by Shaun Baines
Old Jack freed his hand and reached into his cardigan. “Young people never carry handkerchiefs,” he said, offering it to Holly.
She dabbed her eyes. “I’m not that young anymore. I’ve wasted my life. I’ve ended up right where I started.”
“Bringing with you all that you’ve learned, pet,” Old Jack said. “Your Dad was very proud of you. Never shut up about you down the pub, which annoyed the hell out of us all. He had that bleedin’ oxygen mask on. It was two puffs for every word. Each story was an hour long. No-one else got a word in.”
Holly laughed.
“He always thought you’d come back,” Old Jack said.
“I bet he didn’t think it would be because of bankruptcy.”
“He said you were smart and one day, you’d realise people don’t need to travel for miles and miles to find out who they are.”
“I felt like I needed to find a new perspective.” Holly watched Nancy’s goat spin in a circle before dropping to the lawn to sleep. Its breaths came in long, slow draughts.
“You were good friends with my Dad?” she asked. “Is that why you’ve been so good to me?”
Pulling his cardigan close, Old Jack looked to the sky, the deep blue of it reflected in his eyes. “I’ve been good to you because I wanted you to stay where you belong. It’s as simple as that.”
He made to stand, but Holly placed a steadying hand on his arm.
“I have something to ask you,” she said.
Old Jack had seemed composed when she arrived, jovial even. Perhaps acting out his role as her protector and carer had brought him strength.
“What is it, pet?” he asked, his voice faint.
She hated to do it. After everything Old Jack had done for her, it was a betrayal of his kindness, but Holly was there for a reason. Even as she hesitated, she knew she would confront him. Holly needed to find the truth.
“When Nancy first went missing,” Holly said, “you told me she and her sister had been lost in a blizzard. That when they were found, they’d locked themselves away because they could no longer stand the cold, but that wasn’t true, was it?”
Expecting an answer, Holly waited for Old Jack to speak, but he stayed silent so she continued.
“It was Regina who was caught in a storm. She fell ill and stayed at Black Rock Manor for three months to recuperate. Nancy visited her every day. When her sister returned home, Nancy kept visiting.”
Old Jack closed his eyes like the sleeping goat on his lawn. Holly imagined he was returning to that time, replaying the story in his mind. He frowned and brought his fingertips to his mouth.
Holly swallowed down her guilt and pressed on. “Nancy didn’t shut herself away,” she said. “She walked to the manor. In all weathers. She wasn’t afraid of the cold. Nancy didn’t hide from it, but I think she hid away from you and it hurt you. Deeply. So, you came up with a story to make you feel better.”
Old Jack kept his eyes closed, but reached into his pocket for his pills. He slipped one in his mouth and rolled it around his gums.
“I’m a journalist,” Old Jack finally said. “I’m supposed to tell people the truth, but the biggest story I ever told was the one I fed to myself over those two sisters. A total fabrication. After that, I lost interest in telling people what they needed to know. The truth seemed too painful.”
Holly shifted in her seat, a sick feeling in her stomach. “But it’s our job.”
“I didn’t see Nancy for a week,” Old Jack said, opening his blue eyes, “and when I did, she told me about the storm. Told me things had to change. I tried to see her, but she never answered the door after that. Nancy wandered the estate because she didn’t love me the way I loved her.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry,” Holly said.
“I’d heard rumours of her on the moors, but I chose not to believe them.”
“I thought…” but Holly couldn’t finish her sentence. She couldn’t work it past the lump in her throat. Nancy had hurt Old Jack and Holly had joined her in twisting the knife.
This wasn’t about being a bad journalist anymore. This was about being a bad person.
Holly returned Old Jack’s handkerchief. “I’m resigning from the Herald. You don’t need to see me anymore.”
Old Jack blew into his handkerchief loud enough to wake the goat. Startled, it clambered to its feet, searching for the threat.
“Don’t leave, pet,” Old Jack said. “Look how far you’ve come.”
“I’m acting like a mad woman here,” Holly said, pulling on her hair. “I’ve accused you of creating a cover story. I’ve probably started some sort of war with the Masterlys and I’m still no further forward in finding Nancy.”
The goat settled again, curling up into a ball, but keeping one eye on Old Jack, its nostrils flaring with suspicion.
“I’m with you when it comes to the Masterlys,” Old Jack said. “We both know something is going on there and it’s our job to expose it, just like you’ve exposed the lie I told myself.”
“You were involved, Jack. It was too emotional for you.”
“You’re involved, too. I can see it. That’s what makes you good. Your Dad was right. You’re smart and your time away has given you a perspective us bumpkins don’t have. We both know I’m not a journalist anymore. I don’t have it in me to stir up trouble like you do. Little Belton deserves someone who will protect it from itself.”
Holly kissed Old Jack on the cheek, but shook her head. “I can’t keep hurling my suspicions at people who don’t deserve it. I’m sorry, but it’s over.”
Walking along Stationers Lane, Holly kept her eyes fixed on her feet as clouds gathered in the sky.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the light of dawn, the lake was alive with the chattering calls of unseen animals. As the sun rose, the lake hushed as if taking a breath before embarking on another day of survival.
Grabbing her blanket, Holly had sat outside to await the sunrise over Knock Lake.
At times, her skin prickled and she imagined there were unknown eyes upon her. Whether they were animal or human, she didn’t know. She searched the shoreline of the lake, examining tangled brambles and fallen trees for signs of life. There was too much of it to discern a single pair of eyes.
Until a large stag emerged from the bracken, leading his doe to the water. The herd cautiously lowered their heads to drink while the stag locked eyes with Holly. It was the same animal she had seen by the side of the road and if Holly recognised him, it felt like the stag also recognised her. She pressed into her seat, uncomfortable with their strange connection.
Satiated, the rest of the herd melted back into the landscape, leaving the stag to watch Holly return indoors.
She dressed quickly and left her home in silence, pleased to see the stag was no longer there. She drove to Bellcraig Stack. Passing the telephone greenhouse, Holly noticed the tomatoes were ripe and ready for picking.
Callum was waiting by the garden gate, his hands jammed into his pockets.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Holly said, climbing from her car.
“I don’t want to be here,” Callum said.
Holly linked her arm through his, leading him through the garden. It was beginning to look dishevelled. Rhubarb that had been ready to pick when Holly first visited, was now limp, its leaves hanging like torn clothing. The gooseberry bushes were riddled with sawfly and the sunshine faces of dandelions were turning to feathery seeds.
“This feels like unfinished business for me,” Holly said. “I never got to pay my respects properly. I was arguing with Derek when we visited the hospital.”
Callum’s body hardened under her hold.
“How is he? Your husband?” he asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Holly said.
A lock of Callum’s hair fell over his face and Holly brushed it aside.
“I never met Regina,” Callum said. “I met Nancy twice, though. I was a young kid the first time around. Dad was picking up supplies fr
om the village. She looked like a laundry basket come to life. While he was loading the Defender, this woman swaddled in clothes watched me, not saying a word.”
“I bet you were cute when you were a toddler,” Holly said.
“The second time was when Dad died.” Callum pressed into Holly, his body quivering. “She came to the cottage with a currant cake she’d baked herself. I remember because it was in a tin for Murray’s Malt Crackers. I couldn’t get my head around why a cake was in a cracker tin.”
“Did she say anything?” Holly asked.
“Yeah. She was talking about my father, heaping praise on him, but I kept staring at the tin. Not listening. On the outside, it was one thing. On the inside, it was another.”
Callum’s nose twitched and he stared at the line of conifers along the track to Bellcraig Stack.
“You never can tell with some people,” Holly said. “It was good of her to bring you something.”
“The whole village came when they heard about Dad, but she was the first.”
A dampness soaked through Holly’s walking boots. Not only did they rub painfully, she realised, but they also let in water. “Did Nancy know your Dad?”
“He never mentioned her. Never spoke of anyone, but the Wentworths.”
A call came from the conifer forest, a creature in fear or distress.
“I wanted to come here and say goodbye properly,” Holly said.
“Goodbye?”
“This is the end. I can’t keep doing what I’m doing.”
Callum gazed at her. “I don’t understand. Was it something I said?”
“More like something I said.”
Returning his eyes to the forest, Callum cracked his knuckles. “You’re good at what you do. You’ll find Nancy. You will.”
“Good at what?” Holly asked. “Making people miserable? I have to stop. Derek is going to leave me.”
Callum spun in her direction. His arms wrapped around her and she was pulled into his body, her head pressed into his chest. His heart drummed into her and his heat brought a flush to her cheeks.
“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” she whispered. “I want to make my marriage work.”
Holly raised her face and his lips pressed into her ear.
“Arnold Salting,” he said. “He’s watching us from the trees.”
Holly struggled in Callum’s grasp, but he held tight.
“He’s been here since I turned up,” he said. “I don’t want to spook him.”
Holly’s view was blocked by Callum’s shoulder. She eased to one side and saw the murk of the forest. Was that a figure in the distance? It was hard to tell. The longer she stared, the more figures she saw. Some appeared in clothing that looked centuries old, as if they’d been lost in the forest and had never returned home.
“I won’t let him get away this time,” Callum said.
They remained locked in an embrace, cheek to cheek, with neither willing to let go.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“He left Black Rock Manor when we discovered his little camp,” Callum said.
“Not to mention Regina’s body.”
“Maybe he moved into Bellcraig Stack afterwards,” Callum said. “He knew Nancy was missing. He hurt Regina so he had somewhere else to stay.”
“Which doesn’t answer my question,” Holly said. “What are we going to do now?”
The green of Callum’s eyes took on a darker hue. “When you’re stalking your quarry, you move soft and you move light.”
Taking Holly’s hand, he led her through the rhubarb, keeping to the shadow of the house. A woodshed had been built by the kitchen door. Its warped walls were dotted with yellow lichen. It was surrounded by the same flowers Holly had noticed on her first visit.
She stroked her hand through the spires to have it snatched away by Callum.
“Foxgloves,” Callum said. “Like the sisters of the same name, they can be a little bit poisonous.”
He dragged her into the woodshed and crouched low.
“We need to flush him out,” Callum said.
Holly peeked through the slats, seeing nothing. “Are you expecting me to rugby tackle him? Do I look like a scrum-half?”
“No, but you have the same cauliflower ears.” Picking up a dried log, Callum offered it to Holly. “Use this if things turn nasty.”
Holly weighed it in her hand, rolling it around her palm.
“Ow,” she said, dropping it to the ground. “Splinter.”
“This is going to be chasing Nancy’s goat all over again,” Callum said, spying through a gap in the shed. “I think he’s gone. Wait here.”
Callum crept around her, keeping low. Holly watched him go, grinding her teeth. She remembered falling at the manor when she’d failed to heed Callum’s words, but her feet started moving anyway, copying Callum’s movements.
She found him crouching behind a gooseberry bush.
Callum jumped as she sidled in beside him.
“Do you ever do what you’re told?” he asked.
“This guy is dangerous,” Holly said. “He’s unstable.”
“Which is why I don’t want him wandering around my estate.”
“It’s not your estate anymore. It belongs to the Masterlys.”
Reaching in the bush, unmindful of the thorns, Callum jerked a gooseberry free. It was over-ripe with a coating of powdery mildew. He crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, watching the pulpy juice run down his hand.
“I’m going hunting,” Callum said, “and this time, Holly? Stay here.”
Callum broke cover, hurrying along the garden, his eyes trained on the forest. He leapt over the garden fence, landing deftly on the other side.
Holly peeked over the fence in time to see him disappear into the darkness. She waited, scanning the forest. It was silent. Even the wildlife held its breath. The ghosts, if that’s what they were, had faded.
Holly dropped back down and studied her nails.
If there was any kind of struggle between Callum and Arnold Salting, she assumed she’d hear it. But then what? Would she rush to Callum’s aid? Holly was likely to get in the way, but sitting on the side lines wasn’t her style.
The Defender, she thought. If Callum got hurt or more likely Arnold, then they’d want to be on their way to the hospital as soon as possible.
With a second glance at the forest, Holly stole toward the jeep. There was a rustling, branches were snapped, but she didn’t turn to look. Her eyes were drawn to the Defender’s windscreen.
“He’s gone,” Callum said, jogging to her side. “I don’t know where.”
“I do,” Holly said, reading the words written in the dirt of the glass. “He was here.”
It was another clue, though not as cryptic as the one pinned to the Herald’s door.
Cursing, Callum spun on the spot. “How the chuff did he get by me?”
It didn’t matter, Holly thought, rubbing the raised goosepimples on her arm. Arnold had got past Callum to within yards of where Holly was waiting and she didn’t like it. Neither did she like the words on Callum’s windscreen.
They read, ‘You Stole From Me,’ and for the first time since arriving, Holly wanted to return to London.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“How can we be sure he’ll turn up?” Holly asked.
They lay under camouflage netting high on Caitloon Hill. The sun threw a spotlight on an intersection of roads. They came from the north, south, east and west of the estate. It wasn’t dead centre, but it was close. The ruins of a farmhouse stood nearby, a place for animals to shelter through the night.
Callum lay on his front, propped up on his elbows with Holly lying behind him. He lowered his binoculars, but continued to stare at the salmon tins he’d left by the road.
“It’s a feeling,” he said.
“So Mr Winnow was transporting the plant bulbs for Arnold Salting?”
“Think about it,” Callum said. “
Mr Winnow was told to take the bulbs to Black Rock Manor where Arnold was staying. Only I got in the way and now he wants them back.”
“This is a feeling then?” Holly asked. “That’s why I’m up here lying on rocks?”
“Arnold isn’t deranged. His brother lied.” Callum twisted the binocular straps around his knuckles. “It’s easier to dismiss someone when they’re labelled that way. Dad said that. Call them mad and you rob them of their voice.”
“He attacked Mr Winnow. He stole Nancy’s file. As far as we know, he may have killed her,” Holly said, jabbing her own binoculars at him. “He definitely left Regina for dead.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t dangerous,” Callum said, “but he’s been roaming this estate without me catching hide nor hair of him. That’s not easy. Not to mention, he devised a pretty smart way of smuggling those bulbs onto the estate.”
“That doesn’t explain why you think he’ll fall for your trap.”
“He wants those bulbs,” Callum said. “Anyone who goes to those kinds of lengths won’t give up. Arnold must have been so angry when he realised his delivery wasn’t going to arrive. While he was trying to figure out what went wrong, I’d already taken them.”
Wriggling into a more comfortable position, Holly gasped as yet another rock jabbed into her body. “So we wait until he turns up?”
“I’m surprised you’re here at all. I thought you were giving up.”
“That’s not fair,” she said.
“You don’t give up just because things are getting difficult.”
“I suppose your Dad said that as well, did he? What a fountain of knowledge.”
Callum looked at her over his shoulder. “And you deliver a goodbye like I should simply accept it.”
He turned away, leaving Holly to stare at the back of his head. With a sigh, she shuffled forward, dragging the camouflage netting with her, exposing them both to the eyes of the estate. Callum reached around her and pulled it taut.
“Coming home was supposed to be a fresh start,” Holly said. “It was going to make things better.”