In the Moors (29 page)

“Trendle told me! He said it was untrustworthy!”

“Who the hell is Trendle?”

“You read my report. You know that I was warned.” Tears were threatening like rain clouds, swelling my throat. “You were right all along. I saw that house on the TV.”

“I'm not proud of myself, Sabbie.”

“You must really hate me.”

“No!” Rey thrust out ungainly fingers and knotted them into my cold ones. “Not at all. But I'm a copper. I can't allow myself to trust you.” He turned away, and I heard him whisper under his breath:
“To trust anyone.”

The brief connection of our hands had left me juddering, as if I'd been rammed against an immovable object at speed. I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and stared down at the shine of the ceiling light on the floor. “All I can do is tell you I'm not lying. Even when I'm wrong, I'm telling the truth about what I see in my mind. Can you accept that?”

“Yeah, I guess.” His voice had gentled. I shifted so that I could look him in the face.

“But you don't want to hear what happened out there on the moors. You're afraid.”

“Don't talk tosh,” said Rey. He tried to laugh, but I knew I'd hit a nerve. Rey Buckley couldn't be afraid of much, I was sure of that, but the spirit world unnerved him. I grabbed his sleeve and held it tight. Before my cautious side (which is pretty nonexistent anyway) could stop me, I had to make him listen, despite his prejudice.

“Josh's spirit was there. His last impressions. His last feelings. It was like bathing in them. It was unendurable.” Rey's eyes widened—I had his full attention. “I was given one clear vision while I was out there. Just one image, Rey. In all the time I sat in that ice-cold darkness, absorbing this child's absolute terror. Only one positive symbol. I know it's crucial, because it kept returning. A sort of tunnel. I had the feeling that Josh had stood in front of this structure, a massive arch edged with knobs of steel. Then a dark tunnel leading away into blackness.”

I looked him in the face, trying to get a fix on his shifting gaze. “That's what I saw. I know that Josh saw this as well because the feeling was terrifying. Like … like jelly. Like knowing the worst would happen—an unknown worst.”

We sat next to each other in this absurd situation, his large shoes resting on what appeared to be an old urine stain. I didn't say anything more. I'd told him the core of my journey, the place I had travelled to. From the moment I'd seen the mouth of the tunnel, I'd known that this was the most important vision I'd ever had.

Finally, Rey spoke. “You might have seen a tunnel like that somewhere. In your own past.”

“No. I'm sure. This time it's genuine. I think Aidan is hidden inside some sort of tunnel.”

“Even so, what help can that be? There are too many tunnels in Somerset.” For a moment, he sounded genuinely regretful. But his voice changed subtly, as he went on. “This tunnel. Would Cliff know where it was?”

The words exploded out of me. “You still believe I'm hatching plots with Cliff! How can I convince you he never told me anything suspicious?”

“I deal in facts, the harder the better. Yeah, you're about as legit as they come, but you can't persuade me that Cliff isn't our killer. He's got you under his spell, and that means I have to disregard anything you say that might lead us away from Aidan.”

“I took you to the bodies of two murderers, Rey! Surely that tells you something?”

Rey shook his head. His eyes were sad. “The perfect red herring, finding that cottage. We're not one whit further on. But the case might start going somewhere when Cliff is let out and takes us on a walk-about. And maybe he will lead us to some remote tunnel, but that won't be anything to do with you. You're going to go home and forget all about the case. I mean it, this time, Sabbie. Leave this to the professionals.”

I was released with a caution just after lunchtime. They showed me into a washroom, but soap and water wasn't going to rinse away a night in a cell. I was issued with a cheap red plastic comb and spent a long time trying to drag it through my hair. It was a good meditation on time spent wisely. Finally I had my hair up in a high pony tail and at least looked my normal self, even if I felt like a felon as I pocketed my possessions.

I walked out of the station on the shaky legs of someone who was recovering from a bad bout of flu, supported by Caroline Houghton on one side and Nora Rodderick on the other.

“What are you to doing here?” I'd asked.

“We've come to collect you,” said Nora.

“Like they do on films,” said Caroline with a tiny chuckle.

“But how did you know?” I'd secretly planned to not tell a living soul about my idiotic escapade, certainly not the entire Finchbury Women's Institute.

“Didn't they say?” said Nora. “It was us that alerted the police.”

“But we didn't mean to get you arrested,” said Caroline.

“You forgot to ring us back when you left Garth's. We rang you several times, but you didn't answer and we started to worry.”

No wonder Rey thought I was such poor sleuthing material.

“Eventually we drove round to Garth's van. He was quite helpful. We had a long chat and we worked out what had been in your mind. By then, it was pitch black outside. We had to dial 999.”

“We rang the station again this morning and they said you were being released.”

“We thought we ought to help you get home.”

That was something else I'd been worrying about all night in the cell. I could barely recall where I'd left my car. Caroline and Nora seemed like spirit angels sent just to help me when I needed it most, and I gripped their arms tightly. “I'm so sorry about this. My head feels like the contents of a charity shop sack.”

“I quite understand,” said Caroline. I was sure she did—her castoffs were far more likely to go in that direction than mine.

“It's just shock,” I added.

“It may be more than that,” said Nora. “In my mother's day, people who strayed out onto the moors had to be nursed back to health with hot poultices and steam inhalations.” Her voice dropped. “Those that survived.”

For some reason, this reminded me of Rhiannon, made me wonder what she would have treated me with. I felt as if the spirits of that place of death had slipped into my soul and sucked the energy from it.

“You did what you did for
us
,” said Nora. She patted the back of my grubby hand. “We're humbled at your bravery.”

“Stupidity,” I said, “according to the police. I was lucky to get away without a conviction. I've been a clown, haven't I?”

I was helped, like an invalid, into the back of Caroline's car. I asked for paper and Nora passed me the road map. On the back inside cover, I drew the tunnel I'd seen in my trance. A man-made, perfectly proportioned arch, with massive bolts, each one elegantly engineered into a smooth, silvery dome, assembled at regular intervals around the steel-clad opening.

“Do you recognise this? Are there any disused train lines anywhere around here?” I said, passing the road map back.

Nora shook her head. “Maybe the police will know?”

“The police aren't interested,” I said. I was cold to the bone. I suspected that Nora might be right—the only gift I'd get from a night on the marshes would probably be some awful bacterial infection that would turn my skin yellow and my innards to water.

The previous day seemed light years behind me as we drove around Somerset lanes, searching for where I'd left my car. Finally we found it, almost passing it by, it was so well pulled into the verge. But at least it was quite safe.

“Are you going to be okay getting back?” Nora asked. “Are you sure you wouldn't like me to drive your car home for you?”

“I've put you to too much bother already,” I told the ladies, and as they protested, showering me with offers of hot meals, I realized I meant it. If I let them help me any further, I'd just get embroiled with the whole thing all over again. What I needed to do was take Rey's well meaning, if wounding, advice. I was going to ask the Wraxalls next door to feed the hens and drive up to see Bren and Rhiannon. I needed to drink their potions and sit by their garden fire until I was whole again.

Nora waved the sketch at me. “We're going to search for this tunnel the length and breadth of Somerset if we have to. Be in touch.”

The image of them both searching made me remember my promise to Linnet. As soon as I got home, I would ring her and tell her about the tunnel. She wouldn't disregard it like Rey. Her private eye would probably find it at least as quickly as two middle-aged ladies.

I hugged both of them hard, saying that everything would turn out okay, even though I couldn't see how that would ever be. I clambered into Mini Ha Ha and they waved me out of sight.

I couldn't wait to get home.

TWENTY-THREE

Even so, things didn't
feel quite right as I stood on the pavement outside my house, locking Mini Ha Ha. A warning sensation behind the solar plexus. I put it down to my low condition, but as soon as the front door clicked shut behind me, I knew there was something wrong in the house. There was an aura of suspicion about the place and a smell of mistrust. Oh yes, and the telly—which I have to say was my strongest clue—was blaring out some gormless afternoon programme. I hadn't left it on.

I let my backpack slide to the floor and eased the door kitchen open. I had to scan the room twice before I saw Ivan, resting in comfort on my sofa, his left ankle balanced on his right knee.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

The accusation threw me. I'd been about to say,
What're you doing here?
The words faded before they could reach my lips.

“I said, where have you been, Sabbie?” He shifted position, putting both feet on the ground and leaning forward, one hand punched into the palm of the other. “I've been waiting for you all fucking night. All fucking night and all of this morning.”

“You've been here since yesterday?”

“Too right I have.”

“How did you get into my house?” I heard my voice falter.

“That's not the issue here. The issue is you, Sabbie.”

“How did you get in?”

He raised his fisted hand. My spare set of keys dangled from the fingers. I rushed forward and snatched them from him. There was a heat behind my eyes. “I told you. I don't want to see you again. Ever. I said no, Ivan, and you didn't listen.”

He grinned at me. “Women always say no and mean yes.”

“For your information, this girl means no. You tried to rape me. I could've had you carted off to a police cell. And I can promise you that is one place you would not like.”

He didn't reply. Without taking his gaze from my face, he stretched a hand over the side of the sofa. I could see his laptop case lying against it, but he wasn't reaching for that. I was looking at a gun. A rifle as long as my arm. Its butt was of glossy yellow wood and along its length was a complicated sight of polished steel.

I took a breath to steady myself. “Did you get that from your loft?”

Ivan smiled. His eyes lit up. He lifted the gun onto his lap as if it were made of crystal glass. “I'd forgotten what it was like to use it. I took it out for a practice run. I'm still pretty good.”

That smell I'd detected in the hall was much stronger now that I stood in front of its source. It was the overwhelming odour of control, of the power that certain things give certain men—money, authority, or, in this case, the clout of a loaded weapon.

“The fox has gone,” I managed. “There's no need for a gun.”

His eyes were sharp as slivers of glass. “Isn't there?”

My whole body became ice cold. “You haven't been shooting at my hens, for old Mab's sake!”

He chuckled. “Don't be daft, woman. Why would I want to do that?”

I shook my head, unable to respond. I leaned against the kitchen worktop. My legs felt gelatinous, unable to support me. “I want you to take that thing out of my house. Now. Take it away. Please.”

His face hardened. I could feel my words bounce off it, as if his skin had toughened into steel.

“The gun isn't the issue, Sabbie.”

“What?” My heart stopped its racing and stood still. If he raised the air rifle now, how badly could he hurt me with it?

“You need to tell me this instant,” he said. “You need to be honest. Have you been with another man?”

I closed my eyes. Perhaps I hoped he might disappear, but when I opened them again, he was waiting and I hadn't answered. The only answer I could think of was,
Are you crazy?
But that didn't seem like the right one, just then.

“There isn't any man in my life at the moment,” I said at last. “And that includes you, Ivan.”

“Of course I'm in your life. I'm here, aren't I?”

“Without an invite. With a gun.”

“Sabbie, babe. All I'm asking is where you've been. That's the only issue. Where you have been …
all night.
”

It was like he was on rails, his head caught up in a single obsession. I knew I couldn't reason with him. I knew I shouldn't anger him. I gave him a big, artificial grin. “If you must know, I've been locked in a police cell.”

I picked up the kettle and took it to the sink. Every particle of me was on high alert. I could feel the roots of my hair prickling. But I filled the kettle and put it back in its base as calmly as I could. I pulled off my damp outer clothes and shoes and dropped them by the back door. “It's been a long and stressful night.”

His forehead furrowed. “You're in trouble with the police?”

“I think I
am
the trouble. I'm the sort of person who has to poke their finger into all the holes marked Do Not Insert.”

I saw his eyes shift their gaze around the room, as if he didn't know what was going on. As if he had to check in the dark corners to make sure he was in control.

“I've got to have a hot drink,” I said, reaching for a mug as the kettle clicked off.

“Great. Got any decaf?”

With a gun across his legs, I was kind of expecting Ivan to draw a hip flask from his pocket. The sudden normality in the midst of all the insanity made a stupid chuckle well up from my queasy stomach.

“What's so funny? I don't see proof that you've been locked up for the night.” He grimaced. “Might have been knocked up, not locked up.”

“Don't you remember the bodies I found under some floorboards?”

“They were real?” squeaked Ivan, destroying his hard-man image. “You never said.”

“You were the one who told me to go to the police. Which I did. Now they've discovered that two people were buried in this derelict cottage.”

“What?” Clearly, it wasn't the direction Ivan's mind had been taking. “They think you murdered someone?”

“Not exactly.” I tried to shrug my shoulders. “I'm sort of helping them with their enquiries. In fact, I'll have to go out again, in a moment.”

Ivan smiled. He was swallowing the story. I'd half forgotten that I was telling the complete truth. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one. Ivan knew that I don't let people smoke in my house—we had that conversation the very first night he was here. The gesture was to tell me he was now in charge.

I didn't say a word. I turned to the worktop, poured water onto coffee, and turned round again to hand the mug to him. He was standing, his expression alert, and the gun was in his hands.

“You're not going anywhere, sweetie,” he said. Smoke filtered down his nose. I thought of Garth's dragons. “Not without me. And I'm not going anywhere. I think it's time for bed, don't you?”

Stupidly, I lost it. I screamed at him, flinging the cup of coffee across the room.

“Get out of my house!”

The coffee sloshed across the floor, so luckily the mug was pretty empty when it hit his chest. I watched his mouth form a round O as slowly as a dream.

I couldn't move. I just stood there, the coffee pooling on the floor between us, ready for the gunshot and the pain.

The pain came all right, like an explosion in the head, centred across my left eye. I waltzed across the room until the worktop stopped me.

He'd hit me with the butt of the rifle. I put my hand to my face. The blood on my hand blurred as my vision faltered.

“You do as I say.” The words sounded garbled and echoing. “I am sick of watching you play ice bitch. That is not how it should be with us.”

I felt him grab my arm as I slid down the cupboard doors. He half lifted, half pushed me onto the sofa. His image loomed over me, but it was as if he was standing behind frosted glass. He bent and dabbed my forehead with what looked like my dishcloth. The sensation was exquisite—the icy chill cut through the throbbing, but the weight of the cloth added to the pain, making me yelp like a puppy.

“Oh babe,” said Ivan. “You're going to have a shiner.” It was like he was congratulating me—or himself.

“Ow,” I hissed. “Stop that.”

He stood back, keen to obey, and the cloth dripped bloodstained water on my trousers. “Maybe we should use ice,” said Ivan.

“Use ice?” My voice sounded faint and slurred, even to me. “How about using some sense?”

“I'm sorry, Sabs.” He bent and tried to kiss me. I wriggled away from him. “You don't ever have to be scared of me, sweetie. I won't hurt you.”

“You just did.” My head was pounding too badly for me to raise my voice, but that was no bad thing—I was finally learning that you lost your temper with Ivan at your own peril.

“Never again,” he said, sliding his arms right around me. I didn't have the energy to push him away. “Never again. You know you belong to me now. I wouldn't hurt my girl.”

“I'm bleeding on you,” I said. “I think I need stitches.”

I had to get out of the house. But the suggestion that we go to casualty made him jumpy. He kept dabbing at the wound so gently that tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel myself trembling uncontrollably. I felt as if I'd just had some sort of coronary event—my forehead was ice cold and my vision was all over the place. Ivan wrapped his arms around me and pulled me up.

“Shh, shh, it's okay. It's going to be okay.” He was forcing me along, using a shoulder to push me in the direction of the stairs. My mind wasn't completely clear. There was a singing at the back of my head, but I knew I should not get into bed with Ivan
.

I turned to him and tried to open my eyes wide with trust and appeal.

“I've got to see to the hens.”

“Oh, Sabbie, fuck the hens, can't you? Just this once?”

“I've got to check they're all right. It's the afternoon and they haven't had their breakfast yet.” Desperation was clearing my head rapidly. “It won't take me more than a minute, honestly.”

Ivan was sufficiently nonplussed by my insistence for me to pull away from his grasp. Behind me, leaning against the hall wall, was my backpack. Both my mobile and my car keys were in there. I was desperate to have them close to me again.

I slung the backpack over my shoulder and marched towards the kitchen. A microsecond later, Ivan was behind me. I felt his big, angry hand grip my arm, swinging me sideward. He seized the backpack and thrust me away from him. I lost my balance, clutching at the radiator as I watched him unzip the bag and tip the contents onto the floor. He grinned at me as he pushed my keys and my mobile into his jeans' back pocket.

“You didn't mean to run out on me, did you?” His voice was shaking with emotion. “You know I can't allow that.”

I looked up at him. I was so shattered that I longed to curl up on the floor with my eyes closed. Let Ivan do whatever he liked with me. Being cared for by a dominant person suddenly felt like the most appealing option—even if that included the occasional beating.

Ivan took a step closer and repeated his words. “YOU KNOW I CAN'T ALLOW THAT.”

The words hit me like the air rifle, one syllable after the other, but the onslaught gave me the strength to think ahead. I gave him a wonky smile, the best I could summon. “There's some stale crumbs in there I was going to give to the hens.”

I pointed to the crusts of pie in their ball of clingfilm. He picked them up and handed them over in silence, as if slightly humbled. I fled through the kitchen. My coat was crumpled by the back door where I'd lobbed it earlier. I cast it around my shoulders against the drizzly day. Ivan was on me again by then. He did that thing that blokes love to do, he hugged me from behind, cupping my breasts with his hands. I was still coming to terms with the constant alterations in his character—one moment domineering to the point of extreme violence, the next moment tender and amorous. I could not understand how I had been so deluded that I'd allowed this monster into my life for one second.

But this was not the time for analysis. This was the time to put on the performance of my life. Caught up in my palm were the spare keys I'd taken off Ivan. He'd forgotten about them, and so had I—they'd fallen into the folds of my coat as I'd slung it onto the floor and now I was trying to keep them from glinting or chinking. I felt Ivan's hands slide downward from my breasts into the pockets of the coat. He fished out bits of chewing gum wrapper and a used tissue, examining each item in turn.

I turned round to him and planted a kiss on his furrowed brow. I recognised that I was playing this part for my life. He began kissing back properly. The touch of his lips made my stomach lurch. I summoned a bright smile.

“There might be eggs! We could have omelettes! I'm starving, aren't you?”

Ivan thought for a moment. “I guess I am,” he admitted.

No doubt beating up your supposed girlfriend can give you quite an appetite.

“Why don't you open the bottle of wine in the fridge,” I went on, summoning every ounce of my seductive powers. “I'll be back in two ticks.”

He looked confused, which I reckoned was a good sign. I saw his gaze swing around the room again, searching out those dark corners. Then he grinned at me. “Good idea.”

I stood, quaking, waiting for him to move away. He seemed unsure, as if he didn't quite trust me, but couldn't work out why.

“Wait a moment.”

“What?” The word escaped me with a terrified gasp.