by S. T. Boston
Mike swilled the ice around his glass, it clinked and chinked together, “They won’t just have dumped one shoe,” he said and took a sip of the cool liquid, it was sweet and acidically zesty all at the same time. "I expect over the next few days the sea will give it back, I doubt they'll find everything but…," Mike paused as a police diver surfaced. In his hand, he was clutching something. They were on the opposite side of the quay's channel but thanks to the fact the swim was quite narrow he was close enough to see it was a red adult size shoe, possibly a Converse, the exact same kind and colour that Ellie Harrison had been wearing the day she went missing.
“You were saying,” Tara commented in a low voice as she watched the developments herself.
Mike drained the glass as if it had something a little stronger in it that he’d needed to steady his nerves. The helmsman and his second in command were now busy getting an evidence bag ready and suddenly Mike heard Rob’s distraught voice in his head, ‘It was in a fucking evidence bag, his Clarks trainer, the kind with the lights in the heels, only the lights won’t work now because it’s been in the sea.’
A few tourists had noticed the flurry of activity over at the police rib and they’d now stopped, paused in morbid curiosity as one of the biggest news stories of the summer developed in front of them.
“I can’t believe they let the parent’s go,” he heard a chubby woman in a gaudy floral summer dress say to a man who was obviously her long-suffering husband. The poor guy looked to be about ten stone lighter than her as well as six inches shorter, he was dressed in plain grey cargo shorts and a yellow check shirt. On his feet were a pair of sturdy looking leather walking sandals, finished off nicely with a pair of white sports socks. The woman had a double flaked ice cream clasped in her fat fingers and she licked greedily at the cone as drips ran down it. “I mean there’s no smoke without fire, is there?” Mike felt an insatiable urge to get up and shove the old-bat into the water. The police might not have the evidence to charge Rob or the now catatonic Carol Harrison, but the public had all they needed to brand them killers. “I read in the paper this morning that the mother has been sectioned,” the woman continued. “Personally, I hope she rots in there, those poor kids. Can you imagine doing that to your own kids, Malc?”
“Fucking public,” Tara said sourly hearing the comment, too. “Read something in some shitty comic of a newspaper and take it as gospel.” She raised her voice loud enough, so the woman would hear, and she did. She spun around to see who had made the comment, a look of disgust on her face. Tara met her eyes and gave her a smile; the woman tutted loudly and ushered her henpecked husband along.
Mike was about to suggest that when they’d finished their drinks they should get moving, take a walk around the town and down to the beach, just to get a feel for the layout of the place, (the scene of Lindie Parker’s taking), when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He fished it out and frowned at the PRIVATE NUMBER caller ID displayed on the screen. In his experience, and when working for Sussex Police, PRIVATE NUMBER meant a job call. He swiped the phone to answer.
“Mike, it’s Mark Samuels,” Came a familiar voice.
“Mark,” he said, looking at Tara and Scotty who were now frowning at him and trying their best to listen. “How are you?”
“Under about ten tonnes of pressure to crack this thing and getting nowhere fast,” came a weary reply. “Look, Mike – I am out at the Travel Lodge, but they said you’d gone out for the day.”
“Just down at Charlestown, doing the touristy bit and seeing some sights,” Mike replied.
"I've left an envelope for you at the reception. Sue Reed requested you have the contents right away.”
Mike felt something cold churn inside of him, "You-you're finished," he stuttered.
“CSI pulled out this morning at nine. The place is all yours. I’ve gotta say I still don’t really want you in there Mike, but I don’t see what harm you can do now. The long and short is that the building has been released back to the owners and they asked me to get the keys to you, so I can’t stop you.”
Both Tara and Scotty had now cottoned on to where the conversation had led, and they were now sat looking soberly at him. “I appreciate it,” Mike said. “Did you find anything?”
There was a pause, and Mike knew his old colleague was weighing up answering the question, “Not a fucking thing,” he finally said. “The place was as clean as a whistle. It’s like they just upped, and fucking vanished into thin air.”
“I’ll collect the keys this afternoon,” Mike replied. “And thanks again, Mark.”
“No problem, buddy,” Samuels replied before terminating the call.
‘Just like they upped, and fucking vanished into thin air,’ Samuels had said. Mike was beginning to wonder if his old friend and colleague might not be far from the truth on that one.
Part 4
The Chapel
Chapter 38
They pulled up to The Old Chapel at a little after four PM that same Wednesday in a convoy of two vehicles. Tara rode shotgun with Mike in the front of his Jeep, with Scotty bringing up the rear in his T4, hauling all of the kit he’d loaded up back in Cowes. Much of it was theirs but a fair bit that also belonged to SwitchBack TV.
All signs that this had been the scene of a major police forensics operation had gone, save for one solitary length of police tape. It was still tied around the flaky old bark of a gnarled old oak at the far side of the property’s boundary, the tape had been snapped six inches or so before the knot and the tail end fluttered lazily in the breeze.
Tara let out a terse breath through her teeth and lifted her oversize shades off her face as Mike brought the Jeep to a stop. She glanced uneasily at him and said in a nervous voice, “So this is the place.” She wore three-quarter length white cargo shorts and a red GAP t-shirt, her dark blonde hair was held up in a ponytail, and for a second Mike didn't answer, he just enjoyed looking at her. "This is the place," he finally said with a wan smile.
“It knows we are here,” she said sombrely, and her words made Mike shiver. “I feel like it’s watching us, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” Mike replied, not wanting to fully admit that he felt the same, for fully admitted it might make it fact. He felt observed as if the trees lining the grounds had a thousand eyes that were watching them and were right at that moment whispering secrets to each other. "Let's get inside and have a look round, it will take a while to get the place rigged with cameras,” he said glancing in his rear-view and seeing that Scotty was already out of the cab of his VW. The rear tailgate and side sliding door were both open, and he was manhandling flight cases out and onto the shingle drive, his large arms swelling like tree trunks beneath the sleeves of his plain black button-up shirt.
“You need a hand there?” Mike asked as he got out.
Tara rounded the back of the Jeep and placed a hand on the outer casing of the spare wheel holder, “Listen,” she said to them both. “Just stop and listen a moment guys.”
Both Mike and Scotty obliged her and for a few moments, they all stood perfectly still with their heads cocked to the side.
“I don’t hear nothing,” Scotty finally said, looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement and confusion. He set the small case down that he’d been holding, placing it on top of a larger one he’d already removed.
“That’s exactly it,” Tara said with a little annoyance. “There’s nothing to hear. Nothing!” Scotty shook his head and was about to laugh when she added, “We are in the countryside, surrounded by thick woodland. Where are the birds? This whole place should be a haven for wildlife but it’s so quiet.”
Scotty’s face went from amused to deadpan serious in under a second flat. “Fuck,” he said. “You know, you’re right.” And for another few drawn out seconds, they all stood in combined silence, all wanting to hear just the chirp of one bird or the rustle of wildlife from the forest. There was nothing. As he stood there Scotty scanned the treeline his head turning slowly.
Finally, he returned his attention to Tara.
“There must be something deeply wrong with this place,” she said to them both.
“Remember I told you about the two police dogs that they had out here to do the search?” Mike cut in.
Scotty nodded, “Wouldn’t come out of the handlers’ vans and both pissed themselves.”
“That’s right, well it seems that our K9 friends are not the only members of the animal kingdom to wanna give this place a miss.” Mike looked at the stack of cases now piled up by the van. “Let’s get this shit inside before we spook ourselves to the point where we are wanting to pack it back in the van and getting the hell outta Dodge,” he chuckled, but like Rob Harrison’s laugh the other day, there was no real humour in it.
Mike reached the swish-bang door at the side of Scotty’s Van and grabbed two of the smaller cases, the ones holding their own MEL and K2 meters, as well as a few digital voice recorders. He hauled them one on to each shoulder by the strap and walked to the front door. He didn't pause there and contemplate putting the key in the lock, he did it deftly, the way a skydiver might jump from a plane, or you might tear a well stuck on plaster off your skin, for if you thought about it too long you might well back out. He crossed the threshold for the first time confidently and with both Tara and Scotty behind him.
“It’s cold in here,” Tara said. she dumped the two cases she carried down and rubbed her hands up and down her tanned arms as if to highlight the point.
“Old Cornish stone,” Mike replied, setting his cases down by hers. “Naturally keeps the place a good few degrees cooler than it is outside.”
They all stood for a few moments, taking in the entrance lobby of the place they’d been waiting so long to get into, yet all not really wanting to get into at all. The place that June Rodgers had told them would be the death of them. The place where people seemingly vanished with no explanation as to how. The place where the cries of tortured infants filled the night, and somehow wormed its way into people’s heads and made them kill themselves and drown babies in their baths.
It looked lavish and not at all sinister, something pretty painted over something rotten. It was just like the pictures from the website, decorated in a mixture of natural stone and dark wood panelling. The cooled air carried a mixture of smells, oak, stone and the unmistakable scent of bleach and cleaning fluid, one juxtaposing against the other to make an odd cocktail that wasn't pleasant but wasn't exactly nasty, either. To the left by the door was a sturdy looking oak sideboard, not old, likely a reproduction of an earlier piece made within the last few years and carrying a tasty price tag. A key plaque made of rough-cut grey slate hung above it with a laminated, printed card reminding guests to leave the keys there at all times when in, to avoid losing them. There were two staircases that led to the mezzanine level, one to the left, and one to the right. They arced round in opposing curves both leading to the open plan lounge above. The place was large, but it didn’t require two staircases leading to the same place, it had been done more for the grand appearance than necessity. At the foot of the left staircase, Mike could see where the dark grey carpet had been scrubbed clean, scrubbed with something abrasive and to the point where it had bobbled. There was no doubting that this was the exact spot where PC Shelly Ardell had fallen and suffered the head injury that would prove fatal. The grey of the carpet was still stained in places, where the blood had soaked in too deeply to ever be removed.
Large stained-glass windows lit the lobby, reaching up either side of the heavy oak door. They provided enough natural light to feed the lobby and the lounge, too. The lounge / living area was open plan and an internal balcony looked back down over the entrance lobby. The banisters from each opposing staircase fed round to the internal balcony rail, making one fluid sweep of oak handrail that stretched from the left stairway, up, over and across the lounge balcony and down the right. Timber beams stained the same shade as the door and banisters reached up a good ten feet from the lounge where they met at the roof's peak.
Directly in front of them and tunnelling its way under the lounge ran a corridor, panelled again in expensive looking timber from floor to ceiling. Mike could see doors set into the panelling, one of which had a brass plaque on denoting a bathroom. At the far end of the central corridor, Mike could see that it opened out into the kitchen and dining room. A second corridor ran along the right side of the building, following the original stone wall and here another laminated card was hung with the words, ‘MASTER BEDROOM’ printed on it. Below the bold typed letters was a thick, black arrow pointing the way for those guests who might be directionally impaired. Toward the end of this corridor, Mike could see an opening that looked to be a third, but more basic stairway leading to the bedrooms on the mezzanine level, the ones behind the lounge. Resting on the floor, propped upright against the wall at the foot of the right-hand staircase was a large, heavy looking crucifix. Someone, likely a member of the forensics team must have knocked it off the wall and forgotten to rehang it.
“Impressive place, “Scotty said, breaking the momentary silence and making both Mike and Tara jump a little.
“Yeah, worth the heavy price tag for the stay, if it doesn’t kill you,” Tara said, and no one laughed.
“Let’s get the rest of the gear in and have a proper look round,” Mike encouraged. “We stay together, though. Even tonight I suggest that when we do turn in or feel the need to sleep, we all stay in the lounge area. It looks nice and open and we have a view of the front door. And none of that lights out shit. It looks good for TV but we all know it’s bollocks, if a place is haunted it’s haunted, you don’t need the dark to bring it out.” ‘Or maybe this place does need the dark,’ he thought to himself. Maybe that’s what it craves. He cast the thought aside without voicing it, turned and walked back out, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the fresh air. The inside of The Old Chapel was indulgent, corpulent even. But the sheer amount of dark timber strangled the natural light once you got past the main lobby. The internal corridors had been dimly lit despite the large windows and the brightness of the sun outside. It made Mike feel a little claustrophobic and he wasn’t sorry to be back out in the heat of the day.
As he reached the back of the T4, eyes still squinting in the sunlight, Mike spotted someone coming up the drive, a man dressed in smart grey trousers and a white shirt. At first, Mike thought it was Mark Samuels but then he spotted the camera slung over the guy's shoulder and the fact he had sandy blonde hair. As the stranger drew closer he collected up the camera, it looked to be an expensive looking DSLR, the professional kind with a large lens. He raised it to his eye, and as he walked toward them he fluidly took a few snaps before letting it drop back to his side, where it hung the way a woman might carry her handbag.
“Afternoon,” the new-comer called, his voice raised slightly to cover the closing distance between them. As he spoke he raised a friendly hand at the same time. “Another hot one,” he added as he joined them at the back of the T4, he ran the back of his hand over his perspiration-wettened brow and let out an exasperated sigh as if to make his point.
He was in his early thirties, his sandy blonde hair was swept back on his head and his face was so smooth it looked as if he’d never breached puberty and needed to shave. His white shirt was untucked and hung loosely around the top of his trousers and Mike could see sweat patches under his arms and around the collar. “Can I help?” Mike asked, trying not to sound too short. Tara and Scotty had joined him at the back of the T4 and were also looking at the new guest with suspicion.
“Duncan Reid,” the guy said and extended his hand toward Mike who shook it reluctantly. His palm felt clammy and sweaty. Mike let go and covertly wiped his hand against his trouser leg. “You’s guys movin’ in?” He had a slight hint of Scottish to his accent and Mike guessed he’d likely lived there in his youth, probably moving south of the border at some point where over the years his accent had become diluted.
“I’m guessing you’re a
reporter, Mr. Reid?” Mike asked, nodding toward the camera.
Reid smiled, and it looked friendly, but Mike knew it was false; the smile was put on as part of his hidden agenda, and that was to get some kind of scoop. “Indeed,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for days to get a closeup of this place. I don’t suppose you’d care to give me a quick quote now would you, about how it feels to stay here after it’s been a crime scene?” Reid was now looking with interest at the remaining cases stacked by the back of Scotty’s T4 and Mike could see he was trying to work out what they were. “Or,” he added The ‘or’ coming out slowly as if he were still deciding to continue, “let me in to take a few snaps. I could pay you, ya know make it worth your while.”
"If it's all the same to you Mr. Reid," Mike began, but he was cut off mid-flow.
“Hang on a minute,” Reid said. His left hand was up now, pointing back and forth at the three of them and Mike felt his stomach sink. “I know you’s three. You’re Mike Cross, aren’t you?” Mike didn’t answer. The smile on Reid’s face was genuine now and it showed his slightly yellowed teeth. “I did a piece on that case you investigated up North, it was in the Sun, where was that place now?” he paused and chewed momentarily on the tip of his forefinger before answering his own question. “That’s right, Sleaford. You got a TV show off the back of that, didn't ya?” Reid was looking pleased with himself now and grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Mike didn’t answer so he tried another question, “Are you’s three here as part of the investigation?”