Charley looked up to the sky through the trees and screwed up her eyes against the brightness of the winter sun. The sunlight filtering through the branches cast shadows which was quite beautiful, she thought. There was a great sense of peace.
‘Where are the birds? Why aren’t they singing?’ said Mike.
‘Depends which legend you care to believe,’ she said, matter-of-factly, as she jumped over the tree roots that threatened to foul her.
Every crackle of leaf, snap of twig and scattering of debris brought them a step nearer to several buildings of all shapes and sizes: a small outbuilding, that would once have been a buttery maybe to the farm building, and a coal ’ole, as well as sheds and polytunnels. Wading through the little stream made walking more difficult for Mike’s feet; he slipped and slithered in his smart dress shoes.
The first polytunnel was open at both ends and once they stepped in front of the entrance they were immediately blasted by an icy cold wind. Charley put her hands in her pockets. Mike pulled his collar up and tried to wrap himself more tightly in his jacket. Through the polytunnel they could see the huge expanse of fields and trees beyond. The shelter itself was empty of anything either green or living.
At the second wooden and aluminium structure, someone could be seen stooping over hedging plants, as he bundled them together ready for sale. He wore a sack coat and a soft felt hat; his attire could have been from the nineteenth century.
‘Hello!’ Charley called softly. Her voice and her footsteps echoed. She took her ID from inside her jacket pocket as she approached the man slowly and softly, not wanting to startle him. When he didn’t reply to her calling, she called again. This time her voice was raised. ‘Detective Inspector Charley Mann, Yorkshire Police. And this is Detective Sergeant Mike Blake.’ It was obvious to her that the old man hadn’t heard her voice until she was close. He staggered a little as he straightened his short, stick-like legs like a figure pulled on a string.
‘There’s no need to shout. I might be old, but I’m not bleedin’ deaf.’ He hobbled a few steps to greet them. ‘What d’ya want?’
‘Mister?’
‘Gibson!’
‘Mr Gibson.’
Mr Gibson’s watery eyes had a peculiar, hard, glazed look. Charley met his gaze with a harsh glare.
‘We’re here on police business.’
There was a silence, a stillness. Mr Gibson gave her a questioning look, but he did not speak.
‘We are investigating two recent local murders and wondered if you could help us.’
Mr Gibson’s face was devoid of emotion.
Charley continued, ‘You may have read about the murders in the newspapers, or seen an appeal on TV?’
Mr Gibson screwed up his nose. ‘No, I don’t read the newspapers, load of shite if you ask me. And I never bothered getting the telly repaired after the wife died.’
‘Do you live here?’ Charley cocked her head in the direction of the old stone farm building.
Mr Gibson’s face broke out in a half-toothless smile. ‘It might feel like it sometimes, but no, the wife was superstitious you see … and that place over yonder, it’s not fit for man nor beast these days.’
Charley seized on this amiable spirit and explained about the murders and the use of the netting, which was the reason for their visit. She showed him samples, as she had done Gerry and Hilary. Mike stood to the side and observed Mr Gibson’s reactions.
‘There have been a lot of young trees planted at Four Fields. Would you know anything about that?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the rows of saplings he was tending.
‘Yes, yes I would,’ he said, surprise in his voice. ‘We won a contract with the Council for a hundred to be planted. It kept young Solomon busy for a while,’ he tittered.
‘And the netting, Mr Gibson,’ Charley said. ‘Do you use that particular type of netting?’
‘Aye, we do. It’s kept in the woodshed, with the tree baler. I suppose you’ll be wanting to see it?’
Charley nodded her head. ‘Yes, we’ll need a sample for comparison purposes.’
The three walked at Mr Gibson’s pace. ‘You know a bit about Old Peggy then?’ he said in conversation.
‘Aye,’ said Charley. ‘I spent quite a few hours on my grandpa’s knee listening to old Yorkshire folklore when I was a nipper. And subsequently I went to more accidents on the Bradford Road when I was in uniform than I care to recall.’
‘And do you believe any of it? I thought you lot only dealt in facts.’ Mr Gibson appeared genuinely interested.
‘Well, I was riding out here yesterday and my horse stopped at Dry Arch. I must admit to having smiled to myself, because my grandpa used to say…’
‘…if Peggy asked the carters to fetch her shopping and they forgot, their horses would stop altogether on their way back and refuse to move. Or something would go wrong for the carters.’
Charley smiled and nodded her head. ‘You heard that one too…’
The three reached the tunnel and they stopped for a moment for Mr Gibson to catch his breath.
‘Aye, well I wasn’t going to tempt fate,’ she said with a wink of an eye. ‘So Wilson and I turned around and went back to the stables.’
Mike scowled. ‘You don’t really believe in that old rubbish, do you?’ he whispered in Charley’s ear. Charley raised her eyebrows at him. ‘I’ll believe in anything if it helps us catch a killer. And so should you.’
Mr Gibson looked around inside the shed, pushed his hat to the back of his head and ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Well, I’ll go t’ foot of our stairs! I could have sworn it was here afore. Solomon must ’ave moved it; he’s allus cleaning up. Gets excited when I give him the jet wash and a yard brush.’
‘What does Solomon do?’ Mike asked.
‘Solomon? He’s a big, gormless sod: my lackey. I know this might be hard to believe looking at me, but I’m not as agile as I once was.’ Mr Gibson chortled. ‘A mate of mine persuaded me to get some help after the wife passed away. Solomon is built like a brick shithouse and as strong as an ox. He’s as daft as a brush too, but I’ve found him to be a godsend. He works hard. In fact, I don’t know what I’d do wi’out him now, but don’t tell him that, he’ll want a rise.’
‘Is Solomon here now?’ Charley looked about her.
‘Tuesday’s his college day, I told him when I took him on that he had to do it proper, which means schooling. He’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but he does as he’s told, and although he doesn’t find the three Rs – as the wife used to call it – easy, it’s a credit to him that he’s never missed a day at college.’ Mr Gibson raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, as far as I’m aware.’
As they neared the machinery, Mr Gibson pointed with an outstretched finger to a large funnel, through which the tree would be forced to compress the branches tightly to the trunk and into the netting.
‘There it is. That’s our tree baler. It’s a simple machine that can be operated manually, requiring one person to push the tree through the funnel and another to wrap it.’
The netting was still attached, the area around the machine pristine. As Mr Gibson had predicted, in the corner stood the much-coveted jet wash and the yard brush.
‘Boys and their toys, eh? He loves his toys. Better cleaning up than playing with them there computerised gadgets he appears to waste his life on.’ Mr Gibson reached over and pulled some netting from the machine with his gloved hand. ‘Will that do? That bit’s neither use nor ornament to me.’
‘Perfect, thank you,’ said Charley, accepting the net from his arthritic hand.
‘Tell me. Do you own a vehicle?’ asked Mike, as they headed back towards the car park. ‘I didn’t notice one when we drove into the yard.’
‘Aye, two. My car is in the garage at home and Solomon uses the works truck.’
‘Has Solomon ever been involved with the police, do you know?’ asked Mike.
Mr Gibson stopped, turned and wrinkled his brow at the det
ective sergeant. ‘Solomon?’ He looked quickly from one officer to the other. ‘No, he hasn’t! And he knows beyond doubt he’d be out on his ear if he ever was.’
Charley put her foot forward and the three continued to walk to the car. ‘If it’s OK, we need to get some personal details from you and we’ll call back tomorrow to see Solomon.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ he said, his tone calmer, but still a little chilly. ‘You’ll find me here seven days a week.’
Chapter 10
A statement and DNA had been taken from Mr Gibson. Charley was eager to leave him on a friendly note, so as the three stood by the car, she asked him about the ferns. ‘It’s the only place they grow in this wood, on the site where Old Peggy’s hut once stood, I read somewhere,’ she said.
‘So they say.’
‘Who is this Peggy?’ asked Mike.
A big smile crumpled Mr Gibson’s face.
Charley nodded her head towards the cups hanging on the ivy. ‘Put there to catch rain water for drinking, or a spare copper or two from her allies. Nobody was meant to know she was here. She lived in this smoke-dried hut and stayed hidden from the gentry for forty years after being chucked out of the gamekeeper’s cottage when her husband died.’
‘A hundred she was when she popped her clogs, so the church records say,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘Or,’ added Charley, looking up at the high brick tower, ‘you could believe she was a young girl kept in the tower without any food and water and starved to death. It’s her ghost that supposedly haunts these woods now, anyhow, wandering out on to the unlit road in the dark to cause accidents.’
Mr Gibson looked surprised but pleased at her local knowledge. The old man turned to Charley with kindly eyes. ‘It warms an old man’s heart to see another generation taking an interest in our local folklore.’
‘Aye, like I say, my grandpa told me the stories that had been passed down from generation to generation. She smoked a clay pipe, Peggy, didn’t she?’
Mr Gibson nodded. ‘And they say an admirer of hers put tobacco in her coffin, as it was to her taste.’
‘I heard that too. Rumour has it that when she died the sub-bailiff tried to burn the hut down and he reported that he saw Peggy fly out of the chimney on her broomstick.’
Mr Gibson chuckled. ‘That story was relayed to my wife as a child. Frightened the life out of her. Hence why we never lived on site. She did have a sensitive nature, bless her soul.’
‘You two are having me on,’ said Mike with a scoff.
Their look told him otherwise.
‘Aye, well if you value your time, don’t get Solomon on the subject, he’s taken it upon himself to be an authority on the era and the old girl since he’s been here.’
It felt good to climb back inside the car and feel some warmth. Charley started the engine, angling the rear-view mirror so that she had a better view of Mr Gibson waving them off.
‘Actually, you can mock all you like, but I for one am open-minded about these things, in fact about most things. If it makes people happy, and it’s doing no one any harm, then who are we to criticise?’ Charley turned to face her colleague. ‘And explain to me why the birds in the woods can’t sing and the road through Peggy-in-the-Woods has gained notoriety even amongst Traffic as a dangerous place to drive after dark. It’s not uncommon for locals to refuse to pass through the woods once the sun has set.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Sergeant Percy Shaw was waiting for Charley in the incident room when she arrived at the station the next morning. He followed her into her office. ‘The Council has given Tracy and Grant Shields notice and the pair are seeking to be rehoused.’
‘And that’s of interest to me because?’ she said, sliding into her chair behind her desk and firing up her computer. She didn’t notice the hopeful, anticipatory look on his face.
‘Because with any luck, ma’am, they will be moving onto someone else’s patch pretty darn sharpish if they want a roof over their heads.’
She stretched her back and sat upright, looking crisp and fresh as she gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘Excellent,’ she said with some finality. Then, having a second thought, ‘Make sure we know a forwarding address.’ Eyes down she reached out to pick up a stack of files that had been placed on the corner of her desk in her absence. She bent to put them on the floor at her feet, then picked up the stack of papers on her blotter, tapped the bottom of them against her desk and shuffled the edges until the stack was neat and tidy. She looked up to find him staring at her. He looked uncomfortable in a should-he-go-or-should-he-stay sort of way.
‘Have you given the intel to the press office?’ she asked.
‘Yes, along with the future court date for the pair, but nothing appears to be in the local paper.’
‘Local crime reporter?’
‘Danny Ray.’
‘’Nuff said.’
His eyes followed hers as she looked beyond him and into the main office.
Divisional Commander Roper stood in the incident room with his hand on Annie’s shoulder. Annie looked up at him warily. He smiled down at her.
Charley ushered Percy to the door. Her presence in the incident room didn’t go unnoticed by Roper who removed his hand from the young officer’s shoulder as if it was on fire, nodded his head at Sergeant Shaw as he passed, and stepped forward towards Charley. Arms crossed, Charley blocked her office doorway. Annie inhaled deeply.
‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’ Charley queried, raising her eyebrows at the Divisional Commander, her tone mocking.
‘I’ve a meeting at headquarters and I wondered if there was any update I could impart.’ Roper’s arrogant tone grated on her nerves.
‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘you could tell them that the team are working flat out to trace those responsible, sir.’ There was silence in the room, apart from the printer that carried on churning out data. A telephone rang somewhere close to her, but she wasn’t to be distracted. However, Roper looked at Wilkie as he reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a mobile phone. Hesitantly, Wilkie took the call. Momentarily Roper closed his eyes in despair.
‘Oh, come on, Detective Inspector, you must be able to do better than that? Two murder enquiries and there aren’t one or two leads that I can share, to show them you’re on top of it?’
‘We’ve had lots of positive lines of enquiry sir, if that’s what you want to hear? But none so far have proved to be fruitful. The killer, or killers, are still out there enjoying themselves.’
‘So, arrests aren’t imminent?’ Roper sneered at her with a condescending look upon his face as he looked around at the faces turned in his direction.
‘Correct. Best I can do is get the HOLMES team to print off some data to show how many people we’ve interviewed, how many statements we’ve taken, how many exhibits we’re working through, et cetera, if you think that may be beneficial?’
‘No, no need, I don’t want to overload them with pages of figures and statistics,’ he said, looking uncharacteristically flustered. He flapped his hand. ‘Just get on with it. The sooner the murders are solved the better, then normality can resume.’
He turned his back to leave. Charley walked towards Annie, who had her back to the door.
‘The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer…’ she heard Annie say and she saw she was reading from the front of her notebook.
‘How true…’ she said in a lowered voice.
Roper stood with his hand on the door handle and looked back over his shoulder at them. ‘Better get off, I don’t want to get stuck in traffic and miss the buffet. It’s usually a good spread at these sorts of meetings.’ The Divisional Commander opened the door, rushed out and let it slam in his wake.
Charley released her grip, realising only then that her nails had been digging into the palms of her hands, leaving red marks.
‘Could that man be any more patronising if he tried?’ said Annie, th
rough clenched teeth.
Mike tapped his pen on his desk. ‘Yeah, you enjoy your waitress-served grub in your ivory tower while we go out to the sandwich shop, seeing as how you’ve closed all our canteens down. I hope discussing how things should be done, and could be done, and that work on paper so should work in real life, gives you indigestion. Tosser!’
Charley looked across at Sergeant Blake, aware that she ought to berate him for insubordinate behaviour, but she didn’t. How could she when she felt the same? Instead, she suggested they look at the positives. ‘At least he came into the incident room … Now how many bosses have you seen in an incident room?’
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