A Cry in the Night (31 page)

Candles were lit at each table in the Black Bull, ready for the inevitable siege that would follow. In times of crisis, all roads lead to the pub.

Ashley kissed Sam tenderly on the lips. The room was getting colder and they huddled up against each other, enjoying the warmth and the touch of each other’s flesh.
Outside they could hear kids throwing snowballs as the sun set. As it fell, the snow reflected an eerie half-light, fighting against the darkness.

‘Tell me again about the dealers,’ he said.

She kissed his knuckles, one by one.

‘Erin was moaning that she was going to have to drive to Penrith or Carlisle to get some decent gear.’

‘So the usual dealers just vanished.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, and began to slip down the sheets. He pulled her back up but she was grinning at him, and he knew she wouldn’t be denied for long.

‘So there’s been no one?’ he asked again, and she nodded, bored with it all. ‘No one on the day and no one since?’

‘Well, Alfie mentioned some woman being in the woods, but I don’t think she was a dealer or anything.’

Her hand ran down his chest but he stopped her, sitting up straight.

‘What woman?’

‘I dunno. He went to the clearing, you know, where the fire is, that’s where you’d do business, normally.’

‘And?’

She shrugged and sniffed. But Sam pressed her on this. A woman, alone in the woods when the kids went missing. Jesus Christ.

‘Why didn’t anyone tell the police about this?’

‘What, that we were out trying to score drugs? Yeah right!’

‘Describe her.’

‘Kiss me,’ she answered.

He did. Then asked again.

‘I don’t know. He said she was older. Fit, a bit of a MILF, I think he said. Alfie’s got a thing about older girls. He dumped me for some Croatian girl who worked at the bar last summer. Like I cared. Hey, you’re not going to get jealous of him, are you?’

She wriggled closer to Sam with a playful look on her face.

‘I’ll try my best. We should go talk to him.’

‘You know, he was a great kisser. And the rest. We used to go to the old boathouse. It’s the only fucking place around here where you can get any privacy.’

And with that, her hand slipped down to Sam’s crotch.

‘Can we talk to him?’ he asked, ignoring the games.

‘Not now. He went down to Morecambe to see his uncle about a job. Snow will keep him out till tomorrow at least.’

She kissed him again and he didn’t push her away.

‘I love being like this,’ she said. ‘I feel so safe.’

‘Did he say anything else about her?’ Sam asked.

‘You’re so boring!’ she laughed. ‘How should I know? God. Um …’ She made a childish ‘thinking face’, to make him laugh, and he tried to join in. He smiled and pulled the best faces he could, but he had to know more. ‘Oh, she was wearing a purple coat.’

He tried to hide the kick he felt. She chatted on about something else, how Alfie had a thing about older women and nearly got himself kicked out of school for making a pass at the art teacher, but Sam wasn’t listening. His mind had gone back to the moment that he and Zoe had arrived at Lullingdale, catching Ashley at the bus stop, talking so earnestly to Helen Seymour, dressed in a neatly tailored purple coat.

Helen had stolen Lily away. Sarah had helped, but Helen had done the deed.

‘Did he say anything else about her? Hair colour? Eyes? Age?’

‘Have you met Alfie?’ Ashley replied. ‘He can barely remember his own age!’

If she took the children, then why come back?

The room was getting colder, and Ashley pulled the sheets over his head.

‘I’ve made a tent for us to hide in,’ she said. ‘A sex tent. We can stay here till the snow stops.’

She guided his hand to where she wanted it. And he didn’t stop her. But all he could see now was Helen.

Zoe pulled into the police station and parked in Sam’s reserved spot. She’d stopped half an hour before to get herself a coffee and it made her shaky. The place was busy as usual and the commotion helped settle her nerves. She strode in, avoiding anyone’s gaze, making sure she stayed in busy corridors and areas where everyone could see her.

She stopped when she reached her desk. Dumped in front of her computer, sealed inside a clear plastic evidence bag, was a dead rat. Blood was congealed against the plastic wrapping. She considered dumping it in the bin, but didn’t want to touch the thing.

‘Zoe,’ a female voice behind her made her spin around. It was Angela, a sweet Indian woman who worked as a civilian aide at the front desk. Zoe smiled at her and looked around, expecting leery smiles in anticipation of this cruel theatre. But whoever had dumped the dead animal on her desk was now busy with other things.

‘Hi, Angela, what is it?’

‘Chief Superintendent Frey has been asking to see you.’ Angela was prone to worry, her face was lined with it, and Zoe used to joke with her about taking drugs from the store room to calm her down. But today, her nerves felt justified.

Zoe nodded and turned away from the desk. Angela caught sight of the dead rat and a tiny gasp slipped from her lips.

‘It’s nothing,’ Zoe said and she could almost believe it.

‘But, but, but …’ the small woman’s voice trembled. She could never be a cop, Zoe thought. She was too sensitive. She would bake a cake for people’s birthdays and be the one to carry a card around to make sure everyone signed it. Zoe went over to her and turned her away from the sight.

‘It’s fine. Forget about it.’

Angela nodded dumbly and she shuffled quickly away. A tall, scruffy detective barged into the room on the phone and she darted out of his way. He didn’t even seem to notice her. Zoe watched her dive away and then out into the corridor. The detective, Jerry, chewed on a chocolate bar as he hung up.

‘Hey, Zoe. Who did you shit on, honey?’

‘Like you don’t know,’ she said, and walked away.

‘Hey, don’t tar us all with the same brush, love,’ he called after her, but she didn’t have time to flesh out their argument. Maybe he was right, or maybe he was waiting to
stick the knife in too. Either way, Mr Frey wanted to see her and she’d be foolish to keep him waiting. She walked out and up the stairs, passing men who had been colleagues and friends only days before. She ignored them all.

She reached the top floor, where a polite personal assistant asked her to sit and wait. She was offered a coffee which she declined. A senior officer, the area’s Commander, strolled past. He didn’t notice or acknowledge her. She scowled at his arrogance. They’re all the same.

Sam and Ashley could only stay in his room for so long before the dark and the cold forced them downstairs. She left first, heading back home, promising to return later with ‘goodies’. He watched her sashay down the corridor, listening to the hubbub below, and then came down to find most of the men in the village huddled together, beers in hand, lit by flickering candles and the hissing coal fire. He was greeted warmly and accepted the drink that was offered.

A Blitz spirit had developed, and no one pestered him about the case. Tonight, he was just one of the guys. It was easy to fit in with this lot. They were a kindly, affable bunch, full of bad jokes and big laughs. Sam sat amongst them and fell into their easy patter. He bought a round for the four guys at his table and enjoyed the beers that came later in return. Because of the blackout, the kitchen was closed and everyone was feeding off peanuts and crisps. Without the
food to soak up the booze, Sam was soon quite drunk, but it felt okay, he was in good company.

Old Bill Matheson, whose family had lived in the area since time immemorial, had a voice that drowned out others. He started to tell a tale and slowly all other conversation fell away until he was the only one speaking. Lit by the candles, amidst the musky heat and the flowing alcohol, he revelled in the attention.

‘I swear on my mother’s grave,’ he said, although his ruddy grin hinted at less serious intent, ‘I swear I saw them down by the lake. First thing you notice is the cold. It’s colder near them, like they suck the warmth and the light out of everything.’

There were good-natured chuckles and catcalls at this. Someone asked if they could change the channel, but Bill waved them away.

‘I tell you, I saw them. I was only a kid, but I saw them and it’s stuck in my heart, the sight of them. They were beautiful, the most beautiful things I ever saw. But their skin was grey and wet, like fish. And they turned to me and touched me. And I felt terrified and excited all at the same time. She was there, right there in front of me, and my heart was racing like a stallion.’

He had the crowd in the palm of his hand.

‘I’ll never forget her eyes. Glacier-blue, they were. And her breath was like morning dew. And she stood there, right
there before my eyes and I felt this shudder go right through me. So I said: “’Ta very much love, but I’ve come now so you can get your hand out of my pants!”’

And the room erupted. Old Bill gave a theatrical bow and was bought a double whisky for his troubles.

Sam laughed loudly with the others and the chatter continued until the voices fell away and someone else played to the room. This time it was Elliott Johnson, a tall man in his early fifties, his jet-black hair flecked with grey. Elliott owned most of the cows in the area and had a fancy pad on the other side of the valley. Despite his Land Rover, the snow had trapped him in the village for the night. His tale was colder, and as he spoke, it became clear that there was no punch-line to follow. He talked about a little child he’d seen on the fells, a boy, no more than six, who he’d chased after, worrying for the kid’s safely. The boy had led him to the edge of a steep drop just as the clouds had come down, and had it not been for good fortune, Elliott would have slipped and broken his neck.

‘I tell you, I was being led to my death. I found out later that a boy had been found at the bottom of that ravine, a hundred years before. And I bet you if they showed me a photo of him, it’d be the lad I saw on the fells.’

People muttered and turned away. But then another story started, where a young woman had beguiled a man into the
lake. He’d jumped onto rocks and punctured his lung in the process.

An old woman watched a teenage boy – now a fully grown man – whenever he stepped outside the house, wherever he went. A little girl’s footsteps could be heard as she played hopscotch every night in a man’s house until he was forced to call in the local priest. A woman with fingers like twigs and hair like winter gorse would rise up from the shale and attack passing walkers. A teenage beauty turned herself into a deer during the day, and into a vicious wolf at night. The mood was playful but edgy. The alcohol swirled within, and the snowflakes twisted and twirled without.

Sam noticed David and Tim sitting at a far table. They raised their glasses to him and he returned their salute.

Inevitably, it was his turn.

‘You must have seen some terrible things, in your line of work.’

He had, but there was always an explanation. And sometimes that made the horror much worse.

‘But there must have been some grim old crimes that you could never explain?’

There had been. Plenty. He’d often get a result, but that wasn’t the same as an explanation.

Like the woman who had seemed so sweet and kind, but carried poison in her purse. She appeared to be just like any other woman, no, sweeter than that, kinder than that. She
came into your life and stayed for a while and made you think that everything was perfect. But all the time she was dropping slow, cruel drops that were tasteless and invisible. And then, when she disappeared without explanation or notice, the drug would begin to do its work, staining and throttling. Slowly but irresistibly it crushed and strangled everything she had touched until all that was left in her wake was broken beyond repair. She tricked you into loving her and then she abandoned you, leaving only the poison behind to rot and corrode.

She was his wife. The case Sam could never solve. The woman he could never find. The perfect crime. He had invited her in and had not seen the danger she posed. He had been played. And he would never let a woman play him again.

Sam stared down at the table, unable to say any more. There were no tears in his eyes. Instead he gripped the table between his hands, and no one in the room would have been surprised to hear the thick wood snap. This wasn’t grief, not any more.

Someone shoved another pint in front of him and he drank deep. Another man began a story about a young girl who turned into a tree, but no one was interested and, embarrassed, he fell silent and stared with interest at his empty glass.

The mood had changed. Sam didn’t look up but David
and Tim watched him intently. David went to the bar and came back with three large whiskies. He left one at Sam’s table without a word and sat the other in front of Tim. Outside, the night was white. Everything was backwards and anything was possible.

Bernie, the barmaid, poured the drinks without a word. Sensing the mood, she excused herself from work with stories about small children. The landlord let her go. She stumbled away through the heavy snow, glad to be away from there.

Inside, the men drank on.

Mr Frey made Zoe wait for a very long time. His embarrassed secretary, unaware of the circling politics, knocked twice on his door to remind him of his waiting visitor and was given such short shrift on the second occasion that she didn’t knock again. Zoe sat still, watching the way a flashing neon light illuminated the metal framework of a large building site opposite, soon to be a shopping mall.

Eventually the door opened and the Chief Superintendent stood at the door, tall and stiff. He gestured for her to enter with a jerk of the head. She stood up and followed him in. She’d changed at the petrol station earlier, but still felt that she should be smarter. He didn’t offer her a seat so she didn’t take one.

‘How’s Sam?’

‘Well, sir. I think.’

‘You only think?’ he scoffed.