Smirker isn’t really much company. To be honest, he doesn’t do any more than listen.’
Jason kept still. Perhaps if he pretended to be dead the man would open the box to see what was going on.
‘Jason, come on now. You’re really not being any more entertaining than Smirker. It’s most disappointing. Especially as I’ve brought you some more presents. There are some breakfast bars and a pasty. Oh, and several cans of cola.’
Jason bit his lip. He was so thirsty and his stomach hadn’t stopped rumbling for hours. The last Mars bar had gone ages ago and if he didn’t get something to eat soon he was sure he’d pass out.
‘Oh, Jason! You’ve got ten seconds to say something otherwise I’m off. One, two, three, four …’
Jason hugged his knees to his chest and let out a low moan.
‘… eight, nine, t—’
‘Stop! Please! I’ll be your friend, just give me something to drink.’
‘Good boy.’ A bag rustled at the end of the tube and then a cascade of chocolate bars slid out. ‘Mind your head, I’m dropping down some cans and a bottle of water.’
Jason moved out the way as the cans clattered down the tube. He grabbed one and popped the ring pull, a huge fizz coming as the sticky liquid sprayed everywhere. He put the can to his lips and gulped.
‘Now then, I’m going to tell you a little bit about myself and then you’ll do the same, OK?’
‘OK,’ Jason spluttered between mouthfuls of cola.
‘Great!’ There was a pause and then the voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Do you keep a diary, Jason? You know when I was a lad, I did!’
Chapter Fourteen
It’s Friday and Bentley’s here again. He arrived as dusk fell on a balmy evening. We’d been playing footie out the back, all of us. Mother’s away somewhere for the weekend and I’d assumed she was up in London with Bentley. Her absence meant Father was in a good mood and he let all the boys stay up late. But then we spotted the car. Father came roaring out of the house and ordered us inside. He told me to go to my room. Once there, I peeked out the window and saw him meet Bentley at the bottom of the steps. Father seemed angry and I heard him raise his voice. Bentley just shrugged his shoulders and a thin smile graced his lips. He said something I couldn’t hear and then the two of them came inside, Bentley first and then Father following, his head bowed.
I waited a while and then crept from my room. Along the hallway the door to our apartment stood open and I could hear voices echoing from downstairs: my father and the caretaker, one of the other night workers as well. I went to the rear of the house. There’s a sash window on the landing and just outside the window a cast-iron drainpipe. I eased up the window and clambered out onto the sill. I shimmied down the pipe as I’d done many times before, and a few seconds later I was standing in the concrete yard outside the kitchen.
The kitchen was dark, but through the window I could see a rectangle of light. The cellar door stood open. The cellar is where Father takes boys for punishment, but I’d just heard Father talking. I moved round the house, away from the kitchen, to the yard at the back. I knelt down on the ground next to where an airbrick provides a view of the cellar. When I peered in I saw Bentley! And, beneath him on the bed, a boy.
Bentley had removed his belt and wrapped it around the boy’s neck. He rode him as if he was atop a horse, the belt like reins. As the boy struggled, he twisted and pulled until the boy became still. Then he released the pressure until the boy moved again. He repeated the procedure over and over as he took his pleasure. Struggle. Pull. Comply. Release. Struggle. Pull. Comply. Release.
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t look away from the appalling tableau. Bentley resembled a white rhinoceros. Black hairs on a white scaly skin. Great folds around his waist. He snorted and growled and then he was done. He collapsed on the bed for a moment before heaving himself off. The boy sobbed and rolled into a ball and for the first time I noticed the blond hair.
Jason!
The Shepherd returns to the barn to check on his captives. His car pulls up in front of the gates and he unlocks the padlock securing the heavy chain. He squelches through the mud and across to the stone steps. He stands for a moment. To the right is a boarded-up farmhouse in need of serious renovation. To the left, beyond a stone wall, the moor heaves its way to the horizon in great rolls of green and brown.
He shrugs and climbs the steps. A sliding metal door is secured by another padlock. He unlocks the door, opens it and steps inside. There’s a corridor with white walls and a concrete floor. On the ceiling, fluorescent tubes provide illumination. Electric cables run in armoured trunking and near ceiling height a ventilation tube hangs down. At first sight the place resembles an intensive pig or poultry unit, maybe a slaughterhouse.
At the end of the corridor there’s a small hallway. A passage leads deeper into the building to a further sliding door. He gazes down the corridor and through the door to where a vast chamber opens out. In the centre stands the altar, complete with its array of blades and hydraulic rams and wires. Airlines run up to a welded gantry above and connect to brass control valves. To the casual observer the altar looks like something from a meat processing unit, but, the Shepherd thinks wryly, it’s unlikely the machine wou
ld pass a health and safety inspection.
He turns to where there are two more doors. Behind each door is a tiny cell. Exposed blockwork. Two paces by one. The floors are concrete with a thin scattering of straw. Light comes from a mesh-covered bulkhead fitting. The Shepherd moves to the left-hand door. There’s a little pop-hole and he slides it to one side and peers in. An old man is curled on the floor shivering with either cold or fear. A light knocking on the door brings no response.
He steps across to the next cell and looks in there too. Perry Sleet is sitting with his back against the rear wall, but as the pop-hole opens he springs to his feet.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Sleet yells at the door. ‘I don’t know what your game is, but you’re fucking crazy. Let me outta here!’
‘This is not a game and I am far from crazy,’ the Shepherd says. ‘Don’t waste your energy trying to escape. Better to pray for forgiveness. I know I have.’
‘Look, I’ve got money. Savings. Cash if you take me to a hole in the wall. You can have it. I’ve got an ISA with near thirty K in. It’s yours. All of it.’
‘Money means nothing,’ the Shepherd says flatly. ‘You cannot buy the gift of God. Money is the root of all evils.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Sleet stands in the centre of the tiny cell. ‘At least tell me that.’
‘My name is not important, but with my help you will come to know the love of God.’
The Shepherd flips the pop-hole down and shakes his head. Like the other man, Sleet doesn’t yet realise what he’s done. Soon, however, they will both understand the extent of their guilt. And soon they will be made to pay.