A Restless Evil (3 page)
Authors: Ann Granger
âYou don't use this room much now?' he heard himself ask.
âIt's as he left it,' was Mrs Scott's reply.
Alan Markby said, âYes, it is.' He was aware of the sudden, surprised look Meredith turned on him. He should have explained to her before they came. Now explanations would have to wait.
The kitchen was huge, a cavern of a place, with the old range still in place, pitted and rusted, alongside a fat-spattered gas cooker. Upstairs, someone had made an effort to brighten up the master bedroom with liberal amounts of sky-blue paint and very little talent with the brush.
âNice room, this one,' said Mrs Scott. âGot a good view of Stovey Woods. Come and see.'
They followed her to a sash window which she pushed up with an effort. âBit stuck, most of them are.'
They peered out. They could see the road which led through the village, winding towards the distant dark mass of the the wood.
âWe're a dead end,' said Mrs Scott. âNo through traffic. Nice quiet village, this. No one comes here who hasn't got business here. It's popular with the second-homes crowd. When they're not here, you hardly see a car. Well, I'm blowed. That makes me a liar, doesn't it?'
A car had appeared as she spoke and not just any car. This was a marked police vehicle. It cruised past as if uncertain where it was going. Markby leaned out as far as he could and watched it wend its way towards the wood.
âWhat do the cops want, do you think?' asked Mrs Scott. âSomeone loosing off a shotgun in the woods, may be? Haven't heard 'em. Would only be after pigeons, anyway. Nothing for the police to worry about. Bit of deer poaching?'
âAlan?' Meredith touched his arm.
He pulled in his head regretfully. âWhat? Oh, yes, could be anything. Well, is there anything else we should see, Mrs Scott?'
âOnly the downstairs cloaks where Roger is.'
âWe'll give that a miss,' Markby said hastily. âWould it be in order to look round the garden?'
âHelp yourself.' She clearly didn't intend to accompany them.
As they strolled down the path between abandoned flower-beds and overgrown vegetable patches, Meredith asked the question which had been hovering on her lips since the study.
âWhy didn't you tell me you'd been in that house before?'
He hesitated. âIt was a long time ago. It was still a vicarage then and I had reason to call on the incumbent. Police business, you know, routine stuff.'
âWas that Mr Scott, by any chance?'
âWhat? Oh, no. It was a chap called Pattinson.'
âIs that why you wanted us to view it? Because you knew it already? Why didn't you say?'
âI don't â didn't know the place. I wasn't shown over it back then. I was shown straight into the vicar's study and after I'd spoken to him, I left. I didn't even see into the other rooms.' He added, âIt's in a bit of a state, I know.'
She did her best to put an optimistic gloss on it. âIt's a beautiful big drawing room. Expensive to heat, though. Did it look better, smarter, when you saw it years ago?'
âI told you, I only saw the entrance hall and the study. It looked all right. Not that I was paying much attention then. I'm pretty sure that bookcase and the desk in the study were there then, and the crucifix, but polished up and clean.'
âShe's a nice woman, batty but nice.'
Markby stopped and turned towards her. Her face was hidden by her ruffled brown hair. She'd pushed her hands into her jeans pockets and was idly manoeuvring a broken piece of ornamental edging with the toe of her trainer. He caught her lightly by her upper arms. âDon't pretend. You make me feel guilty. It was a mistake coming, all right? I know you don't like it. Just say so.'
âWell, I â oh, all right.' She tossed back her hair, slipped her arms free and began to number off the points on her fingers. âThe heating's broken, the windows stick and I wouldn't lose my money if I bet there was something wrong with the plumbing. Against that, it has large rooms, some lovely period features like the mouldings, and the garden is your dream, I know that. But,' she sighed. âThe village does look a teeny bit,
well, dead. I'm sorry. Perhaps you'd love the place. I wish I could tell you that I did. But I don't. You did ask,' she finished defensively.
well, dead. I'm sorry. Perhaps you'd love the place. I wish I could tell you that I did. But I don't. You did ask,' she finished defensively.
She reached out to squeeze his hand reassuringly. âWe'll find the right house if we keep looking.'
âAnd then we'll get married?'
âThen we'll get married. I'm not backing out, Alan.' She was looking up at him anxiously under the heavy fringe of hair.
âOK,' he said, kissing her. âJust so I'm sure. It's not me, it's the house.'
âIt's not you. The house is like Dracula's weekend retreat.'
He laughed and they set off back towards the gate.
âI wonder what that squad car was up to?' Markby mused.
âNothing for you to worry yourself over, Superintendent. Do you think Mrs Scott knows you're a copper?'
âI didn't tell her when I rang. I don't go round announcing myself. Hey, I'm a policeman! It doesn't go down well.'
They got back in the car.
âWe could,' Markby said tentatively, âjust drive down to the woods and take a look.'
âAt the woods or at whatever has taken the police down there?'
âBoth.'
âGo on,' she said resignedly. âYou won't rest until you know. But count me out. I'll go and take a look at the church, if it's open. I'll wait there for you, anyway. Pick me up on your way back from your busman's holiday.'
As Markby's car neared the woods, the road, or what passed for it, grew worse. Only a remnant of its original asphalt surface remained, cracked and weed-strewn. The edges had broken away and he rattled and shook his way in a wavering middle course over potholes filled with water from the afternoon's downpour. He hoped he didn't meet the police car careering towards him. Here and there parts of the dry stone walls lining the road had crumbled and sent mini-avalanches of lumps of yellow stone to encroach on the track. No one had troubled to remove them. No one, he guessed, came down here in a car.
What, never? Well, hardly ever
.
What, never? Well, hardly ever
.
âI am the captain of the Pinafore â¦'
he hummed in an out-of-tune way. He was as near tone-deaf as made little difference. He regretted it. He'd have liked to enjoy music. He did enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas but for the lyrics rather than the tunes.
he hummed in an out-of-tune way. He was as near tone-deaf as made little difference. He regretted it. He'd have liked to enjoy music. He did enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan's operettas but for the lyrics rather than the tunes.
He fell silent and thought back to the house-viewing. That had been a notable lack of success. He should, perhaps, have mentioned to Meredith that he'd been in the house before. But
it had been so long ago and as he'd tried to explain, the only room he'd seen had been that claustrophobic study. Yet it hadn't been an unfriendly place. Rather pleasant, as he recalled it. The vicar, Pattinson, had been an elderly man, a little on the dithering side and vague, but sharp enough when defending his flock. The book which had lain open on the vicar's desk on that occasion, Markby recalled, had been that massive volume on myths which he'd glimpsed still there in the bookcase. âIt is by way of being a little interest of mine!' the vicar had said apologetically.
it had been so long ago and as he'd tried to explain, the only room he'd seen had been that claustrophobic study. Yet it hadn't been an unfriendly place. Rather pleasant, as he recalled it. The vicar, Pattinson, had been an elderly man, a little on the dithering side and vague, but sharp enough when defending his flock. The book which had lain open on the vicar's desk on that occasion, Markby recalled, had been that massive volume on myths which he'd glimpsed still there in the bookcase. âIt is by way of being a little interest of mine!' the vicar had said apologetically.
Living in Lower Stovey, a man would need a few interests to pass a long evening. Markby had to confess it was rather more cut-off than he remembered it. Surely, there had been more people about when he'd come here many years ago? There had been children running home from the village school. Women had stood gossiping outside a shop. Someone had run a shoe and bridle-repair business from a dilapidated lean-to by his cottage. Perhaps the lean-to had finally fallen down. There was no sign of it now. Also gone were school, store and inevitably children, as young families moved out given the lack of the first two. It had left a deserted wasteland of a place. An inhabited wasteland of second homes and prosperous two-car commuter couples, yet a wasteland nevertheless.
They had an agreement, he and Meredith. They'd find a house and then they'd get married. At the moment he had a Victorian villa in Bamford and she had an end-of-terrace cottage. They'd tried living together in his house and it hadn't worked. She was adamant it wouldn't work in her house, either. It was that much smaller than his. They'd fall over one another at every turn. Yes, clearly the answer was to look for a new
house, but where to find one both of them liked? So far they'd viewed five. Not many, Markby supposed. But enough to be discouraging. For that reason, he'd pinned his hopes on the old vicarage at Lower Stovey. First sight of it today had disposed of his sanguine expectations. He didn't blame Meredith for not fancying it. He just wished he could quell the secret suspicion he harboured that she might have another reason other than the house's obvious flaws. She might, just might, be playing for time.
house, but where to find one both of them liked? So far they'd viewed five. Not many, Markby supposed. But enough to be discouraging. For that reason, he'd pinned his hopes on the old vicarage at Lower Stovey. First sight of it today had disposed of his sanguine expectations. He didn't blame Meredith for not fancying it. He just wished he could quell the secret suspicion he harboured that she might have another reason other than the house's obvious flaws. She might, just might, be playing for time.
He'd told himself this thought was unworthy and should be dismissed out of hand. It was preposterous. And yet he knew that the idea of marriage made her nervous. It had taken long enough to get her to say yes. He sighed. All he wanted was to pop over to the local registry office and sign on the dotted line. She had at long last declared herself willing to do the same. They were held up simply because they couldn't find a house. Or not one they wanted to live in.
He jolted to a stop and peered through the windscreen. The road had run out. It shouldn't have come as a shock. Back on the main highway, where the turning for Lower Stovey was marked, a large and prominently placed sign warned the traveller
No Through Road
. But the abruptness with which the surfaced road ended was still quite startling. Before him was a patch of rough grass and a gate. Beyond the gate lay the trees. In the silence and stillness, the years slipped away. Twenty, no, twenty-two, years ago. So long? Yet little had changed here. It wouldn't take much to make the dark mass of trees seem scary, looming as it did over him, even without memory to colour his imagination. He remembered the first time he'd been here, at this very spot, and gazed at the same scene. The memory was
so sharp, crystal-clear, it did indeed seem like yesterday and the emotion he felt hadn't changed. He had never then, nor ever since, been anywhere which had so much inclined him â the most practical and in some ways unimaginative of men â to believe in magic. Not the beneficent magic of fairy godmothers and glass slippers, but the dark magic of lost arts and old gods.
No Through Road
. But the abruptness with which the surfaced road ended was still quite startling. Before him was a patch of rough grass and a gate. Beyond the gate lay the trees. In the silence and stillness, the years slipped away. Twenty, no, twenty-two, years ago. So long? Yet little had changed here. It wouldn't take much to make the dark mass of trees seem scary, looming as it did over him, even without memory to colour his imagination. He remembered the first time he'd been here, at this very spot, and gazed at the same scene. The memory was
so sharp, crystal-clear, it did indeed seem like yesterday and the emotion he felt hadn't changed. He had never then, nor ever since, been anywhere which had so much inclined him â the most practical and in some ways unimaginative of men â to believe in magic. Not the beneficent magic of fairy godmothers and glass slippers, but the dark magic of lost arts and old gods.
The years between had passed with frightening speed. What on earth had possessed him to return to Lower Stovey? To view a possible property? Or the promptings of his sub-conscious, even a morbid curiosity or the old, fatal lure of unfinished business? When he'd seen the police car pass by on its way to the woods, his pulse had raced and he'd felt the thrill of the chase and something more, a twinge of something like anticipation, even hope. Hope that an old secret would at long last be revealed. Was it possible, he asked himself, that after so long the Potato Man was back?
Markby had been no stranger to the general area even twenty-two years earlier. He'd known the old drovers' way, even walked it with a couple of friends as a teenager. He was aware it passed through the woods. But Lower Stovey itself, that had been a new place to him, and he'd been brought here by the Potato Man.
Markby had then been a newly-promoted inspector, as his junior colleague Dave Pearce was now. Like Dave, his new rank had sat uneasily on his shoulders like a new coat. He'd been anxious to distinguish himself and determined not to make any mistakes. His superintendent had been Pelham, elderly, wily as an old dog-fox, resentful of his approaching retirement.
âThere's no shame in making a mistake,' he'd told Markby, âprovided you learn by it. It's only if you go on making the
same mistakes and never learn that you ought to be asking yourself if you're in the right job.'
same mistakes and never learn that you ought to be asking yourself if you're in the right job.'
As it turned out he'd made mistakes a-plenty over the intervening years but he still didn't believe he'd made any on that case, not that he could think of, looking back. Yet even doing everything right, by the book, hadn't produced success. Perhaps he'd been too young and inexperienced to dare to throw away the book and strike out on a line of his own. He sighed as another memory was dredged up.
Also like Dave, Markby had been newly-wed at the time. He hoped Dave's marriage lasted longer than his had done. But he thought it probably would. Dave and Tessa gave every sign of being a well-matched couple who would survive the stormy seas of marriage's early years. Unlike Rachel and himself. Their boat had sunk practically in the first gale.
Yet here he was seeking to be married again, married to Meredith. What made him think that, having failed so dismally at the first attempt, he'd do better the second time around? Perhaps only the memory of Superintendent Pelham and his homespun wisdom. Markby hoped he had learned by his mistakes. Perhaps even in the matter of marriage practice made perfect.
Stovey Woods and the Potato Man, the first case handed entirely to him in his new rank. âSee what you can make of this, Alan,' Pelham had rumbled. âThe blighter's got to be caught.'
But, to Markby's great dismay, they didn't catch him. He'd chalked up a failure on his very first case. Talk about omens. Luckily, he'd not been superstitious, though he had wondered if some jinx haunted Stovey Woods and not just the Potato Man. Perhaps that was why he hadn't mentioned being here
before to Meredith. He associated his previous visit with a bitterly felt sense of having been outmanoeuvred by a mind more cunning than his own.
before to Meredith. He associated his previous visit with a bitterly felt sense of having been outmanoeuvred by a mind more cunning than his own.
Over the years he'd tried to console himself whenever his thoughts turned back to that case, as they persisted in doing from time to time, despite everything. He told himself those had been the days before DNA revolutionised the way the police went about identifying the criminal. Nor had offender profiling yet reached out beyond metropolitan areas. Given these weapons, which now everyone took for granted, he might have got his man.
For the Potato Man had been a serial rapist. They didn't know how many victims he'd had because, as is the way in such cases, they only knew of the women who'd come forward. Again, twenty-two years ago, women had been more hesitant to tell their story, fearing unsympathetic police officers and a society which was inclined to blame the victim rather than the perpetrator. âWhat was she doing, wandering about up in those woods on her own?' had been many people's response on hearing of a new victim. The lack of cooperation on the part of the very people who should most have wanted the rapist caught, the villagers themselves, had been one of the most frustrating aspects of the whole case.
The first victim the police had known about was a girl called Mavis Cotter, described in popular parlance as âa bit simple'. Getting her story out of her hadn't been easy. Her vocabulary was limited and she had been in deep shock. She wasn't used to answering questions of any kind and she could neither read nor write with any competence. As her tale emerged over several
frustrating interviews, she'd gone to the woods because there were blackberry bushes on the outskirts. She'd worked her way round to the far side and decided to cut home through the woods as being the quickest way.
frustrating interviews, she'd gone to the woods because there were blackberry bushes on the outskirts. She'd worked her way round to the far side and decided to cut home through the woods as being the quickest way.
She hadn't heard him. She hadn't seen him. Without warning something had been thrown over her head and trapped her arms. The only detail she could give was that she'd noticed an earthy smell. At first they hadn't paid too much attention to that because after all, lying on the woodland floor, she might be expected to smell earth. There had even been some who'd questioned that any of this had happened as Mavis told it, suggesting that Mavis had agreed to intercourse but taken fright afterwards and made up the story of the attack.
But Markby had been inclined to believe her because he didn't think Mavis had the mental agility to think up her story or to stick to it once she'd told it, and she certainly had answers to any sceptical questions (when you eventually got them out of her).
Why had no cloth or covering been found at the place she said the rape took place? Because he'd taken it with him. Then why had she not seen him as he ran away? Because he'd pushed her face down into the leafmould and told her not to move or he'd kill her. His voice had been gruff, sounded funny. She hadn't recognised it. Terrified, she'd remained lying there for some time, she didn't know how long, before getting the courage to look up, see she was alone, and run home. Also he'd stolen her necklace. Just a string of cheap beads but it had been Mavis's pride and joy and she'd wept as much for them as for her lost virginity â the implication of the last had not come home to her. Had she not just lost the beads, unaware the string
broken? No, insisted Mavis tearfully. He pulled the necklace from her and it had hurt her throat as the string broke. Marks on her neck seemed to bear this out. Nevertheless, the villagers of Lower Stovey had generally been of the opinion that you couldn't believe anything Mavis Cotter told you because she wasn't right in the head and never had been. Only the girl's mother had insisted her daughter had been violated.
broken? No, insisted Mavis tearfully. He pulled the necklace from her and it had hurt her throat as the string broke. Marks on her neck seemed to bear this out. Nevertheless, the villagers of Lower Stovey had generally been of the opinion that you couldn't believe anything Mavis Cotter told you because she wasn't right in the head and never had been. Only the girl's mother had insisted her daughter had been violated.
They had, however, been obliged to believe Jennifer Fernley the second victim. Jennifer had been a student and a keen walker. She'd started off to walk the Bamford way with a friend but early on the friend had twisted her ankle and dropped out. Jennifer had walked on alone. She had been passing through Stovey Woods, keeping to the marked track, when attacked. She had heard running feet behind her. What kind of running feet? Oh, not a light athletic run, more a heavy clumsy galumphing along. She'd half turned to see who it was, been aware only of a dark shape, and then he had thrown something like a sack over her head, blinding her and trapping her arms. It had smelled earthy. After the attack, he'd pushed her head into a bramble thicket, leaving her face a mass of bleeding scratches, and ordered her not to move or she'd die. His voice had been gruff and peculiar. And he'd stolen something from her. Her wristwatch.
âThe bloke's a collector,' said old Pelham on being informed of this. âHe takes something from his victims as a souvenir. He's probably got a box full of trinkets at home and takes 'em out of an evening and gets off again, handling them.'
It was Markby who had suggested that what might have been thrown or pulled over the victims' heads could have been a potato sack, accounting for the earthy smell. After that, the Press
had called the rapist the Potato Man. Some joker had even drawn a sketch and pinned it on the wall of the incident room. The drawing had shown a headless oval body with stick arms and legs, eyes, nose and mouth drawn in the centre of the oval. Above it was printed WANTED. Markby, angry, had torn it down.
had called the rapist the Potato Man. Some joker had even drawn a sketch and pinned it on the wall of the incident room. The drawing had shown a headless oval body with stick arms and legs, eyes, nose and mouth drawn in the centre of the oval. Above it was printed WANTED. Markby, angry, had torn it down.
So that was how he'd come to pay his call on the Reverend Pattinson, vicar of Lower Stovey. He'd been forewarned that Pattinson was a scholarly sort of fellow, a bit out of his time, in Markby's informant's opinion. The type happy to live among his books and take a couple of services of a Sunday and more suited to an eighteenth-century parsonage than a twentieth century one. Nevertheless, as Markby had soon discovered, Pattinson had had firm ideas about his flock and refused even to consider a rapist might be among them. They were all family men, respectable to the core, he insisted. The village was small. Everyone knew everyone else. If there was a violent psychopath living among them, someone would know.
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