by Shaun Baines
The thought of a drunken Derek begging for a job mixed with the cries of the chainsaws. It clouded Holly’s vision and flipped her stomach with shame.
“Why are you here?” Holly asked. “Surely, you have some liposuction that needs doing.”
Mrs Masterly’s porcelain skin coloured around the edges, but showed no signs of cracking.
“I’m supervising the removal of our media hub,” she said.
“Is the dissemination of your propaganda over?”
Mrs Masterly looked to the Sold sign on The Travelling Star pub. “I think we both know that was never its purpose.”
“Didn’t we just. So who’s next on your list? Me? The paper? The Winnows?”
“Don’t get paranoid, Mrs Fleet. We’re here to help.”
“I’ll tell everyone what you’re doing,” Holly said. “I can see what you’re doing from a mile away. Nothing gets past me.”
Holly leapt out of the way as a silver truck almost reversed into her. A driver hopped out and began shackling the media hub to the tow bar.
“Go ahead and tell them,” Mrs Masterly said, reaching into her handbag for a vial of perfume. She dabbed it on her wrists, rubbing them together, like a stick insect cleaning its legs. “The paper will die without a village and from what I hear, the Winnows are their own worst enemies. Shouldn’t take much to deal with them.”
The perfume’s scent nauseated Holly. It smelled of flowers and burnt wood. Mrs Masterly had a protective aura stemming from privilege. It was like her perfume, toxic and impenetrable. No one was allowed too close, not that Holly wanted to be.
Unless she got the chance to slap the Botox out of her face.
Holly swallowed hard, wafting the smell from her nose. “There are people trying to stop you. They’re getting close.”
Dropping the perfume into her bag, Mrs Masterly inhaled deeply. “The missing lady Nancy Foxglove. The madman Arnold Salting. Yes, I know. I’m also told they are residing with the farmer Mr MacFarlene. The man you were chatting with earlier.”
“I don’t know who you mean.”
“Mr MacFarlene is more troubled than you think. What did he say?”
Holly frowned, fully aware of the wrinkles now grouped around her own eyes. “We were talking about starting a band together. It’s going to be called ‘None of Your Business.’”
“And you’d be right,” Mrs Masterly said, her painted eyebrows rising, “but he’s a gossip with nothing to say. I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you.”
The black Rover appeared by the kerb and Mrs Masterly slid inside.
The media hub was secured to the silver truck and they pulled away in tandem.
Holly watched Mrs Masterly’s car cruise along the high street. It paused by the Winnows’ new souvenir shop before continuing out of sight.
Without their free alcohol, the residents saw no reason to stay. They offered garbled goodbyes and staggered to their homes to sleep it off.
Holly was left alone with the stink of Mrs Masterly’s perfume in her nostrils and the whine of chainsaws in her ears. Big Gregg was inside his lonely bar, probably packing his memories away in makeshift boxes.
Holly hoped Callum was having a better time of it. She’d guessed Mr MacFarlene would break away from Nancy and Arnold to indulge in his favourite pastime. She hadn’t expected him to bolt at the sight of Mrs Masterly, though Holly understood why he might.
She’d meet Mr MacFarlene tonight and perhaps more pieces of the puzzle would be revealed. Holly allowed herself a moment of optimism until she noticed Black Eye Bobby watching her from a distant rooftop. The raven cawed, its voice sounding like a deep-throated laugh.
Chapter Forty-One
Holly arrived at Mr MacFarlene’s farmhouse to the sight of flashing blue lights. It was dark and they lit up the sky like beacons. Two police cars were parked nose to nose as if they’d come from opposite directions in a pincer movement. Officers mooched around the front garden, kicking up gravel. The lights shone from inside the house, making their high-vis jackets glow as if they were angels.
Holly killed her headlights and reversed into a lay-by. She left her car and crept along the hedgerow to get a better view. Being a diligent journalist, Holly cursed when she realised she’d forgotten her camera.
A figure crawled out of the hedge. “What are you doing here?” it asked.
“For the love of God, Callum. I need to put a bell around your neck,” Holly said above the decibels of her heartbeat.
Callum brushed leaves from his clothes and dragged her down into a squat.
“What’s going on?” Holly asked.
“They came from nowhere. Screeched to a halt and went inside.”
“Are Nancy and Arnold in there?”
Callum shook his head and a twig fell out. “No. They were on their way back, but they saw the lights and scarpered. It’s just Mr MacFarlene.”
“What have the pair of them been doing?”
“Nothing. All day long,” Callum said. “They’ve been walking around the estate for days.”
Poking her head above the hedgerow, Holly watched the police as they stiffened to attention.
The black Rover emerged from the night, its powerful headlights robbing the officers of their glow. They rushed to the vehicle’s window and a white face appeared.
Holly could almost smell her rotten perfume. Mrs Masterly spoke a few whispered words and the police bustled into the farmer’s house. Slender legs appeared and Mrs Masterly climbed from the Rover, facing the hedgerow.
Holly ducked behind the hedge, her breath caught in her throat. There was no way she could be seen, no way Mrs Masterly knew Holly was there, but she wasn’t going to take the risk.
Mrs Masterly had an unerring ability to be one step ahead.
“What’s going on?” Callum whispered.
“Something bad.”
Holly waited until the sound of a car engine told her Mrs Masterly was leaving. She parted the shrubbery and saw brake lights floating like UFO’s in the distance. The tension drained from Holly’s shoulders to return when she looked at the farmhouse.
Mr MacFarlene stood in his doorway, grim-faced officers on either side of him. His cheeks were cherry red, the result of years of whisky abuse, but the rest of his face was a shock of white. He was dragged along the garden path, his arms locked behind him.
Holly staggered out of the hedgerow, stepping into the light of Mr MacFarlene’s home.
He saw her and raised his head high. “The farm is all I have left of my wife,” he shouted. “I’d do anything to protect it. Anything.”
The officers hurried him to a waiting car and Mr MacFarlene was manhandled inside. The door was clanged shut, waking dormant wildlife, who emerged with a howl.
Callum pulled Holly behind the hedge before she was spotted by the police.
“I overheard two of the officers talking before you got here,” Callum said. He moved position, but didn’t look comfortable. “It’s serious.”
“How serious? He’s just a farmer.”
Callum picked a stray twig from the ground and snapped it in his hand. “Mr MacFarlene. He was the one who hurt Regina.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Old Jack stood in the garden and threw a tennis ball in the air. It landed, rolling into the hooves of Nancy’s goat, who eyed it imperiously.
“I swear to you,” he said, “yesterday, that goat caught the ball and brought it back to me.”
Holly watched him from the patio, her hands resting on the back of a plastic chair. The air was filled with rain waiting to fall. Judging by the angry faces of the clouds, when it arrived, it would be heavy and persistent; the kind of rain that forced people indoors to wince as it washed down their homes.
With a grin, Old Jack retrieved the tennis ball and tried again. It bounced awkwardly, spinning to the edge of the lawn. The goat followed, nudging it with its nose until the ball was pushed under the fence into the neighbour’s garden.
“
There goes another one,” Old Jack said.
“You seem better,” Holly said.
Old Jack gave her a wink. “The pills are finally kicking in, pet. Plus I’ve had time to think things through.”
“That’s good,” Holly said, rubbing the nape of her neck. This wasn’t going to be easy, she thought. “Shall we have some tea?”
They went inside, settling in the kitchen away from the burgeoning rain. Old Jack busied himself making tea while Holly sat at a table, playing with her wonky fringe.
“I’m not out of the woods yet, of course,” Old Jack said. “One day at a time. Isn’t that what they say? But I’m glad to see you’re still working on our little problem.”
Holly had told him what she’d witnessed at Mr MacFarlene’s farm. Old Jack had pursed his lips in sympathy before finding a fresh tennis ball for the goat.
“I’m not sure how far I’m getting,” Holly said.
Old Jack set two mugs on the table, steam spiralling over the hot liquid.
Holly stared into the mug. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, pet,” Old Jack said. “It was a funny turn, that’s all.”
“Jack?”
“What is it? Come on, drink up afore it gets cold.”
Holly shifted in her seat. “You forgot to put the tea bags in.”
Old Jack craned over the mugs, his confusion reflected in the clear water. He looked over his shoulder at the kitchen counter. “But I got them out. They’re on the counter. I can see them.”
Glancing at the unopened box of teabags, Holly cradled her mug in her hands. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I guess I must have…”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Holly asked. “I’ve got some good news.”
Old Jack fell into the seat opposite her. His chin trembled and he shrank inside his woollen cardigan. “It’s hard to concentrate sometimes. I forget things.”
“I’m not that thirsty,” Holly said, her mouth dry. “Do you want to hear my good news?”
Old Jack’s blue eyes blazed razor sharp, like a drowning man finally finding a lifeboat on the horizon. They burned for a second and then dimmed as he pulled at a thread on his clothes.
“We’ve found Nancy,” Holly said. “She’s fine.”
“Is she here?”
“No, she’s not here, but she was asking after you.”
Old Jack smiled, some of the colour returning to his face.
But Nancy hadn’t asked after Old Jack. She’d been dismissive of him. Contemptuous, even. What was it about Old Jack that had stoked Nancy’s ire?
“What is it?” he asked.
Holly stood from her seat, taking their mugs to the sink. “I better go. Things to do.”
“I might not be able to make a cup of tea,” Old Jack said, “but I still know when someone is hiding a secret.”
“You say things like that and I believe you,” Holly said, pouring hot water down the drain, “but it never makes it into the Herald. You know everything and everyone in the village. You could help people with what you know.”
“I do help people,” Old Jack said. “People like you.”
“And I appreciate it, but are we really journalists? Are you?”
The last of the water circled the drain. Holly turned from the sink and held Old Jack’s gaze. “Nancy isn’t okay. She’s mixed up in something I don’t understand. I’m trying to help, but I’m worried she’s going to get hurt.”
Without meaning to, Holly told Old Jack everything. The bulbs, the Wentworths and the Masterlys’ slow strangulation of the village. It slewed out of her and with each word passing her lips, she felt lighter and Holly knew why. She was placing her burden onto the frail shoulders of Old Jack.
Lost in a sea of insurmountable questions, it was the reason she was visiting her boss. And in knowing that, Holly realised something else. She saw her deceased father in the diminished figure before her. They were both men whose strength had been rinsed from them, like laundry washed clean of its colour. She should be more protective, Holly thought and she should have been there for her father’s demise.
Old Jack stared through the kitchen window to the village he’d grown up in. His gaunt face was reflected in the glass until he returned his attention to Holly.
“Nancy never did what people expected,” Old Jack said, tracing his finger along the grooves of the table. “Even her sister failed to control her, failed to keep her indoors. I wish I could have helped them more.”
“What am I going to do?” Holly asked.
“The important thing is the village,” Old Jack said. “Us doddery old has-beens will be gone soon enough. It’s the young blood, people like you who need to protect it.”
Holly slapped her hand against the sink, accidentally turning on one of the taps. Water gushed out, hitting the mugs and covering her in cold liquid. She switched it off and searched the kitchen for a towel.
On a shelf above a rattling old freezer was a pile of unopened post.
“Mrs Masterly believes the Herald will need new owners soon,” Holly said. “I think she’ll make you an offer.”
Old Jack cupped his chin in his hand. “Good for her.”
“Could she have mailed something to you?” Holly picked up the envelopes, her fingertips skipping through them until she found one with the Salting stamp.
“I think this is it,” she said. “This might be the offer.”
“I’d sooner see the place burned to the ground,” Old Jack said, his eyes flashing an icy blue. “It’s not for sale. At any price.”
If Holly was going to protect the village, it meant protecting its residents first. It was too late for Big Gregg. He was the hero who had seen too many fights. He was resigned to whatever fate had in store for him, but it wasn’t too late for the others.
She placed the envelope in Old Jack’s gnarled hand.
“Think about it,” she said. “We don’t all have to lose.”
Holly made Old Jack another tea, remembering to include a bag this time. Saying her farewells with a promise to return, she walked toward the Winnows’ shop. Callum had lost his home. Big Gregg had lost his pub. There was a hope that Old Jack might take the money and run, but the Masterlys’ hit list was long and cruel.
And the Winnows could be next.
Chapter Forty-Three
They stood behind the counter, their shoulders rubbing and causing static. Hot sparks shot from their eyes.
“I told you to order more,” Mrs Winnow said, throwing her arms above her head.
“No, you said the order needs doing,” Mr Winnow answered, furiously polishing the counter. “Not that I needed to do it.”
“Oh, so you assumed I was going to do it? Typical.”
Mr Winnow took the rag in his hands and strangled it. “I didn’t assume anything.”
“Why don’t you just do what you say you’re going to do?”
“Who’s saying anything?” Mr Winnow said, a vein threatening to burst in his forehead.
The hiss of their heated conversation forced a mushrooming headache onto Holly. She pressed soothing fingers into her forehead and waited to be noticed. She’d learned a long time ago never to interrupt a couple in the middle of an argument.
“Well, I’m saying it now,” Mrs Winnow shouted.
It sounded like the old ‘I said, you said’ classic; the argument all married couples were doomed to have from time to time. Derek and Holly had had a few zingers like that.
“Thanks for that,” Mr Winnow said, interrupting Holly’s train of thought. She looked up to find him on his own, leaning on the counter with his head in his hands.
“Thanks for what?” she asked.
“I told her about…you know.” Mr Winnow looked left and right. “Everything, and now she’s on my case. She won’t let me out her sight.”
“And that’s my fault, how?”
“It’s not, I suppose,” he said, straightening, “but life was a lot easie
r when I had my secrets.”
“Where is your wife now?” Holly asked and Mr Winnow pointed to the ceiling.
“Upstairs. Writing out an order for more books and thinking of more ways to make me miserable.” Mr Winnow hung his head. “I don’t really know anymore.”
The bookcase was well stocked with walking maps, tourist guides and wildlife books. There was a gap in the middle with one book lying on its own.
Holly picked it up. “The History of Northumberland,” she said. “I keep seeing this around.”
“It’s a big seller,” Mr Winnow said, stepping away from his counter. “I think with all the new changes around here, people want to reminisce.”
Flicking through the pages, Holly saw chunks of dense text and photographs of castles and beaches.
“It’s the last one,” Mr Winnow prompted.
Holly couldn’t see the appeal, but tucked it under her arm anyway. “Are you doing okay?” she asked.
“Apart from starting World War Three every time I open my mouth, you mean? Things are fine.”
“The Masterlys haven’t been interfering?” Holly asked. “Nothing strange going on?”
Mr Winnow picked at skin around his fingernails. “Do I need to be worried about something?”
Holly wanted to say yes. Not to frighten him, but to put him on his guard.
“Not at all,” she said. “Just being nosey.”
Despite being involved in activities that skirted close to criminality, Mr Winnow was a nervous man and Holly didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. Perhaps the Masterlys would leave him alone.
“Good,” said Mr Winnow, wiping his brow. “What with Judy on the warpath and the tax man on my back, I don’t need any more trouble. I have little enough hair as it is.”
“The tax man?” Holly asked.
“It’s nothing. Her Majesty’s best are doing an audit on our business accounts. It’s routine. All part of a bigger picture, they say.”
“But they’ve never looked at your books before?”
Mr Winnow shook his head and gave her a grin. “They’ll not find anything. My books are as tight as a gnat’s chuff. Speaking of which, are you buying that book or shoplifting?” He pressed in close and whispered into her ear. “If you pay cash, I don’t have to put it through the till.”