In the Moors (11 page)

I'd never spoken to anyone who had just had a son arrested for murder. Even so, I was knocked back by the screech that came down the line as soon as it was picked up.

“GO AWAY! GET OFF THIS LINE!”

“I'm sorry,” I said, stuttering out the words. “You don't know me, but—”

“I don't know any of you,” said the woman on the other end. Her voice was quieter but still full of fury. “That doesn't seem to prevent you vipers from attacking me.”

“Mrs. Houghton.” I'd guessed what this was about. All I could do was talk quickly before she slammed down the phone. “I know your son. He might have mentioned me to you. My name is Sabbie Dare.”

There was a moment of thought before she came back at me, suspicion uppermost in her tone. “No. My son has not mentioned you. And I'm answering no more questions.”

“I saw Cliff today. At the police station.”

She let out a sob. “I don't want to speak to the police tonight.”

“I was there to give a statement. Cliff was at my house when they arrested him.”

She gave a pause. “He never spoke about you.”

“I think he might have been preoccupied of late.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Houghton. “Yes, he has been, a bit. He didn't tell me he had a girlfriend.”

“Ah, now—Mrs. Houghton—”

“He tells me most things. He would have told me. You could be the press. They can pull some dirty tricks.”

“I understand that. You don't have to talk to me.” I had managed to confuse things further for the poor woman. But she didn't hang up, so I battled on. “Cliff just wanted me to send his love and say he's okay.”

I heard her irregular breaths echo into the phone's dark cavities. “He'll be feeling so dreadful, wondering how it could happen.”

“I think it's a sort of mistaken identity—”

“Don't say anything over the phone,” Cliff's mother hissed down line. “They tap them you know; I've seen it on the television.”

I swallowed hard, unsure whether she was losing it or if she might be right. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“That's nice of you, Sally, it is. You can pray. I've been praying for him every hour since I heard the news. Only no one bothered to inform me, you know. All these phone calls just started happening. They've been driving me mad. It's awful that some reporter is the one to tell you your son's in jail.”

I knew that she had begun to cry silently. This wasn't a good time to correct her misunderstandings, either over my name, status, or spiritual path. I had a sudden realization that after she'd put the phone down on this call, she'd be alone, except for the hounds baying outside her front door.

“Is everything … are you all right?”

“Oh yes, dear, of course. I'm just rather surprised to hear from you like this. I really can't believe that Cliff could forget to introduce us. Perhaps we could meet for coffee sometime. Get to know each other better. Without the prying ears. Except I don't think I'm going anywhere very soon. I can't leave my house at the moment.” She chuckled, and I silently reminded myself that Mrs. Houghton had brought two children up into adulthood after losing her husband. “You'll have to come to me, Sally, I'm afraid,” she continued without missing a beat. “What about tomorrow morning? Would tennish be okay for you?” I fancied she might be scribbling the appointment onto a wall calendar as she spoke. “I'll need to give you my address.”

“Actually, Cliff's solicitor has passed that on. Mrs. Houghton?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Take all your phones off the hook. And don't open the door to anyone.”

“How will I know when it's you?”

“I'll put my card through the letterbox.”
If I can get to it
, I couldn't help thinking.

“Can you send him my love, dear?”

My eyes had begun to sting with sympathetic tears. “I'll try, Mrs. Houghton. I will try.”

TEN

Mini Ha Ha started
right away when I clambered into her the following morning. She generally does, but it's always a surprise, because she's older than I am—a 1970s Mini Cooper, lovingly cared for by one previous owner, right down to the original cherry-coloured paint job. I couldn't believe this survivor of a glorious decade cost me less than a five-year-old car. I took over its ownership like I'd been handed a puppy. The local garage adapted it to run on unleaded petrol, and of course, I had to have a CD player fitted. Couldn't do without that.

I slid Nina Simone into the player. I had twenty or so minutes' run ahead of me to reach Caroline Houghton's house, and the growl of Simone's voice would suit the mood of the journey well. The rain had stopped sometime during the night and a mild sun was bobbing above the horizon as I drove towards the Polden Hills.

When I first moved to Bridgwater, I thought it was an ugly town surrounded by a swamp. I guess there's around 40,000 people living here, and most of them are proud as heck of their town, but I couldn't for the life of me see why. Okay, it used to boast of a market and river port, but by the time I turned up it didn't have much at all, not even a swimming pool. More critically, though, I stood out. In Bristol, I'd been one of many mixed raced kids. Here, my skin tones were too dark against the pale, Anglo-Saxon populace.

It seemed daft to move from the city life I knew and loved, but I'd been chasing a boy, naturally. I'd met Marcus in one of the many cafés on Glastonbury High Street. I'd finished my degree, and for several months I had been making the ninety-minute trip south from Bristol to Glastonbury each weekend to learn about the things I'd felt most drawn to—the therapies I planned to offer as my life's work. Learning about shamanism or Reiki in Glastonbury seemed as rational as learning about IT in San Jose.

At first, I'd assumed that Marcus was on the same wavelength, since he'd come to Glastonbury with some mates to have his aura read. It had taken me no more than a couple of weeks to shift all my stuff from Gloria's house into his Bridgwater flat. I was almost twenty-five and knew it was time to grow up and take responsibility for myself. Sadly, I have a tendency to use the most inappropriate men to help me achieve my aims. It had only taken a further couple of weeks to for me to start packing again. On our last night together, Marcus had come back to find me creating a spell in the middle of his living room—wand poised, incense and candles burning. His face had turned, like traffic lights, from red to positively green
.

“You've got to stop this, Sabbie,” he'd yelled at me as he snuffed out the candles by bringing his whole hand down on their flames. “It's dangerous. It's evil.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay, Marcus. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

Marcus had stomped off to bed, but I'd stayed and finished my spell, magicking up the perfect successful therapy practice—a full list of clients, a working space I could afford, the moxie to go ahead with it all. When I'd finished, it was two in the morning, but still I didn't feel like bed. Instead, I packed my few things. Silently, I bundled my clothes into my suitcase and boxed up my more fragile stuff. I had no idea where I was going, but I couldn't stay with Marcus. As I wrapped glassware in the previous week's
Mercury
, my gaze rested on a blurred photo on the Property to Rent page. I was staring at it, wondering how such a little house had managed to keep so much garden all to itself, when the vision of having a bit of my own land leapt into my mind.

Back then I used to talk all the time about lowering my carbon footprint without ever doing much more than chucking plastic bottles into a recycling skip. I'd looked at the photo of the garden—almost quarter of an acre of good land—and come to the conclusion that Bridgwater might be the place to settle down. Bristol rents were sky high, but around the River Parrett they were affordable, and I'd be closer to Glastonbury, a place I loved but knew I'd hate to live.

I'd cut out the ad and slipped it into my purse, contemplating how magic can work so quickly it leaves you vibrating like a tugged spring. It's three years later, and I still believe that: you don't have to wait for magic; it either hits you in the eyes or it hasn't worked at all.

The first sign for Finchbury flashed past the car. I started to take glances at the printout map I'd lifted from the Internet. My route for Caroline Houghton's house took me through the oldest part of Finchbury, quite close to the medieval marketplace, past the Tradecraft shops and pretty boutiques that now lined the ancient square with its gothic church tower. I drove over the River Cary, swollen from the recent rain, and into a back-street area that seemed forgotten by everyone but those who had to live there. I checked the addresses on the back of the map. Mrs. Houghton was on the other side of the river, but I intended to put in an extra stop before reaching her. I was in the street where Cliff lived.

I locked the car, even though I wouldn't be going far. I was outside a depressing local post office, which surely would be shut down before much longer. Faded cans of food were pyramided as a window display, with cheap children's toys pinned wonkily behind on bile-green plasterboard. A bell rang out as I opened the shop door, a real-live brass one dangling over my head.

“Morning,” said the woman behind the counter.

“I just want some stamps.” I couldn't bring myself to ask about the tenant who lived upstairs without putting something into the coffers first.

“First or second class? Large package or letter?” She fingered the pages of a worn-edged stamp book.

I was beginning to see why the place looked so deserted. This was not the most friendly post office clerk I had ever bought stamps from. She glowered at me from behind two layers of glass—the bulletproof stuff that fronted the counter and spectacles the shape and thickness of TV screens.

“The chap who lives upstairs,” I began and faltered as she gave what came close to the evil eye.

“I should've guessed you're here for that. I knew I didn't recognise you.” The woman slammed her stamp book shut. Dust puffed out and danced in the strip lighting. “I want you out of my shop, now.”

“I'm not the press,” I said.

“You're not official, either.” She turned and walked towards the end of the counter, where she pulled back a bolt to let herself into the shop. I backed towards the door. “They've taped it all up,” she said, advancing on me. “No one goes up there that's not official. They've left an officer in charge.”

I'd thought the brass bell had a merry chime as I'd entered, but as I legged it back to my car, it sounded like the tolling bell of fate.

I checked my watch. It was gone ten. As usual, I would be late for my date, and I fancied that was not the best way to curry favour with Mrs. Houghton.

There was no doubting which house Cliff's mother lived in, so I didn't have to check the number. Even though the crowd must have dwindled somewhat since last night, a row of cars was parked tight to the kerb, and some well-wrapped reporters were stamping their feet on the pavement, warming their lungs with cigarette smoke.

Cliff's childhood home was a well-heeled, detached affair. Its porch welcomed guests with ivory pillars and a sunray fanlight, and the picture windows were wrapped around the corners of the house in Art Deco style.

I drove by without stopping and pulled to a halt farther down. I dialled Mrs. Houghton's number into my mobile and got the engaged tone. Naturally. I'd told the woman myself to take her phone off the hook.

There was nothing for it but to brave the mob. As I drew closer, the gang clocked me, surrounding me as I approached the double gates, which were made of foreboding slats of heavy wood, charmingly painted a rich red-brown.

“Are you a friend of Caroline's, dear?” asked a woman in a woollen hat, pulled low. She looked blue around the chin—she must have been standing for ages. “Are you one of the family?”

“D'you know Cliff well?” asked a male reporter, flashing his press badge at me. “Have you seen him? Has he confessed yet?”

I tried not to make eye contact. Surely they couldn't stop me from moving on. I grasped the metal ring that operated the latch to the gate. As I turned it, I realized they had no intention of stopping me—they were planning to follow me right up to the door. I tried to slam the gate shut, but I'm just not made of the right material to cause unnecessary concussion in sentient beings. I fled along the long, wide gravel drive and hammered on the door, forgetting to even look for a bell, then stuffed my card through the letterbox. As always, it read:

SABBIE DARE

Shamanic Healing

Reiki, Reflexology, Aromatherapy

& Tarot Readings

The door took a long time to open. Quite soon, the entire pack of journalists were squashed into the porch with me, opening up new meanings to the phrase
members of the press
.

Finally, through the glass panelling, I saw the undulating image of a middle-aged woman. Her voice, shaky and compressed, floated out.

“Sally?”

“Sabbie!” I yelled back.

The door opened until the chain caught it with a metallic clang. She peered out at me through the gap.

The mumbling from the tight-packed bodies around me grew.

“Mrs. Houghton, tell us if you think Cliff is guilty!”

“What was he like as boy? Was he a handful?”

“You'll want us to publish something you've actually said, Caroline.”

“Come on dear, cough up …”

I turned my head round and hollered. “SHOVE OFF! NOW! GO AWAY!” Those anger nodules that grew round my heart when I was a kid come in useful at times.

As I hadn't spoken a word to any of them until that moment, they reacted quite dramatically. They shuffled backwards, falling over each other. A larger, older man was pushed out into the rose bushes, but I tried not to focus on what was happening behind me, because Caroline Houghton had taken off the chain. I slipped into her magnificent hallway.

The woman who faced me could have been Cliff's sister. Her spongy cheeks showed no signs of aging through the carefully applied makeup, although there was a thin line of grey roots at the edge of her blond bob. She was well padded but wore a long-sleeved belted dress that slimmed her bust and hips. A silk scarf was draped around her neck, hiding any chicken-wrinkles.

I looked down at the clothes I'd chosen to wear for this occasion—one of my best “visiting outfits”; a long plain skirt in a shade fairly close to the colour of Caroline's front gate and a warm jumper—but they made me feel dowdy and out of place in this hall, where gilt-framed family portraits hung on the walls. On closer inspection, these did turn out to be canvas-backed studio photos, but I bet they cost a lot more than my weekly earnings.

“Oh yes, I'm
sure
Cliff mentioned you,” Caroline was saying, “now I've had time to think about it.” A moment before, Caroline had been panting with the horror of the siege at her door, her beautiful eyes, as grey as Cliff's, wide and unblinking. But she quickly regained her poise. This was a woman to whom appearance, in all its guises, meant everything.

She opened a door on the other side of the hall and gestured me into a room of caramel-cream softness. There was a smell of rose petals. The carpet sank under my feet. The sofa I was directed to sucked me down into feather-stuffed cushions. My mouth formed a round “O,” but I was too stunned to worry if I looked stunned.

Caroline went straight to the window. She stood behind the half-closed curtains, which had the sheen and quality of an ivory wedding dress, and peered out.

“Have they gone?” I asked.

“Only as far as the gate.” She turned to me and lost her balance, toppling against the window. I was on my feet to rescue her, but she righted herself with a military shake of her shoulders. “The coffee's percolating,” she said. “D'you like it milky? That's what I usually have about this time,
café au lait.
”

“Are you sure you're all right, Mrs. Houghton?” I said. “All this attention. The whole situation must be harrowing.”

“You will call me Caroline, won't you?” She patted my arm as if I was the one in need of consolation. “Have you known Cliff for long, dear?”

“Not very long. He—”

“How did you both meet?”

“I'm a therapist, Mrs. Houghton.”

“How intriguing!” gushed Caroline. “Is it the sort of new age stuff?”

“A lot of people think that. But it's older than—”

“Cliff needs a steady relationship,” she said.

“I agree.”

“He was knocked for six when his father died. Did he tell you about his father?”

“Yes. I'm so sorry.”

“Had all the treatments, went through the chemo, only to die anyway.”

I shook my head, unable to think of anything to say, other than,
I'm your son's shaman,
which didn't feel at all appropriate.

“I think I recovered far better than either of the children. But my daughter's got her own life, whereas Cliff …”

“He does seem unhappy at times, Caroline.”

She sat opposite me, her back as straight as a Victorian spinster's. I could only marvel at how she was keeping her composure in the desperate circumstances. I'd sort of been imagining that she would weep all over me; having psyched myself up for that scenario, I felt a wincy bit nonplussed. I was also secretly hoping that she'd bob up again soon and make the drinks. Now she had promised me milky coffee, I was desperate for a cup, and visions of the fragrant, steaming brew—with froth and possibly even cinnamon powder on top—kept swimming in my head. I squeezed my eyes closed for a second.