He’d been fighting his own brain since yesterday, but now the battle was over. And paranoia had won. How could he now deny that something terrible had happened to Lorraine? Four people had met at Overeem’s place in Oxford on Sunday and taken his CaraHome north, and after being run out of Lampton they’d vanished. Four people out of contact, phones dead. It was fruitless to try to continue hoping there was an innocent explanation. Bennet was very worried now.
He continued driving. A little further on, there was a break in the shrubbery on his right. A stone cottage sat about thirty metres back in a clearing filled with garden ornaments hung with price tags. A sign on a stake said, ‘Anders Gardens’. The fairy-tale aura of the cottage was marred only by a big CCTV camera on a pole on the roof and a sporty Audi convertible out front.
Bennet’s phone rang. It was his boss, Superintendent Hunter. Bennet pulled up across the garden centre. He’d been waiting for this call, but not in a good way.
‘Liam, what’s going on? I got a prick. And now I find out one of my DCIs filed his own missing person’s report, about his own ex-partner no less, and designated it of the highest urgency. And then made himself investigating officer.’
‘I did it for my son. That’s his mother,’ Bennet said. ‘Look, David, I know what I did was off protocol, but I have good reason to think something bad has happened to Lorraine and the film crew she was with. I cut past the basics because I’ve effectively been investigating this for a day and a half, and I know something is badly wrong. Four people, all missing, all with their phones dead and no activity on social media or at their banks. We needed to get boots on the ground as soon as possible and mine have been there all day.’
‘This is totally out of order. If anyone finds out Lorraine is your son’s mother…’
‘I know. Look, Thames Valley Police have their own missing person’s investigation running, and you can allocate another officer to ours. But not yet. I just need a couple of hours.’
‘No, Liam. You’re running a murder investigation, and you can’t just gallivant off to look for your ex-partner.’
Bennet could have argued that he was off the clock, but knowing this didn’t halt the guilt. Most of the senior detectives he knew didn’t turn off just because they weren’t on duty. He could have spent his free time on the Buttery Park stabbing, same as every other moment since the start of the investigation. Nor did it help to try to convince himself that this missing person’s enquiry was also important: he’d been chasing Lorraine down way before it became a matter of urgency. The result of his tumbling emotions was frustration.
‘Article two of the European Convention on Human Rights gives her the right to life, and I as a police officer, am obliged to safeguard these rights.’
‘Oh, come on, Liam. You say something like that? To me?’
Bennet took a breath, ashamed of himself. What had come over him? ‘I’m sorry. Look, David, I let bad events get a head start on me. If I’d known more information yesterday, I could have had a proper head start, or even fixed this by now. I was delayed by… I didn’t do this as an officer of the law, and I wish I had. You know the last thing I said to Lorraine? Stay away. She might not have if I’d not said that. She might have come to see Joe. And now it’s too late. If she’s dead.’
Hunter paused. Bennet waited. He knew what came next would either kill or promote his mission. ‘Liam, I’m going to downgrade the missing person’s–’
‘I don’t think–’
‘Stop, Liam. Just listen. I’ll downgrade it and say the high-risk designation happened by error. But I’ll dedicate some resources to this. Okay? Including you. For today only though. Given your connection to Lorraine, I don’t think your head would be on the job anyway. So, the rest of the day. And that’s it.’
‘Thank you.’
Hunter hung up. Bennet got his mind back on track. He was about to drive on when he spotted a man in the garden centre, coming his way. He had wild long hair and, somehow in winter, a deep tan. When Liam put his window down, the guy yelled a hello and then put his gloved fingers to his temples, as if thinking. Then he pointed at Liam.
‘Early and eager. You look like a water-feature man to me.’
Liam shook his head. ‘You get much business out here?’
Anders pointed at his flash Audi, which made Liam laugh. ‘Exclusively no riff-raff.’
That explained why Liam had seen no signs advertising the shop: you came here if you knew where it was and had the intention to part with cash. Not that it would ever draw much custom; it was probably this man’s pet project of a retiree rather than a legitimate business.
‘Seen anyone in the last couple of days in a white motorhome? Probably Monday. Four people. A big black guy with them. And a blonde woman in her early forties?’
Anders lost his smile as he realised there was no sale to be had here. ‘No. Anyone comes this way, they’re probably coming here. Until that sodding supermarket’s up and running. I tell you, if they have a garden section, I’m gonna kick off, and no one wants to see me kick off.’
‘That Audi’ll have to go back. Hey, why is this road full of holes?’
‘Oh, that’s the Stanton Beast, ain’t it?’
Anders had a grin on his face, like someone eager to be asked to explain his shocking statement. ‘Of course, silly me,’ Liam said, and crushed the accelerator.
35
At the end of the lake, the service road turned right then arced left, all of it a sharp climb to meet a small roundabout at the front of the Arrow Hotel. The building looked as if it had once been a stately home. Three storeys, a turret at each front corner, and tall windows. A high, ancient stone wall blocked the view of the ground floor and front garden; the sliding gate across the driveway was a solid panel just as impenetrable.
As he took the exit towards the hotel, Bennet saw a traffic camera on the roundabout. Its bright-green casing pegged it as a Highways England Automatic Number Plate Recognition camera. He hoped that wasn’t a bad omen. He pulled up by an intercom and pressed the button. He expected to have to state his business, but this was a hotel, not a secret government installation: the gate immediately started to withdraw.
The driveway split a mown lawn with parking area with bays outlined with white paint. Bennet drew to a stop in the turning circle before arched oak main doors, which were wide open. A sign reckoned the proprietors were absolutely thrilled to have him here. Bennet reckoned they’d soon change their minds.
All doors bar one in the dim foyer were shut. That one put him in what looked like a pub lounge. Mostly empty, apart from a barman and a couple of early-starters in suits drinking tea and working on laptops, and a technician fixing a fruit machine. There was a mammoth corkboard with some darts tournament scores, and leaflets promoting local events, and a BARRED list with two photos of young men on it. At the back, long windows offered a tremendous view of the sweeping Peak District landscape.
Beside the corkboard was a recessed reception like a ticket booth. An old guy sat there, cleaning the room-key fobs. He looked too old to be the receptionist Liam had spoken to earlier; probably a manager. Liam approached the window. On the counter was a register, just like at the Panorama, and he got a good look at recent guests’ names before the old guy spotted him and flipped the book shut. Four rooms currently taken, and seven used since Sunday.
‘That’s private, I’m afraid,’ the man said, standing. His badge said: TONY. He had a stoop that shortened him about ten inches, lush brown hair and perfect white teeth, both obviously fake. Liam pulled his warrant card. It felt like a breath of fresh air.
The old man gave a smile and a salute and flipped open the register. It took Bennet just a blink to note no name of Overeem or Dark Saint or Donald Ducke. And no Cross or Taylor, in case Lorraine had made the booking. Didn’t mean the film crew wasn’t here, or hadn’t been.
Bennet shut the book and showed his phone. First a screenshot of Overeem from his blog, then a photo of Lorraine from
a Facebook album.
‘These two might have been here on Monday. I believe the male was interested in your Arrow Climb.’
Bennet swiped back and forth between the two photos, giving Tony a good look at both. And he took a long look, as if really trying to help. He even leaned closer and squinted and furrowed his eyebrows in thought. Ultimately, though, he shook his head.
‘I remember all the pretty girls, and I don’t recall that blonde girl, and we had no black people in that night. Or any night I remember in the last few weeks.’
‘How about your CCTV of Monday? Can I see that?’
‘Can’t say no to the law. We’ve got a camera on the car park. But I’ll save you some time. Me and my girls run this place and I don’t take days off. Been every night for months, and I can promise you them two didn’t come in.’
Bennet had suspected this. DC Hooper had told him that Overeem’s CaraHome had last been captured by ANPR a few miles south-east. If the camera on the roundabout hadn’t flagged it, it hadn’t been this way.
Or maybe it had travelled the service road… just not all the way.
‘Can I look out back?’ he asked, pointing to the long windows. Tony told him to go right ahead. Bennet opened a door and stepped out onto a veranda with small tables and stackable aluminium chairs. He approached a chest-high railing and stared out. The view was indeed fabulous, but his attention was caught by a metal gibbet-like scaffold off to his left. He walked over to it. It had a winch with a mass of wound cable and a safety harness dangling over the fence.
‘That’s for the Arrow Climb,’ Tony said from behind him.
The lake was some seventy metres below, its tip just a couple of metres from the bottom of the cliff. It spread out in an oval, ringed by trees. Beyond the lake in all directions: fields and urban areas. Bennet leaned over the fence to peer straight down. On the ground, the trees had been cleared in an area the size of a basketball court and a wooden platform laid. Dozens of metal rods staggered down the smooth cliff face in a line, all the way to the platform.
‘Kind of seems like cheating,’ Bennet said. ‘The marauders way back didn’t have a winch system.’
‘Wasn’t allowed to do it without. Can’t have my customers smashing to a pulp. Especially not the ones with a tab at the bar.’ Tony laughed at his own joke.
Bennet saw that the nearest ‘arrow’ was eight feet below. ‘How do you reach the top from there?’
‘We have to remove the top two and bottom two when the event’s over. Stops people sneaking here at night at trying to make the climb.’
‘Anyone ever done it? Won the test, I mean.’
‘A few. On Sunday I had to bar a guy though. Turns out he was a professional rock climber. Against the rules. Anyway, these people you’re after. What they done, robbed a bank or something?’
‘Or something.’ Bennet immediately regretted his mockery and explained: film crew, visiting Lampton to make a documentary. He didn’t mention Sally Jenkins.
‘Nah, I haven’t had anyone like that here. Sorry. Why do the police want them?’
‘Routine enquiries on another matter.’ Bennet returned his gaze to the lake. The ring of trees was perhaps fifty metres thick. By their left arc he could see Anders’ garden centre and fragments of the service road through the canopy. But he couldn’t see any roads or tracks whose entrances weren’t visible from the service road. A little way past the garden centre there was a kind of seam in the ring where trees weren’t as densely packed. Inside this line across the width of the woods, was that stone he saw?
‘What’s that?’ he asked Tony. ‘Just past the garden centre. Where the trees look thinner. Looks like remnants of a building in the woods.’
Tony didn’t look; too busy preparing a wad of phlegm that he loosed and watched plummet to the wooden platform. ‘That’s the old boathouse and slipway from the Stanton Estate. Just a shell now, and the slipway is overgrown. The owner doesn’t want to sell or restore, even though he gets visitors about the Stanton Beast.’
‘I used to visit someone over at Lampton. But I’d never heard of the Stanton Beast until today.’
‘Well, it’s all a bit silly. Thing’s supposed to be twenty feet tall, yet it lives in these woods? Couldn’t miss a dog in there, never mind some monster. It started life as a rabid horse Stanton let loose, and the rumour mill gave it horns and fangs and made it five times as big. If you go down that service road there, you’ll see holes that are supposed to be its footsteps.’
‘You’re joking. You believe that?’
Tony laughed. ‘No one sane believes it. Some fool pissed about the new supermarket tore the road up with a drill. But it’s a good line to give the tourists. Mind you, the other night I was in here after we shut up, on my own, and I swore I could hear the thing crashing about in the woods down there.’
‘What?’
Tony laughed again. ‘The boathouse is a magnet for yobbos and hikers and partying teenagers and stuff. The Stanton Beast gives this place a sort of Blair Witch feel to some Lopers and they camp out in the building, hoping to see the Beast. I can hear their whooping and shouting late at night sometimes.’
Intriguing. ‘Was this on Monday night?’
‘Nah. Last night. Noisy sods. Go see Albert at the garden centre. He’ll tell you. He’s got that CCTV with sound. He’s got loads of recordings of it. But don’t let him trick you into believing it’s the Beast. Hey, this film crew, are they doing a piece on the monster? That why they’re here?’
Bennet shook his head.
There were no roads, paths, trails or tracks big enough for a vehicle leading off the service road. Overeem had planned a visit to the Arrow, but he hadn’t followed through. His own visit had been a waste of time. He was done here.
36
Liam took the roundabout exit back onto the winding road that led to the service road, and drove to the garden centre.
Albert Anders was tending to a water feature as Bennet turned into his forecourt. Perhaps remembering his failed sale earlier, he didn’t look happy to see his visitor return. Bennet showed his warrant card.
‘Can I get a look at your CCTV?’
‘If you like. What’s it for? I didn’t see those people you asked about.’
‘You’ve got recordings of the Stanton Beast, is that right?’
‘Tony tell you that? Up at the Arrow? It’s not really the Beast. He tell you that?’
‘He did. You’ve got recordings of people, shall we say, partying at the boathouse?’
‘Yeah, but not on video. This camera here, it’s got good audio, picks up stuff all around.’
‘Do you check your video? Any chance it caught a motorhome going past late at night?’
‘Possible. But didn’t you just say you wanted partiers at the boathouse? There were some sods early this morning.’
‘I’ll take what I can get.’
Anders was happy to show him. They entered the cottage. The showroom was downstairs, all four walls papered with life-size trees to make you think you were lost in the woods. Upstairs were the living quarters: a kitchen, bathroom, bed-sitting room. Here, amongst games consoles, a giant curved TV, pinball machine and treadmill, was a desk with the CCTV control panel.
This was state-of-the-art, not the clunky box used at the Red Lion. Playback was done by either picking a time and date, because the digital storage went back weeks, or by rewinding time with a dial. Digital also meant no quality loss at increased speed, and it didn’t have trick mode, so Liam would miss no frames. The camera covered the forecourt and the slice of road visible in the gap in the shrubbery.
Also unlike at the Lion, this owner refused to leave Liam alone with his gadget. Anders created a racket on the pinball machine as Liam found the recording for Sunday night, when the film crew had left Lampton. He spun the dial to speed up time. Out here nothing happened, and that didn’t alter for hours. The timestamp whizzed, but nothing else moved. The first blip, a long time coming, was a light washing
across the forecourt as Anders’ Audi turned in and the man got out, all taking place within half a second in fast-forward.
A real-time hour later, a small van turned into the grounds. Obviously not the CaraHome, but Bennet played the video in real time in hope of a clue. As promised, there was audio. Really good audio. The microphone not only caught the noise of the van’s engine, but also registered the slap of its driver’s door closing after the driver got out. Bennet even heard it over the damn pinball machine. Anders approached the guy, said ‘Hello, you look like a water-feature man to me.’ So, just a customer. Bennet spun the dial again.
This little portion of the universe remained inert thereafter. The light sluiced rapidly from the sky, and the picture turned black. Then green, as night vision kicked in. Wow. Bennet almost jumped out of his skin when something flashed on the screen at about 1am. Monday morning. The CaraHome?
But when he rewound, real time, three motorbikes zipped past backwards, trailing their headlight beams like comets’ tails.
‘Joyriders,’ Anders said from the pinball machine. ‘Little shits wake me up all the time. Should hear how loud they are out here in the middle of the night. You’ll see when you get to early this morning.’
The sun came up with cartoon speed. Bennet spun through Monday. The sky got bright and then dark again, but the picture otherwise didn’t change. By the time night fell and the world turned green again, Liam was buzzing with frustration. He had hoped that the CaraHome had indeed taken the service road to the roundabout, and somehow avoided being snared by the camera there, perhaps because it tailgated a truck or… whatever. But Anders’ camera wouldn’t have missed it.
Bennet was sure he was wasting time, but he continued to watch the video. Tuesday was more of the same nothingness. The only break was when a pair of girls in a small car turned into the forecourt. Customers. They snapped a few photos of each other standing by large garden ornaments, but bought nothing and were gone twenty minutes later. Anders’ Audi was definitely going to have to go back.
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