In the Moors (12 page)

“It's so nice we've had this opportunity to meet,” said Caroline, as if she'd already forgotten about the baying outside her door and the fact her son was right this moment being transported in handcuffs up the motorway to Bristol to the remand wing of Horfield Prison. She got up and walked towards the door, stopping on the way to slide a finely spun glass ballerina along a wall shelf, presumably back to the position it should never have left. “Although I suppose Cliff would have got round to introducing us in the end.”

“Mrs. Houghton. Caroline—”

But she floated out of the room. I was left, torn between exploring everything in sight and staying put on the sofa, which seemed to have swallowed me whole. I was glad I chose the latter, because she was back in no time, pulling one of those ornate tea trolleys that look like they're going to tip and spill at every turn of their wheels.

Caroline brought out a couple of side tables from inside a larger one and set them on the Chinese silk rug that graced the area between the sofas with a swirl of pastel flowers. Then she shook out two crocheted doilies and laid them centrally on each table. To this arrangement she added a coaster of filigree silver, on which she placed a bottle-green saucer lined with a circular, quilted paper mat, followed by a gold-rimmed cup brimming with coffee.

“No sugar, thanks,” I said, in a hushed voice. This was gentility taken to extremes. I thought only people with butlers behaved like this.

She returned from the tea trolley with matching plate, napkin, and dessert fork. “Which would you like, Sassie? Carrot and cream or plain chocolate sponge?”

“Caroline.” It was time to clear up the mess before it tangled into a spider's web. “It's
Sabbie
… short for Sabrina.”

“My dear, what a pretty name.” Her lips twitched into a smile, accentuating the fine lines that branched from them like an imprint of trees. I wondered if these lines were caused by pouting; on first impression she looked the sort of woman who might sulk if she didn't get what she wanted. “I'm so glad you came today. I'm feeling under siege, if you understand.” I watched as Caroline finally made herself comfy on the opposite sofa and took a dainty sip of coffee, little finger extended.

I delved into my shoulder bag, a shapeless, patchwork thing made of various old coats that probably told Mrs. Houghton all she needed to know about me. “I forgot, in the fuss of getting into your house. I brought you this. Just something to say sorry all this is happening, really.”

She pulled off the paper I'd wrapped the package in. “Oh,” she said, turning the glass bottle round in her hand. “Why, thank you.”

“It's a blend of essential oils in jojoba. You can pour it in your bath or smooth it onto your skin. They should help you relax a bit, that's all.”

She pulled off the stopper and gently sniffed. Her eyelids did a sort of ecstatic flutter. “It's divine.”

“Caroline. Cliff's been seeing me in a professional capacity.”

“Sorry?”

“Cliff's been coming to see me because he's feeling a bit down at the moment.”

“Down,” Caroline echoed. “That's true. I blame the place he's living. He was so sure he wanted to move out and I didn't stop him, but that dreadful flat would depress anyone. And he doesn't even push a Hoover around. I've started doing all his cleaning. I couldn't bear it any longer.”

A thought dropped into my mind. “You tidy up for him? Did you notice his collection of things around Josh's kidnapping?”

She took several seconds to put the top back on the bottle of oil and place it carefully on the table. I knew this was because she had found things at her son's flat that had unnerved her. “People often keep bits of local interest,” she said.

“I was wondering if you'd ever seen a toy there. One of those spacemen types.”

“
No, nothing like that. Why would Cliff have toys? All his old ones are in my attic.”

“It's the reason the police have arrested him, Caroline. They found Josh Sutton's Slamblaster figure in his flat.”

Caroline opened her mouth, but no sound came from it. Possibly she'd been unable to comprehend the full situation properly until this moment.

I was silent too. I didn't want to interrupt whatever came next. I was hoping that she would reiterate her statement about seeing no such thing in the flat.

Finally she talked. Words flew from her mouth like pigeons from a loft. But she seemed to have forgotten about Cliff. As I sipped my coffee down to its milky bottom, I learnt everything I'd ever wished to know about Cliff's father, from how he could row a boat and throw a line to the gruesome details of his illness.

“He was running his own business when the diagnosis came,” she said. “Plastic mouldings. It was really getting established, and he loved the work. Gave it his all. Fourteen-hour days. That changed when he got ill, of course. The only good thing that came out of it was that we all saw him so much more.”

“Cliff enjoyed his dad's company, then?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Caroline nodded, her eyes misting with past memories. “Little Cliff looked after his father like a man.”

“It must have been hard for him. When his father died.”

Caroline shook her head, her over-sized teeth hidden behind tight lips.

“Cliff was devastated by his father's illness. It tipped him out of the boat, as Robin would have said. They both changed right in front of my eyes. Cliff got quieter as Robin got thinner until he was too sick to do anything but lie in bed.”

Although the memories must have been upsetting, Caroline seemed to relish the tale. I know this is true of a lot of people, this enjoyment of the macabre, but it made me feel unaccountably angry, and I did a cruel thing, something in the style of the bitter teenager I thought I'd left behind.

“I suppose there's one good thing.” My teeth were set like steel traps. “Mr. Houghton never saw Cliff charged with murder.” As my odious words hit home, Caroline's face blanched. I struggled out of the sofa cushions and rushed to grasp her hand. I wanted some teacher to give me a hundred lines …
I must keep my stupid opinions to myself
… or slap my knuckles with a ruler.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “That came out wrong.”

“No!” Caroline pulled out the tissue that was hiding in her sleeve and pressed it to her face. “No.” She shook her head from side to side. “No, you're right. I'm glad. I've never been able to say it before, but I'm glad Robin's dead.” She pulled the tissue away and looked down at me, kneeling on her carpet in penitence. “No, that's not true. I still wish he was here. He'd be such a support.”

“Is there anyone else? Cliff's sister? Friends?”

“Yes, I've got some lovely friends. They made these cakes. I'm in the local Women's Institute, you see, and they're all supporting me, they all say it can't be Cliff, but they're very torn.”

“Torn?”

“I know Aidan Rodderick, most of the women in the Women's Institute and Townswomen's Guild do. His grandma is a member, you see.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Yesterday, I baked
her
a cake, her and her daughter, Aidan's mum. It's what we do. Just a token. I was baking away, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.”

“I don't think Cliff is guilty.”

She gave me a smile. “Oh, no one does, who knows him. It's just a terrible mistake. Terrible, because the real culprit is out there somewhere, with Aidan. That's why Nora has got caught up in the reward.”

“Nora?”

“Aidan's grandmother. Josh Sutton's family started a fund before he was … found.” She struggled with the word, and all its implications. “Now the
Bridgwater Mercury
has got involved. They want to keep it going for Aidan. Nora's not a wealthy woman, but she's put in some money. She'd give everything to have Aidan back. They live with her, you know, Aidan and his mum. And I was happy to give a donation. I want the real killer found. I want my boy back.”

“Of course you do,” I said.

There was a pause, as Caroline regained her breath. I watched her lean back, her hand over her breast. As I returned to my feather sofa, something broke through the haze in my mind, a picture on a TV screen.

“Aidan lives with his grandmother? But it was his mum and dad who made the TV appeal, wasn't it?”

She sniffed. “I don't know how that man manages to muscle in on everything. It was very upsetting for Nora. She thought she would be able to have her say—not that she wanted to be on the television you understand—but instead they chose Garth. He hardly even sees the child.”

“I've heard that the police ask family members to do these things so that they can determine guilt,” I said.

“They interviewed Garth and let him go. Yet they kept my own son, who wouldn't even tug the tail of a cat.”

“Did Cliff ever go missing, Caroline?” I had to know. I had to have confirmation of what Cliff had told me. Maybe it was what I had driven here to find out.

Caroline took a breath through her closed teeth. “Well, all boys will, won't they? Run away from home? He wasn't tiny, like Aidan. It's just a game, an adventure. A boy must have adventure.”

“Did Cliff have adventures?”

“Just the once. Robin stayed in the oncology ward in Bristol so many times. It disrupted poor Cliff. I think he set off to find his father.”

“Did you report him missing, Caroline?”

“Of course I did.” Her shoulders shook. Not quite a shiver, but I was sure she hadn't liked my question. “I was rushing between Bristol and Finchbury. I got back one evening and Cliff wasn't around. I thought he was staying over with his friend.”

“The one with the tent?”

“That's right. Cliff was always at his house and I thought that was good. He was too young to be hanging round sick people in a ward all day.”

“So it wasn't until the next morning …”

“Oh, was I ever frantic when I realized he'd gone missing. The police took the details, started a search.” She glanced across at me, over the half-empty coffee cup. “It was a very bad night, that following night. I haven't thought about it for years, though, because mercifully, he was back the day after. I didn't know whether to wallop him or never stop hugging him.”

I tried to put myself in the shoes of the woman. She'd had a desperately ill husband and two children to look after. “So he was only missing for one full day?”

“Two nights. He never said who put him up to it, but he was filthy, all scratched and bruised, and his bike was no better.”

I remembered what Cliff had said about the catkin. “How did you find him, Caroline?”

“Well, he phoned me from a call box. He was crying, he knew he'd pushed me too far. I got in the car there and then.”

“Where was he when he called you?”

Caroline stared at me, clearly trying to recall. “Do you know, I can't remember? Why don't you ask Cliff?”

“He can't remember, either.”

“That doesn't surprise me. He never said where he'd gone. In fact, he didn't say much at all, he was very quiet for a time. I had to guess the rest. Sleeping in barns or outhouses and probably getting a bit lost. Dares and things, boy stuff, they never can see when they should call a halt, can they? I expect that's what happened to his hair.”

She sliced her piece of chocolate cake into tiny cubes. The silver fork delivered one into her mouth. She chewed with her lips firmly closed and had swallowed the first morsel before I could speak again.

“His hair?”

“He's forgotten entirely, to give you the truth. Some mate of his took a pair of scissors to it. Part of the big adventure. Being commandoes or fugitives, something like that.”

I sank back. “Let me get this right. Cliff went missing while his dad was having chemotherapy and he came back with his hair shorn?”

She gave a dry, under-the-bridge chuckle. “We told him it was naughty. He'd had such lovely hair, pale as white gold, and it never grew back the same colour. But I couldn't punish him. And he never told on the friend. He's loyal like that.”

She began in polite earnest on her cake. I sat transfixed, watching her chew and swallow. My breathing had shut down, and my heart felt like it was next on the agenda.

“I don't know what you must think of me,” she said, dabbing her lips. “But that's the first food I've managed since I heard the news. I must tell Muriel that she makes a lovely chocolate cake.” She turned the tissue over and started on the corners of her eyes.

I couldn't reply. All I could hear was the sound of scissors, clip, clip, clipping, and all I could see was cascades of hair falling. Piles of hair, sacks of it, red, black, brown, and platinum blond.

ELEVEN

“Okay,” I said. “You
look nice and relaxed now, Caroline. Just cast your mind back.”

Caroline had sunk into the feathers and foam of her chair, her eyes closed, her breathing regular and deep.

I hadn't hypnotized her, not as such. I'd just gently talked her into that half-awake state where brain waves slow into an Alpha rhythm. That's less than fourteen cycles in a second, a light relaxation where things just outside our awareness can drop into our conscious mind, if we let them.

“You're in this house.” I imagined Caroline, twenty-three years before, a mum with an ill husband and a missing son. “You're in the kitchen, possibly. The phone rings. Do you remember that?”

Caroline nodded once. “Yes. Made me jump. Cliff had been missing for two nights. I was on edge. I didn't know …” She trailed off.

“Of course. It could be Cliff, but it could be bad news.”

“I had a gut feeling it was him.”

“So you rush to the phone.”

“It
is
him,” said Caroline. Her voice was slurring, a good sign.

“You're so relieved.”

“Yes.”

“He's crying, though.”

“Yes. Can hardly understand him … he's upset … his bike's got a puncture … it takes him a long time …”
Her voice faded.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice very quiet. I didn't want her to fall asleep, but I did need to keep her deeply relaxed. “He's not making much sense?”

“He's crying because he's lost. I tell him to look around, see what's outside the phone box … he keeps saying
water wheel, water wheel.
”

“Water wheel,” I repeated, encouraging her.

“I think he's talking about his bike, but finally I understand. He's outside the Old Mill.”

“You know this place, the Old Mill?”

“Yes. I tell him not to move. I get the car out the garage.”

“Is he there?”

“At first I can't see him. He's in the bushes, at the back of the Old Mill. Right in them, him and his bike, tears rolling down his face.”

I hated to think of Cliff, stuffed into the scratching bushes, his eyes on the road, searching for the wrong car, the car that might come and snatch him back again; searching for the right car, for his mum.

Caroline had unsettled me. She was an amazing, brave woman who had done the best for her family and ended up—let's be honest here—no more loopy or obsessed than I was reputed to be. We had chatted as the coffee things were promptly cleared, washed, and dried. I did the drying—carefully—while she talked about the flat that she'd helped Cliff move into, and how her hopes for him were slowly being eaten away. How he was still doing the job he'd taken on part-time when he was sixteen after the good grades in his exams had come to nothing. Once the last cup was stacked away, I had asked her to sit down while I told her why Cliff had come to see me. I gave her most of the solid facts, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her about my shamanic visit to Brokeltuft
Cottage.

Caroline had been up for having a go with a simple relaxation
exercise that can bring things from the back of the mind to the front. Now she blinked a couple of times and opened her eyes. “Gracious. That was rather effective.” She might have been talking about a new recipe for blueberry muffins.

“The Old Mill,” I asked. “What is it?”

“A pub, dear. It's quite isolated, but excellent food nowadays, although I can't recall eating there back then. It still has a working millwheel, so it's known for miles around.”

I gave Caroline a massive hug. “Well done. Rey thinks that proving Cliff was kidnapped when he was a boy will really help his case.”

“I do hope so.” Her lips curled upwards at the edges. “Who is Rey?”

“Oh—the detective on the case. Detective Sergeant Buckley. We're not really on first name terms—well, we are—but …” I looked her in the eye. “But we disagree about Cliff. I'm determined to prove him wrong and clear Cliff's name.”

Caroline hugged me back. “I have every confidence in you, Sabbie, dear.”

At least she'd got my name right. That had to be a start.

A lot of up-market digital cameras were pointing at me as I inched out of Caroline's sad, flawless house. I put my capacious shoulder bag up to my face and made a bolt for the car. Maybe they'd branded me unfit for interview or something, but a sort of Red Sea parting appeared at the gate and I scampered down the road outstripping my previous speed record, which was probably the three-legged race when I was nine.

I had instructions on how to find the Old Mill printed on Basildon Bond in Caroline's fine hand. I laid it on the dashboard beside me and drove off, glancing at her clear print every few moments. I had to go and check it out while I was in the area. I was sure that this pub could not be far from the cottage I'd seen in my journey. I whispered the name
Brokeltuft
and my heart lurched, remembering the effect that word had on Cliff. A thought had been going round in my head ever since last night. What if this wasn't a copycat crime? What if the Wetland Murderer had returned? I held my breath as the next thought swung through my brain: What if Aidan Rodderick was being held in the very same place Cliff was?

I found myself passing a sign that read
Morganswick Welcomes Careful Drivers
and slowed for a moment. It was at the primary school in this village that Aidan Rodderick had been kidnapped, only forty-eight hours ago. All sorts of vibrations might have been left there. The thought made me feel ghoulish. I drove on, past school railings veiled by bunches of flowers, their cellophane already damp and ripped.

The Old Mill turned out to be miles from anywhere, which felt positive to me. I parked up and went into the pub. It was almost deserted, just a couple of early drinkers cooped into a corner. I went over to them and asked them if they'd heard of Brokeltuft. There was no point in being shy, after all. Neither of them had a clue, and by that time, the barman was hovering, hoping I'd order a pint and a meal, but he hadn't heard of the cottage, either.

“I do know this area well,” he said. “If it rang a bell, I'd say so.”

“Okay.” My eyes were taking in the menu chalked on the fancy wallboard. The food all looked delicious—not cheap but imaginative, especially the veggie option—but the prices were outside my league.

“Well thanks.” I dragged myself out, mouth watering.

I did have a plan B, but it wasn't a particularly clever one. Cliff had half walked, half cycled from Brokeltuft to the Old Mill, so they could not be far from each other. Surely, if I drove round for long enough, I would find the cottage. My stomach twisted on itself at the thought. The idea of walking up to that evil front door and lifting the knocker dried my salivating mouth.

Forty minutes later, I'd lost all hope. I'd crawled along every country road in a wide radius. My petrol tank was almost empty. I'd driven past the Old Mill a dozen times, and my stomach was beckoning me back over the threshold. Even recalling the cake I'd eaten at Caroline's had no effect. I would have to start for home before I capitulated and spent my tomato plant money on the veggie option. There were no more roads—no more tracks, even—that I could explore.

I turned the car round and headed back until I reached a farm driveway I'd spotted earlier. A wooden board was nailed deeply into the hedge. The paintwork had faded, but I could just make out the words
Middlesprings Organic Farm Shop.
Surely a farmer would be likely to know the older cottages around the area. I slid out of the car. Mud squelched over the patent leather of my boots, and I was so busy trying to balance along the grass verge, I didn't notice the woman at the top of the lane until I heard her shout. She was too far away for me to catch the words, but they sounded like “
Stop! Trespasser
!”

My foster dad always kept to the proper footpaths on his map, and he liked to quote the countryside rules at us—always shut the gate behind you, never light a fire, that sort of thing—and it had made me a bit wary about being on other people's property. I looked back towards the car to check the sign. As I turned, I saw something low, fast, and the colour of mud, hurtling towards me out of the corner of my eye. I swung back, far too late, for the creature was upon me: a slobbering, heavily proportioned Labrador. And I was wrong about the mud. He was covered in mud, not coloured like it.

“Stop, Trevor!” The woman continued to yell, as she pummelled towards us. “TREVOR, COME HERE!”

Trevor took no notice of his mistress. He was trying to wash my face with a tongue that felt like a thick flannel—one loaded with last week's slimy soap. He was panting with delight, drool dripping from his spongy muzzle.

“Gerrof,” I instructed, giving him a nudge.

“Are you okay?” asked the woman, grabbing the dog's collar, which, luckily, was a thick, bolt-studded piece of leather. “He's just friendly, you see. Oh, look what he's done to you!”

A fetching design of mud dripped down the front of my best skirt.

“I'm so sorry,” said the woman, who was now busy clipping Trevor onto his lead. “Not a good welcome to Middlesprings. Most people bring their cars right to the door. Anyway, come and get cleaned up.”

“Are you the farmer?” I asked, as we trudged up the drive.

“One of them,” said the woman. “It's me and my husband, mostly.” She was still having trouble with Trevor, who clearly didn't like the fact his walk had been curtailed and was trying to drag her back down the path. Losing her temper, she flicked the dog's rump with the end of his lead.

“You are a very naughty boy!” she informed him, but he didn't seem to get it. “Sandy Guilding,” she added “Sorry, don't think I'm clean enough to offer my hand.”

I didn't like to point out that I wasn't exactly scrubbed spotless myself. We reached the farm shop. It was cosy inside, and filled with racks of winter vegetables that smelt of spice and rich earth and made my tummy grumble.

Sandy grabbed a dishcloth from the counter and aimed for my skirt, but I waved her off. “This will go in the wash, it'll be fine,” I said.

“In that case, you must have something on the house, to compensate,” said Sandy. “A pound of our venison sausages? A couple of dozen of our largest eggs?”

I smiled. “I'm a veggie. And I have my own hens. Although they're not laying since the fox got some of them.” Sandy picked up a half-dozen eggs from the counter and opened the box. They glowed like polished topaz in a casket. I shook my head. “I can't. It's like cheating on them.”

Sandy laughed. “We'll go for our winter selection, then.” She filled a cardboard box with the goodies from the shelves … muddy, odd-shaped carrots, a celeriac as big as Trevor's head, some local fruit, and my utter favourite, curly kale. In the meantime, I wiped the mud off my hands with her dishcloth and cast my eye over the cheesy delights in the cool counter.

“We sell off our excess chicks, if you're interested,” said Sandy.

“Okay, I'll think about that.” I tried to get her to take a tenner, but she just waved off the note and even carried the box to my car. Well, she was the one in the green wellies, which were a tad more practical than my patent leather.

“I was actually looking for a cottage,” I said, keeping my voice conversational. “I know its name, but not exactly where it's located. Brokeltuft. Funny name for a house, isn't it?”

“Mmm,” said Sandy. I didn't think she was paying attention, so I waited until she'd stowed the box in my boot and asked again.

“Brokeltuft? Does it ring any bells?”

“No, sorry,” said Sandy. “Is it near Middlesprings?”

“It's near the Old Mill.”

“Oh, well, that's a couple of miles from here.”

I nodded. “Don't worry, it's nothing important.”

She splashed up her lane, looking a lot more cheerful than I felt, even considering she still had to take Trevor for a walk, while I leaned against the car and sighed. I had to finally admit that I was not going to find Brokeltuft today. Perhaps it no longer existed. Perhaps it never did.

I was biting into an organic apple from the box when my mobile crowed. I scrabbled for it in the recesses of my bag.

“Sabbie?”

“Linnet!” Her voice set up an involuntary response in me as I wondered what news she was bearing.

“I'll come directly to the point. I have an appointment to work with Cliff at the remand centre tomorrow. I wondered if you'd like to join me.”

“Are you sure I'm allowed?”

“You're a professional. I see no reason why you can't accompany me as such.” Her tone was formal, but her concern touched me.

“That would be excellent. Thanks for thinking of me. When are you going?”

“Ten thirty tomorrow morning, if you can make it.”

“Okay.” My brain fizzed at the thought of entering a high-
security prison. “What do I need to do?”

“Make sure you are at least fifteen minutes early as the signing in procedure is complex. Bring some formal ID.”

Another odd coincidence: I should have expected Cliff to arrive as a client tomorrow at almost exactly that time. Instead, I would be meeting him in a high-security prison. Somehow, though, the thought of seeing Cliff made up for my failure to find Brokeltuft. I'd be able to tell Caroline that Cliff was okay.