Joe talked about his school trip for a few moments and then told his dad he loved him and would see him later. After the call, Bennet sat in silence, looking out the window at the Panorama. He quickly got over his rising despair by focusing on his extended lease. He still had time to find Joe’s mother and convince her to see her son.
Then he googled the Winding Wheel in Chesterfield, where missing Sally Jenkins had attended a birthday party, and called it. It had probably been the crew’s next destination, and he hoped someone there would have information. The last thing he wanted was to stay in this place a second longer.
The conversation made his head throb a little more. The manager of the Winding Wheel confirmed he’d arranged to meet the film crew, but he’d been given no details. He didn’t have names or contact emails or phone numbers. And the number he’d been called by had been withheld. But he confirmed an appointment at 10am that very Tuesday morning. However, no one had turned up or called to cancel.
Bennet thanked him and hung up. The Winding Wheel was about twelve miles away, a distance the crew could have covered quickly. Even if they hadn’t been forced out of this damn village on Sunday, the director hadn’t booked a second night at the Panorama. So where, between Lampton and Chesterfield, had the crew planned to bed down on Monday night?
23
No one was in the Panorama’s lobby. Bennet rang the bell at reception and waited. His high patience level had taken a holiday. Waiting all night for a suspect to return to a dingy flat, no problem, but why wasn’t Gemma answering her damn bell?
On the counter were a pair of newspapers, the Peak Advertiser and Buxton Advertiser. He idly flicked through one and, in the unimportant middle, found a Lampton story: the death of a 101-year-old man. It said he was a former quarry worker who’d survived an infamous accident at the Mill Close Lead Mine in Darley Dale in the 30s, when a slime tip collapsed and killed people. Died in his bed, surrounded by family. To some, the best way to go. At the end of the article was a note saying the story was covered in greater detail in the blog of a lady called Sandra Gingham. It was a name he recognised for some reason. A shop owner, maybe. Certainly someone with clout in the village.
He rang the bell again, this time almost slapping it flat. To pacify his impatience, he pulled out his mobile and googled the blog.
It was mostly drab personal stuff, given the list of contents, but he found PDF copies of every Lampton monthly newsletter going back seven years, one a month, every Saturday. Way back, he’d seen the newsletters pinned up in shops but hadn’t really cared for what basically amounted to gossip. Now, he accessed random publications.
Each one’s format was news followed by games such as a wordsearch and quiz, and finishing with minutes from a village meeting. The newsletters were not a captivating read. A councillor and deputy chairman of the Peak District Local Access Forum had gotten in hot water for not declaring hospitality from a contractor. A buried treasure competition at a fete had become a mockery when the organisers couldn’t remember where they put the prize. Wider news seemed to be all about road closures, job losses, and the effect climate change would have on visitor habits. The big talking point at the latest meeting, this last Saturday, was that an old mobile paraffin van, eons ago used to sell paraffin for villagers’ lamps door to door, had been sold at auction in London. Wow.
At the bottom of the minutes from each meeting was a hyperlink to an audio recording called KEY ADDENDUM, but clicking this brought up a login screen. Based on this secrecy, the Key Addendum files were probably notes from an additional summit, Keys only, not for mortal eyes. Sandra was probably one of the Keys. He disliked her already.
Where the hell was Gemma? Through a pair of batwing doors he could see another room with the back door open to expose the rear garden. He pushed through the doors, into a small sun room with three sofas, a TV, and large windows boasting a fine view of the countryside. There was a wall leaflet holder, from which he took a single copy of everything.
Upon reaching the back door, he saw Gemma in the garden, soaking plants with a water pistol. There was a single iron gate at the bottom of the garden with a track running away from it through a field. He allowed a moment to chill before calling her name.
Gemma whirled her wheelchair around at Liam’s voice and gave a big grin. She came his way, rumbling over the threshold ramp and into the sun room.
‘Good to have you back at the Panorama. Couldn’t wait to see me again, eh?’
‘Of course.’ He shook the mass of leaflets at her. ‘And a bunch of your freebies, if you don’t mind.’
‘Go right ahead. Tea?’
‘That would be nice.’
Once alone, Bennet grabbed a sofa and ran through the leaflets, ignoring local attractions and seeking hotels. He called the first he found, the Brockhampton Heights. It was answered by a woman who laughed, said something to someone nearby, and then introduced her establishment. How professional.
Liam said, ‘Hi. I’m looking for my friends. They’re on a trip, but there’s a personal problem. They’re film-makers and there’s four of them. I need to speak to them, so can you confirm they’re there? I don’t want you to alarm them by telling them I’ve called. I’ll come down when I find the right hotel. My friend sometimes uses the fake name Donald Ducke at hotels.’
It was a long shot in more ways than one. Years ago he’d had a case in which a man had called a hotel and asked if his sister and her boyfriend were there. Yes they were, and down he went. The sister turned out to be the caller’s wife, the boyfriend exactly that, and Bennet’s team found the illicit lovers sliced up in their hotel room. That hotel had gotten the message that giving out details to strange voices on the phone was a big no-no. Would this one be as cautious?
He killed the call ten seconds later, just as Gemma returned to the sun room. She put his tea on the table.
‘No luck?’
‘The Brockhampton Heights guarantees anonymity.’
Gemma nodded in recognition. ‘That’s Julie’s place. I could have told you you’d get no success there. Here, let me help.’
She slotted her wheelchair next to his seat and got her own phone out. Fifteen minutes later, they’d called all the hotels, motels, guesthouses and bed and breakfasts within about ten miles, and gotten a mix of answers. Some careful owners, bless them, had refused to answer questions. Some had outright said they had no film-makers as guests. One landlady did have a director staying with her, but he was sixty and worked for the BBC. Others had claimed they had no idea of their guests’ employment. In the end, the list hadn’t been whittled down at all. Only seven had outright said no, even those couldn’t be discarded. The film crew could have checked in separately or as a group of partying stockbrokers.
‘Let me ask you something,’ Gemma said. ‘Why didn’t you tell any of them you’re a detective? I know it’s not police business, but…’
Oh, how he’d wondered the same thing. On official police business, or pretending to be, he wouldn’t have hit any of today’s brick walls. Hotel owners would have been happy to help. Hell, he had a bunch of detective constables under his command and wouldn’t have had to make a single phone call. And none of the Lampton lot would have been so antagonistic.
‘It’s not police business and it wouldn’t be right to make people think it is.’
‘That’s very honourable, Liam. You’re a good man so–’ Gemma yelped as a fox appeared near the back door. Seeing the humans, it turned and fled. Gemma wheeled to the door and shut it.
‘Isn’t a fox that comes out in the daytime rabid?’
Gemma laughed. ‘I don’t think so… what are you staring at?’
Bennet was staring past her, at the back door. At something on the handle. Without a word, he left the table and headed through the lobby, to seek similar on the front door. He didn’t find it. And that was unnerving.
24
When Bennet returned to the sun room, Gemma saw something had changed in his face. She as
ked what was wrong.
‘The front door doesn’t have one of these,’ he said, tapping the back door’s handle keypad. ‘You said you had to give the director the code to get out on Sunday night. Why didn’t you say he left out the back, across the fields?’
‘Didn’t I? I’m sorry. There’s a path into the fields. That’s why I thought he was filming a nature documentary.’
‘You didn’t think it strange that he wanted to go out the back way late at night?’
‘Not really. My backyard leads into the fields and people like the walking trails. I have signs promoting it, and the landowner, Mr Crabtree, doesn’t mind as long as they stick to the track and pass through his land without stopping. I’m sorry, did I upset you?’
‘Well, this changes things. Now it looks like the director must have been meeting his people out in the fields. I’m sorry for snapping at you, but this was something I really could have done with knowing way before right now. Tell me the truth. You knew exactly what they were filming, didn’t you?’
She said nothing.
‘It’s okay to talk to me, Gemma. I think that film crew came in here on the sly. They didn’t waltz in with a fanfare because they knew exactly how they were going to be treated. They knew they were going to open old wounds. I think that’s why all four didn’t take rooms here. It’s why they recruited a former resident instead of a current one. They wanted to try to film their scenes without alerting anyone. Because they knew it wouldn’t go down well. But despite their caution, word got round. And word got as far as the Panorama, didn’t it?’
Her eyes widened, as if her deepest secrets were about to unearth. He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Relax. It’s fine. A dark time for the village, and nobody wants that brought up again. I believe the director didn’t tell you why he was here, but you already knew, didn’t you?’
Now she seemed to relax. Bennet had seen the same look on stubborn criminals at the very moment when overwhelming evidence left no choice but submission.
‘I didn’t know what he was doing at first, not until…’ She wheeled to the batwing doors and had a look to make sure no one was around. Back she came. ‘I got a phone call from a friend. She told me about them, said they were coming to Lampton. I think they’d emailed a former resident, wanting help, and he had passed the word on to someone here. I think they’d been spotted already.’
‘Spotted by who? Doing what?’
‘I heard that some people had said they’d seen people acting suspiciously. Two people, at least, had been seen talking together outside the village, but when they came in they pretended not to know each other. They just weren’t acting like normal tourists. And one of them was on the green, where the police think Sally was taken from. Like they were doing secret filming. We were all warned to be on the lookout.’
‘And then the director came here for a room? Carrying only, as you said, a satchel.’
‘Well, by the time I heard all this, he’d already checked in. When he told me he was a director, I knew. We had been order– it was thought we shouldn’t let them into our places, and then they’d leave. But it was too late for me by then. I’d already given him a room.’
She’d tried to cover herself, but the mistake had been made and Bennet hadn’t missed it. And by her face, she knew it.
‘Relax once more. You were about to say you were ordered to…’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Bennet took a chair so they’d be at eye level. ‘Gemma, relax and level with me. You won’t get in trouble. The town meetings are once a month, every Saturday evening. But earlier you hinted that the last meeting the Keys had was on Sunday. An impromptu one, it would seem, and not listed on the latest newsletter. Like an urgent COBRA meeting when there’s a nuclear attack, or the sort a council might have if a meteor destroys a city centre. Was this meeting the Lampton version of such a state of emergency? To decide to tell the film crew to leave?’
She couldn’t face him. ‘Yes. After word spread, a meeting was called. We get what you called impromptu meetings sometimes. My Proxy told me about the meeting. It was called in the afternoon. I didn’t attend because not everyone is required to for the short notice ones.’
‘Wait a minute. You didn’t attend? So you could have? This wasn’t a meeting for just the Keys? What they call a Key Addendum?’
‘No, those come after. Usually after village meetings, the Keys remain behind to have their own. No, this was a normal village meeting, where it was decided we should all band together and make sure we didn’t allow the crew to feel welcome here.’
‘There was a Key Addendum Sunday night. So that would have happened after the main meeting?’
‘Yes. They normally rule on things the rest of us aren’t supposed to hear. And we can’t access those on the website because they’re password protected. Sometimes, later, we can work out what they’ve decided based on changes in the village. But no, we don’t get told the result of these meetings. I do recall, though, that the Keys left when we did. So their meeting must have been called quite a bit later, probably in the evening.’
Bennet thought. The Key Addendum might have been about discussing the events in the Lion, or an overview of how their give-the-silent-treatment programme had worked. Or something else. Curious. ‘Okay, let me jump back a bit again. You said Proxies? I’ve heard that term, but remind me.’
‘Well, they’re important people. But they can’t be Keys. They haven’t been here long enough.’
‘Okay. Like mafia men not of Italian descent, who can’t become made men?’ This point seemed to go over Gemma’s head. ‘And what do Proxies do?’
‘They’re responsible for sections of the village. A bit each. And each Key controls a number of Proxies to do their work and pass their messages on.’
‘Okay. So you mean if a Key tells a Proxy he wants a giant pancake, that person goes out to their section of the village and tells everyone in that zone to bring all their flour and eggs? You’re saying the Keys decided to ostracise the film crew and their Proxies rushed round and told everyone to give this Lopers crew the cold shoulder? And you kicked the director out of your hotel?’
‘No, no, I wouldn’t ever kick someone out in the middle of the night, unless they were violent and breaking things. And he was only staying that one night anyway. When the director came back to my hotel after the Lion, I confronted him. I told him he wouldn’t get much out of anyone here and his best bet come Monday morning was to leave.’
‘But he left that night.’
‘I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He told me he was sorry for hiding who he really was, but that he’d expected such cold treatment before he even came here. That was why his people were staying somewhere else, but he didn’t say where. Or why he’d rented a hotel room. Then they’d met up and gone into the Lion, hoping to blend in and try to get to someone with a loose tongue. So I think he came to get his stuff because it was time for them all to leave. I think he was worried about further action from the people who threatened him in the Lion.’
‘Blending in didn’t work. And you honestly didn’t meet the people he was with?’
‘Honestly, I didn’t. When he checked in, he didn’t mention friends.’
‘Did you suggest the back door so he wouldn’t be seen?’
‘No, no, he wanted to go that way. Maybe it was to avoid being seen, like you say, but he didn’t seem that scared. In fact, I think he said something about a wall of silence being a good angle. I assume he meant for his documentary.’
Bennet wondered if he should hunt out more CCTV. He might witness a scene like something from Frankenstein or a Greek tragedy: the village folk marching the streets with torches and pitchforks, the Keys all robed and Richard Turner carried on a sedan chair. He wouldn’t put it past these people.
‘You’ve been here years, Gemma, and you run the only hotel. Why aren’t you a Key?’
Gemma tapped her wheelchair. �
�Not an all-commanding powerful look, is it?’
‘Arseholes.’
She patted his arm. ‘Do you want your girlfriend back, is that it?’
He gave a little laugh and shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s complicated.’
‘You didn’t really fit in here, did you? Didn’t want to be here? Did your relationship fall apart because you left?’
He shrugged. She got that he didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Wait here a moment.’
She wheeled off, subject forgotten. But not by him. He’d avoided every village meeting, never joined a local club or society, and, bar Gemma and the Argyles, had barely gotten to know anyone beyond the circle of Lorraine and her friends and family. Why? One foot out the door, dragged across the threshold by his career.
He’d met Lorraine at a Sunday market in Doncaster. At that point her parents had moved south from Lampton and she’d been renting it from them. Once she was pregnant with Joe they decided to move in together, but not here. He hadn’t been willing to think about swapping his life to another city, but he’d expected Lorraine to do so. And she had. She had given up all her friends and the place she knew, to be with a man who lived his job even when not on the clock. How much had that contributed to their downfall, like Gemma had suggested? Bennet had always assumed they’d simply run their course. Sometimes he’d wondered if Lorraine had rapidly grown weary of being attached to a man who put more time into his job than into her. But one thing he’d never considered was that she’d resented his dragging her out of a comfortable life in Lampton that she’d reluctantly given up.
Something else Gemma had said worried him. He’d thought he’d accepted the end of he and Lorraine, but had he? Had he really come to terms with it even now, a decade on? How much of this silly mission to find her was actually about Joe reacquainting with his mother? Was part of it a deep-down hope that they could be a family again? Even Turner had asked if he wanted Lorraine back.
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