No, that was stupid. He wouldn’t have waited ten years to try to get her back. And she had another family now.
But why hadn’t he ever found another partner?
He cut these silly thoughts as Gemma returned with a laptop, which she put in front of him at the table. She put her wheelchair right by him.
‘If all four of the crew planned to have hotel rooms, it makes no sense for all of them to not stay here,’ she said. ‘Ground zero for their documentary. And if there were just four, it’s doubtful they had a separate shooting unit somewhere. At some point between the Lion and my hotel, they split up. If the director went out the back of my hotel, it means his friends weren’t waiting outside in a vehicle.’
He nodded. Very good. Maybe Gemma wanted to be a detective for real, not just writing about them in fiction. He watched as she loaded Google Maps and an aerial view of Lampton and a portion of the countryside.
‘If they accompanied him to the hotel to check out, it would be hard for them to access the back field. It would mean going down a side street and through someone’s backyard, and over a fence. So it makes more sense that they split up at the Lion. But if so, it means his friends walk a mile through the dark fields, to then stand around waiting for him out the back of my hotel? That doesn’t make sense.’
She seemed pleased with her logic. He couldn’t fault it.
‘So they must have planned to meet at a specific place,’ she continued. ‘Perhaps where the other three were staying the night. Somewhere close, given they were on foot and it was cold and dark.’
Gemma shrank the map to a zone about the size of a half hour’s walk. Various pins and icons showed places of intrigue and user photographs, as well as hotels. When calling hotels, Bennet and Gemma had worked outwards from Lampton, and he was certain they’d called all the displayed places, without joy. But just before he could remind her of this, she said, ‘I’ve known farm owners to rent out their places to tourists. They’re not officially hotels, but they’ll be advertised on local noticeboards and shop windows, and sometimes on social media. Which means they might not be listed in those pamphlets you looked through, or on this map.’
Bennet looked closely. The map showed him plenty of shacks and barns and farm buildings. But without knowing phone numbers, he didn’t have the time to visit each of these places, especially when there was no guarantee the crew hadn’t already checked into a hotel in Chesterfield, or even finished their documentary and headed home.
She ran a finger in a circle around a portion of the map to the east and north of the village. ‘All these nearest buildings here are on Ronald Crabtree’s farmland. He’s also got a residential ranch he built some years ago that people can rent. It was for his wife, but she died a few years back. I’m not sure where that is, but it’s a mile or two from his home.’
The Crabtree Bennet had seen in the village centre had looked a wreck, and now he knew why. He looked closely at the map. As well as the main L-shaped farmhouse and various shacks and sheds and large storage bins, there was a wooden barn, an open-sided, steel-framed building, a trio of rocket-shaped grain silos, and a corrugated metal building that looked like a half-sunken barrel on its side. He zoomed out, hoping to see this ranch she’d mentioned, but within a two-mile radius there were too many to scrutinise one at a time, especially when he had no idea if the ranch was a luxurious getaway or a dilapidated wreck.
‘One problem is that since he lost his wife, he’s become reclusive,’ Gemma said, ‘and I doubt he’d answer questions, at least not on the phone. The other is that Google Earth isn’t real time, so we can’t see if any of these buildings currently have a vehicle parked outside. You would have to take a trek, but it could be a big waste of time.’
‘I’m a police officer, Gemma. Ninety per cent of the leads I follow end up being a waste of time.’
25
About halfway along the track there from Benders Road, Bennet stopped at the PRIVATE. OUT. YOU. KEEP sign. The metal gate was chained shut, no code this time. But the chain was threaded through a large U-shaped nail hammered into the gatepost, and pressure from his Pathfinder easily yanked it free. Did a little more damage to the front of the vehicle though.
The new track disappeared over a small rise; beyond, the land slipped shallowly down and through a small wood. On the far side was Crabtree’s farmhouse. It was starting to get dark now, doubly so out here where artificial light was scarce. Bennet had hoped to get home in time to give Joe some good news about his mother and then accompany him and Patricia to the cinema. None of that optimism remained.
The first thing Liam noticed upon exiting the woods was that the large barn shown on Google Earth had gone. In its place was a giant oblong hole and the beginnings of foundations for another building. Parked nearby was a front loader tractor missing its boom attachment, various kinds of which were scattered around. As well as a standard bucket, there seemed to be a tool for every farm task imaginable – including a giant steel spike reminiscent of a weapon in the TV program Robot Wars. The other buildings remained, although the corrugated steel edifice was rusted and had old farm machinery parts blocking the large roller door.
There were two other vehicles, both parked by the red wooden farmhouse. Crabtree’s Land Rover, old and mud-plastered, and a family car that had no business out in the fields. It took another forty minutes bouncing across the uneven track to reach the farmhouse. Aware that an occupant at a window couldn’t have missed his arrival, Bennet exited his vehicle and waved. Nobody came to the door, so Liam strolled to the porch, where there was a wooden two-seater swing-bench, footstool and table with a magazine weighed down by a rock and an ashtray full of cigar butts.
Police training urged him to look in the living-room window before knocking on the door. He saw Crabtree in the living room with a lady in an old dressing gown, on an old armchair. Their backs were to Liam as they watched a black-and-white programme on TV. So who was this lady, if Crabtree had lost his wife? Liam rapped on the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ Crabtree’s gruff voice yelled. But it was almost three minutes before a shape appeared in the small window in the door. The old wood opened with a squeak from a draft excluder attached a little too low. Crabtree stood before him in grimy jeans and a blue pullover stiffened and crusted in places with thick splashes of ancient paint. The eyes were red and droopy, as if he’d been asleep. A sudden alertness in them at the sight of Liam said otherwise.
‘Come on in, lad. Come on.’
The old man grabbed his wrist to try to drag him inside, which instantly raised Bennet’s suspicions. He allowed himself to be led, but when Crabtree tried to shut the door behind them, Liam turned to look outside. A moment before the door shut, he caught sight of a young woman slipping out from beside the house and scuttling towards the family car that had no business out here. Only it did, and Liam could make a good guess what that business was, based on the woman’s short skirt and clearly young, smooth thighs.
Despite his urge to get Liam inside, Crabtree didn’t move from the narrow hallway. He stepped past Liam and shut the door to the living room. Before it slammed closed, Liam got a glance inside, and he saw the ragged armchair where the old lady had been sitting. Empty. On the floor beside it was what looked like a grey wig.
Crabtree grabbed his coat off a hook on the wall and punched into it, but after that didn’t move. The two men faced each other in the cramped hallway, two feet apart, each with their back to a door. Crabtree looked nervous, but Liam knew it wasn’t because of their proximity. Bennet heard the car start up and make a sharp escape.
‘I think I remember you,’ Crabtree said. ‘You used to date a woman that lived here.’
Crabtree remembered him from a decade ago? Or he’d heard the gossip that a nosey Loper policeman was asking questions? ‘I’m looking for some people and I need information.’
Crabtree suddenly squeezed past him and opened the front door. Bennet thought he was about to be ejected, but instead Cra
btree walked outside. The car was gone, but Bennet could hear it off in the distance. It wasn’t lost on him that Crabtree had dragged him inside so he wouldn’t see the escaping woman, then back outside so he didn’t get to see the living space.
‘You deal with vandalism?’ Crabtree asked. ‘I got some for you.’
‘I’m not here about vandalism. There was a four-person film crew staying in Lampton on Sunday. They left the same night. Tell me what you know about them.’
It wasn’t a question. Bennet had no doubt Crabtree had heard about the crew: he knew of Bennet’s visit from someone. Crabtree lit a half-smoked thin cigar that Liam hadn’t noticed behind the man’s ear because of thick, curly, grey hair. One such was stuck to the chewed filtered end.
‘I know they’re destructive bastards. It means you’re here about vandalism after all. Let’s go.’
Crabtree left the porch and stopped on the dried mud, waiting for Bennet. ‘Vandalism?’ Bennet said. ‘Are you telling me the film crew destroyed some of your property? Where?’
‘My ranch, my wife’s beautiful ranch,’ Crabtree spat. He stamped the ground in anger. ‘They smashed it up for no damn reason. But now you’re here, you’re going to fix these bastards for me.’ He pulled something from his pocket, and waved it, and then threw it on the ground and stamped on that too.
Bennet stepped off the porch and plucked it out of the mud. His heart skipped a beat.
It was a business card. Black with white text and a picture of a video camera. Along the top was a clapperboard image. There was an email address and website. And a name.
Francis Overeem, specialist in direction, production, casting and editing.
‘Did the film crew give you this?’ It seemed strange that Overeem would hand over his details when so much effort had been made to hide his reason for being in Lampton.
‘Sure did. Which makes them idiots for trashing my ranch, doesn’t it? Come on, I’ll show you.’
26
Francis Overeem’s website was a dot org blog, black background with white writing, heavy on the eyes. Top of the main page was a photo of the man himself standing beside a white motorhome in a field, grinning for the lens. A mini-biography beneath the photo said he had become a doctorandus at twenty-five, before a diagnosis of ME forced him to abandon a medical career. Then a chance encounter with a world-famous 1st AD – whatever that was – changed his fate; spin forward a few years and Overeem was now a director himself, with a popular YouTube channel, and a host of music videos under his belt.
The blog was a list of once-weekly links, posted every Thursday, so Bennet clicked the latest, from six days ago. It was a half-page paragraph of Overeem talking about his Weinsberg CaraHome, which was fixed now he had new high tension leads and a new exhaust pipe, and he was ready to roll. Missing or Murdered? would wrap filming in a few days in the glorious Peak District.
So, that was the name of the documentary he was shooting in sunny Lampton. The blog contained three pictures of the motorhome, its fresh parts, and a new piece of camera equipment he’d bought on eBay.
In the previous blog entry, one Thursday back, Francis discussed how his training was going for something called the Arrow Climb. A picture showed him scaling a tree half-naked. Missing or Murdered? had acquired some chap Bennet had never heard of, but he was an award-winning soundtrack composer. The film was on schedule for its March 6 posting to Dark Saint to mark the tenth anniversary of Sally Jenkins’ disappearance.
Liam googled Dark Saint. It was a YouTube channel covering true crime cases. There were five films posted over the last three years, each forty-five minutes long, or the length of a one-hour TV show with advert breaks. This, then, was where Overeem’s Lampton tale would wind up. Hardly prime-time TV, but each video had over a quarter of a million views and that wasn’t to be sniffed at.
Bennet clicked on the latest entry, called Don’t Believe Her. It was about the sister of a missing man accusing his wife of murder. Not a case that Bennet recalled making serious headlines, but the sound, narration, music and cinematography looked pretty professional. He wondered about the earnings of someone whose channel got a quarter of a million views every four months or so.
‘Are you coming or what?’
Bennet looked up from his phone. Crabtree was standing nearby, watching, impatient. Bennet had told him to wait while he surfed the internet. Now, he put the business card away.
The CaraHome was a problem. If the crew had a motorhome, why did they need Crabtree’s ranch? If they had the ranch, why had Overeem rented a room at the Panorama? If Overeem planned to stay at a hotel, away from his crew for whatever reason, why had he checked in with only a camera bag and a file folder?
‘Hey, are you awake?’
‘Watch your mouth,’ Bennet snapped at the farmer.
‘Well are you coming or what? I want these people arrested and charged and made to pay.’
Now that Bennet had the director’s real name and an email address he could use, he didn’t care to stay in Lampton. The film crew had a motorhome, which meant they were gone, and his entire day here had been a waste. He wanted to email Overeem, right now, and then drive home fast, right now. But he was intrigued by Crabtree’s claim. He didn’t know much about Francis Overeem or the others, but he knew Lorraine. Or had. And the Lorraine he’d known wasn’t the sort to smash up a building.
Unless there was good cause.
‘Did you know what they were filming?’ Bennet asked.
‘I only dealt with one man, a black man, him that gave me that card. He knocked on my door and paid cash and I handed a key and that was it. But I heard the gossip after that. News soon got round. We have our ways of knowing about people who come here. You can’t hide anything here.’
‘I know. Lampton has a hive mind. So people would have heard that you had the film crew staying at your ranch. And they didn’t like it. The Keys ordered you to kick them out, didn’t they? Is that why the crew trashed your ranch?’
Crabtree had been pacing in anger, eyes down as if seeking something new to stomp into the mud. He now stopped and stared at Bennet. ‘Sir, no one orders me to do anything. I was one of those Keys once, you know?’
Bennet recalled hotelier Gemma’s story about disability thwarting her chances of Key status. ‘And when your wife died, you got ejected.’
Crabtree’s expression confirmed it. ‘I didn’t care what they were filming. I don’t care what their documentary does for this village. I don’t live in there, I live out here. I would have been okay with them staying for however long they wanted. But I didn’t want my Elise’s ranch being on the TV, not connected to that missing girl thing. I didn’t want morbid Lopers coming round. So I asked them to leave. Nice and polite. And when I came back to check later that night, oh, they’d gone. Gone and destroyed the place, the bastards.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘I’ve had my fill of people in there. No more guests, no cops. Cops won’t do anything, anyway. I don’t want anyone else traipsing around my Elise’s place. I’m going to put it right and then lock it up and leave it, like I should have done in the first place.’
‘But you want to show me?’
‘Only cos you’re here right now, and I heard you’re after that crew. I don’t know what they did to get South Yorkshire cops coming all the way here for them, but now you can add thousands of pounds of vandalism. So I hope you’re serious about arresting them. Now let’s go.’
27
Crabtree said his Land Rover needed a starter motor and that Liam’s Pathfinder would get stuck, so both men rode in the loader. It was half a mile and the land was indeed rugged, but the Pathfinder could have made it because they followed a clear rutted track created by the loader on some prior day.
As they rode, Crabtree gave him the tale. He had built his wife, Elise, a ranch for when she had episodes and needed space. He didn’t elaborate on these ‘episodes’, but hinted that they required Elise to be away f
rom people. To rekindle the love they’d shared as teenagers fifty years ago, Elise had wanted them to dump modern amenities like the car and the TV and the phone. So they walked everywhere, and they spent time reading together or playing cards, and when an episode forced them apart, they tried to develop a retro communications system between the ranch and the farmhouse. Carrier pigeon, but it died. Morse code, but Crabtree could never get the hang of it.
Elise had died at home while Crabtree was out shopping. Neither did he explain what caused her death, except to say it wasn’t quick. There was enough time and coherence for her to have picked up the phone and called for help. Except Crabtree, upon her wishes, had ripped the phone out of the farmhouse. She was found in her car, engine running, having tried to drive for help.
After her death, Crabtree had kept the ranch pristine and untouched, but in the last year or so had outfitted it to cater to families and made it available to rent. Big mistake. Never again.
The final part of the journey was in silence, except for the tractor’s engine. They turned around a collection of man-high rocks and the ranch came into view, sitting all alone out here in a shallow valley, perhaps three hundred metres away. Two minutes later, the tractor pulled up. The loader’s tracks ran to an area out front of the ranch where the grass and mud had been churned into chilled solid micro mountain ranges and valleys, clearly the result of the loader performing manoeuvres.
The ranch was single-storey, all old logs painted brown. Nursery-rhyme quaint. Very much the kind of place someone would honour his wife with. And the sort tourists would love to rent. But never again.
Liam hopped off the loader and watched Crabtree slowly dismount. The farmer stared at his own ranch, as if fearful. His mouth moved silently. Liam thought he got the word sorry. Did the farmer believe bringing a visitor here would offend his wife’s soul or something? Days after strangers had stayed at the place? Strange.
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