Living in the Shadows (13 page)

In that moment the wind took his hat. Mary snatched at it but it scudded along the wall in a kind of dance before whirling high in the air until, squinting against the torrent of rain, she couldn’t see it any more. ‘Damn!’

Peter coughed again.

‘Peter? Are you all right?’ Mary searched his face. He was grey, a thin line of white around his mouth.

It began to rain, long heavy spurts of water.

‘Peter?’

Peter staggered, the wind battering him. Then then he bent forward and vomited, falling to his knees, palms flat on the floor.

‘Lie down.’ Mary supported him as he rolled onto his side. She took off her scarf and pushed it under his head, then loosened his collar. His eyes were closed, he was moaning. ‘You’ll be all right, love. Look at me.’ He didn’t. She pulled her coat off, covered him with it. ‘Peter?’

‘Es ist Zeit?’

‘Time for what, sweetheart?’ She couldn’t make out his next words. ‘
Bleib ruhig
, Peter,’ she said. ‘Stay still.’ Holding on to him, she looked around; there was no one in sight. She cursed their stupidity in being out in such atrocious weather. Why had she agreed to it?

For the first time in years, she prayed.

Chapter 24: Jacqueline Howarth

Ashford: Tuesday, September 23rd

The windscreen wipers clunked to a halt as Jackie switched off the engine. Rain pelted noisily on the roof of the Austin 1300 and the four occupants peered reluctantly out at the greyness of the afternoon.

‘I appreciate this, Sarge … Sergeant,’ Jackie corrected herself when she saw his frown of disapproval. She knew, with the two cadets huddled in the back of the car, he expected formality.

‘We need to follow up on missing children enquiries, Constable,’ he said, staring through the smeared glass of the side window at the dark ruins of buildings on the other side of the rusty fence. ‘Though we could have picked a better day.’ He blew out his cheeks in exaggerated resignation. ‘Well, better get on. Out, you two,’ He jerked his head backwards. The two cadets opened their doors, letting in a flurry of rain.

‘Hurry up,’ he barked. ‘You’re getting the seats bloody wet. Dozy buggers.’

Jackie got out and moved round to the front passenger seat and opened the door for him. She had some sympathy with them; she could still remember her early days and the time she was frightened of the sergeant. ‘He’s all right really,’ she mimed.

The male cadet raised his eyebrows in doubt of Jackie’s words. The young girl looked close to tears. Rain bounced on the top of their caps and dripped off the peaks.

Jackie shivered, glad of her cape. ‘Come on, then.’ They splashed their way through puddles to the large gates. They were padlocked. The sergeant looked them up and down. ‘How do you suggest we approach this, Constable? How are we supposed to get into the place?’

‘Sorry, forgot to tell you.’ Jackie grinned and produced a key from under her cape. ‘The squatters were given permission to stay by the Council until it’s decided what’s happening with the place. The chap in the Planning Department said it was providing the Council could inspect whenever they wanted to,’ she said. ‘Of course, knowing them, that hasn’t happened yet.’

The sergeant harrumphed, hiding a smile behind his hand before coughing and saying, ‘Well done, Constable. But hurry up – this isn’t the weather to be hanging around.’

He wasn’t a bad old stick, Jackie thought, struggling with the lock. He could quite easily have refused to let her do this. She peered through the rusted criss-cross rails of the gate at the broken concrete of the short road leading to the old mill. ‘The chap who gave me the key asked if we’d let them know if there was any damage.’ Opening the gate and letting them through she shrugged. ‘Though how we’re supposed to know that, heaven only knows, looking at the state of this place.’

The four of them squinted through the slanting rain at the derelict site. Tall weeds fluttered from piles of rubble and stone. Bronzed rusting fencing lay in a haphazard line around a crumpled concrete square. Broken slates everywhere.

‘Apparently they’re in there, the old camp hospital.’ Jackie pointed to her right. The three-storey building looked remarkably solid. There was glass in the windows and even thin curtains at some.

‘Come on, then, what are we waiting for?’ The sergeant stomped towards a large porch-way. The doors were boarded up. Jackie stepped back to look up at the rows of windows. She caught a glimpse of a figure. ‘Well, they’re in there all right,’ she said, wiping her hand over her wet face and looking around.

The sergeant banged his fist against the wooden boards. ‘Open up!’

The door shifted slightly to one side and a tall man with long black hair, thinning at the front, peered round.

‘What do you want?’

Sergeant Blackwood yanked the sheet of wood to one side. ‘We’re coming in. Okay?’ He pushed past the man into an entrance hall, followed by Jackie and the cadets.

The man wore a long blue kaftan. He tripped over the hem as he stepped back. ‘Hey, you can’t just barge in like this!’ He had a strong Irish accent.

‘We can do what we want.’ Sergeant Blackwood pushed his face at him.

‘It’s okay, River. Let the pigs in.’ In contrast to his words the young man standing behind the man in the kaftan smiled. He held out his hand towards the sergeant who, ignoring it, grabbed the front of the man’s loose, cheesecloth shirt and twisted it hard so it was tight against his neck. He was lifted up on to his toes.

‘Say again,’ the sergeant demanded. ‘Better still, say sorry to my constables.’ He only let go when the word, ‘sorry’ was choked out. The young man’s face was puce.

‘That’s better.’ Sergeant Blackwood let go of the shirt and brushed it down with the back of his hand. ‘Now, let’s start again. We’re looking for a young girl – missing from home.’

‘And?’ The man tugged his shirt down, pushed his hair behind his ears and adjusted his plaited turquoise headband.

‘You in charge around here?’

‘Yes, I’m known as the Master.’

‘The girl’s called Victoria … Victoria Schormann.’

There was no response, no shadow of recognition in either man’s face.

‘No one of that name here.’

‘Five eight, long blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty,’ Jackie said. ‘Aged eighteen.’

River leered, sucked on his teeth.

The sergeant glowered.

The man backed off.

‘We’ll be having a look around.’ Sergeant Blackwood said. ‘It’ll be healthier for you if you cooperate.’

‘No problem.’ The young man shrugged. ‘Most of the women are in the sewing-room. But feel free to search wherever you wish, man.’

Both men still stood in their way.

The sergeant jostled past them. ‘Shift.’ His voice grim. He spoke over his shoulder to the two cadets. ‘Stay together, go to the top floor of the building and start there. Every cupboard, every room. Got it?’

They nodded. Leaving a stream of rainwater behind them, they hurried along the corridor to a flight of stairs.

‘Hey, wait, I’ll get someone to come with you,’ River grinned. He followed them and, pushing a door open called out, ‘Freedom, Cassidy, Zen. Go with them.’

Three youths, stretching and yawning, followed the cadets.

The young man turned on his heel and strode away.

‘Do you think Jackson and Garner will be all right on their own, Sarge?’ Jackie muttered.

‘I think Garner could take on all three of those twerps,’ he murmured.

Jackie raised her voice. ‘I’ll start here.’ She pushed open a pair of double doors.

‘Not scared to be on your own, man?’ River tilted his head.

‘No,’ Jackie replied. ‘And I’ll look around on my own. Okay …
man
?’

Even so, she was followed by Sergeant Blackwood. ‘Two pairs of eyes better than one.’ His voice was gruff.

A girl and a youth, both wearing flowing Hindu robes, trailed hand-in-hand behind them.

Sergeant Blackwood frowned at them.

‘Don’t worry, Sarge,’ Jackie muttered, ‘they’re too spaced out to know what they’re doing.’

It was remarkably quiet in the large room. On one side the windows were half boarded up. In between them rows of thin metal u-shaped rails were fastened to the grimy cream wall. On the floor was dirty cracked green linoleum. Obviously one of the old wards, Jackie thought.

There was a strong smell of cannabis. Small groups of men were sitting or lying on large colourful mats and cushions, reading or talking. Most of them wore jeans and loose cotton tops. All of them had long hair that flowed over their shoulders.

They lifted their heads, watched without speaking.

Sergeant Blackwood stood and sniffed. ‘Hmm, interesting,’ he said. ‘There’s definitely some cell fodder in here, constable – some little creeps who fancy a night at our station.’ He looked around. ‘Who’s first?’ he barked, walking into the group, moving their feet and legs with a lift of his boots. He picked up an ashtray and sniffed again. ‘Don’t suppose any of you lot going to own up to this being yours?’ He held a joint between his forefinger and thumb.

They shuffled out of his way and, standing up, made for the door. To be stopped in their tracks by the sergeant’s roar. ‘Wait! Young girl…’

‘Five-eight, long blonde hair, blue eyes, eighteen,’ Jackie said. ‘Called Victoria … Vicky? Anyone seen her?’

Without looking at one another the group of men shook their heads.

‘Okay. Bugger off,’ the sergeant said. As they left he said to Jackie, ‘and I bet at least one of them’s wanted for something or other.’

At the far end four men were working at benches and attempting to fasten shelves to the crumbling surface of the wall. They kept their heads down, answering with a quick shake to his questions.

In the opposite corner of the room three makeshift low tables held vases of wild flowers and were surrounded by two long battered settees covered in woollen shawls. Swathes of orange and yellow material were nailed to the walls. Jackie wondered if that corner would be where the women congregated but there was no one there at the moment.

She and the sergeant looked around. ‘There’s nowhere to hide in here, anyway,’ he said. ‘Let’s try somewhere else.’

When they closed the doors behind them Jackie heard one deep voice call out, ‘Peace, pigs.’ Followed by loud guffaws.

Sergeant Blackwood stopped.

Jackie moved closer to him. ‘Not worth it, sir.’

He made a slight movement of his head, his mouth a tight line

‘Anything?’ The Irish man was leaning against the wall, casually smoking a thin cigarette. He pushed himself upright and walked alongside them. ‘C’mon, man, we don’t know no what d’ya call her. Give us a break, man.’

They ignored him.

‘Next floor?’ Sergeant Blackwood said.

‘Yes.’ Jackie led the way along the corridor, carefully avoiding the broken tiles on the floor. Rubble had been pushed back to the skirting boards on either side but all along the walls were covered in artwork. She had to admit, some of them were skilfully done, even beautiful, but she made no comment. Small rooms led off. One looked as though it had been some sort of sluice or washroom during its time as a hospital. Out of curiosity Jackie turned on the tap. Water gushed out. What’s betting the Council don’t know about that, she thought. Turning the mains off would have been a sure way of moving this lot on as soon as they’d arrived.

River had dropped back to join the couple behind them. All three waited as Jackie and Sergeant Blackwood peered into each room. Most were bare; possibly they could have been offices or rest-rooms, Jackie guessed. All were empty.

The next floor was different from the one they’d just left. Although there was similar linoleum and the walls were the same grimed-over cream colour, this time the room held twelve mattresses, divided by an assortment of curtains and sheets of material hung on the old rails. Each space was furnished in the same way: a mattress, a small table with a drawer, an upright chair. The only differences were the assortment of old-fashioned clothes-horses, draped with individual clothes: flowery or striped skirts, baggy cotton trousers, paisley or loosely-woven cotton blouses, long coats. No photographs, no pictures. Nothing. The same sweet smell of cannabis pervaded the room but there was no one. And nowhere for anyone to hide.

‘Listen.’ the sergeant lifted a finger. ‘There’s someone talking in the next room.’

They walked between the beds and pushed open the door.

There was no furniture at all. A group of twelve women were sitting cross-legged on mats on the floor. All were either knitting, crocheting or sewing by hand. None of them was Victoria. They stopped their chatter as soon as Jackie stepped inside the room. The sergeant stood back, almost stepping on the trio following them.

‘I’m looking for a girl called Victoria,’ Jackie said, going from face to face, hoping to see a glimmer of recognition at the name. But the women shook their heads and looked down again, studiously working on their crafts. ‘No? No one knows anything about a Victoria? We thought she might be here.’

An older woman stood and came towards them. ‘We have no one of that name here.’ She looked past Jackie to River and inclined her head. Jackie spun round to see what the man was doing but he only gazed blankly at her. ‘As you can see, there’s only us here.’ The woman turned away with a swish of her skirt and bent to pick up a pair of very fat knitting needles. She wrapped thick multi-coloured wool around them. ‘I think that’s all for now, ladies,’ she said. ‘It’s time to make the meal.’

They filed past Jackie, heads bowed. One or two let their eyes slide sideways, a small smile on their lips, but most of them averted their heads.

The two cadets appeared at the doorway of the long room.

‘Nothing, sir,’ Garner called, standing aside to let the women pass. ‘Just seems to be mainly a floor where the men sleep, with four smaller rooms off at the side.’

‘Sure?’ the sergeant glared at them. Jackie could almost hear him seething.

‘Sure, sir.’

Sergeant Blackwood turned to Jackie. ‘Waste of time then, Constable.’

‘Is there anywhere else,’ she asked River. ‘Any other rooms, any place?’