In the Moors (22 page)

“I'm the therapist of Cliff Houghton.”

“Who?”

“He's been on the news, lately.”

“I don't watch the news,” said Mr. Napper, his voice grumpy with displeasure. “I like the football channel.”

I pointed to the
Taunton Herald
, lying on the bottom self of the tea trolly. “It's local news. The man who was arrested for the murder of Josh Sutton.”

His eyes widened. He'd expected anything but that. “That little boy?”

“That little boy, and the one that's still missing.”

“You've lost me,” he said. He was shaking his head, but his eyes had narrowed. I didn't think I'd lost him as much as he was letting on. I didn't want to open old wounds or create new ones, but I had to tell him.

“I don't think Cliff has anything to do with these kidnappings, but he's caught up with them because he has a memory of being kidnapped himself twenty-three years ago. He is sure that someone—a girl—was being held captive in the same place, by the same people.”

Arnie rubbed a hairy forearm across his mouth. I saw a washed-out tattoo, a curling, naked woman with ankle-length and suitably positioned locks of hair. “What d'you mean?”

I shook my head, as if in warning. “I'm trying to piece things together. My client started remembering all this from his past. He'd blocked off awful memories about being kidnapped as a child.” I shuddered. “And tortured. But then this girl helped him get away. Her name was Patsy.”

“Patsy?” Arnie's eyes had begun to water. “Sounds far-fetched to me. Who would take kids like that?”

“The Wetland Murderer.”

His mouth opened, the bottom lip hanging like a slug. “Them bodies in the peat bogs?”

“Yes.”

“But all of them were babbies. Our Patsy weren't never found out there.”

The reflection in his voice made me look at him. “When they found the bodies, you did wonder, didn't you?”

“Of course I bloody wondered,” said Arnie. “I were there when they dug 'em up.”

Arnie had pulled out the bottle of Three Bells and filled his empty tea mug with whisky. He took a long time over the first few swallows, but I stayed silent, pretending to sip my tea.

“It were our Diane who made me go to the police,” he finally began. “Guilt, you might say. She never forgave herself for not sticking up for Patsy during our rows, but she was usually too hungover to bother. After the police took the details, I said to our Di, ‘When she gets back, I want her to find you dry. I want you to give up the booze. You do that, I'll never hit her again'. To her credit, she did try for a week or two.” Arnie sighed and drained his mug and lifted the bottle. I bit my lip. I didn't want to comment, but I wasn't keen to sit with an inebriated Arnie Napper.

“Sure you won't?” he asked me, swinging the bottle. There was not much more than a last slug at the bottom. I let him fetch me a glass, thinking that even if I didn't touch it, at least Arnie would lose the chance to down it himself.

“Funny thing, kids,” said Arnie. “When Patsy were born, I loved the pillow her head lay on. By the time she'd got to her teens, I could've smothered her with it. But it didn't take long after she'd walked out on us, it got so I was desperate to see that sullen face of hers. Then it got so I was frightened that I'd never see it again.

“It must've been months before the other children went missing. They never came back to us, the police. I went to them and said I'd like to sign up to the search team. They have this kind of look, don't they, cops? Like it'd be a great job, policing, if it weren't for the crime. They said it'd be unlikely, finding Patsy. She ‘didn't fit the scenario'
.
”

“But you joined the search parties?”

“Lot of good it did anyone. We were concentrating on the wrong areas. As soon as the bodies were found, the peat bogs seemed the obvious place.”

I'd already noted from the cuttings in the library that the Wetland Murderer had stolen the tiny victims from a wide area, so it was understandable the police would take a long time to find their grave. “How were the bodies discovered?” I asked.

“There were a bad drought that summer.” He flicked a glance at me. “You won't remember, but the bogs dried up and summat began to show through.”

“And you volunteered?”

“Yes, I went,” said Arnie. “The bogs are a dreadful place to hide a body. They needed a bloody regiment to lay tracks and manhandle the equipment.”

“But they didn't use the army.”

“No. They used us. P'raps they thought it would keep us busy—we were mostly the fathers of missing children.”

The thought saddened me. Building a track through the wet to retrieve your buried child. The final thing you could do to relieve the suffering.

“They were just dumped.
He
never had to do any digging; they'd've sunk beneath the stagnant water. It's all black because of the peat. There's a lot of willow growing over the moors. Where they were hid, them babbies, massive trunks were coming out of the water, growing there for years, I'd say.”

“All four bodies buried at once?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Looked like it. No doubt there's some report that can tell you for definite.”

“But how could he have got them there? Isn't it remote?”

“Not remote, exactly. Peat is what they farm. There be paths all over. But there aren't many souls about.” He took a swig of Three Bells. “Know my thinking? He used a barrer.”

“A what?”

“A wheelbarrer. They were only little 'uns, after all. You wouldn't think anything of someone wheeling a barrer in that country place.”

“It must have been dreadful. Having thoughts like that.”

“It's what killed our Di,” said Arnie. “She went back to the sherry big time; drowned in it. She were my second wife. First one went off with some bloke, and I hope he's making her life a misery. I gotta be a bad judge of women. Never wanted to bother again, that's for sure.”

Arnie took time to swill his whisky round and round, as if he was regretting pouring the last of the bottle for me. I picked up my glass and took a tiny sip. I could see how the burning at the back of the throat might feel like a sort of salvation.

“Me heart was in me mouth when they pulled them black bones out of the wetlands,” said Arnie. “But our Patsy were too slippery to get caught. She could blag her way out of any trouble, even the worst. I think the cops were right. Long gone. Nothing to do with any of that business.”

I nodded in what I hoped was a sagacious manner. It was not for me to tell Arnie how to deal with the dreadful news I'd brought him. In my heart I knew I had a match—Arnie's missing daughter had been in the car the day that Cliff was stolen away.

She'd already become a victim of the Wetland Murderer.

I had to pass Hughes and Heavens on my way home, so I drove into their parking lot and asked at reception if I could speak to Miss Smith.

“Have you an appointment?”

“N-No. I thought I'd just pop in.”

The receptionist gave a thin professional smile. “I'm afraid she's very busy.” She picked up a receiver and talked into it. Of course Linnet would be busy. I'd have to leave a message. I tried one out in my mind:
I've found the missing victim
was impressive but untrue.
I've found Patsy Napper's father Arnold
was a bit of a mouthful.

“Okay,” said the receptionist. “Miss Smith will see you.”

I strode into the office. “I've found Arnie Napper!”

From the other side of her yacht-sized desk, I saw Linnet's face open with surprise—mouth, eyes—the lot. I felt extremely good about getting ahead of her in this way, and I knew my face was beaming.

Linnet cleared her throat. “You … sorry?”

I plonked myself on the client chair, sticking out my legs. The sadness of the interview had left me. I glowed in triumph. “Sorry, Arnold Napper is Patsy Napper's old dad. I've been with him all afternoon.”

“God almighty.”

“I know. Although that particular deity had no part in the process.”

“You're saying you found him through some shamanic technique?”

“Actually, he was still at the address he was at when he registered Patsy as a missing person.”

“Even so. I could use your investigating skills.”

“You won't believe what he's told me, Linnet. He even went to the burial site when they brought out the bodies.” I gave a laugh, sheer exultation. “I guess it sounds a little grisly.”

She bent over the desk and scribbled a note. “From what I've been told, you're having to get used to grisly
.
”

“Oh,” I said. “You've heard that I found those bodies.”

“More investigative technique?”

“Actually, that was purely shaman's luck.”

“Well, I must say, excellent work.”

“Thanks.” I swear my chest actually puffed out. I know my cheeks were warm. She was silent for half a minute or more, as if she felt she'd been too effusive with her praise, although it was a bit late for that. I watched her finish her notes and close the folder.

“Look,” I began, “Sorry, I know what you're thinking—I said I'd bring anything to you first. But I had to tell the police.”

“Definitely.” Linnet rose and came round to me. She looked tired, as if she'd been up since dawn. “Definitely well done. I hope you've made notes about this missing girl, because I want all the details.”

“Actually, no. It wouldn't have looked polite to flip open my pad in front of Arnie Napper.”

“Look, Sabbie, it's gone five. No harm in packing up for the night a little early. Fancy a drink?”

She did that thing at her closet, swinging jacket and accessories from peg and shelf. She picked up her document bag and led the way past the thin-lipped receptionist and across the road into the Admiral's Landing. The bar staff seemed to know Linnet quite well, because she raised a hand as she passed the bar, walking straight on to a corner table. Moments later, a dish of a barman brought a bottle of rather nice Shiraz and two glasses.

“Hope you like red.”

I didn't like to say that I was more of a crisp white girl myself, but when I sipped the drink she poured me and the curranty, peppery tangs burst in my mouth, I wondered if I was missing out.

“Mmm, nice,” I said, putting down my glass. I felt my eyes pop when I looked at hers. It was empty, all but the ruby glow at the bottom. She poured a second and sipped more slowly. “You're quite a heavyweight,” I said in awe.

“Comes with the territory.” She sipped again. “Tell me all. It'll help you fix the memories before they fade. Tell me how you found that place, the … bodies. It must have been grim.”

“Yes.” I looked across at her.

She gave me an encouraging smile. “Go on. Spill the beans.”

I started with the signpost and the poplar tree—she deserved to be filled in on the journey at the prison—and soon I was running on without thinking quite what I might say next. It was so lovely to talk to someone who wasn't silently thinking I'd flown over the cuckoo's nest. I even told her about Ivan.

“I know I'm never going to see him again, but maybe you can help me. I can't work it out in my own mind. Was he trying … would it have been rape?”

“Without a doubt,” said Linnet. “You should have contacted me straight away! Never mind if it didn't fully happen, that was due to your courage and quick thinking. You can still press charges, if you want.”

“Goddess, no.” I shuddered. “Let's forget it. I haven't told you what happened today yet.” I started describing my search for Patsy, the way Arnie's story had unfolded over tea and whisky. She listened in silence without taking a single note. When I'd finished, Linnet topped up both our glasses, silently evaluating the new data.

“Interesting, Sabbie.”

“Sad, really. It made me think how we will all look back at the end of our lives and regret our mistakes, and how we'll still make them because we won't know they
are
mistakes until we're old.”

“What was his mistake? He pushed his daughter out, but he wasn't responsible for what happened next.”

“It was something about love. He could hardly bring himself to use the word. Too soppy. But it tormented him, I could see it did, that he'd never told his daughter how much he loved her.”

“Loved her so much he'd—what was it—slapped her in the face?”

“He didn't understand about teenage girls. She'd changed overnight. And love can be very strange—domineering, possessive. Sorry, I'm back to Ivan. Must be the wine.” I took a consolatory sip, because I was way behind Linnet and not the least bit squiffy, which was just as well—my car was parked outside the solicitor's office.

“Waffle as much as you like, Sabbie; I'm off duty here. But I have to ask: Are we taking this new development to the police? Because we should, I suppose.”

“You mean, they'll twist it all round?”

“You can rely on the fact they are keen to build up a case for the prosecution. It shouldn't work like that; they should treat all information with impartiality, but I'm afraid they don't.”

“They want their first guess to be right. Well, some of them do. Rey Buckley, he thinks outside the box—”

“Leave this with me. I'll make some inquiries before we go any further.” She tackled her glass, shifting the line of red by several fingers. “So let's recap. This girl left home of her own accord and was reported missing by her father.”