A Cry From Beyond (10 page)

“Kids
will be kids,” he said with a shrug. “She’ll turn up eventually.”
He paused in his work just long enough to snatch a glance at the
birds up on the roof. He frowned a little, and then off he set
again, this time cutting a piece of wood down to size to
accommodate the space he’d just created by removing the rotten
timber.

His
reassuring words might have had the desired effect, were it not for
what had happened to Terry. Two disappearances in almost as many
days couldn’t be so easily explained away.

When I
told him about Terry he immediately stopped what he was doing and
turned his attention to the cottage, as if he thought the building
itself might serve up clues.

“I don’t
know what to say,” he said eventually.

“This has
happened before, hasn’t it?” I said, recalling David’s claim that
others had gone missing in the area in years gone by.

Gentleshaw was measured in his response. “A long time ago, in
the eighties, three local women disappeared in the space of a year
or so. They were never found. The police treated the disappearances
as suspicious, and carried out an official investigation. The case
even made some of the national papers.”

“Were
there any suspects?”

He nodded
his head. “There was one fellow in particular as it
happens.”

“Care to
tell me about him?”

“He lived
here at High Bank, Mr O’Shea. Being well acquainted with all three
women made him a natural choice for being a suspect, I suppose. His
name was Martin Willis. It was all very tragic. Anyway, not long
after it all kicked off, his wife left him taking their young
daughter with her. The whole episode must have got too much for
him, and he ended up taking his own life. He did it in the
cottage.” The handyman paused for thought before continuing: “I
mentioned Ebenezer Grimshaw earlier. Well, the ill fated Martin
Willis married one of his descendant’s. A local beauty, she was.
Following the wedding they moved into High Bank, which was a
wedding present from the girl’s father, Frederick, who owned Manor
Farm across the way.” He gestured to a cluster of trees in the
distance, beyond which stood the boarded up farm house. “It
should’ve been the start of a fairytale marriage. Yet, despite the
fact they had a healthy daughter together, it wasn’t to be. Martin,
thought by many round here to be unstable in mind, also had a
reputation for being a drunk and a womaniser. It wasn’t long before
he returned to his old ways. That’s when the trouble started. His
beautiful young wife wanted him to be a conventional husband, but
he had other ideas. The story goes he cracked under the strain of
marriage, and became violent towards his young family. Soon after,
mother and daughter left him and he came under suspicion for the
disappearances of the women, and ended up blowing his brains out.
Terrible it was, not just the suicide, but the fashion in which the
body was found.” Gentleshaw put down his saw and took a seat inside
the gazebo, resting the palms of his hands on his knees, whilst
gazing down at his feet.

“A young
lad discovered it,” he went on, “His name was Damien, and he lived
in the crofter’s cottage opposite High Bank. His parents worked for
Frederick Grimshaw. From what we can gather, the lad had sneaked
over to the cottage to hide from his mother following a tiff.
Apparently he’d done it before. The assumption is that he happened
to look in through a window, saw Willis lying dead with his brains
blown out, panicked, ran out into the road and straight under the
wheels of a truck.”

I stared
at Gentleshaw in stunned silence.

“Are you
feeling all right, Mr O’Shea?” he asked, sensing my change of mood.
“Only you look a bit pale if you don’t mind me saying.

“I’m
fine,” I said, managing to compose myself. “Tell me, how did they
know the kid ran from the direction of the house?”

“The
incident was witnessed by his mother,” Gentleshaw replied
automatically. “It must have been terrible for her.”

I
returned to the cottage where I attempted to come to terms with
what I’d just learned. It was difficult. Knowing that I had
witnessed a fatal road accident retrospectively had shaken me
badly: discovering that my new found home was once a suicide scene
that pre-empted that fatality, made me feel worse still. Initially,
I considered quitting the place. But that would have been
counterproductive. For one thing I was bound by legalities.
Moreover, I was involved in a double missing person’s
investigation. The way I saw it, I had an obligation to stick
around until such time that the mystery of those disappearances was
solved, and my good name was cleared of any involvement.

The
Police arrived on my doorstep unexpectedly a few days later, in the
form of PC Morgan. He looked stern and businesslike. I invited him
inside and offered him a drink, which he declined.

I
finished making the sandwiches I’d started prior to his arrival,
poured myself a chilled glass of milk, and suggested we adjourn to
the front room where we could talk in more comfortable
surroundings. I sat on the sofa while he made himself at home on a
seat near the potbelly.

As I
tucked into the sandwich, he offered the reason for his visit,
explaining that David had informed the station of the two
disappearances and the circumstances surrounding them, as we had
agreed he should. Morgan asked if I was able to add anything which
might shed further light on events. At this point, he produced a
notebook and pen from the top pocket of his police tunic, and held
them poised ready to write.

I told
him all I knew. He looked sceptical and said, “You really have no
idea what might have happened to either Mary-Louise Partridge or
Terry Miles?”

“No, I
haven’t,” I said beginning to feel like a suspect. Morgan scribbled
notes appearing to quietly relish the situation. I recalled how
officious he’d been on the day I was illegally parked up on the
roadside until that is, he discovered I might be someone worth
knowing. He was I thought, an ambitious, ruthless individual who
could easily turn, if he thought it was to his
advantage.

He got up
and strolled over to the window. Looking out with his back to me he
said, “Is it possible they could’ve wandered off into the woods for
some reason?”

“Your
guess is as good as mine,” I replied noncommittally. “In my humble
opinion it wouldn’t really make sense though. The way I see it,
neither person had any reason to wander off into the great unknown,
never to return.”

Morgan
scratched his head and then turned to face me, appearing perplexed,
which I guess was only natural given the circumstances. “That’s the
conclusion I’ve drawn,” he said thoughtfully. “And no one saw or
heard anything?” He gave me that look again, suggesting he
suspected I could be hiding something.

I shook
my head in answer to the question. At the same time I recalled my
conversation with the party guest, Sandy Mercer. Mercer had
described an incident in which a fellow reveller was abducted, but
for some reason was unable to decide whether he’d dreamt or
witnessed it. I recounted Mercer’s story to Morgan, careful to let
the cop draw his own conclusions.

“I know
Sandy Mercer.” he acknowledged as he got to his feet. “Mind if I
have a look around, Mr O’Shea?”

The
request caught me off guard, even though I should’ve expected it.
Before I could respond Morgan was heading off in the direction of
the hall where Lennon lay in his usual spot by the cellar door. I
stuck to the policeman like a shadow, worried he would discover
gear left behind from the previous night, that Irish had so
thoughtfully brought along, some of which I’d purchased, and was
now stored in a bedside drawer. Following a cursory look in the
kitchen, Morgan climbed the stairs to the upper level. I suspected
his random search of the premises had as much to do with plain
nosiness, as with compiling a double missing person’s
report.

As he
entered the attic, he took time to compliment me on the impressive
range of musical equipment occupying the room which, much to my
dismay also contained the intoxicating smells of stale beer,
cigarette smoke and worse, the aromatic scent of cannabis. I waited
apprehensively for Morgan to pass comment. Sure enough he flashed
what I took to be a knowing smile and said, “Is it possible you and
your friends could be mistaken about the second
disappearance?”

I gave an
emphatic shake of the head. “I admit we had a few beers, officer,
but not enough to make us hallucinate.”

“It
wasn’t the beer I was thinking about,” he remarked. As if to ram
home the point he sniffed at the stale air.

Typical
cop, I thought, smug and arrogant. I tried to relax in the
knowledge he would be hard pressed to prove the involvement of
drugs, unless one of us admitted to it. Nevertheless, I sensed it
would be a mistake to underestimate Morgan. He was after all, a
young man not much older than myself, who’d undoubtedly be wise to
the kind of antics a group of lads might get up to alone in a
cottage, especially when one of them was a musician with a history
of drug abuse. I didn’t doubt for one moment Morgan was aware of my
wild tainted past.

Retrieving the Fender from its stand, he took it upon himself
to sit down on the chair I worked from, adopting a playing position
with his fingers forming a bar chord across the fret
board.

“Do you
mind?” he asked, eyebrows rising expectantly.

“Be my
guest,” I said, feeling I had little choice in the
matter.

He
proceeded to play a couple of recognisable riffs from Bon Jovi’s
repertoire. The strings needed tuning, although this seemed to
escape the constable’s notice. He looked vaguely absurd hunched
over a guitar in his policeman’s uniform I thought. Although
appreciative of the Fender, Morgan’s guitar playing left much to be
desired. As he played, or attempted to play, he chatted amiably,
which I saw as a ploy to lull me into a false sense of security. At
long last, and much to my relief—his playing really was quite
dreadful—he placed the guitar back where he found it, and grew
businesslike again.

“I’m not
quite clear on a couple of points,” he said leaning his weight
against the back of the chair. He left the sentence unfinished. I
refused to be drawn; aware cops use such tricks to unsettle
interviewees.

“In the
case of Terry Miles,” he said presently, “why was he left alone in
the house when everyone else went to explore the derelict building
across the road?”

“He said
he was feeling unwell,” I said truthfully. “He preferred to stay
here, so that’s what happened.”

“Only he
didn’t,” said Morgan. “He left. He must’ve left mustn’t
he?”

When I
didn’t reply Morgan went on, “He wasn’t totally alone in the house
though, was he? Your pet dog was with him.”

“That’s
correct,” I said, wondering where his line of inquiry was
heading.

“Which
appears to rule out the possibility of an intruder having entered
the premises in your absence? I mean to say; what person in their
right mind would take on a big dog as well as a full-grown man: for
what reason? It doesn’t make sense. And you freely admit there was
no sign of any disturbance, and to your knowledge nothing was
taken?”

“Correct
again,” I said, “and I agree wholeheartedly with you officer. None
of this makes any sense. It’s like something out of the Twilight
Zone.”

Morgan
regarded me closely, perhaps looking for a sign that I was hiding
something. Finally, he stood, and suggested we return downstairs.
At the cellar door he paused.

“Where’s
this lead?” he asked.

I told
him. He opened the door and caught a whiff of stale air, which made
him wrinkle his nose.

“Bad
drains,” I said automatically.

“From a
cellar?” he replied, repeating Mike’s earlier query. He frowned and
flicked on the light, which in turn illuminated the narrow
descending steps.

“Shall
we?” he said before starting down. I followed knowing he would find
nothing at the bottom, other than a small rectangular room that was
empty, save for a crate full of beer and a dozen bottles of red and
white wine.

Nevertheless, the cellar made for uncomfortable viewing.
Whether it was due to the off putting smell, or the claustrophobic
atmosphere, the room was always incredibly unpleasant to be
in.

Back
upstairs I closed the door, and would have keyed the lock had it
possessed one. I made a mental note to have a word with Gentleshaw
about the possibility of getting one fitted. PC Morgan, having
finished with me, for the time being at least, bid me good day. He
put his cap on adding that he intended taking a quick look around
outside before he left.

“Call me
if you hear anything,” he said as he turned to leave.

“You’ll
be the first to know,” I promised and promptly shut the door,
relieved to see the back of him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Remember
the mother of the missing child, Kayla?

Well, she
made a surprise return appearance one afternoon, in the field
occupied by the chapel. I was just about to throw a stick for
Lennon when, quite suddenly, there she was, standing at the
chapel’s entrance like a vision. She was alone. I waved and called
out to her, but she seemed oblivious. Curious to know if she’d been
reunited with her daughter I headed over, but instead of waiting
she turned and walked away. I called to her again, but she kept
going, rounded the corner of the building and disappeared from
view. I gave chase, but she was nowhere to be seen.