The Shade of Hettie Daynes (9 page)

‘Ah.’ Christa hung a left, accelerated. ‘Exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. Now my poor aunt’s name’ll be plastered all over the
Echo
, and every superstitious so-and-so for miles round will believe she haunts the reservoir.’

Bethan shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but Aly didn’t do it on purpose. She was wet and freezing, and the question took her by surprise. You’re not
too
mad at her, are you?’

Christa sighed. ‘I don’t suppose so, love. She didn’t mean to break her promise – she’s a scatterbrain I expect, like her mother.’

‘And anyway it won’t be in the paper.’

‘What d’you mean –
why
won’t it?’

Bethan shook her head. ‘Councillor Hopwood was really weird about it – told Bill he’d get him
done
if he put the name in the
Echo
. He’s to call her the ghost.’

‘Really?
Well
.’ Christa chuckled. ‘I never thought I’d have reason to be grateful to that pompous windbag.’

THIRTY-THREE

I HOPE YOU’VE
enjoyed the evening
. Reginald Hopwood slammed home the gearshift and stamped on the pedal. The classic Rover roared down the schoolyard and swung into the road on screeching tyres.
I should’ve quoted Groucho Marx – I’ve had a wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it
.

He scowled through the windscreen.
That girl, Alison Crabtree. Where have I heard her name lately – Crabtree?

It came to him as he negotiated a sharp bend, taking it wide.
Fox of course, Saturday. Crabtree was the guy who phoned the Echo, said he’d got a
snapshot
of the ghost. Called back later to say it was all a mistake. I bet Alison’s the guy’s daughter. I bet that’s where she got the idea for her costume
.

Can’t actually be a snapshot though, can there? Nobody’s ever photographed a ghost – not even the so-called psychic investigators. Because there’s no such thing as a ghost, that’s why. It’s gross superstition, like vampires and werewolves
.

Hopwood sighed, sat back in the soft leather seat, told himself to relax.
Of course
there was no snapshot – the guy’d said so himself, hadn’t he? All a mistake.

Yes
, murmured the voice inside his head.
But what about Stan Fox? He’ll see the kid’s name in the paper, spot the coincidence: guy rings up about the ghost, then a kid of the same name comes dressed as the ghost. That damn photographer tells Fox what I said about not mentioning Hettie Daynes in print, and he connects it with me being paranoid about keeping people away from the reservoir
.

He sighed again, shook his head.
All I can do is keep my head down and hope he won’t follow it up
.

The Rover sped through the dark, squashing small furry things all the way.

THIRTY-FOUR

CURIOSITY WAS STAN
Fox’s nickname. Curiosity Fox they called him at the
Echo
, because he loved sticking his nose into things. Sniffing around. Hoping to flush out something interesting. Stan’s curiosity was what made him a good journalist.

The morning after Hallowe’en, Stan’s curiosity was stirred by a coincidence. Stan Fox didn’t believe in coincidence. He believed that when two things come together to form what people call a coincidence, there’s always a reason. It’s often a hidden reason, needing a sharp nose like Stan’s to sniff it out.

It was Bill Rowntree’s piece about the Hallowe’en Hop at Wilton Primary. The
Echo
published on Thursdays, and next Thursday’s edition would carry a full page of pics and captions about the various Hallowe’en events in the area. The dummy of this page was displayed on Fox’s screen, and he was reading the caption under Rowntree’s photo.

Ten-year-old Alison Crabtree
, it read,
winner of Wilton Primary School’s most original Hallowe’en costume competition. Alison came as the ghost which some local people claim to have seen at Wilton Water. The competition was judged by Councillor Reginald Hopwood, the school’s Chair of Governors
.

Fox frowned.
Crabtree. Now where . . . ah, yes
. His features cleared.
The guy who claimed to have a snapshot of the ghost. His name was Crabtree. I wonder
 . . .

He walked over to Rowntree’s desk. ‘That kid, Bill – the competition winner at Wilton Prim. We’ll have her home address, won’t we?’

Bill Rowntree nodded. ‘Sure – we put a glossy print in the post for kids. Hang on.’ His fingers pecked at his keyboard. ‘Here y’are – ten Trough Lane, Wilton.’

Fox nodded. ‘As I thought.’

‘What is it, Stan?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Guy phoned from that address a few days back. Claimed to have a snapshot of the ghost.’ He grinned. ‘Probably his daughter in her Hallowe’en get-up.’

Rowntree nodded. ‘Probably.’ He looked at Fox. ‘Funny do with your mate the councillor, by the way.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Well, I asked the kid if the ghost had a name. She said it might be Hettie Daynes, and Hopwood told me not to print it. Threatened to drop me in it with you if I did.’ He pulled a face. ‘So I haven’t. Weird, though.’

‘Hmmm.’ Fox squeezed the man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it, Bill. Bit strange, old Hopwood. Always was.’

He returned to his own desk and sat, gazing at something only he could see.

THIRTY-FIVE

WEDNESDAY LUNCH TIME
. Harry and Rob on the school playing field. A chill, misty day with winter on its breath. ‘How’s this for an idea?’ asked Harry.

Rob, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, looked at his friend. ‘What?’

‘It’s Bonfire Night, right?’

‘Not much gets past you, sucker. What of it?’

‘Well, we need to get a look at the reservoir now the water’s low. Carl and the cave trolls won’t be there tonight.’

Rob pulled a face. ‘Won’t they?’

‘ ’Course not. Carl’ll be at the bonfire – his
dad’s
the boss of it. And where Carl is, there’re the cave trolls.’ Harry grinned. ‘We’ll have a clear field, old mate, plus our folks’ll think we’re at the bonfire.’

‘It’ll be flipping dark,’ grumbled Rob.

Harry nodded. ‘Obviously. I don’t mean we go wading knee-deep in mud. I just want to check out the old mill. You in or not?’

‘In, I suppose,’ growled Rob. ‘We can catch the bonfire after.’

As her brother and his friend strolled round the playing field at the big kids’ school in Rawton, Bethan and Alison were doing the same at Wilton Primary. It must be true that great minds think alike, because Bethan was talking about the reservoir too.

‘I’ll tell my mum I’m off to the fire,’ she said. ‘She comes as well, but not till later.’ She smiled. ‘She’ll tell Harry to keep an eye on me, but I bet
he
’ll want to check out the res. What d’you think?’

‘Hmmm?’ Alison was wired to the Walkman she’d won at the Hallowe’en Hop. Bethan scowled. ‘Turn that thing off for a minute, Aly,
and
listen.’ She went through the whole thing again. ‘So, what d’you think?’

Alison shrugged. ‘I’ll come.’ She pulled a face. ‘Don’t know why you want to go scaring yourself though. And I’ll only go if Harry does.’

THIRTY-SIX

THE MIDGLEYS’ KITCHEN
, six o’clock. Christa looked at Harry. ‘I’m trusting you to keep an eye on your sister, Harry. I’ll be along around eight. Till then I want you to keep Bethan well back from the fire, and away from the numpties who throw bangers. Is that understood?’

Harry nodded. ‘I promise she’ll be well away from the fire, and no bangers’ll come anywhere near us.’ He’d talked with Bethan earlier. They weren’t going straight to the bonfire, so his promise was an easy one to make. All he had to do was make sure they were there by the time their mother arrived.

Bethan giggled as they hurried along under the streetlamps. ‘You’re a lying toad, Bro.
She’ll be well away from the fire
. Lie for England, you could.’

‘I didn’t lie,’ protested Harry. ‘You
will
be well away – quarter of a mile away.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Rob joined them at the end of the road, and Alison was waiting by the reservoir gateway. It was cold. The four were bundled up in scarves, jeans and hoodies.

Harry looked at Alison. ‘Any sign of life, Aly?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Not if you mean Carl.’ She shrugged. ‘Nobody’s gonna come with the footpath closed, not even dog-walkers.’

Harry nodded. ‘Come on then, we haven’t got all night.’

They approached the fence. Bethan hooked her fingers through the mesh, pressed her nose to it. ‘How do we get through
this
?’

‘We don’t,’ said Rob. ‘We go round it.’

‘
Round
it?’ Harry looked at him. ‘I thought we’d decided to tunnel under.’

Rob shook his head. ‘If we do that, somebody’ll notice. They’ll fill it in, and we’ll have to
scrape
it out afresh every time we come. No.’ He turned and pointed. ‘The fence went to the water’s edge, but the water’s gone right down. If we slide down the bank, we can walk on the mud till we’re past the fence. It’s only a few strides.’

‘
Muddy
strides,’ said Harry. ‘We should’ve come in wellies.’

‘Don’t be such a wimp,’ mocked Rob. ‘What’s a bit of mud?’

‘A big deal if you’re
our
mum,’ sighed Bethan. She grinned. ‘I vote we go for it though.’

They sat on their bottoms in the wet grass and lowered themselves till their shoes sank into soft mud. Rob led the way as they squelched through the ooze. Mud sucks, strides weren’t possible. They found they were pulling their feet free at every pace. Alison lost a shoe and had to plunge her hand into the mire to get it back. ‘Pooh!’ she gasped. ‘It pongs a bit, this stuff.’

As they pressed on, a glow appeared in the sky to their right. ‘There goes the bonfire,’ murmured Harry. ‘His majesty Councillor Hopwood has ignited the conflagration.’

‘I hope he’s dumped his swamp-thing son on top as a guy,’ growled Rob.

Bethan looked down at her mud-plastered jeans. ‘It’s
us
who’re the swamp-things,’ she laughed.