In the Moors (10 page)

“We're here to interview the prisoner,” said Rey to the policewoman at the door.

I wasn't going to be manhandled, or even politely escorted. I stuffed the notepad into my bag and stood up, quickly offering my hand to Cliff so that we could have some small contact before I left him again.

“Will you tell my mother what's happening? I know you'd be kind to her.”

My mouth opened and closed.

“Linnet's got her address. Will you? Please?”

I had no idea how long the interview might take, but I didn't intend to leave the station until I'd seen Linnet once more. I heard her shoes—stubby heels that must have been just a bit loose—clicking towards the reception area less than half an hour later.

“I've got a couple of things for you,” she said. Her face was grey, and I could see a muscle flicker at her cheek. “Mrs. Houghton's details. And my card, my personal number. Please don't hesitate to use it.”

“Can you tell me what's going on?”

“The search of Cliff's flat turned something up.”

“What? What could they possibly find?”

Linnet rested her leather bag on the bench and sat down next to me. “It wouldn't make a lot of sense to you. It was just a plastic toy.”

My jaw slackened with shock. “A Slamblaster figure?” I could see she was impressed, but I was in no mood to be impressive. “I don't understand this. Cliff has nothing to do with these children, I would swear to it.”

“Josh Sutton was carrying this toy when he disappeared. The investigating team seem to think that's pretty conclusive. It means that he's now implicated in the disappearance of both the children.”

My brain raced. Cliff had a morbid fascination with Josh Sutton's disappearance. He didn't even know why until he saw the picture I'd drawn. I thought about the cuttings and pictures they'd already found in his flat. “Linnet, please, don't you think he could have bought an identical figure?” I was panting. “Insist they do forensic checks on it, Linnet. I bet it's straight out of its packaging.”

She shook her head, slow, deliberate. “They've already tested for prints.”

“But Cliff
would
have touched it,” I blurted. “That proves nothing—”

“Sabbie.” Her voice shook. “The Slamblaster is covered with Josh Sutton's fingerprints. I'm afraid they've just formally charged my client with his murder.”

NINE

Seeing Bren Howell's face
in my unconscious dreams after the motorcycle accident was not the first time something strange had happened to me. All through my childhood, I'd fought against the fairies that visited me on the verge of sleep. I hated it. I didn't think of myself as a fairy sort of girl. I was a Doc Martens sort of girl, allergic to pink, and I kept my unintentional encounters secret. When I realized the man who had pulled me out of my coma was a person I'd never met, it spooked me badly, but the Howells were great to me—warm and welcoming, a bit of a laugh, never demanding or pushy. There was no long list of house rules or pressure to join them for meals or outings.

Even so, I hadn't been at Bangor University long before I discovered that the Howells liked walking at least as much as Gloria and Philip did. I was glad to lace up the walking boots I hadn't worn since before my bike accident.

That first time, we drove across the Menai Strait and walked along the headland. Bren started telling me about the ancient geology of Anglesey and the abundance of uncommon plant life, and I nodded politely as he talked.

“Are you enjoying your courses?” he asked, after a while.

“Psychology is fascinating. The psychologists all disagree with each other, but that's quite interesting in itself.”

“Indeed, it must be,” said Bren. “For you, Sabbie.”

I glanced quickly at him. He often made a comment that seemed loaded with unstated meaning, as if he were expecting me to start a conversation about something else entirely. Trouble was, I had no idea what.

Rhiannon was striding out ahead in a pair of brown slacks and ancient but well-soled shoes. Over her arm was a large wicker basket. Philip, my foster dad, always carried a backpack with a thermos and other goodies on Sunday walks, but Rhiannon's basket was empty except for a pair of garden shears. Where was our picnic? I was seriously confused.

Rhiannon was a small lady, ultra-slender, although she served a hearty tea, as the Howells called their main meal. In fact they both looked fit, seeing as they had to be heading for seventy. I was beginning to puff with the pace they were keeping up when Rhiannon suddenly disappeared over the edge of the cliff. I shrieked in horror and raced forwards, pulling up sharp by her basket, which remained on the path like a memorial to her. I looked over the cliff top. Rhiannon was balancing on a small ledge, head and shoulders below path level, snipping at some succulent-looking leaves.

“Samphire,” she said, beaming up at me. She shinned up the rock face like a wiry Welsh goat and dropped her find into the basket.

Speechless, I watched her carry on up the path, the basket swinging from her fingers.

“You can run when you want to, indeed,” said Bren, as he joined me. “Only, you looked a bit puffy farther back, like.”

“I'm fine—”

“You mustn't forget that you've only just recovered from a serious accident.”

I shrugged. “It's a year ago, now.”

“Thirteen months and eighteen days.”

I stared at him in amazement. Even I hadn't calculated the time of my smash-up in such precise terms.

“I came to you. Maybe you can't remember now. Indeed, you've never said anything. But I wanted to help. I could feel you sliding. You were too young to slide over, Sabbie.”

We moved along the cliff trail. I didn't reply for ages, but he let me think, not saying anything further. Ahead of us, Rhiannon was examining a patch of tall weeds on the inland side of the track. “Do we need any mugwort?” she called back.

“We're marvelous for mugwort,” said Bren.

“Right we are, then.” She scouted ahead again, and I finally found my voice.

“Were you really there?”

“You remember now,” said Bren, his elfin smile showing through his beard.

“I remember something,” I said. “But I don't believe it's possible.”

“Of course you don't,” said Bren. “Most people don't. They don't believe anything is possible.”

“Oh, I believe that,” I said. “I believe
anything
is possible. It's Gloria's favourite phrase. Ten years ago I would have laughed if you'd told me I'd be taking a psychology degree. Actually, I'd probably have punched you on the nose, if I'd been able to reach up. But here I am. Yeah, I agree that anything could be possible. Except moving around in someone else's mind.”

“Anything except that, eh?” Bren suddenly noticed that Rhiannon was struggling among the branches of a stubby, thorn-laden bush and went to her aid. Carefully, they picked off the red haws and dropped them into a buff A4 envelope.

He didn't bring up the subject again. He understood that it would take me some time to get my head round the idea. For the next mile we formed a convoy spread out along the coastal path, Rhiannon forging ahead, and me dragging my feet behind, thinking deeply.

Suddenly, we came to a lovely cliff-top café, as if the Howells had conjured it out of thin air. We sat in the garden and had bara brith with scalding hot tea.

Although it was November and had rained on and off since I got to Bangor, the day had turned out warm. The weeping willows that surrounded us were bathed in golden light. I can't remember ever enjoying a meal more than that one. While I piled butter on my slices of brith, I asked Rhiannon why she was picking the plants.

“They're herbs, dear. Some for swallowing, some for poultices, and some for burning.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Ugh! You could poison yourself.”

“They're not for us, not especially. Anyone can come and be treated at our house.” Her eyes gleamed, reflecting the late sun. “We haven't poisoned anyone yet.”

I'd noticed that the Howells had a lot of visitors. People rang the bell, then traipsed up the stairs into the unused bedroom next to mine, leaving a half an hour or so later. “Are you herbalists?” I asked, thinking I sounded quite clued-up.

“If you like,” said Rhiannon.

“We're cunning folk,” said Bren. “My great grandmother was a cunning woman and she taught me everything she knew.”

“There'll be no one to take it on from us, though,” said Rhiannon. “It'll die out when we do. We have no cunning apprentice, you see.”

I froze, the slice of brith halfway to my open mouth. “Don't look at me,” I said, laughing at my own joke. “The only cunning I know is how to get out of trouble at school.”

Bren raised one pixie eyebrow. “That's quite sufficient,” he said. “As a start-off, like.”

I didn't go straight home when I left the police station. I walked around the centre of town in a catatonic state, over the many bridges, staring down into the waters of the River Parrett for minutes at a time, unable to get the least part of my mental capacities up and running. I vacillated from hating myself for struggling with a client who needed more than my skills could offer, to being filled with zeal. I'd heard of people who'd spent their lives trying to prove someone's innocence, only to finally have the guilt conclusively confirmed. I kept coming back to the same moment last night, when I'd lifted the muslin veil to reveal Cliff in his futile hiding place. Why had he done that? Was he thinking they had already found the Slamblaster?

As I walked past the town library, I knew I couldn't let it go. I checked my watch. I had an hour or so to spare. I could go home and eat a proper lunch before my client arrived, or I could do some research. Even though my stomach growled at me angrily, there was no contest.

The Bridgwater town library tries so hard to be stately and elegant, with its pillars and green copper cupola, but it's not very big or extensively stocked, so I wasn't hoping for much. I went straight up to the reference section, where the light filters down so that you feel as if you're inside a lantern. A librarian turned to greet me from the other side of her counter and offered a distracted smile.

“I want to research a series of local murders,” I told her. “Can I do that here?”

Her face blanched. “Murders? Local? When was that?”

I grinned at her. “It's okay, it was decades ago. They were called the Wetland Murders.”

She tapped at her computer keyboard, but I could see she was taking the poor thing round in small circles. Asking about murders had made her jittery. As the moments ticked on, I became worried that she was trying to raise an arresting officer, rather than a file.

“Would it have been in the
Bridgwater Mercury
? We have those on microfiche, if you have the date.” I shook my head at her. Foolishly, I'd never established exactly when the bodies had been recovered. “You're going to have to trawl through a lot of microfiche in that case.”

Disheartened, I went to get a reviving coffee from the machine in the lobby. As usual it was out of order and I had to resist the temptation to kick it in rage. I spent a moment or two staring at the walls, trying to gain my temper. I'd just have to come back at another time, armed with the right information.

Without warning, I had one of those little jolts that make you focus in on something you are half looking at. The lobby was wallpapered with notices and flyers for local events, and pinned between the cello recitals and the am-dram notices, a single word pinned my eye:
Garibaldi.

GARIBALDI WAY OPENS TO PUBLIC

A Talk at the Town Hall

Archaeologist Roberto Garibaldi and his team have recently
unearthed the UK's oldest-ever wooden structures. The 6,500-year-old staves and poles are thought to be the wooden remains of a causeway and fish weir installed by Stone Age men who lived in what was then a salt marsh. There will be footage of the find, and refreshments will be served.

This sort of thing is always happening to me—a string of reminders about the symbols I bring back from shamanic journeys. After Trendle came into my life, I couldn't go out without spotting otters—
everything from DVDs to tattoos. Most of the otters ended up in my therapy room, except the tattoo. That ended up at the base of
my spine. This particular flyer wasn't new, though; it was several months out of date. As I stared at it, my thoughts turned back to Cliff and I realized I should be able to recall his date of birth if I closed my eyes and visualized his notes. I could work forwards eleven years from there.

I shot back up the open staircase and collared my vaguely smiling friend with the years of interest fresh in my mind.

“Do you know how to operate a microfiche viewer?” she asked as she took me over to the files. Again I shook my head, aware I was looking increasingly gormless. I had an urge to explain about my low blood sugar. But she was very gentle as she took me through the technicalities and got quite excited when we finally found our first report of a missing child.

She left me to it then, and I became so absorbed in the gruesome story that when a cough echoed through the silent room, my stomach lurched into my mouth. The articles made for difficult reading—my heart was bounding and my tongue felt dry—but I knew I wanted to take every scrap of information away with me so that I could do it justice. I scrabbled around in my purse and came up with enough change for copies of everything.

I walked along the river from the library. In less than a minute I was faced with the choice of Barney's Café or the Bridge Restaurant. I went for the upmarket option and was soon tucking into a goat cheese salad while I perused my photocopies.

The articles listed the full names of the children found in the moors—Matthew Cladburn, Nicolas Goodland, Joanna Beck, and John Shoreward. At the time of their deaths, they had all been between three and seven years old. Like Josh and Aidan, they had all been snatched from play areas where their parents or teachers had only taken their eyes off the child for a moment.

Cliff wasn't mentioned at all. Was he a trial run that had gone wrong? Did the woman in the car and the man Cliff dreamed of choose smaller children simply because they'd found eleven-year-old Cliff too hard to handle?

I pushed my plate back and wiped the olive oil from my mouth. This story of multiple losses was getting to me, and I still had to face the bus journey home.

As the bus wound its way out of the centre of town, the man in Cliff's dream kept nudging at my mind. He was the essential missing component to the puzzle. Women and young girls did not steal children, kill them, and bury them in a shallow grave—not in any understanding of the real world I'd ever had.
It was always a man
, I thought,
then and now
.

“Please don't let it be Cliff,” I whispered.

The rain pattered on the bus window like a lullaby.

I longed to crawl into bed and sleep when I reached home, but that was not an option. I had to get ready for an aromatherapy client.

I switched on the local news as the kettle steamed. Cliff's arrest was the main item, naturally. There were shots of his tiny first-floor flat, with uniformed men standing guard behind the ubiquitous blue and white tape. There was a full-screen blow-up of Aidan Rodderick's face, followed by a re-run of his parents' grim and tearful press statement. Finally, the screen was covered with a grainy picture of my client. It was a head and shoulders shot, but I could see it was a holiday snap, taken on a beach. I wondered where they had got it.

I kept glancing towards my bag. Somewhere at the bottom was the contact information for Cliff's mother. I'd promised him I would phone her. I could ring her now before my client, or ring her when I was even more exhausted this evening. There shouldn't have been a contest, but I had to will myself to zap off the telly, and my hand was shaking as I dialled the number.