by Davies, Neil
She would be happier once she was back in the car and on the move again.
3
The tea was almost as strong as the smell in Mr. Crosby’s back room. It was a musty, old smell. A smell of old clothes and older furniture.
Tim sat in a deep, slightly collapsed armchair, just a little bit awestruck.
This was a place all the kids had longed to infiltrate, an Aladdin’s cave full of imagined treasures and wonders. No one had ever got further than the counter in the shop. Stories had spread of strange creatures, magic potions. Tim had fully believed that Mr. Crosby, the grouchy guardian of the treasure, had a live mermaid in a tank kept in this back room. He couldn’t remember who had started the rumour, but he had believed it.
It was a slight disappointment to find no tank, no mermaid.
But there was treasure, of a kind. The treasure of a lifetime collecting anything to do with fishing, to do with the sea. There were model boats, looking distinctly home-made, old fishing rods, a worn trawler net suspended from the ceiling, stuffed fish of various types and sizes mounted around the walls. And pride of place, above an old fireplace now filled by an electric fire, the huge skeletal open jaws of a shark. This was as close to a scene from Jaws as real life was likely to get.
Mr. Crosby sat opposite and smiled. He watched as Tim looked round the room.
“Bet you’re sorry there ain’t no mermaid eh?”
Tim looked quickly across at the old man, felt heat rising in his cheeks, as if his mind had been read.
“You know about that rumour then?”
The old man laughed.
“Of course I know about it. It was me who started it.”
“You?”
“Wonderful bit of publicity. Lent the place an aura of magic and mystery don’t you think? Had all the kids talking about it. And when kids talk, adults overhear. Did wonders for business did that rumour.”
Tim shook his head and laughed.
“There’s more to you than meets the eye Mr. Crosby.”
“Call me Adam. I reckon now you’re grown up we can be on first name terms, don’t you?”
“Ok, Adam.” Tim tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling at using the first name. In his mind he was still a kid, and Mr. Crosby was very much a grown-up.
“So,” Mr. Crosby settled back into his armchair, placed his unlit pipe on a small round table to his left and took a sip of tea, “what made you decide to come home after… how long?”
“Twelve years.” Tim went to take a drink of his own tea, felt the heat as it approached his lips and decided to let it cool a little first.
“Twelve. Long time. Where did you go?”
Tim shrugged. He didn’t like to go into too much detail about his travels, about his twelve years escaping the bad memories and nightmares that trailed after him.
“Joined the army and travelled around. Europe, Middle East, Hong Kong …”
“Been to Hong Kong in my Navy days. Long time ago now.”
Tim glanced up at the wall behind the old man and noticed, for the first time, the small collection of pictures showing a battleship with young sailors lined up on the deck, smiling at the camera.
“You were in the Navy then?”
“Joined up just at the end of World War Two. Didn’t see any action, I was too late for that. Got to travel though. See the world.”
“We kids always thought you’d been on a fishing boat. Never thought you might have been in the Navy.”
Mr. Crosby laughed.
“You weren’t far wrong. I did spend some time on the fishing boats running out of Cornwall. But I was in the Royal Navy first, for ten years. Then spent some time in the Merchant Navy. Then fishing. Finally ended up here, selling crap to weekend anglers and would-be-sailors.”
“Always something to do with the sea though.”
“The lure of the sea.” Mr. Crosby smiled, picked up his pipe and slid it into the corner of his mouth. “Guess there might be something in that. But you never answered my question.”
“About why I waited twelve years before coming back?”
“About why you came back at all.”
Tim hesitated. It was a question he had asked himself many times as he’d meandered his way back towards home. He had not taken a direct route, had in fact kidded himself several times that he wasn’t really heading back at all, just travelling in the general direction. But deep inside he knew. Knew that he needed to get home. He just didn’t know why.
“When I find out I’ll let you know.”
Mr. Crosby laughed, the pipe twitching in his mouth, tea slopping carelessly over the edge of the mug onto the arm of the chair.
“I was born here too, you know. Lived here ’till I joined the Navy.” He put the mug on the small round table and wiped at the spill on the chair. “I never did work out why I came back after all that travelling. There were lots of nicer places to live, but something about Byre drew me back.”
“Have you ever regretted it?”
The old man fixed his eyes on Tim, only the slightest of grins remaining of the laughter.
“Constantly.”
CHAPTER FIVE
1
Katrina Bayley turned the key and pushed open the door of the old Galton house.
Mark Bullough followed dragging two heavy black bin liners. He glanced nervously back to the deserted road. The bags left a dark, almost black trail, wet and glistening in the winter sunlight.
Katrina watched him, a contemptuous smile turning the corner of her lipsticked mouth.
“You worry too much.”
Mark stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He whispered in the stillness of the deserted house.
“I just don’t think we should be too obvious, that’s all.”
Katrina laughed, the sound loud and sharp echoing around the dusty walls.
“Obvious? A good quarter of the village are already with us. Maybe half the others know, or suspect, and are too frightened to get in our way. The remainder have probably heard rumours but choose not to believe them.”
She reached out and took Mark’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Don’t worry. There’s no one in this village can stop us. Before long, no one outside the village will be able to either. We’ll be too strong.”
“I know, I know.” He smiled. “I’m sorry Katrina. You’ve worked so hard for this. I’d hate to see it all collapse at the last moment through a little carelessness.”
The smile slipped from her face and, for a moment, anger and hatred burned behind her dark eyes. It died quickly, but it frightened Mark. He knew he had overstepped an invisible line.
When she spoke there was a slight tremble in her voice.
“Nothing will stop me. Nothing and no one.”
A distant moaning, starting low, almost a growl, and then rising higher and louder until it became a wailing, screeching sound, broke the tension between them. It stabbed into Mark’s bowels, ripped into his chest, clutched at his heart. There was a rage, a desperation, a hunger in that sound.
Katrina only closed her eyes and smiled.
The sound stopped, leaving an empty, echoing silence behind.
“She knows we’re here.”
2
“Your parents’ house is still empty.”
Mr. Crosby handed Tim his second cup of strong tea and sat once more opposite him.
“I know. I thought about selling it but…”
“No one will buy it. Too many rumours.”
Tim laughed. “Every village has to have its haunted house.”
“True.” Mr. Crosby smiled. “All it takes is a place to be old enough and empty long enough. But this is different. And it’s been worse since the murder and the disappearance.”
Tim stopped, the cup half way to his open mouth.
“What murder? What are you talking about?”
Mr. Crosby studied Tim for a moment, as if judging what to say, how to say it.
&n
bsp; “I’m surprised no one wrote you.”
“It wasn’t always easy for letters to find me, but I was in touch with several estate agents about the property before I came home. None of them mentioned anything.”
Mr. Crosby laughed bitterly.
“They wouldn’t would they?”
“Legally I still own the place. It was left to me in my parents’ will. My bank has been paying the necessary bills on it for the last twelve years. If something’s happened there I have a right to know.”
Tim breathed deeply, practicing the calming techniques he had taught himself during countless stress-filled days and nights in the field. But it was hard to suppress the anger at the betrayal he felt. He had considered selling his parents’ house, but he had also considered moving back into it himself. Either way, he had trusted those here, his lawyers, his bank, to keep him informed of anything important to do with the place. That none of them had seen fit to inform him of a murder and a disappearance angered him.
Strangely, he never for a moment considered that the story might not be true.
“Are you sure you want to know the details?” said Mr. Crosby.
Tim nodded grimly.
“I have to know.”
Mr. Crosby sighed and seemed to sink back further into his armchair, an old storyteller preparing to enthral his audience with another tale from his repertoire.
“It must be two-and-a-half, maybe three years ago now. Two local teenagers, Colin Riley and Christina Jameson. I used to see them round the shop sometimes. They were always together, although I reckon Christina was leading him on a bit. She was a feisty, flirty sort, always teasing the boys. Some of the other girls used to call her all sorts of names, behind her back of course. You know how bitchy girls can be. The lad was a quiet sort. Didn’t really know much about him. Don’t think many did. Surprised they were together really. Not exactly a matching couple, if you know what I mean.”
Mr. Crosby lit his pipe, sucked on it and blew small clouds of blue smoke into the air.
“Anyway, one night they go missing. However late they’d stayed out before, they’d always been in their own homes the following morning. But not this time. Their parents call round everywhere and finally report it to the Police.
“I took part in the search myself. A whole long line of us, locals and Police, spreading out from the village into the fields. The Coast Guard scoured the sea for bodies swept out from the bay, because we all know how treacherous that can be at night, but they found nothing. Days we kept searching. Must have been terrible for the families, that waiting, not knowing what had happened. We found no sign.
“Then, one of their friends happened to mention that Christina had a fascination, an obsession I think she called it, with your family’s house. She knew its history, had heard every ghost story. Apparently she used to make her friends walk by it just so she could stare, look in at the windows, that kind of thing. The one thing she had never done was to actually go inside.”
Tim shuffled in his chair, feeling uncomfortable, a sensation like icy fingers crawling up his backbone, yet his head felt hot. He listened intently, with an increasing sense of foreboding. Why had no one mentioned this before? Why had no one contacted him?
Mr. Crosby paused, sensing his guest’s discomfort.
“Are you sure you want me to go on?”
Tim nodded, forcing himself to take another gulp of tea, trying not to notice the trembling in his hand.
After another moment’s hesitation, Mr. Crosby continued.
“Well, the Police were granted access by the lawyers, your lawyers I presume, and the house was searched. They found the boy’s body in one of the bedrooms. Someone had cut off his head.”
Tim groaned unintentionally, and tried to cover it up by taking another drink of tea.
“There was no sign of the girl, although there were rumours that they found her clothes there. Well, her underclothes at least.”
Tim’s voice broke slightly as he spoke.
“Did they find her eventually?”
Mr. Crosby shook his head. “Never did. The search carried on for months afterwards, but eventually they gave up, listed her as missing. Everyone reckoned she was dead. I mean, you don’t leave your panties and your decapitated boyfriend behind and skip off willingly into the night with whoever did it now, do you?”
“It must have been terrible for the parents.”
“The girl’s parents stayed for a while, never quite giving up hope, but eventually I think the memories in the village got too much for them and they left. The boy’s mother took an overdose one year to the day after they found her son’s body. The father left the village soon after.”
As Mr. Crosby finished his story, he grabbed up his cup of tea and took a long drink.
Tim eased back into the worn springs of the armchair.
“No wonder the house is still empty. Not sure I want to live there either now. But why didn’t anyone tell me? Did the Police ever manage to pin it on anyone?”
Mr. Crosby shrugged.
“Not sure they tried much after the initial searches. Chances were whoever did it was long gone. It was probably nothing more mysterious than someone hiding out in the place, squatting or just passing through. When the kids disturbed him he killed the boy and dragged the girl off somewhere before killing her too. It’s not pleasant, but it happens.”
“I’m guessing there are some who think there’s more to it?”
“Oh yes.” Mr. Crosby smiled grimly. “There are all the usual stories about ghosts and monsters, and unfortunately there are those in the village who encourage them. Fear of the unknown gives some people a hold over others. There are always those willing to exploit that.”
Tim could not miss the tone of bitterness in the old man’s voice, sounding as though he spoke from personal experience. He wanted to ask more, to probe further, but he had been there for some hours now and still wanted to see more of the area before returning home. He promised himself he would return to Mr. Crosby after he had spoken to his lawyers and found out the official line on this murder and why they hadn’t bothered to inform him of it.
Then, eventually, he would arrange to visit the old house, his parents’ house. After all, it was nothing but an empty building now, regardless of what had happened there in the past.
If he kept telling himself that, he might start to believe it.
CHAPTER SIX
1
Susan had said nothing of her encounter at the Services. She saw no point in worrying her father, who now snored once again in the passenger seat. It was just one of those unfortunate random incidents that happened. Maybe they would think twice before targeting another lone female? Maybe she had put enough doubt into their minds to make them nervous?
She hoped so.
Time to forget it now, move on, concentrate on what lay ahead.
The cold winter sun had risen high, reflecting off pools of rainwater left behind after the last downpour. Susan wore her sunglasses and had both the driver and passenger visors pulled down. Even so, occasional flashes of reflected sunlight blinded her, and she had to be cautious driving. Her window was half open, despite the cold. It was the only way to disperse the cloying smell of her father’s tobacco. She didn’t approve of people smoking in her car, but unfortunately her father seemed to believe that only applied when she was actually inside the car herself. It was an old argument and one that would never be won by either side.
She almost missed a brown tourist sign announcing it was some thirty-odd miles to Torquay. After a little research on the Internet, she knew that Byre was somewhere in the vicinity, slightly closer to the fishing town of Brixham than the bustling seaside town of Torquay. It was far enough away to still be considered remote, but it gave her something major to head for. She doubted there would be any mention of Byre until they were almost on top of it.
A few miles further on there was a turn-off for Torquay and she steered the car off the M5 onto the slip road.
The change of direction seemed to disturb her father and he grumbled and sat up, wide-awake.
“You never did tell me what happened between you and Richard.”
The question startled her. After a moment she smiled. So typical of her father to launch into a new subject without warning. She wondered if he did that to his students.
“Not much to tell. And I thought you weren’t interested.”
He looked towards her, feigning hurt.
“Of course I’m interested. Why wouldn’t I be interested in my only daughter’s complex and ever changing love life?”
She laughed and shook her head.
Ever changing? Complex?
For a while she had thought Richard might be the one to convince her to settle down.
2
Richard was in the music business.
At least, that’s how he first introduced himself to her. In fact he was an office worker by day and a club DJ by night. That was his only involvement in music. But it was a catchy opening line and it worked on Susan, at least long enough for him to buy her a drink, sit down and start talking. By the time she knew the truth it didn’t matter. She was laughing. He was smiling and still talking.
She was disappointed when he suddenly looked at his watch and frowned.
“Sorry, I’ve got to get back to work.” He hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more but was unsure.
Susan glanced at her half-eaten sandwich and came to a quick decision.
“I’ll walk with you. I’ve finished here anyway.”
He smiled. “Okay. Great. It’s not far.”
The sun was shining as they stepped out of the bar onto Canary Wharf. They both slipped sunglasses out of pockets and put them on, smiling at each other as they did so.
“Snap,” said Susan.
They walked, close to each other but not touching. The rigging of a nearby boat creaked with the slight swell of the water and, looking past it to the far side, Susan saw the O2 Arena curving above the horizon.
She looked back to Richard, walking silently alongside her. She watched how the muscles of his upper body moved easily and smoothly under his thin white shirt, how his tie hung straight down over his flat stomach, the tip resting on the buckle of the leather belt fastened round his charcoal-grey suit trousers. She was glad, now, that she had decided to wear a pale blue short-sleeve blouse and black linen culottes. She knew she looked good in them.