by Jack Benton
He washed the cup in a sink then wandered through into the adjacent library room. Partly a kids’ play area, with a few boxes of toys in one corner, and partly a local history library, he thumbed absently through a volume of collected parish council meeting minutes. It was all the usual local stuff—requests for no-littering signs, debates over the implementation of speed bumps through the village, notices for lost pets, primary school charity events—the kind of comforting inanity of which Slim sometimes wished he could be part.
The list of attendees was an interesting snapshot of village life. Among some Slim didn’t recognise were others he did: Cathy Jenkins, Kenny Kent, even Clora for a few months as he flicked through, serving as treasurer. The names came and went as Slim turned the pages—Cathy served a year as community hall secretary, disappeared for a year then returned as deputy head—revealing a fluctuating sphere of influence as people came, grew, faded, went.
Beneath the list of serving councillors was an addendum containing the names of those also in attendance.
Slim frowned at the sight of a familiar name. He flicked back through the minutes to the previous month, then again. Further back, month by month, even as the councillors came and went, the name was always there, a watcher in the crowd no matter how large or small, as though to influence proceedings by his very presence alone.
Thomas Croad.
29
Cathy’s shop sold little in the way of readily edible food, so Slim found himself sitting on a bench outside the church dipping slices of bread into a cold can of out-of-date baked beans. An open can of coke sat beside him, taunting him with the ease with which he could top it up with the goodness in his pocket.
The leaves had mostly gone from the trees, collecting in ditches in gummy, matted clumps. A herd of sheep in a neighbouring field were a continuing audible accompaniment, but otherwise Scuttleworth was at rest. A car had driven past ten minutes before, but since then Slim had felt like the only person alive in this forgotten place.
And then a plaintive cry broke the calm and Slim knew another confrontation was coming.
Shelly.
He finished his lunch, dropping the rubbish into a stone bin by the end of the path, and then made his way around the church to the rear graveyard. Now that he knew it was there, he could make out the awning of Shelly’s tent through the trees.
The door flap was down but the sounds of someone shuffling around came from inside. Slim paused, reached into his pocket and pulled out the brandy. He unscrewed the top and took a swig.
The liquor’s harsh burn sank into his muscles with immediate effect. Slim sighed then sat down on the path.
‘Hey, Shelly,’ he called. ‘I’m the guy who showed up the other day with Croad. I’ve ditched that arsehole, so I was wondering if we could have a chat about your sons.’ He paused. ‘Both of them.’
The shuffling stopped, the tent going quiet. Slim took another drink as he waited.
‘I know some people think Dennis killed those kids,’ Slim said, staring off across the field. ‘You know what I think?’ He waved his free hand at nothing. ‘I think Dennis is still alive, and I’m waiting for him to show up and tell me himself.’
The tent door billowed. Slim saw a shadow moving, something long and pale bending and curving.
The drinking had dulled his reactions over the years. He managed to close his eyes, but that was all as Shelly’s scowling face appeared, her arm cocking and unleashing, sending a multi-limbed projectile flying straight into his face.
30
He only had small change left so he emptied it into the honesty box and took the coffee out to the terrace. This time he made no attempt to control himself, emptying a good third of the brandy’s remaining contents into the cup.
He drank while holding a wad of toilet tissue to the cut on his cheek, wishing he’d stayed put. He lifted the object that had hit him and turned it over in his hands—a doll made from twigs and wire—thankful it hadn’t been a rock or knife. He wiped a spot of his own blood off it then stuffed it into his pocket. Shelly had shown herself only for a moment before pulling the flap closed, shutting off their brief interaction almost as soon as it had begun.
When he was finished with his drink, he stumbled back inside the community hall, into the library, where he sat down again with the collection of old parish council notes. He wished he was sober enough to read, but his focus would only extend to pictures, so he found himself flicking over old black and white photographs of village fetes, seasonal festivals, local sports clubs, village outings.
Nothing except more questions. His head slumped towards the desk. He was beyond weary, in a place where the possibility existed to sleep forever. His fingers clawed at the paper, wishing it were a rope that would pull him out of this place.
The door clicked behind him. ‘Excuse me. You’re not allowed alcohol in here.’
Slim looked up, squinting to focus. A young girl stood in the doorway, her hair tied up with a floral patterned scrunchie. Blue eyes shone out of a pretty face which seemed to be surrounded by a purplish-pink aura.
It took him a moment to recognise Mandy.
‘I don’t have alcohol.’
‘You do. I can smell it.’
‘I already drank it.’
The girl gave him a sympathetic shrug. ‘And I don’t want it coming back up all over a bunch of books I can’t replace. Even if you are the only person I’ve ever seen actually read them. Look, if you’re cold, you can sit in the kitchen.’
‘Do I look like a tramp?’ Slim said.
‘Well, kind of. Especially with your face. I might think it if I hadn’t seen your money in me mum’s shop.’ She sighed. ‘Look, come on. I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘I think I drank most of it already.’
‘Well, you pretty much own it. You know how few people use that box?’
‘It was just a bit of change.’
Mandy laughed. ‘You must be hammered. You put in nearly eight quid.’
‘Is that so? Well, if you’re restocking, I can recommend a couple of decent brands.’
He stood up, his balance uncertain, but using door frames and the wall for support he followed Mandy out into the kitchen. She pulled a seat out for him then took one across the table.
‘So what happened?’ the girl asked as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘You look like you’ve had a rough couple of days.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Mandy laughed. ‘Nothing like a sense of humour. What happened to your cheek?’
‘Which one?’
‘Well, both I suppose.’
Slim pointed. ‘This one was a punch from a guy wearing a ring. And this was from an old lady throwing a wooden doll.’
Mandy shrugged. ‘Sounds like a usual day in Scuttleworth,’ she said. ‘I can’t lay claim to the old lady, but it was my boyfriend who punched you. Well,’—she rolled her eyes—‘as of this morning, ex-boyfriend.’
31
In addition to sporadically attending a fashion college in Exeter, among other things, Mandy was employed for a few hours a week as the community hall’s cleaner.
‘Pays better than me mum does,’ she said as way of explanation. ‘And even the hoover’s less annoying than her constant whining.’
‘So tell me,’ Slim said, leaning against a countertop for balance while Mandy washed the cups in the sink. ‘You seem like a nice girl. Everyone I’ve met round here has some issue or other, but the more time I spend with you, the more I think that you might actually be normal. Therefore, why were you hanging around with a muppet like Jimmy Kent?’
She shrugged, her back to him. ‘He’s all right when he’s not off his head,’ she said. Then, with a quick glance back, she added, ‘and it’s not like there’s a lot of choice around here, is there?’
‘Never heard of buses? Trains? You could get out of here. What about fashion college?’
Mandy laughed. ‘They’re all primas or poofs, aren’t they? Anyway, Scuttlewort
h’s where I grew up. You get used to it. You’re full of questions, ain’t you? So, my turn. Why do they call you Slim?’
Slim hesitated. ‘It’s a long story, but not an interesting one. It involves a pipe. I’ll tell you when you’re in a good mood, ruin your day.’
‘Is that an offer?’
Slim shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Wow. Next time something’s going well I’ll be sure to give you a call.’
‘You do that. So, is it worth me asking you about Dennis Sharp?’
Mandy cocked her head. ‘I told you. He was a perv. Killed those kids.’
‘And you know that for sure, do you?’
Mandy pouted. ‘Look. I didn’t know him well. Not personally. Saw him around from time to time. I know he died in a car crash, but I was pretty young when it happened so I don’t remember much about it. I remember going to his funeral with me parents, but only because he was local. Whenever someone local dies, everyone shows up. That’s just the way it is.’
‘Did you ever speak to him?’
‘Dunno, don’t think I ever did one-to-one. He did some craft stuff here from time to time, special occasions, that kind of thing. Kept himself to himself, mostly, what I remember.’
‘And what did other people think of him?’
Mandy frowned. ‘Look, is this something that’ll come back around to bite me? You might get a bit of gossip out of some of the old dears who come in here on coffee mornings but I’ve told you enough tales already. Plus, you’re hammered. Are you going to remember any of this?’
Sober, Slim might have kept his cards closer, but he had a way of thinking about a case which wouldn’t reveal its secrets: break it open, stamp it, kick the nest. Loosen the lock holding it closed, create something out of nothing.
‘I don’t think he’s dead,’ Slim said. ‘In fact, I know he’s not. I saw him, walking in the forest.’
Mandy laughed. ‘You’re out of your mind. I mean, it’s a cool story, but it’s not very likely, is it?’
‘I told you, I saw him.’
‘Were you drunk?’
Slim grimaced. ‘I’d had one or two.’
‘So that’s a yes. Look, Slim, I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but I have to get on and get this place cleaned, if you don’t mind.’
32
Slim woke to the buzzing of his phone. He scrambled for it, finding it nestled into his armpit. He was lying on the sofa in the cottage’s small living room, his body covered with a towel, his legs exposed to the chill November air. Sunlight pierced holes in the threadbare curtains as Slim sat up and began frantically massaging warmth back into his stiff, frozen limbs.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the sunlight gave him hope. It was a new day, and a new beginning. A fresh start. The recovery mantra had been drummed into him at an addiction meeting an old criminal conviction had required him to attend as part of his sentence, but it had taken years to sink in. Now, he scraped the wreckage of yesterday’s disaster into a plastic bag and brewed the kettle. Then he went to see who had called.
Kay. He tried to call back but just as the phone picked up a single bar of signal, the battery abruptly died. Slim found the cable and plugged it in, then went for a short walk outside while he waited for his phone to regain enough power for the call.
The woods were quiet. Barely even a whisper of a breeze rustled the leaves yet to fall from the trees or those piling in brittle mounds on the forest floor. Slim turned in a slow circle, wondering if Dennis Sharp were out there now, watching him, and if so, what he was thinking.
‘I don’t care if you get Ozgood’s money,’ Slim muttered to no one. ‘You can have all of it as far as I care. Just show your face. Let me take a good look at you. Trust me, I know what it feels like to be disappeared.’
No answer came. Slim went back inside and found his phone had enough charge to make a call. Reception was poor, but by standing on a chair next to a window he was able to get just enough of a signal to call Kay back.
‘It’s me.’
‘You don’t sound good, Slim. Are you all right?’
Slim laughed. ‘Hanging in there. Just eating a bowl of fresh fruit for breakfast.’
‘Well, I have some news. It might cheer you up, we’ll see.’
‘What is it?’
‘I did an analysis on the handwriting samples you gave me. Now, my professional opinion on this is only worth about eighty percent, but I think we have a match. They look different to the naked eye, but the letter contains certain depths of stroke and intensity that suggest it was the same person trying to disguise their handwriting, perhaps by holding the pen differently or by writing drunk.’
‘How can you tell? They looked completely different.’
‘A lot more writing comes from the shoulder than people realise. Then there’s the balance of the letters. Like I say, I’m only eighty percent, but in this game that’s decent. My guess is that whoever did it was pretty naive, new to this. You’re dealing with an amateur, that’s for certain. Now, if you could find me an actual text written by Dennis Sharp—a letter or article, for instance—I could do a syntax analysis which would add another layer of probability.’
‘Syntax analysis?’
‘People use certain repeat phrases that can be matched. An amateur blackmailer might have no idea what clues they’re leaving in the words they use. Then there’s tone, and the obvious one, spelling.’
‘I’ll see what I can get.’
‘I look forward to it. Always glad to help. You hang in there, Slim.’
Kay hung up. Slim stared out into the forest.
Dennis Sharp was alive. He knew it.
33
‘And put that desk over there,’ Clora said, waving a hand in the rough direction of a cleared space in the corner. ‘I never use it so I might as well get it out of the way.’
Slim sweated as he hauled the heavy block of mahogany across the room, wondering both why Clora had it and how she had gotten it up the stairs.
‘Phew,’ she said as he set it down. ‘It’s tiring me out just watching you. I’m ready for another cuppa whenever you are.’
Slim grunted in place of a reply, wondering when his fitness had got so bad. However, clearing Clora’s flat into even a semblance of order had been as hard as much of his army training. Fourteen full refuse sacks stood by the door. Slim had unearthed furniture Clora had forgotten even existed. She kept reminding him that he ought to be proud of his efforts, even though her own contribution had amounted to one solitary shift from the armchair to a recently rediscovered sofa in order to test a new angle of facing the TV.
‘You ought to ask Ozgood for a job,’ she said. ‘You’re far more use than that idiot Croad.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You look exhausted. You should take a rest. Didn’t you sleep last night?’
‘Barely.’
Clora laughed. ‘I’d sleep forever if I didn’t have my shows.’
‘I don’t really watch television,’ Slim said. ‘I owned one once, but it got busted.’
‘You dropped it?’
He grimaced. ‘House fire.’
‘Oh.’
He made tea and coffee while Clora made herself comfortable.
‘Now I can get to the piping cabinet, I’ll be back tomorrow to fix it up,’ Slim said.
‘You’re a gentleman. Not had one of those in my life since poor Den passed.’
‘I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.’
Clora laughed. ‘I guess it must be hard to find people to interview in a little village like this.’
Slim shrugged. ‘Most people don’t want to talk to me. And those who do don’t have much to say.’
‘About Den?’
‘About anything.’
‘Perhaps you’re not asking the right questions.’
Slim was quiet, sipping his tea. ‘I’m not sure what questions I should be asking.’
‘Well, you think he’s alive, but everyone round here t
hinks he’s dead. If he was alive, where’s he been all this time, and if he wandered off somewhere for a while, why’d he come back? Why now?’
Why now. Slim leaned back on the armchair, resting his head against a headrest that smelled of damp. Why now indeed.
‘I’ve got to make a phone call,’ he said, standing up.
‘Well, you’d better hike up the hill a bit, as you’ll get nothing down here.’
Slim nodded. ‘I’ll be back in a while.’
Clora just shrugged and reached for the TV remote. ‘Any time. I’m not going anywhere, am I?’
34
‘I’ve got nothing substantial for you yet on that abattoir,’ Don said. ‘A negligence case from 1988 where an employee fell off a ladder while at work. Case dismissed. The employee in question wasn’t wearing the required safety shoes. The company was covered by warning signs in the workplace and a line in the employment contract.’
‘A name?’
‘Adam Black. Retired in 1994. Died two years later of a heart attack while on holiday in Germany. And before you ask, I checked it out. Nothing suspicious. He’d had heart trouble for a while and keeled over one evening after a long day of hiking.’
Slim nodded. ‘Keep trying. In the meantime, I’ve got a couple more for you, dates this time. The first is September 6th. It was the date Ozgood was supposed to deliver the money, according to the first blackmail message. I need to know if that date has any significance. It could be a clue. Den’s death, the fire that killed his brother, a significant date in the abattoir’s history. Something like that. The second was October 2nd. He didn’t pay up then, either. Anything at all ’
‘Okay, on it. I’ll add the fee to your tab, as always.’
‘Thanks.’
Don hung up. Slim looked around. He had been walking while he talked and had come to the outskirts of Scuttleworth. A farm lane led off to Slim’s right. A public footpath access sign poked out of the grass nearby, so Slim went that way, preferring the open space of fields to Clora’s cluttered flat, the cold looks of the village residents, and the claustrophobia of the woods.