by WR Armstrong
Lennon padded around excitedly, whilst in the chapel above, the birds continued with their devilish noise. I could hear them clearly now, flying around crazily as if angered by our presence and my success in removing the stone door. Once that door reached a pivotal position, I was able to ease it back so it came to rest against the wall farthest away from the spiral staircase. I looked down into the exposed hole, only to have my gaze met by impenetrable darkness. There was little else I could do other than withdraw, for I’d neglected to bring along a torch. Then again, the last thing I’d expected to discover was a secret chamber.
I would have to return, better equipped to explore further. Why I felt compelled to do this I didn’t know, not then. I only knew it had to be done. Something in my past beckoned me into an uncertain and foreboding future. This was more than déjà vu. It was about suppressed memories, borne of real events.
Above me the birds had grown unsettlingly quiet. I climbed the stairs to the main chapel to find they’d once again taken up residence on the rafters, where they observed me in the same manner as before: in complete, unnerving silence.
I decided to leave them to it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was almost dark by the time we got back to the cottage. We were making our way along the shingle driveway when all of a sudden we paused as one, listening. The sound of a branch snapping had caught our attention. It had come from the bushes off to our left. Lennon began to growl...
“What is it boy, what’s the matter? Is someone there?”
I had no real need to ask. It was patently obvious someone or something lurked out of sight in the bushes. Lennon barked, his hackles rising.
“Who’s there?” I called trying to mask my anxiety. “Come out now. Show yourself!”
Show yourself: where the hell did that come from; The Sweeny...Life on Mars...Taggart?
Just when I thought nothing was going to happen, the bushes moved and out stepped the figure of a man. He looked to be in his sixties and was tall and stocky. His clothing, which consisted of a light overcoat, trousers and trainers, was dishevelled. He looked unkempt, a candidate for the homeless brigade. I was immediately on my guard.
“You’ve been watching me haven’t you,” I said, convinced he was my illusive stalker.
I took his silence as confirmation. He smiled and raised his hands in the air in a kind of don’t shoot me, I come in piece gesture.
“Who are you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
“Mr O’Shea; Mr Johnny O’Shea?” he enquired, his manner polite and unthreatening, at complete odds with his appearance.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Ridgecroft. I would like to talk to you.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“A detective: correction, ex detective.” He took a tentative step forward, closing the gap between us. Again Lennon barked; unsure of the man.
I stood my ground and waited for him to explain himself further. The porch light partially illuminated his face, which was haggard and drawn. Here was an individual who had burned the candle at both ends and was now paying a hefty price for the privilege. Given my own history, I could easily relate.
“Can we talk Mr O’Shea?” he asked presently.
I hesitated. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Can’t you guess?” He nodded towards the front door indicating we go inside, but I wasn’t ready. I was mistrustful. Yes, I had Lennon to protect me, but why take chances when there was no need. Besides, there was something about the man’s demeanour that made me uneasy. Body language, yeah, that was it, his body language just wasn’t right.
Perhaps sensing my reluctance, he expanded: “I led the investigation into the disappearance of Jane Rice, Rosie Dixon and Thelma Wilcox amongst others, during the eighties. I was also involved in the case of the suicide of Martin Willis.”
“That was all before my time,” I pointed out.
“But it’s happening again Mr O’Shea.”
“And you think there’s a link?”
“I don’t think, I know so...”
I was curious to learn more despite my misgivings. Here was someone who might be able to shed light on the reason for the recent spate of disappearances, and in doing so, provide me with the breakthrough I needed to exorcise my demons. On the other hand, he might just as easily be an imposter, some kind of crazy. I thought hard about what to do. In the end, I decided to stick with my gut instincts and air on the side of caution.
“We can talk out here,” I told him flatly.
He shrugged and sighed. “As you wish...”
“So tell me about it,” I said, “the investigation you headed.”
With his eyes fixed firmly on the cottage, he replied, “What is there to say, other than it was horrific. You can’t imagine. Five disappearances and a suicide to deal with: all in the space of eighteen months. My bosses were on my back 24/7. And the Press, they were merciless.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Those girls,” he went on, “the ones that disappeared, they were all so lovely and the mother and daughter: my God, how could anybody do it to such beautiful young women?” He looked at me, then back at the cottage. “My marriage collapsed because of what happened. I haven’t seen my wife and kids in years. They disowned me. Not that it matters much anymore. I stopped caring a long time ago.” He turned his attention back to me and stepped closer. Lennon barked a warning at him.
“Best stay where you are,” I advised.
He looked over at the cottage again, appearing momentarily mesmerised by it. “The episode didn’t just affect me,” he continued. “It got to the whole community. Ashley relies heavily on tourism. Business was badly affected. The village became stigmatised because of the adverse publicity. People even moved away.”
“But where was the evidence to support murder,” I asked.
“There wasn’t any,” he admitted, “but it didn’t seem to matter. The public had decided it was murder, and that was that.”
“Did you believe it was the case?”
“Yes, I did, and I still do.” Shaking his head as if finding the reality of it all too hard to accept, he added, “And now it’s happening again. Only this time I’m determined to stop it before it goes any further.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
He ignored the question and grew thoughtful. A gust of wind suddenly whipped leaves up from the ground and ruffled Lennon’s fur. I shivered involuntarily. It seemed to be getting colder by the minute. I mentally urged Ridgecroft to hurry up and finish what he had to say and then go.
“It was an unholy mess,” he eventually went on. “What with the press clamouring for interviews and information: as I said, they were relentless. And then there were the families of the missing people, demanding to know what we were doing to solve the case. It would’ve been better for all concerned if bodies had been found. At least it would’ve meant closure for the families. As it was, it never happened. Relatives had nothing to mourn, which made it even worse.
“There was a car,” he continued after another pause, “It was seen in the vicinity around the time of the disappearances of Rosie Dixon and Thelma Wilcox. A red Ford Orion, but the vehicle was never traced.” He looked at me, and frowned slightly, “They died, those girls, and the child; they all perished. We suspected Martin Willis. I guess you know that. But we never got the chance to prove he was involved because he took the coward’s way out, ensuring we’ll never know for sure. As for me, I failed and I lost everything as a result.” Sounding bitter he said, “Do you know what my colleagues said about me at the time? They accused me of lacking the necessary moral fibre for the job! Fifteen ruddy years of blood, sweat and tears, working my way up from rookie cop to Detective Sergeant, commended for bravery in the process, and they dared say that about me! I’ll show them who’s got moral bloody fibre. I may not have caught the killer the first time round, but this time is different.” He managed to calm himself an
d nodded towards my BMW. “I couldn’t help noticing,” he said, “Your car...”
“What of it?”
“It’s the same colour as that driven by the suspect I mentioned.”
“What’s your point?”
“I would’ve thought it was obvious.”
“The colour of my car is a complete coincidence, Mr Ridgecroft.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
I’d had enough and told him to leave, but he ignored me and edged a little closer. Lennon barked another warning.
“The way I see it,” he said, unperturbed, “there are two possible explanations for what is now happening. Either the original murderer has returned to re-enact his earlier crimes, or we have a copycat killer in our midst. I personally go for the latter theory.”
“And what the hell has that to do with me?” I snapped, finally out of patience.
“Everything,” the ex-cop retorted, “it has everything to do with you! You turn up here in Ashley, occupy the cottage where two of the original victims lived and quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, people disappear, just like before.” He looked over at the BMW again. “Red car, Mr O’Shea: you even drive a red car.” He allowed the sentence to linger, before adding, “How’s that for adopting the copycat persona?”
“You’re crazy,” I said.
He smiled with apparent amusement. “Want to tell me how you do it, Mr O’Shea? Want to tell me where you hide the bodies?”
“I thought I told you to leave!”
Lennon barked and yanked at his leash.
Ridgecroft’s response was to dip a hand into his coat pocket. A second later he was pointing a snub nose pistol at me.
“Inside,” he ordered, motioning towards the cottage.
“Y-You’ve got this all wrong,” I told him.
“Just get inside.”
With mounting dread, I started up the path to the front door.
Once inside the cottage, Ridgecroft instructed me to lock Lennon in the kitchen.
“That’s better,” he said as I carried out his demand and pulled the kitchen door to.
“What now?” I asked.
Keeping the gun trained on me, he said, “I’ll ask you again, Mr O’Shea, where are the bodies?”
I was suddenly unable to think. Get a grip, I told myself, for God’s sake get a grip. I took a deep breath in an attempt to clear my head. Glancing over at the kitchen door, about three metres away, I tried to evaluate the chances of escaping into the kitchen and out through the back door before the ex-cop caught up with me: too risky, I decided. But if I failed to take some form of evasive action, I was as good as dead.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” Ridgecroft said, looking grimly determined, “how do you do it?” He scanned the room as if searching for something. “Where are the bodies? Where are the murder victims? Are they here in the house? Tell me, damn you!”
“The cellar,” I lied out of sheer desperation. “The bodies are in the cellar.”
Ridgecroft, the gun raised threateningly, stared in utter astonishment, barely able to believe his own ears. He stepped towards me, his dark sunken eyes suddenly invigorated by the admission. “Confessing, are you confessing?”
“Check out the cellar,” I said, playing for time.
He waved the gun, indicating I make my way out into the hall. I started walking, feeling totally defenceless. In the kitchen Lennon barked repeatedly, as if he realised I was in danger and was trying to raise the alarm. Then he was pawing at the door in an attempt to escape his surroundings. Walking ahead of Ridgecroft, I wondered if the ex cop would shoot me first, get it over with, or take me down into the cellar and do it there, having first of all discovered my little fib about the location of the lost ones.
We arrived in the hall. The cellar door stood to my right. I turned to face it like a man turning to face a firing squad. Ridgecroft, stinking of alcohol and BO prodded me in the back with the gun barrel, forcing me forward.
“Open it!” he said referring to the door.
I raised the latch and pushed it open; saw the fuse box on the wall to my left and the steps leading down, into dark oblivion.
“The light, switch it on.”
Again I did as I was told and tried not to think about what might happen next, but the thought came anyway. Would he use the gun now, or would he simply push me? In the kitchen, Lennon scratched insistently at the door in a frantic attempt to break out.
The steps and the quarry tiled floor at the bottom of those steps were fully visible now. I got a very real sense I was staring into an open grave.
“Step down,” Ridgecroft ordered.
My heart hammered wildly. This is it I thought, the end of the road. I gripped the rail and took the first step.
Suddenly, there was an almighty bang as a door rebounded off a wall, and frantic barking. It seemed Lennon had somehow freed himself. The door latch, faulty since the day I moved in, must have given! At the sound of the dog’s approach, Ridgecroft turned automatically. As he did so I took my chance and pushed past him, effectively reversing our positions. The next thing I knew, Lennon burst forth into the hall and sprang, catching the ex cop square in the chest, sending him crashing backwards down the cellar steps. As he tumbled, he let out a horrified cry. There followed a solid thud as he hit the cellar floor, and then silence.
Meanwhile, I’d managed to stupidly trip and fall, cracking my head against the windowsill, almost knocking myself unconscious. Coming round, I looked up to see Lennon standing over me, panting wildly. The retriever pawed at my shoulder as if trying to alert me to the danger we were still in. My head banging, I glanced round and spotted the gun near the far wall, the end of its barrel pointing directly at me. At least the maniac ex cop was unarmed, I thought fleetingly. As I rose to my feet, Lennon took the initiative and disappeared down into the cellar. I quickly followed, pausing at the cellar entrance. Below me the retriever guarded the prone body of the ex cop, whilst barking repeatedly. I descended the steps dry mouthed and with my heart racing, at a loss to know whether Ridgecroft was alive or dead.
The first thing I did when I got to the bottom was to calm Lennon. Then I checked the ex cop for signs of life, nudging him with my foot, careful to keep as much distance as possible between us in the unlikely event he regained consciousness. Hurt and unarmed he would still be more than a match for me. He was a lot bigger for a start and being an ex cop, he would undoubtedly possess superior combative skills.
Banging!
I spun round to face the steps leading back up into the hall.
Someone was banging on the front door for Christ’s sake! Before I could react, Lennon was off on his travels again, barking madly as he bounded up the steps, Ridgecroft suddenly forgotten. A moment later I was following his lead, my aching head spinning with crazy theories as to who the caller was. On my way to the front door I had the presence of mind to retrieve the gun from the floor and conceal it in the pocket of a coat hanging on a wall hook. I took time to compose myself, then went to the door and opened it, having to restrain Lennon as I did so.
“Got ya stuff fella.”
It was Irish, visiting with the fresh supply of coke I’d requested a couple of days ago. He frowned suspiciously when he saw the state I was in. “What’s the matter? You look kinda strange; what’s happened?” He glanced down at Lennon. The dog was trembling and panting from the adrenalin rush, his hackles still raised in aggression. “And what’s with your mutt?”
“There isn’t time to explain,” I told him quickly. “I need a favour. Go upstairs to the master bedroom. In the left hand side bed cabinet, in the bottom drawer, you’ll find my stash. Take it and leave immediately. I’ll call you when it’s safe to return.”
“What the hell is this?”
“Please, do as I say.”
But he just smiled and shook his head. “This is a wind up, right?”
“No wind up,” I said, frightened and frustrated. “I’m deadly seri
ous.”
Still he refused to buy it. “You won’t be able to survive without your daily fix O’Shea.”
“Are you going to do as I ask or not?”
He stared at me as if I was crazy, but then, perhaps finally sensing I was earnest, he relented and headed upstairs.
I immediately got on the phone to the emergency services and reported what had happened. As I did this I returned to the top of the cellar steps. Ridgecroft hadn’t moved a muscle, raising questions as to the seriousness of his injuries. I decided to keep vigil at a safe distance. If he happened to come round I’d have no other option but to run for it. Guess I should’ve got a damn lock put on the cellar door when I had the chance.
Irish returned soon enough, having pocketed my illegal stash, together with the stuff he’d brought with him that evening.
“Go,” I urged as he re-entered the hall.
“What’s the problem with the cellar?” he asked, guessing something was afoot down there.
“Just go!” I repeated more firmly. “The cops will be here any minute.”
He frowned in bewilderment.
“Cops?” he said dumbly.
“Yes, cops. Now get going!”
He nodded automatically and hurried off into the night.
Ten minutes later the paramedics arrived, followed shortly afterwards by the police. While the paramedics dealt with Ridgecroft I was questioned by a plain clothed cop. When I handed over the gun, which I later discovered was regular police issue during the eighties and early nineties; he thanked me, before advising me of my rights and placing me under arrest.
“But I’m the victim,” I protested.
“That’s yet to be established,” he said, motioning towards the front door.
Down at the police station I was taken to an interview room where I was questioned by two detectives, whose names were given and simultaneously forgotten. The detectives were polite, but to the point. I was cooperative and answered their questions as best I could. I had nothing to hide, after all. The interview lasted almost two hours, during which time I got through three cups of strong black coffee, whilst wondering what the hell I’d done to deserve this amount of aggravation. Finally, I gave a formal statement, along with a DNA sample, before being released with the proviso that I did not leave the area and reported daily to the police station until further notice. I was also asked to surrender my passport.