Gone in the Night

by Mary-Jane Riley

  ‘Please.’

  ‘And they had sex.’ He shook his head angrily. ‘All right? But she regretted it. Cried rape.’

  ‘Why would she do that? We’ve all done things we regret but we don’t necessarily accuse someone of a criminal offence. Especially not rape.’

  ‘Don’t ask me, ask her. She put our whole family through it.’ He sounded bitter.

  ‘Through what?’

  ‘A trial. Okay? A bloody rape trial, complete with headlines in the newspapers and on local telly. And although we won, it did us so much damage. Lewis still carries the taint around. No smoke without fire and all that shit. Do you know enough now?’ He had raised his voice and was almost shouting.

  ‘She went to court. That’s no easy decision.’ She tried to keep her voice mild, not wanting to antagonize him further.

  ‘So what are you saying? He was in the dock so he must be guilty?’

  ‘It takes a lot of guts to take someone to court for rape. Especially then.’

  ‘It was revenge, pure and simple. Honestly, you have no idea about that woman. She and her family hated the Riders. If you ask me it was that damn brother of hers that put her up to it. Look, I’ve told you now. That’s what happened twenty-four years ago. If you don’t believe me, then—’ He shrugged. ‘Then perhaps we had better leave things here.’

  Alex’s head was full of Cora’s anger, Jamie’s anger, thoughts of Cora battling life and its rubbish on her own, her brother off the radar. Poor Cora. What she must have been going through. Though Jamie seemed to be sure of his brother’s innocence. Perhaps Jamie didn’t know the full details. Maybe the Rider brothers were bastards. It all kept coming back to how well did she know any of them? Not well at all. And she needed to stick with both Cora and Jamie.

  She reached for his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘Of course I believe you.’ She surprised herself how sincere she sounded.

  ‘Good.’ Petulant voice, but hopefully he was mollified. Alex was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see her roll her eyes. She tucked herself back under his arm.

  ‘Tell me, why are we walking in the cold when we could be having comfort food in the local pub?’ he said.

  ‘I want to have a look at the island.’ Time to calm the waters, so to speak.

  ‘The island?’

  Was it her imagination or did his arm tighten around her imperceptibly?

  ‘Yes. Your island. The one over the water.’

  He stopped walking. ‘Why on earth do you want to do that? It’s dark, there’s nothing to see.’

  ‘I know.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose I want to get a feel for it. After all those stories you told me, you know.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘Why not?’ She knew it sounded lame. ‘Maybe we’ll see some ghosts. It’ll be very atmospheric. Come on, let’s get closer.’ She grabbed his hand and started walking again.

  When they arrived at the quay, Alex smelled a familiar mix of salt and vegetation and fish and diesel. They picked their way around fishing boats that had been pulled up on the shingle. There were a couple of lamps lighting up the car park to the left with a sickly yellow glow and the sea was gently slapping against concrete.

  She walked to the edge of the water. ‘Gisford Ness. A prosaic name in a way for an island surrounded by secrets and myths.’

  ‘We always just called it The Island. It’s a shingle spit. Separated from the mainland by the river that goes into the sea. Longshore drift and all that.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alex. ‘I was never any good at geography, I didn’t listen in class. Did you say you’ve never been across? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘I might have been when I was younger, but as I said to you, there’s nothing to see over there. Now, can we go? I’m getting chilly.’ He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together.

  Alex nodded, then climbed up the three steps onto the car park and stood for a minute, looking out over the water, gazing at the outline of the island.

  A flicker of light. Had she imagined it? She stood still, watching.

  Another flicker. As if someone was walking around with a flashlight.

  ‘Jamie? Did you see that?’

  He came to stand beside her. ‘What?’

  ‘A light, flickering. There.’ She pointed to the light, which had moved along the shoreline.

  ‘It’s probably one of our men checking the fences.’

  ‘I thought there wasn’t anybody there?’

  ‘There isn’t as a rule, but the island is protected by fences all around. We don’t want people going on there and disturbing the wildlife or stealing the plants. Or hurting themselves – there are some pretty unstable buildings over there. Then we’d be sued.’ He shrugged. ‘Occasionally one of the staff goes over to check all the fences and gates, make sure they’re secure.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘Not always, but obviously it was the only time free they had. Now can we go and get something to eat? Please. I’m starving.’

  Alex turned away and walked across the car park, passing a white van. She stopped. But there were hundreds of white vans on the road.

  Still.

  Getting down on one knee, she looked at the number plate.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Here. This number plate is completely covered in dirt.’ She took a tissue out of her pocket and wiped the dirt away, then got up and walked around to the front of the van. ‘And this one.’ She wiped that plate too, and took a quick picture with her phone. ‘This isn’t one of your vans, is it? From the farm?’ She peered through the dirty windows, but there was nothing out of the ordinary on the front seats, only a couple of empty crisp packets, a discarded takeaway coffee cup and a plastic bottle full of what she hoped was water.

  ‘How the hell would I know that?’ She heard the impatience in his voice from round the other side of the van. ‘I’m bloody freezing now.’

  She bent down again. There was a dent in the bumper, and the paintwork was streaked with dark marks. Alex shivered.

  She straightened up. ‘Sorry. But Jamie?’

  ‘What?’ His voice was shot through with irritation.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Jamie favoured the pub around the corner, which was packed and noisy with the sound of chatter and clinking glasses and music, but they managed to find a table a couple had that minute left free.

  ‘What would you like?’ asked Alex. ‘My treat. No arguing. I kept you hanging around in the cold for long enough.’

  ‘Absolutely not—’ His body was still stiff and angular.

  She touched his shoulder lightly, wanting his anger to drain away. ‘I insist.’

  He sighed and seemed to visibly relax, his shoulders dropping and the tension leaving his face. ‘I’m sorry. About earlier.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  ‘It’s fine. The thing is, I hate it when it’s dragged up again and people doubt my brother. We went through enough then, yet it has followed us down the years, however hard we try to shut it all down.’

  What about Cora? She wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  ‘How did you know it was a white van?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Earlier, at the exhibition, you said Rick had been taken away in a white van.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘How did you know?’ She smiled at him in what she hoped was a non-threatening way.

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘Right.’ Alex smiled and handed him the menu.

  ‘I think the fish and chips sounds good,’ she said.

  As she elbowed her way to the bar she was aware of an unsettled feeling in her stomach. Jamie’s insistence that the Rider family were in the right when it came to Cora. The whole bloody family. Jamie knowing about the white van. The dent on the bumper of the van in the car park at the quay. And the mark on the paintwork. Could it be the van that had hit Sadie? Or was it merely a coincid
ence?

  She didn’t really believe in coincidences.

  She found herself at the bar and tried unsuccessfully to catch the barman’s eye.

  ‘You with that Rider lad?’ The voice came from the old boy sitting next to her who was nursing a pint, gnarled but thick and strong-looking fingers curled around the glass. He was wearing a thick jumper, despite the heat that was coming from the roaring log fire to the side of the bar.

  She glanced back at Jamie, who was frowning at the screen on his phone. ‘I am. Do you know him?’

  ‘’Course I know him. Know all the family. Used to work for them.’

  ‘On the farm?’

  He nodded.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Did you ever go over to the island?’

  The old boy snorted. ‘Wouldn’t go there now if you paid me. They reckon it’s haunted.’

  ‘Haunted?’

  ‘Screams in the dark of the night. Lights. There’s not supposed to be anything over there. But if there’s nothin’ over there, then why are there ruddy great fences and gates? Pardon my French.’

  ‘Jamie says it’s to protect the wildlife.’

  The old boy snorted. ‘Ain’t no wildlife over there. Nothing out of the ordinary anyway.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I do, that’s all.’ He looked at her sideways. ‘All right. When I was a bit younger I used to go over there. Sneak about a bit. Try to find the ghosts. Only do it in the daytime, mind. Never found any. I wouldn’t go now. They have men patrolling the fence. Electrified for all I know.’

  The barman finally noticed her. She gave her order for the fish and chips and asked for a bottle of wine and two glasses. And a pint for the old boy.

  ‘How did you get across?’ Perhaps she could learn more about the island. Perhaps tease a story from him.

  The old boy chuckled. ‘I used to go, that’s all. Snuck round by the lighthouse. There weren’t no fences there then. Had me own boat. No one to bother me.’ The old boy took a deep draught of his beer, then wiped the back of his hand across his lips. ‘That had to go, though. Everything had to go when old Joe Rider sacked me. He found out I’d been across there, you see.’

  ‘But there wasn’t anything worth seeing when you went over there?’

  ‘Not really. Like I said, no ghosts. They were doing some building work, making some of the buildings so they could use them. Storage someone told me.’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘Though I do think summat peculiar’s going on over there. Why else have all that barbed wire and stuff? Some even say there are landmines. Mind you, believe that, and you’ll believe anything.’ He looked at her slyly. ‘Seems to me you’re right interested in the island. Did you want to go over? Because if you did, Reg over there in the corner might take you for the price of a pie and a pint. He’s still got ’is boat. I’m Seth, by the way.’ He held out a gnarled hand.

  Alex shook it. ‘Alex Devlin. I’m a journalist.’ She looked over at Reg. White beard, woollen jumper, beanie hat, supping a pint.

  Seth nodded. ‘That’s why you’re interested in the island.’ He took a deep draught of his pint. ‘Reg,’ he called. ‘Over here.’

  Reg looked up, frowning, then picked his glass up and walked with bandy legs over to Seth and Alex.

  ‘You’d take this girl to Gisford Ness, wouldn’t you, Reg.’ Seth nodded towards Alex.

  ‘Depends.’ He drained his pint and looked meaningfully at her.

  Alex nodded. ‘Pint of Adnams?’

  ‘Aye. I’m usually in my hut by the quay in the afternoons. Best time to come is when the light fades.’ The barman put a pint down in front of him. ‘Cost you more than this, though.’

  Alex thought for a moment. It was tempting, but dangerous, too. Who knew what was over there, even if Reg could take her in his boat? Goosebumps ran up and down her back; someone walking over her grave. No, to confront possible danger with no safety net would be foolhardy – a bit like those young girls in horror films who venture down into the dark, dank cellar and you’re screaming at them not to because everyone knows you don’t go down into a dark cellar in the middle of a horror film. Her inner voice was screaming at her not to be tempted even if there was a great story to be had, even if it might solve the mystery of what was happening on the island. There had to be another way.

  She shook her head. ‘No, Reg. I don’t think it’s a good idea, to be honest.’

  Really? Was she absolutely sure?

  Yes. She had put herself in danger in the past, time she learned to look after herself. She would find another way into the story.

  Reg shrugged and picked up his beer. ‘No skin off my nose.’ He went back to his seat.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Seth.

  ‘I am, but thank you.’

  ‘If you change your mind, you know where Reg is. And miss?’

  Alex was out of her seat, ready to go back to Jamie. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t trust them Riders whatever you do.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Wouldn’t like to see a pretty little thing like you hurt.’

  Alex held back a smile as she weaved her way through the drinkers back to Jamie. It had been a long time since she had been called ‘a pretty little thing’, if ever.

  ‘You’ve been a while,’ said Jamie looking up from his phone and stretching out his legs as she sat back down. He frowned. ‘And I saw you with Seth Goodwin.’ He unscrewed the wine and poured it into the glasses. He took a sip.

  ‘The old boy? Yes, he was lovely.’

  Jamie’s eyes were dark. ‘Dad dismissed him for stealing.’ He drank some more of his wine.

  Alex watched him over the rim of her glass. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. And he’s a bit gaga. Losing his marbles.’ Jamie leaned back in his chair. ‘He likes to talk all that rubbish about screams and lights in the night over on the island. I’d take anything he said with a pinch of salt if I were you.’

  ‘Right, I will. But—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are lights at night. You told me yourself. Security.’

  ‘Yes, but he – oh never mind. Steer clear, that’s what I’m telling you.’ He refilled their glasses.

  Was she being overly sensitive, or had Jamie sounded vaguely threatening?

  The fish and chips arrived.

  As she dug into the plateful – mushy peas on the side – Alex knew she wasn’t going to be intimidated by anything Jamie said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  DAY SIX: LATE MORNING

  Alex put her phone down and gazed out of the window. Another dreary day and a dreary walk with Ethel returning home wet and muddy. Never have a long-haired dog again, particularly a long-haired dog in a flat, she thought, as she rummaged in a cupboard to find a towel for the dog and began to rub her under her tummy and down her legs. She would mop the floor later.

  The call from Sam Slater hadn’t been what she’d wanted either. He had told her the glass she’d found on the roadside was not from a Land Rover, but from a Mini, and yes, they were certain about that. He’d been very sympathetic, but it appeared to be a dead end. Damn. She could scarcely believe it. After all that. She rubbed at the back of Ethel’s legs even harder, grimly satisfied as the towel became dark with dirt. She had also told Sam about the van in the Gisford car park with the dent in its bumper and the dark marks on the paintwork that she had convinced herself were blood. She sent him the photo of the number plate. He’d sighed and told her – very gently, as was his way – that he had already used up a pretty big favour persuading someone to analyse the glass she had found, he really couldn’t waste resources racing to Gisford to look at a van that very likely wasn’t even there anymore. He said he would run the number plate number through the system but didn’t expect it to yield anything. Bugger and more bugger, she thought, trying to wipe the mud from under Ethel’s chin. Reluctantly, she had agreed with him.

  And what about the investigation into Sadie’s death?

  No progress, he told her
. But it was early days.

  She was on her own, then.

  Tossing a couple of dog biscuits on the floor for Ethel, Alex sat at her desk and turned on her computer, looking out over the estuary as it clicked and whirred. Seagulls wheeled and screeched in the misty air. She saw Patricia pick up the milk from the end of her gangplank. A couple sauntered alongside the harbour, arm in arm. A woman swaddled in coat, hat and scarf and holding on to a buggy, fed the ducks bobbing up and down and in the water.

  The water. She thought again about her conversation with Seth and Reg in the pub. Had it been the drink talking? The idea of taking a boat around the spit of land that was Gisford Ness had been interesting, but her instinct then was that it was a step too far, and she remained of that mindset. Definitely. Absolutely. She had already seen the so-called ‘mysterious’ lights, and Jamie had explained them away as being a couple of men making sure everything was secure on the island. But why did it have to be secure? Protecting wildlife and flowers and vegetation didn’t necessitate the building of fences and the employment of guards, did it? Look at Shingle Street, that was an SSSI – a Site of Special Scientific Interest – with rare plants growing among the shingle on the beach, but that didn’t have fences and guards. No, there was definitely something slightly off about Gisford Ness; however Jamie had tried to dismiss it.

  And wouldn’t it be something to land on the island and have a sniff around? Yes, but stupid too.

  And Jamie Rider. How did she feel about him?

  He was attractive and entertaining. Certainly different to the sort of men she’d had relationships with before, mostly disastrous it had to be said. But she didn’t trust him. Not at all.

  Her emails finished loading, and she found the one she had been hoping for from The Post. She was impressed, she didn’t think she would get the information that quickly.

  From: Lauren Clark

  Re: Gisford Ness

  To: Alex Devlin

  Hi Alex! Hope all good with you. Attached are a few bits about that island place you asked for. Hope it’s okay. Anything else you need, give us a shout!

  Lauren x

  Alex smiled. She might have known Heath would get a junior to do the research. She opened up the document. National Archives files. Good. The official documents, many from government departments, were often opened as public records after thirty years had passed. These files related to Gisford Ness. Thankfully Lauren had cut through the crap and given her a precis of its history. Apparently the anthrax story was one peddled by the government of the day to keep people away from the island. She whistled when she read that one. The Riders must know the story was a pile of crap, yet they were still repeating it. How very convenient. According to the archives, during the Second World War the island was leased by the Ministry of Defence and used for testing bombs and ammunition, and for developing chemical weapons.