Ravens Gathering (23 page)

He made a few more notes.  Sipped the cooling coffee.

The contents of the ‘Gates’ folder were spread out in front
of him.  The statements from the father and brother; the statement from
the person who’d witnessed Colin’s bullying; Martin’s own statement, which he
could practically recite; photocopies of Brian Oakes’s notes from his
interviews at the Post Office.  That was where Martin first came into the
picture.  He read it again.  Because he was tiring, it was tempting
to skim it, but he knew that if he was going to do that, he might as well go
home now and start again in the morning.

It struck him that Mrs Payne had seemed even more disturbed
at the news that Martin was back in the village.  He wondered what the
history was there.  Was he the black sheep because he caused a scandal by
screwing Mrs Payne before he left?  He guessed from the notes that she was
probably in her fifties, but fifteen years ago she’d have been in her
thirties.  Wasn’t it every teenage boy’s dream to get off with an older
woman?  He smiled wryly to himself.  Or was that just how he’d felt
when he was that age?

And then there was Norma Fuller again.  She had plenty
to say on the subject of strange things happening in the village.  It was
her comment that had thrown the spotlight on Gates.  But she’d also
referred to other things.  Peter Salthouse’s accident, the tension and
friction in the village, and even the appearance of another stranger...

Another stranger?  He sat up and drank the last of the
coffee as he re-read the tiny handwriting.  It was little more than a
scribble, which was probably why he’d missed it before.  There were a
couple of words there that he realised now were names, though he hadn’t read
them as such before.

He spent two minutes flipping through the files, looking for
a particular statement.  He was sure it wasn’t there, but he wanted to
double check.  Satisfied he was right, he reached for the phone.  The
reception from Oakes wasn’t any warmer.

“I need to ask you about Hawthorn and Kindness.”

“What?”

“The full written statement doesn’t refer to it, but your
notes mention someone called Hawthorn.  Mrs Fuller brought him up.”

“Is that the woman from the pub?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say about him?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.  It looks as if, after
you’d discovered the dog, you spoke to her some more.”

“Oh, yeah, that rings a bell.”

I know what I’d like to wring.
  But he kept the
thought to himself.

“And that’s where you’ve jotted down the name Hawthorn.”

“Oh, is this the bloke from the farm?”

“You tell me.”  He let it slip out without
thinking.  Wincing, he braced himself for the backlash.  It wasn’t
that he was worried about the relationship.  He was the superior officer,
after all.  It was just that he wanted Oakes to cooperate willingly. 
The last thing he needed right now was a stroppy copper with a chip on his
shoulder.

Fortunately, Oakes must have realised what an arse he was
making of himself.  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly.  “Let me
think.”

That’d make a pleasant change.

“Yeah.  She mentioned a farmer.  I’m pretty sure
that’s who you’re talking about.  The farm had a funny name, though.”

“Kindness?” Collins offered.  He guessed Oakes hadn’t
been paying attention when he mentioned the name earlier.

“Yeah, that’s it.  Bloody odd, don’t you think?”

“Yes.  What’s even odder is the fact that I can’t find
a statement from anyone named Hawthorn.”

There was a hesitation, but Collins sensed it wasn’t only
from the PC thinking.  “You know,
that
was bloody odd too.”

“What was?”

“Well, I did look for the farm.  Although the real fuss
seemed to be about this Gates bloke, I wanted to visit this Hawthorn chap and
get a statement from him.  But I couldn’t find the farm.”

“What?!” Collins said incredulously.  “How can you miss
a farm?”

“I know.  It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?  But I tell
you, sir, it wasn’t there.”

Five minutes later, Collins had an Ordnance Survey map
spread out on his desk.  It was a few years old, but he was sure it would
be current enough. 
Forest Farm
was clearly marked on the map,
though he suspected the boundary represented the pre-McLean days.  So too
were
Blackthorn Farm
,
Lodge Farm
and
Wharton’s Farm
, but
there was no sign of
Kindness Farm
.  From the directions Oakes had
been given, he’d expected it to be on the eastern side of the village, but the
map showed only forestry.

As if things weren’t strange enough, how could a whole farm
disappear?

Night had fallen by the time he returned to the house. 
The kitchen was illuminated only by the light that came through from the
annexe.  Hours had passed since he’d left the farm.  He hadn’t
intended to leave Tanya on her own for so long.  But there were things he
had to do, and they’d been more time consuming than he’d anticipated.

Still, he hadn’t expected to walk in on this.

Martin’s jacket was lying on the floor, discarded
carelessly.  His shoes lay nearby, the jacket separating them.  One
lay on its side, the other upside down.  They’d clearly been kicked off,
and possibly in a hurry.  Tanya’s boots had been abandoned in a similar
manner.

He leaned back against the door, letting out a loud
sigh.  Suddenly he was very weary.  It had been a long night, and a
long day.  And now this.  The betrayal he’d suspected would happen
one day – if it hadn’t already.  But he’d grown to trust Martin.  For
reasons he couldn’t properly explain to himself, he’d felt confident that
Martin wouldn’t do this to him.  Perhaps he should have paid more attention
to the reactions from Matthew and Patrick.  Having said that, the most
telling responses had been this afternoon.  By then it was probably too
late.

The Barns
had been his first port of call when he’d
gone out.  His explanation to Tanya had at least been partly
truthful.  He wanted to see how they were getting on.  But he also
wanted to find out how much they’d seen this morning.  After all, military
vehicles had been driving up and down the track that passed the houses, so they
couldn’t have been oblivious to it all.  Ever practical, he was also
thinking ahead.  There may be a major investigation happening at the
moment, but in time things should return to normal.  What he wanted to
know was whether today’s events would have an impact on the already difficult
task of selling the houses when they were finished.

There was no one at the site when he arrived, so he spent a
short time looking it over to see how they were progressing.  As ever, the
workmanship was good, though the pace they were working at seemed slow compared
to the last time he’d been to visit.  It was only as he was returning to
the Land Rover that he realised his mistake.  In all the confusion of the
day, he’d forgotten that it was Saturday.  If they had been up to work, the
chances are they would have only put in half a day.

They were at home when he called in.  He’d never been
past their front door, and Anne Gates didn’t invite him in this time
either.  Waiting on the doorstep while she went to retrieve her son, he
could hear the TV in the background.  A steady even voice reciting
something he couldn’t make out.  The football results, he guessed.

Matthew ambled down the hallway.  Ian hoped the puzzled
look on his face was a good sign.

“
Evenin
’, Mr McLean.”

It was only a little after five, so Ian wasn’t sure if the
greeting was intended to remind him that it was a bit late to be calling.

“Matt.”  He nodded his own greeting.  “Sorry to
call at this hour.  I don’t know if you’re aware, but we’ve had some
trouble up at the farm.”

Shaking his head, Matthew’s puzzled expression became more
intense.  “Is it something to do with Martin?”

Good question.
Ian pushed that thought aside, saying
only: “I doubt it.”

But Matthew picked up on the lack of conviction in his voice.

“What’s he been up to?”

Ian smiled good-naturedly.  “Really.  Nothing.”

Turning his head, Matthew called back into the house. 
“Dad!  Come here a minute.”

A moment later, Patrick Gates lumbered into view, his pools
coupon in one hand and a biro in the other.  “What is it?”  He
obviously didn’t like being interrupted, but the curiosity in his voice
suggested he’d recognised something in Matthew’s tone.

“Have you heard about anything going on up at the farm?”

“What, the
Sullivans’
place?”

It seemed that the Sullivan family had owned the farm for as
long as anyone in the village could remember.  Ian had long since given up
on it ever being referred to as “the Mclean place”.  He pasted a smile on
his face to reassure Patrick that he wasn’t offended by his remark. 
Though from Matthew’s grunted “Yeah,” it seemed that neither Patrick nor
Matthew had spotted any potential offence anyway.

“What’s he done now?”  There was no doubt in Ian’s mind
which “he” Patrick was referring to.

“
Er
, nothing as far as I’m aware,”
he said, surprised at how defensive he sounded.

Both men looked at him sceptically.

“He’s trouble, you know,” Patrick said.  His tone was
very matter of fact.  “You should get shot of him as fast as you can.”

“Why do you say that?”  Ian was shocked that a father
could be so cold towards his own son, and his question was as much a reaction
to that shock as it was a need for the truth.

But Patrick’s response was even more disturbing.  He
stared at Ian for a long moment.  It was as if he was trying to read whatever
was going on in Ian’s head.  Then he flapped a hand, the pools coupon
making the gesture seem more pronounced than it really was.  “Get shot of
him,” he repeated, but there was viciousness in his tone this time. 
“He’ll be the ruin of all of us.”

Matthew had turned to look at his father.  Ian couldn’t
see his face properly, but something clearly passed between the two men. 
Looking down, as if ashamed, Patrick turned away and disappeared back down the
hallway.

There was an awkward silence on the doorstep for a
moment.  Ian opened his mouth, wanting to fill the void with words, but
still searching for something appropriate.  Matthew beat him to it.

“I’m sorry you’ve had trouble, Mr McLean.  I hope it
all sorts itself out.”  Then he was closing the door.

As he returned to the Land Rover, it struck him that neither
man had been particularly interested in what the trouble at the farm had
been.  A more suspicious person might have assumed they already knew what
it was.  But they seemed to be more concerned about their own family
problems.  And it was clear that Martin was central to those.

Pushing away from the door, he started to cross the kitchen,
steeling himself for what he was going to find.  Unwanted images flooded
into his mind.  Limbs intertwined, naked flesh, thrusting and
grunting.  He’d always had a vivid imagination.  When he was a child,
he’d excelled at English, and his teachers had told him his imagination was a
gift.  Right now, it felt like a curse.

Maybe this was what Martin had done before he left the
village, he thought.  Fucked the wrong women; brought shame on his family.

He stepped into the corridor.  The door at the end was
pushed over, but not completely closed.  Light shone around the
edges.  It wasn’t bright, so Ian guessed it must be coming from the
bedside lamp.  He couldn’t hear anything.  Hope rose within him, but
it lasted only a moment.  There may be no sound, but that didn’t mean
nothing had happened.  It was after eight.  He’d been gone for nearly
four hours.  Plenty of time for them to...

The thought was unbearable.  It was tempting – so very
tempting – to just walk away.  But he fought the urge, moving forward
purposefully.  The floor was carpeted, so they wouldn’t hear him
coming.  He expected it to seem like an age before he got there, and was
almost disappointed to find himself only a few feet away from the door. 
His pace slowed as he edged over the final foot or so.  Then he was
resting his hand on the door frame.

Last night, in the darkness, not knowing what he was going
to find, he had been frightened.  The possibility of finding someone who
was capable of mutilating and killing a dog had filled him with fear.  But
he’d fought that off, determined not to show it in front of Martin.  Not
that Martin had seemed sanguine about the exercise.  This was different,
though.  Out on the track, he’d faced the risk of physical harm. 
This was going to be much worse.

Taking a deep breath, he let the air out again as quietly as
he could.  There was still no sound coming from the bedroom, and he didn’t
want to warn them of his presence.  But he needed the deep breathing,
needed to regain some control.

Very slowly, he pressed his fingers against the door, gently
pushing it open.

He’d been wrong about the light.  It was coming from
the shower room.  The bedroom itself was illuminated only by the light
that shone from that room and the corridor.  Martin lay on his back,
angled across the bed as if he’d just dropped there.  His eyes were
closed, and his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Ian stepped quietly into the room.  There was no
indication that Tanya was there.  He checked the shower room in case she
was hiding, but it seemed that Martin had been in there then come out and collapsed
on the bed.

As Ian headed back for the corridor, Martin continued to
sleep.  Still wearing the clothes Ian had last seen him in.

There is a school of thought that says that, if you believe
in God, you must believe in the Devil.  Simon Cantor had never fully
subscribed to that idea, though he could understand the rationale behind
it.  Many of his colleagues within the Church would be able to put forward
a well structured argument for it.  And the chances were that some of the
more forceful in their beliefs would incorporate that argument into some of
their sermons.

Simon, on the other hand, was less convinced.  His
faith in God was unquestioning, though he liked to think he was open enough to
appreciate why others might have strong doubts.  The atrocities that had
been perpetrated throughout history by man against man were enough to give any
person with a brain pause for thought.  Ironically, the colleagues who
believed strongly in the presence of the Devil would point to such events as
evidence of Satan’s existence rather than it being cause to have no faith in
God.

But those individuals were fighting against a growing apathy
towards religion.  And their strongly held views would only alienate their
parishioners.  Or so Simon thought.  It was more important to him
that they keep the church doors open, and a part of keeping the doors open was
to keep minds open.  Starting with those of himself and his colleagues.

He had been the vicar at Ravens Gathering for six years now,
and he had been adopting the open mind policy there throughout that time. 
It was hard to point to any definite results he’d achieved with it.  The
people who turned up regularly for Sunday services were pretty much the same as
they had been when he’d started.  The couples who married in his church
might make an effort in the weeks running up to and just after the service
itself, but he couldn’t think of any long-term converts.  Even the
grieving, who might seek solace in the idea that their loved ones had gone to
“a better place”, showed little interest in the help a man of the cloth might
be able to provide.  Still, he had told himself many times, there was no
rush.  After all, God wasn’t going anywhere.

Some people who are trying to sell a product, will do so on
the basis of fear, rather than on the merits of the product itself.  So a
disinfectant might be sold because it will save your children from being killed
by the deadly germs you leave around the house, or a certain brand of beer
should be drunk because you don’t want to be ostracised by the “in
crowd”.  When Simon did get those rare opportunities to talk to
parishioners, he certainly didn’t feel that scaring them was a useful way of
making them believe in God.  So talking up the Devil wasn’t part of his
sales pitch.  Besides, how could he talk convincingly about an evil that
he didn’t believe existed?

At least, that was how he felt two days ago.  Now, he
could probably put a compelling argument forward.

Huddled in a corner of the living room in the vicarage, he watched
as his tormentor dressed.  The blue trousers were fairly lightweight,
particularly in comparison to the tweed jacket he was putting on.  It was
odd that he wore no underwear or socks, but compared to the other experiences
Simon had gone through over the last forty-eight hours, this barely registered
on the strangeness scale.

A three-piece
suite
filled a good
part of the room.  The two armchairs formed the ends of a loose rectangle
whose other sides were made up of the large, ornate fireplace, and the
three-seater sofa.  The space in the middle was empty, unless you counted
the sheepskin rug that lay before the hearth.

Sitting down on the chair nearest the door, the other man
pulled on a pair of old walking boots.  Simon knew they were too big, but
that didn’t seem to bother him.  His method of tying laces seemed to
involve wrapping them around his ankle and tucking the loose ends into the top
of the boots.  While he did that, Simon looked at his wife, Jessica. 
The upper half of her body lay across the sofa, her knees resting on the
floor.  She wasn’t completely naked, but the scraps of material that
covered parts of her body were only remnants of the clothes she’d been wearing
before she was raped.

Simon had been helpless.  Not that he was physically restrained. 
But he had seen what this man – this monster – was capable of, and knew that
any attempt to stop him would lead to a level of violence he had never
previously imagined possible.  And it had been impossible to look
away.  Something had compelled him to watch.  In a perverse kind of
way, he hoped that it was something within the human psyche - that thing that
draws us to ghoulishly look on at the aftermath of a car accident.  He
hoped for that, because in reality he was afraid that somehow the stranger had
reached out with his mind and forced him to do it.

Jessica’s eyes stared across the room at him, where he was
crouched against the wall at the side of the fireplace.  The eyes stared,
but they didn’t see anything.  He wanted to reach out to her, hold her,
reassure her that everything would be all right.  But he knew it wouldn’t.

The night before last, this man had invaded their
home.  Since then, he had taken control of them both, using them for his
own ends.  At first, they’d assumed it was just going to be a burglary, an
unpleasant and frightening experience in itself.  But things had
developed, and it rapidly became clear that this was not going to be over in a
few minutes or even an hour or so.  Worse still, there was a cold menace
that emanated from their intruder.

In part it came from his appearance.  He was tall and
thin.  At first, Simon had assumed that the thinness went hand in hand
with boniness.  But in the intervening period he’d had the opportunity to
study him at closer quarters, and the narrow limbs were well covered in
muscle.  His skin was very pale, almost white, contrasting sharply with
his black hair, which hung limply down to his neck.  And from his pallid
face, dark eyes stared out, intently taking in everything around them.  That
intensity was enough to unnerve anyone.

But, while appearances can be deceptive, actions can’t.

Within minutes of his arrival at the vicarage, the pale man
had forced them down into the cellar, a damp chamber that they never
used.  As far as Simon could recall, he’d only been in it twice before:
the first time when they came to view the property in anticipation of moving
in, and the second time just after they moved in, when he’d decided they’d
never want to use it.  But that evening, he’d been forced to spend a
couple of hours down there, which was unpleasant enough without the thought
that your house was being burgled.

When the door had been opened, only Simon was let out. 
A stolen glance at the kitchen clock had told him it was already past two in the
morning.  Then he’d been taken to the Post Office.  Over the years,
he had patted Charlie’s head many times.  He couldn’t honestly say he had
enormous affection for the dog, but Charlie had been a recurring presence in
his life.  Though he doubted that the
labrador’s
suffering, or the pale man’s obvious delight in it, would have been any easier
to bear if he’d never met the dog before.  From the moment the torture
began, Simon knew that he was in the presence of real evil.

His callousness was further underlined by the fact that
Jessica was not released from the cellar until this evening.  She’d been
left there without food or water for almost forty-eight hours.  For most
of the time she was in there, Simon was helpless to do anything about it. 
Somehow, as if he’d been hypnotised, he felt he was completely under the pale
man’s control.  The only assistance he’d been able to provide had been the
few times he’d been locked in there with her.  Even then all he could do
was hold her, hoping that their closeness would be reassuring.  He doubted
it had been.  And as he looked into her vacant eyes, he knew any
reassurance would have been a lie anyway.

The pale man stood up and nodded towards the door.  It
was time to leave.

Very cautiously, Simon got to his feet.  He’d learned
that the pale man didn’t like sudden moves.  The bruises he could feel on
his legs, arms and torso were evidence of that.  If the pale man didn’t
need him right now, Simon was convinced that he would already be dead.

As he made for the door, he tried to look at Jessica, but
his head wouldn’t turn.  Passing his captor, he was aware of a tear
trickling down his cheek.  He wasn’t sure if it was born from frustration
or the fear that he may have seen his wife for the last time.

Outside it was dark.  The curtains had been drawn in
the house, so he hadn’t been aware of the time of day.  They crossed the
gravel drive and headed straight to the entrance to
Forest Farm
. 
Through the haze of his tiredness, he tried to recall how many times they had
been to the farm in the last couple of days.  The first time had been
after they took the van from the Post Office.  He’d been expecting them to
drive away from the village, so he’d been surprised when he was directed here. 
They’d left the van and returned to the vicarage, Simon assuming that his part
in whatever the pale man’s plans were must be over.  On reflection, there
was a major flaw in this thinking, he’d realised.  The pale man couldn’t
drive.  It seemed he needed Simon for that if nothing else.  And sure
enough, just before daybreak, they were off again.

The purpose of the return to the vicarage was never
explained.  Simon was given no explanation for anything that had
happened.  He could only guess that the pale man had taken the opportunity
to rest.  Something Simon would have liked the chance to do himself but,
even without the recurring images of the mutilated dog or the fear of what
their fate was with this man, it would have been impossible to settle and rest
in the dank confines of the cellar.

Their journey to Berkshire had been disjointed for a number
of reasons, not least of which was his own lack of navigational skills. 
The pale man certainly didn’t know how to get there, and the detail on the road
map they’d found in the van just seemed to confuse him more.  So they’d
strayed off the most direct route, and even found themselves in Wiltshire and
Hampshire before finally getting their bearings.  There had also been the
moments when Simon had thought there might be a chink of goodness in his
captor.  His own weariness had threatened to overcome him on a couple of
occasions, and he’d been instructed to pull over and rest.  It was only
when he was roughly woken up that he realised the rest was only to ensure they
reached their destination in one piece.

They had arrived at the edge of Aldermaston village by late
afternoon, at which point he’d been allowed to sleep again.  When he woke
up, it was dark.  But he wasn’t given a chance to think, just drive.

Three men died that night.  Their murders were
deliberately slow, their suffering maximised.  And Simon was made to watch
each one.  But before they died, those men helped to load the equipment
into the van.  Simon didn’t know what his cargo was, but he could guess.

The return journey was easier.  It seemed that the pale
man had gained a sense of direction, and the M4 was relatively easy to find,
leading them to the M25 and M1.  Motorways were a comfort blanket he was
glad to make use of.  The ten hours it had taken to reach Aldermaston was
cut to four hours on the way back.

By the time they were walking back down the track to the
vicarage, Simon had been ready to collapse.  Which was what he had done
when he was pushed into the cellar.  He had been aware of Jessica beside
him, so he doubted that he had done more than dozed, but exhaustion overcame
him again and the time simply passed.

Little more than an hour ago, the cellar had been opened,
and this time they were both allowed out.  To think, he’d been relieved
that Jessica was being allowed out

Unlike his wife, Simon had been fed and watered sporadically
over the two days, but only enough to allow him to serve his captor’s
purpose.  Bearing in mind the fate of his wife, he wondered whether his
captor had much more use for him.  And when his usefulness expired, he had
no doubt that his fate would involve tremendous suffering.  As he trudged
up the track to the farm, he wondered whether he had been wrong all
along.  Was he now in the company of Satan?