In the Moors (16 page)

“Just one?” the shaman had asked.

“Sort of. It keeps saying its name is Trendle.”

“It's good to take notice of coincidences and connections,” he'd said. “You'd better come and see me.”

Coincidences and connections. Nudging the spirit world to show itself. That's what I needed to do now, if I was to make sense of Cliff.

I wondered about the way I'd recorded essential words and phrases on pieces of card in a bid to understand Marianne's spirit world. That had seemed to work, sort of. In the spare bedroom were the rest of the Christmas cards I'd saved from last year. I'd kept them with the intention of up-cycling them into new Christmas cards, but hey, it was only March; plenty of time yet.

Half an hour later, there were bits of cut-up Christmas card spread like a hand of solitaire over my kitchen worktop. A single detail was printed on the plain back of each one in red felt-tip. I started with the children, trying to record everything I knew about Josh Sutton and Aidan Rodderick. I listed the four who had been found in the moors all those years ago: Matthew, Joanna, Nicolas, and John. I carried on, including everything that might have a bearing. The words swam in front of my eyes:
Brokeltuft Cottage, Slamblaster, shaved heads and sacks of hair, catkins, cars, kidnappers, trees and signposts
.
Waterwheel
, I wrote.
Old Mill.
I chewed my pen and used a card to describe the nameless man Cliff had seen in his dream …
bulky, with a bristling beard and deep-set eyes
. I noted the rest of the players:
Cliff, Patsy, Caroline, Bella Rodderick,
and
Garth Stanford,
even
Josh's family in Bristol
.
The woman in the car
, whose name I might never know. As an afterthought I included
Gary Abbott
. As an after-afterthought I added
Linnet
and
Rey
, and my own name, on the understanding that everything connects to everything else.

I shuffled the cards around, put them in random order, then in columns and categories. Nothing shouted an answer. I stared down at the cards with their bright red words, perplexed. I'd left something out, but I couldn't see what.

I yawned and stretched. The hens were already shut in for the night, and a good night's sleep wouldn't do me any harm, either. It might help me see connections and coincidences in a fresh light.

Even on Sundays, my mobile alarm goes off, in its spiteful fashion, at 6:30 a.m. No change there, then. I groaned, covered my eyes against the bedside lamp, and eventually fell out of bed and into my garden clothes. Yesterday, with all its strange turns, continued to weigh me down. I even had to pull off my joggers and put them on again. The pockets don't work when they're back-to-front.

I was feeding my remaining hens when I heard a gravelly voice behind me.

“Where's the Cocky Bastard?”

On my lawn, hands on her hips, was my foster mother.

“Gloria! A fox got in. Saffron and Pettitgrain too.”

“When was this?”

She was glaring at me as if I was at fault. “I'm sorry I rushed off like that yesterday.”

“Gave me a sleepless night. I knew there was more to your mood than you were letting on. You should've told me about the fox.
”

“You don't know the half of it.” I ran over to her and flung my arms around her neck. The tears I'd longed for began to pour and pour. I was so glad she'd come, because she's the one person who can make everything better.

We sat on the bench outside my back door while I wiped away tears with the handkerchief Gloria passed me—one of Philip's, as big and bright as a royal headscarf. “You didn't drive all the way down from Bristol just to see me, did you?”

“Not quite,” said Gloria. “Philip's still over at the caravan, so I've brought Charlene and the kids down for a seaside break without the seaside weather. I thought you might like to join us for a bite of lunch.”

“I'd love to. I've only got one client today, late this afternoon.”

“They do a nice Sunday roast in that pub by the caravan park. We might manage a walk.”

I glanced up at the sky. “It looks like rain.”

“That's never put us off,” she said with a laugh.

I thought of my foster father, chivvying his lagging children over mile after mile of countryside. Philip had given me an early love of nature.

“So. You gonna tell me what's up, girl? It isn't just the hens, is it?”

Gloria is the only nonshamanic person I confide in. I know I can trust her to be discreet, but she doesn't pull her punches and makes no secret of her opinion of what I do. She listened carefully while I spilled the beans but was shaking her head before I finished.

“I've been expecting this,” she said. “I never stop worrying that your job will attract oddballs like this chap.”

“He's not an oddball, Gloria,” I said. “Whatever that is.”

“Someone who might end up blaming you for all their troubles, that's what.”

I shook my head. “It's all too awful for words. Cliff's mother knows the family of the little boy who's gone missing.”

“So Cliff must have known them too,” Gloria pointed out. “That's not good. That's hardly in his favour.”

I thought about that. “It's circumstantial, like his solicitor says—the only sound evidence against him is Josh's toy.”

“Sabbie, that's not
sound
. That's iron
clad
.”

“I don't think so. That toy could have got into the flat by other means than Cliff's own hand.”

Gloria frowned. “I'm not with you.”

I pulled off my wellies, stuffed my hands in them, and slammed the soles together to shake off the mud. “Thanks to Cliff's obsession with Josh's death, he was first arrested five days
before
Aidan was abducted. His flat was searched then, and that makes me wonder three things: Why ever would he take another child so quickly, when he knew the police would be watching him? And why didn't that first search reveal the Slamblaster?”

“That's two things,” said Gloria.

“I know. I'm coming to number three.” I shifted my bum on the bench, as if getting comfy would make my reasoning more concrete. “His arrest was in the paper. I checked back. It was in the local and national press. It was big news for about ten seconds, which surely would be long enough to give the actual killer a bright idea. I think
that
is why Aidan was taken so soon after Cliff's release. It might even be why Aidan lives so close to Cliff. The killer waited for Cliff to be hauled back in, then he went to his flat and planted the toy. I don't think Cliff's fingerprints are on it. Only Josh's.”

“Come on, Sabbie. The police would be prodding around that flat in seconds. When would someone have a chance to plant evidence?”

“Cliff came to see me as soon as he heard about the kidnapping on the news. Maybe the killer had time to get in.” But I couldn't help remember the woman in the post office …
they've taped it all up.
Her gothic face loomed in my mind.

Gloria put a warm arm round my chilled shoulders. “Sabbie, when you're caught up—obsessed—you don't think clearly.”

“It's a gut feeling. I am
sure
this man is innocent.”

“Okay, who would you put in his place?”

“I have a funny feeling about Josh's father. But I don't think the police should discount the original Wetland Murderer. No one caught him, the killings just stopped. Why shouldn't he have started again?” I stared gloomily at the paving stones beneath my feet. Tiny weeds and blades of grass were forcing their way through the crack. A spasm passed through me, and Gloria felt it.

“This is spooking you. Forget it for the rest of the day and come back to the caravan.”

“You're right, as usual. A nice rainy, windy walk will blow the spooks away.”

I went up into my bedroom. I brushed my hair and plaited it down my back out of the way, then searched for my walking gear. I had no lightweight, breathable rainproof coat with detachable fleece lining, but I reckoned my charity shop find would keep me warm and dry, although it did make a strange crackling sound as I moved and had yellow stripes that glowed in the dark. My walking boots had not been cleaned in, well,
ever,
really. I had a pair of gloves, but they didn't quite make a match. They were a left and a right, though, with a scarf to match the left one. I caught a glimpse in the mirror of a canary-coloured clown. My foster dad, who believed in the right clothes for the job, was going to despair.

I crackled down the stairs, leaving moulded jigsaw shapes of dried mud from my boots on every step. Gloria was in the kitchen, washing my supper things. She gave me another of her glaring looks.

“I was plum exhausted last night. I had clients straight through to almost nine. I just dropped into bed.”

“And look at this—all these cards written out here.” She waved a soapy hand. “That's what I meant about becoming obsessed.”

“I did that last night—I was trying to get my thoughts in order.” I shuffled them some more. “Something's missing. Stupid thing is, the more missing it is, the harder it is to spot.”

“You see?” said Gloria. “You're worrying about him, getting involved with him, draining yourself.”

“I just I feel so inadequate.”

“You should keep out of things as much as you can. Even so, you're gonna be called as a witness, sweetie.”

“I realize that. Miss Smith has asked me—”

“Not for the defence! Lord, once the prosecution gets wind of you, they'll tear you apart. And if I was a juror, as far as I can see, everything you've told me so far would only convince me he was as guilty as hell.”

I slapped my gloved hands over my eyes. “It's a mess. There are too many imponderables to take in all at once.”

Gloria grabbed my brush and dustpan and began to sweep the kitchen floor. “So let the proper authorities get on with it.”

“You mean Rey, don't you—will you stop doing my housework, please? I'm perfectly capable.”

Gloria had disappeared under my breakfast bar and humped the box of veg from Middlesprings Farm onto the surface. “What in heck is this?”

“A freebie. I haven't managed to eat much of it yet.”

“Eat it? You haven't even put it away!”

“No, well, I have been busy.”

“It's going off, left in this box. Look, the curly kale's yellowing.” Gloria bustled around, stuffing vegetables in the fridge and filling my empty fruit bowl.

“Take some with you,” I said, coming over to help her. “There's too much for me.”

“They've left a load of flyers in the bottom,” said Gloria, pulling out a sheath of notices and shuffling through them. “Craft Fayre, dog training classes … Lordy.”

“Trevor must be going to those,” I said, smiling. “He's the reason I got the free food.”

“Farm open day, Stone-Age Centre …” Gloria dropped them into my hands. “You want to put them in the recycling?”

A word caught my eye. My body froze. I stared down at the paper in my hand.

“Garibaldi,” I whispered.

I had found my missing word.

THIRTEEN

I realized I was
holding my breath. In my head, I heard Trendle chuckle.
You never listen to me,
he said.
It's enough to make an otter despair.

I must've looked very strange, because Gloria came over to me. “What's wrong?”

I passed her the flyer. She could see I wanted her to read it aloud. I needed the confirmation.

“S
tone-Age Visitor Centre
,” she began. “
Great for all the family! Sit by the fire inside our rebuilt Neolithic roundhouse, have your face painted with woad, make stone-age musical instruments, walk the replica Garibaldi Way—the oldest man-made path in the UK. Tea Rooms and children's play area
. Great idea, Sabbie, we could take Rudi and Kerri.”

I was no longer listening. The smell of that gas hob was in my nostrils, the steaming kettle, the tea, and Garibaldi biscuits.
Bloody squashed flies. Makes you puke to think of it
. I'd asked Trendle if they were a gift.
For you, dear
, he'd replied. And I'd ignored him.

My heart beat like a crazed drummer at a festival. It seemed that the Somerset Moors constantly revealed things hidden within their black heart, both fair and foul.

Garibaldi. A plate of biscuits and an ancient track. Probably nothing more than a silly coincidence that would turn me into a fool, but shamanic journeying thrived on such connections. I could not ignore the clue that Middlesprings Farm had handed me.

“Sabbie?”

I blinked. Gloria was gripping my hand, making me feel like a screwed-up thirteen-year-old again. “Nothing,” I said. “Could I borrow one of your walkers' maps?”

She sniffed. “Not coming back to the caravan, then.”

“I can't let this go. That cottage where Cliff was kept has to be somewhere.”

“You think you're gonna find this poor snatched baby inside?”

“Am I mad? The police aren't going down that road at all. If there's even a chance that …”

“You're as crazy as chicken and banana pie. Not that that's ever stopped you before.” But she grinned and fetched her collection of Ordinance Survey maps for me.

I smoothed out the appropriate map while Gloria did a bit of light dusting and pretended not to be interested in what I was searching for. It took me a while to pinpoint the road where the
Old Mill stood. Only a few miles away, the Stone-Age Centre was marked by a little tourist legend. All around these two landmarks lay the enormity of Somerset moor and fen, mile after mile of low-lying land. Somewhere within their damp acreage was a vile tomb that had held four children twenty-three years ago and one small boy only months ago.

I had to find Brokeltuft Cottage before another child could be buried in bogland like a dog.

The doorbell chimed as I was poring over the map, and before I knew it, Gloria was letting Ivan in.

“I do believe you're Rey, aren't you?” I heard her say, in a motherly voice that made my stomach squirm.

“No,” said Ivan, his face clouding. “I'm Ivan.”

“Sorry!” Gloria grinned. “I'm that bad at names. But you are the detective, isn't that right?”

“I'm not the detective,” he said. “I'm Sabbie's boyfriend.”

It struck me that everyone wanted me for their girlfriend—or their son's girlfriend—except the one man I had the hots for. “Sorry Ivan,” I began. “I thought we said—”

“I'm sorry too, babe. I just had to see you.” Ivan took a couple of wide strides past Gloria the doorkeeper. He took my chin between a tight thumb and finger and kissed me on the mouth.

“Yow,” I said and pulled away so fast that I fell onto the staircase behind me. I badly needed to toss out some sassy line that would tell Ivan that he (a) couldn't keep turning up like this, (b) was not allowed to pinch me, and (c) had never made promotion to boyfriend. But I was sprawling over the bottom step in a glow-yellow coat and odd gloves. All that came out of my mouth was a sort of low-grade swearing, as I struggled to get up.

Gloria stepped into the breech. She reached for her jacket, which happily was hanging on the banister knob, and dragged it on. “Time to go, Sabbie.” She turned to Ivan. “We're just off to a family lunch.” She cast a glance at my appearance, clearly stumped. “And then a walk along the coast.”

“Brean. Very nice there, but windy.” I'd found my cool again. “I'm sure we were supposed to meet up this evening, Ivan. Eight o'clock wasn't it?” I turned to Gloria. “Ooo, we must go. Don't want the meal to spoil.”

I tucked my arm in Ivan's, and he had no option but to come with me up the garden path until we were in front of his Audi S4, a sleek silvery model less than a year old. I suppose financial advisers have to walk their own kind of talk. I let him give me a peck on the lips, but only because I didn't want to explain things right that minute.

Ivan looked at me oddly but let it go. “Pick you up later, then,” he said and drove away before I could argue.

“Where did you find
him
?” asked Gloria.

“Out clubbing,” I said, trying not to sound like a sullen teenager.

“Isn't twenty-eight a bit old for clubbing?”

“No more than almost sixty is a bit old for walking.”

“He's a trophy collector, Sabbie.”

“You don't even know him.”

“I don't have to, girl. I've met his sort many a time.”

I exploded. “What d'you mean,
sort?
He's just a guy, Gloria. He's fond of me, is all.”

“The wrong kind of fond.”

“Come on. I know my way around bloke territory.” I'd temporarily forgotten that I was planning to ditch Ivan. I've never liked interference in my social life, probably because it didn't hold up under close scrutiny. “I'll see who I please.”

“Of course you will. You always have.” She began the march towards her Daihatsu.

“Mum!” I had to call after her. She was the one person I needed to love me unconditionally.

As if she realized this, she came back to take me in her marshmallow embrace and plant a kiss on my cheek.

“That guy's sniffing round you like a fox sniffs round a rabbit.” She has to have the last word, does Gloria, but I wish she hadn't reminded me about the hens.

I waved until her car was out of sight.

It was still not much after ten a.m. as I drove clear of Bridgwater. Mini Ha Ha was soon navigating the narrow bridges that crisscrossed the waterlands of Somerset. Everywhere water shone like mercury—from rivers, canals, and rhynes, reflecting the light covering of clouds above. Reeds and withies bent in the breeze as if to acknowledge my presence.

I would only be satisfied that Brokeltuft
Cottage was nothing more than an illusion when I'd exhausted all avenues. I grinned. I was starting to sound like a police officer. In that fine old tradition, I gave myself the third degree as I wound round the country lanes. I was searching for a cottage that I'd only seen in the spirit world of a man now held for murder. Even if it did exist, what was I hoping to find there? Was the malevolent mind that had buried bodies of children on the Somerset Moors so long ago beginning all over again? Was he using the same house to hide in? Was he inflicting his sadistic techniques on a new generation of children? Was that the reason the police had not released the details of how Josh had died? Or had a sick killer got off on a sick joke by burying Josh in the same place as the Wetland Murderer victims?

The B roads became narrower as I drove deeper into the countryside, and I dropped my speed. Signs for the Stone-Age Centre were beginning to pop up at turnings, and I doggedly followed them until I could see the gateway. My tyres crunched over gravel as I pulled up in a little car park. The centre was not very big, and from where I stood I could see the thatched wattle and daub roundhouse and the slightly more contemporary tearooms. Despite the greyness of the day, the place was teeming with weekend visitors. Kids streaked about, dipping into the dark interiors, their faces painted an alarming blue. Gloria was right—this would be a lovely place to bring Charlene's two.

I paid my four pounds fifty for a ticket and a site plan and began to drift around. It didn't take me long to find the Garibaldi Way. In a corner of the site was a plot of peaty grass, and beside it stood a cave woman having a bad hair day. She was chillily clad in hand-sewn leather tunic and shoes, and in her hand she held a stone-tipped spear.

“The Garibaldi Way?” I asked, as I squelched through the peat.

She shook her spear at the bog. A run of cleverly fashioned wooden trackway led through it. “More than six thousand years old. Constructed before humans had begun to properly farm. Around here, the Neolithic people exploited the reedswamps for their natural resources. They relied on wild food, and the staves you see halfway along the track is a weir they built to catch fish.”

“Gosh,” I said, surprised. “It really doesn't look thousands of years old.”

The woman laughed. “It's not. It's a model.”

I nodded, feeling rather daft. “Of course, you can't have kids storming over the real thing.”

“It's not just that. The actual remains had to go back under the bog, or they would've rotted away.”

“Right. But those are around somewhere, I suppose?”

“They're actually not far from here.”

I should have guessed. The spirit world never makes things easy. “Could you direct me?”

“I can, but you won't see anything. Though there is a plaque, just to commemorate the discovery. In fact, the track runs for over half a mile through the marshes.”

“But you can't see the track.”

She dazzled a smile. “You can see it here.”

“I'd really like to see the plaque.” I pulled Gloria's map from my pocket and rested it on the glass-covered display board. The woman tapped at it with one woad-painted finger.

“Turn off this road at the next left-hand junction and follow the signs for Bartonbeck Tip. The Garibaldi Way is down a little lane immediately after the turning for the waste tip.” She looked up, keen to impart more wisdom. “It was when they extended the waste tip that they found the causeway. You'll have to follow the lane on foot, it's not passable, it peters out into bog, so go carefully.”

“I will,” I said. I meant it. These were truly uncharted waters. As I negotiated Mini Ha Ha out of the car park, rain started pattering against the windscreen and all the families disappeared into the tearooms.

I kept below twenty. The soft brown of bulrush heads and the glint of water followed me on both sides of the unmarked road. I pulled into the side just after the turning for the dump and doubled back on foot. The lane had been almost invisible from the car, but it did have a sign saying
Garibaldi Way, 200 metres
, nailed to the fence. I set out, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that might resemble a plaque.

When I found it, I felt a real thrill, as if I'd completed a quest. A quaint plaque of slate attached to the trunk of an old oak. It told the story of the discovery and detailed the items that were now being displayed at Glastonbury, as well as directing me back to the Stone-Age Centre. I nodded to myself as I read, but the thrill that had run through me was seeping away, until it felt like the words were mocking me. I rammed a fist against the tree trunk. It might as well have been a brick wall.

I closed my eyes, in the hope that Trendle would speak to me. A robin sang, but nothing came. I didn't even have any idea which way the half-mile of track led—it was invisible under the boggy soil. But I couldn't admit defeat. I strode into the trees in what I hoped was the right direction. After only a few metres, my walking boots sank into reed bed. I yelped. Water was oozing over my socks. I scrambled out and went back to the road. The wetter the ground became, the less likely I was to find a cottage.

For the first time, I looked at the narrow junction across the lane, where lorries had left a mire of churned mud as they turned up to the waste tip. I stared at the shape the track formed with the lane. A stillness settled. The robin stopped singing. I had been so intent on finding the plaque that I'd walked right past a little triangle of green grass. And from it, like a bare tree with just two branches, rose a wooden signpost.

For several minutes I could go no closer. I could only gaze and wonder. I had witnessed this place in a trance. Logically, I knew that this was because it had got lodged somewhere in Cliff's forgotten past, and that Trendle had led me to it as a good spirit guide should. But I couldn't help being dumbfounded at its sheer reality.

Finally I stumbled over to the grass triangle. The signpost pointed two ways. The first indicated the road to the waste tip and read:
Bartonbeck Tip: ½ mile.
The second indicated the way back to my car and made me bark with laughter:
Middlesprings Farm: 2½ miles
.
Sandy Guilding probably did know this place, at least vaguely. But that didn't matter, because she'd tossed the information I needed into my box of free veg.

I looked about me again. The only path not signposted was the continuance of the lane I was on. I remembered the cave woman's words:
it peters out into bog
. As if to prove this, a
Road Ends
sign stood as warning, half tucked into the scrub.

My boots were stubbornly refusing to move. “Oh, Trendle, Trendle.” I repeated his name for comfort.
Go on, then
, I heard him say into my head.
I'm with you.