by WR Armstrong
Terry never arrived home according to his parents. I got the unwelcome news from David, who phoned the next day sounding like a man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders, and is slowly being crushed by the pressure.
“Jenny and I are worried sick,” he admitted.
I barely heard him. My thoughts were centred almost entirely on Terry. “Where the hell did he disappear to, Dave? If he didn’t stay here and didn’t go home, then where did he go?” I glanced over at Lennon, who was watching me closely from the corner of the room.
“There’s still no sign of Mary-Louise either,” David said, ignoring my question, apparently deciding conjecture was pointless.
“We should call the police right now,” I said. “See what they make of it.”
David agreed.
Just then I caught movement through the window. A large black bird had come to roost on the ledge directly outside. It appeared to be observing me. It tapped the windowpane with its beak, as if seeking access. I could see others out there, in the background, perched on the branches of trees, and on fence posts. They were even in evidence inside the gazebo. Still more of the creatures cawed from the rooftop above me. All of a sudden it felt as if the cottage was under siege. The din caused David to pass comment. “What’s happening over there? It sounds like you’re in a bloody aviary.”
“It’s the birds,” I said, stating the obvious.
I reached for the pack of cigarettes lying on the table in front of me, pulled one out and lit it. My hand trembled imperceptibly.
David said, “Leave the cops to me, John,” but I wasn’t really listening. I was far too busy watching the birds watching me. I suddenly felt like a prisoner. Like it or not, I was forced to accept that the birds intimidated me far more than I previously cared to admit. I recalled their sinister appearance during my exploration of the folly: how they’d launched the unprovoked attacks on the little girl, who I’d come to think of as the daughter of the mystery blonde.
I was still staring through the window at the birds when David said: “I’ll let you know the outcome of my conversation with the cops as soon as I can.” With that he said his goodbyes and hung up, leaving me to ponder his words, while I observed the bird perched on the ledge outside.
Annoyed by its intrusive presence, I slammed a fist against the glass pane separating us, and the creature took flight. The others gathered at various points around the garden did likewise. Within seconds not a single bird remained. It was, I thought, as if they’d communicated their intentions telepathically, and acted as one entity. I continued to stare through the window, smoking my cigarette, my thoughts in a whirl.
That afternoon Gentleshaw called round to carry out maintenance work on the gazebo in the back garden, explaining that it was suffering from woodworm, and that parts of its structure had to be replaced before the problem spread, and became irreversible. We were standing outside on the driveway, both rugged up in heavy winter clothing. The afternoon was a bitterly cold one. Snow was forecast although Gentleshaw was of the opinion it was too cold for snow. I didn’t envy the old guy having to work in such adverse conditions, although I suspected he was used to it.
As we talked, the birds returned to roost on the ridge tiles of the cottage roof. This time they were eerily silent.
“What is it with the birds around here,” I said looking up at them. “One minute they’re so noisy you can barely hear yourself think, the next it’s like they’re eves-dropping on your conversation.”
Ignoring the question, Gentleshaw unloaded tools from his old Astra van. As he slammed shut the van doors, he said, “Best I get on before the weather turns.”
“Is it common for so many birds to congregate in one place?” I asked, refusing to let the subject drop.
Pausing, fixing me with his deep blue eyes, he said, “Birds have been a part of High Bank for a very long time Mr O’Shea.” His gaze drifted briefly to the rooftop. “Local legend has it that they watch over the place, awaiting their master’s return.”
“Their master being...”
“The man responsible for the majority of buildings in this area... Ebenezer Grimshaw.”
He wandered off carrying a toolbox in one hand, and a saw in the other. I followed him through a wooden side gate and down a narrow path that led into the back yard. Arriving at the bottom of the garden, I said, “And what about the cellar?”
Again he paused, this time frowning curiously. “What of it?”
I told him about the omnipresent smell, hoping he might provide an explanation or possible solution.
But he was dismissive, saying simply, “Cellar’s in old houses have a tendency to smell due to damp.” He started sawing a piece of rotten wood from the gazebos upright.
Just then a sudden gust of wind almost dislodged his flat cap from his head. He broke off from his work just long enough to straighten it and then, returning to the task at hand and with his back to me, he said, “I heard about the party you held the other night.”
Here we go, I thought, thinking he was about to voice disapproval. I was mistaken, however. Seemed he’d heard about Mary-Louise, and instead of criticising, he attempted to offer reassurance.
“I wouldn’t go worrying your-self too much,” he said. “She’s been known to go walkabout before. When she was fifteen she ran away from home to live in London. Story goes that she shared a squat in the east end for a time, with a gang of skinheads and junkies, my point being that she ain’t exactly a total innocent, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s as maybe,” I said. “But according to her boyfriend, she had no reason to run off this time.”
“Kids will be kids,” he said with a shrug. “She’ll turn up eventually.” He paused in his work just long enough to snatch a glance at the birds up on the roof. He frowned a little, and then off he set again, this time cutting a piece of wood down to size to accommodate the space he’d just created by removing the rotten timber.
His reassuring words might have had the desired effect, were it not for what had happened to Terry. Two disappearances in almost as many days couldn’t be so easily explained away.
When I told him about Terry he immediately stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to the cottage, as if he thought the building itself might serve up clues.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said eventually.
“This has happened before, hasn’t it?” I said, recalling David’s claim that others had gone missing in the area in years gone by.
Gentleshaw was measured in his response. “A long time ago, in the eighties, three local women disappeared in the space of a year or so. They were never found. The police treated the disappearances as suspicious, and carried out an official investigation. The case even made some of the national papers.”
“Were there any suspects?”
He nodded his head. “There was one fellow in particular as it happens.”
“Care to tell me about him?”
“He lived here at High Bank, Mr O’Shea. Being well acquainted with all three women made him a natural choice for being a suspect, I suppose. His name was Martin Willis. It was all very tragic. Anyway, not long after it all kicked off, his wife left him taking their young daughter with her. The whole episode must have got too much for him, and he ended up taking his own life. He did it in the cottage.” The handyman paused for thought before continuing: “I mentioned Ebenezer Grimshaw earlier. Well, the ill fated Martin Willis married one of his descendant’s. A local beauty, she was. Following the wedding they moved into High Bank, which was a wedding present from the girl’s father, Frederick, who owned Manor Farm across the way.” He gestured to a cluster of trees in the distance, beyond which stood the boarded up farm house. “It should’ve been the start of a fairytale marriage. Yet, despite the fact they had a healthy daughter together, it wasn’t to be. Martin, thought by many round here to be unstable in mind, also had a reputation for being a drunk and a womaniser. It wasn’t long before he r
eturned to his old ways. That’s when the trouble started. His beautiful young wife wanted him to be a conventional husband, but he had other ideas. The story goes he cracked under the strain of marriage, and became violent towards his young family. Soon after, mother and daughter left him and he came under suspicion for the disappearances of the women, and ended up blowing his brains out. Terrible it was, not just the suicide, but the fashion in which the body was found.” Gentleshaw put down his saw and took a seat inside the gazebo, resting the palms of his hands on his knees, whilst gazing down at his feet.
“A young lad discovered it,” he went on, “His name was Damien, and he lived in the crofter’s cottage opposite High Bank. His parents worked for Frederick Grimshaw. From what we can gather, the lad had sneaked over to the cottage to hide from his mother following a tiff. Apparently he’d done it before. The assumption is that he happened to look in through a window, saw Willis lying dead with his brains blown out, panicked, ran out into the road and straight under the wheels of a truck.”
I stared at Gentleshaw in stunned silence.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr O’Shea?” he asked, sensing my change of mood. “Only you look a bit pale if you don’t mind me saying.
“I’m fine,” I said, managing to compose myself. “Tell me, how did they know the kid ran from the direction of the house?”
“The incident was witnessed by his mother,” Gentleshaw replied automatically. “It must have been terrible for her.”
I returned to the cottage where I attempted to come to terms with what I’d just learned. It was difficult. Knowing that I had witnessed a fatal road accident retrospectively had shaken me badly: discovering that my new found home was once a suicide scene that pre-empted that fatality, made me feel worse still. Initially, I considered quitting the place. But that would have been counterproductive. For one thing I was bound by legalities. Moreover, I was involved in a double missing person’s investigation. The way I saw it, I had an obligation to stick around until such time that the mystery of those disappearances was solved, and my good name was cleared of any involvement.
The Police arrived on my doorstep unexpectedly a few days later, in the form of PC Morgan. He looked stern and businesslike. I invited him inside and offered him a drink, which he declined.
I finished making the sandwiches I’d started prior to his arrival, poured myself a chilled glass of milk, and suggested we adjourn to the front room where we could talk in more comfortable surroundings. I sat on the sofa while he made himself at home on a seat near the potbelly.
As I tucked into the sandwich, he offered the reason for his visit, explaining that David had informed the station of the two disappearances and the circumstances surrounding them, as we had agreed he should. Morgan asked if I was able to add anything which might shed further light on events. At this point, he produced a notebook and pen from the top pocket of his police tunic, and held them poised ready to write.
I told him all I knew. He looked sceptical and said, “You really have no idea what might have happened to either Mary-Louise Partridge or Terry Miles?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said beginning to feel like a suspect. Morgan scribbled notes appearing to quietly relish the situation. I recalled how officious he’d been on the day I was illegally parked up on the roadside until that is, he discovered I might be someone worth knowing. He was I thought, an ambitious, ruthless individual who could easily turn, if he thought it was to his advantage.
He got up and strolled over to the window. Looking out with his back to me he said, “Is it possible they could’ve wandered off into the woods for some reason?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I replied noncommittally. “In my humble opinion it wouldn’t really make sense though. The way I see it, neither person had any reason to wander off into the great unknown, never to return.”
Morgan scratched his head and then turned to face me, appearing perplexed, which I guess was only natural given the circumstances. “That’s the conclusion I’ve drawn,” he said thoughtfully. “And no one saw or heard anything?” He gave me that look again, suggesting he suspected I could be hiding something.
I shook my head in answer to the question. At the same time I recalled my conversation with the party guest, Sandy Mercer. Mercer had described an incident in which a fellow reveller was abducted, but for some reason was unable to decide whether he’d dreamt or witnessed it. I recounted Mercer’s story to Morgan, careful to let the cop draw his own conclusions.
“I know Sandy Mercer.” he acknowledged as he got to his feet. “Mind if I have a look around, Mr O’Shea?”
The request caught me off guard, even though I should’ve expected it. Before I could respond Morgan was heading off in the direction of the hall where Lennon lay in his usual spot by the cellar door. I stuck to the policeman like a shadow, worried he would discover gear left behind from the previous night, that Irish had so thoughtfully brought along, some of which I’d purchased, and was now stored in a bedside drawer. Following a cursory look in the kitchen, Morgan climbed the stairs to the upper level. I suspected his random search of the premises had as much to do with plain nosiness, as with compiling a double missing person’s report.
As he entered the attic, he took time to compliment me on the impressive range of musical equipment occupying the room which, much to my dismay also contained the intoxicating smells of stale beer, cigarette smoke and worse, the aromatic scent of cannabis. I waited apprehensively for Morgan to pass comment. Sure enough he flashed what I took to be a knowing smile and said, “Is it possible you and your friends could be mistaken about the second disappearance?”
I gave an emphatic shake of the head. “I admit we had a few beers, officer, but not enough to make us hallucinate.”
“It wasn’t the beer I was thinking about,” he remarked. As if to ram home the point he sniffed at the stale air.
Typical cop, I thought, smug and arrogant. I tried to relax in the knowledge he would be hard pressed to prove the involvement of drugs, unless one of us admitted to it. Nevertheless, I sensed it would be a mistake to underestimate Morgan. He was after all, a young man not much older than myself, who’d undoubtedly be wise to the kind of antics a group of lads might get up to alone in a cottage, especially when one of them was a musician with a history of drug abuse. I didn’t doubt for one moment Morgan was aware of my wild tainted past.
Retrieving the Fender from its stand, he took it upon himself to sit down on the chair I worked from, adopting a playing position with his fingers forming a bar chord across the fret board.
“Do you mind?” he asked, eyebrows rising expectantly.
“Be my guest,” I said, feeling I had little choice in the matter.
He proceeded to play a couple of recognisable riffs from Bon Jovi’s repertoire. The strings needed tuning, although this seemed to escape the constable’s notice. He looked vaguely absurd hunched over a guitar in his policeman’s uniform I thought. Although appreciative of the Fender, Morgan’s guitar playing left much to be desired. As he played, or attempted to play, he chatted amiably, which I saw as a ploy to lull me into a false sense of security. At long last, and much to my relief—his playing really was quite dreadful—he placed the guitar back where he found it, and grew businesslike again.
“I’m not quite clear on a couple of points,” he said leaning his weight against the back of the chair. He left the sentence unfinished. I refused to be drawn; aware cops use such tricks to unsettle interviewees.
“In the case of Terry Miles,” he said presently, “why was he left alone in the house when everyone else went to explore the derelict building across the road?”
“He said he was feeling unwell,” I said truthfully. “He preferred to stay here, so that’s what happened.”
“Only he didn’t,” said Morgan. “He left. He must’ve left mustn’t he?”
When I didn’t reply Morgan went on, “He wasn’t totally alone in the house though, was he? Your pet dog was
with him.”
“That’s correct,” I said, wondering where his line of inquiry was heading.
“Which appears to rule out the possibility of an intruder having entered the premises in your absence? I mean to say; what person in their right mind would take on a big dog as well as a full-grown man: for what reason? It doesn’t make sense. And you freely admit there was no sign of any disturbance, and to your knowledge nothing was taken?”
“Correct again,” I said, “and I agree wholeheartedly with you officer. None of this makes any sense. It’s like something out of the Twilight Zone.”
Morgan regarded me closely, perhaps looking for a sign that I was hiding something. Finally, he stood, and suggested we return downstairs. At the cellar door he paused.
“Where’s this lead?” he asked.
I told him. He opened the door and caught a whiff of stale air, which made him wrinkle his nose.
“Bad drains,” I said automatically.
“From a cellar?” he replied, repeating Mike’s earlier query. He frowned and flicked on the light, which in turn illuminated the narrow descending steps.
“Shall we?” he said before starting down. I followed knowing he would find nothing at the bottom, other than a small rectangular room that was empty, save for a crate full of beer and a dozen bottles of red and white wine.
Nevertheless, the cellar made for uncomfortable viewing. Whether it was due to the off putting smell, or the claustrophobic atmosphere, the room was always incredibly unpleasant to be in.
Back upstairs I closed the door, and would have keyed the lock had it possessed one. I made a mental note to have a word with Gentleshaw about the possibility of getting one fitted. PC Morgan, having finished with me, for the time being at least, bid me good day. He put his cap on adding that he intended taking a quick look around outside before he left.
“Call me if you hear anything,” he said as he turned to leave.
“You’ll be the first to know,” I promised and promptly shut the door, relieved to see the back of him.