Grave Doubts (22 page)

‘Your father!’ Amelia shook her head dismissively and rose to clear the last of the plates.

‘Please, what about my father? He was so secretive that I never truly knew him.’

Amelia kept her back to Nightingale as she stacked the dishwasher.

‘I think it would be better he was allowed to rest in peace.’

Amelia, previously talkative beyond the point of indiscretion, suddenly became close-mouthed. Despite all the wine she had drunk, she would say no more. They were drinking tea and admiring the herbaceous border when Nightingale made her next attempt to learn more about her family.

‘This is a wonderful place. I feel so at home here.’

‘Well of course. You were born here.’

‘In this house?’

Her hostess looked as if she had been snared in a trap then laughed in a silly schoolgirl way.

‘No, you were born at Mill Farm with your brother Simon.’

She fanned herself whilst Nightingale studied her surreptitiously. Somewhere in that effusion, she sensed a lie.

‘So where does Lulu Bullock fit into the story?’

Amelia was ahead of her so she couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t need to in order the judge the impact of her question. The woman went rigid and her teacup fell from her hand. It smashed on the path but she barely noticed. After a significant pause she said.

‘Fancy you knowing Lulu’s name. Who was that from?’

‘Just letters at my aunt’s house but I saw her initials on the statue by the grave and I was curious.’

‘She was an old friend of your Aunt’s.’

‘I believe she was staying here the year I was born. She was a sculptress?’

‘Yes indeed. And a very fine one.’ Amelia’s relief at the change of subject was palpable. ‘She was commissioned to sculpt our new font. Vandals had destroyed the fifteenth century one. A collection was organised to raise money for a replacement and Lulu’s uncle, who used to be a chorister here, pledged to donate pound for pound whatever the villagers raised. There was only one condition, that he could select the artist. Everyone agreed but then Lulu was chosen and all hell broke loose.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, she was so…bohemian and a practicing Buddhist at the time. She’d lived in a commune near Glastonbury. Imagine!’

‘And she and my aunt were
very
close.’

Amelia’s face darkened to purple. Her assumption had been correct then, Lulu and her aunt had been lovers and the conventional lady in front of her was embarrassed by the fact. Nightingale said her thankyous and promised to keep in touch. An invitation for lunch the following Sunday was offered and accepted, and she drove back carefully to the church to place flowers from Amelia’s garden on her aunt’s grave.

After the service the following Sunday, she waited inside the church door for Amelia to join her. To fill in time she studied the font, conscious that her aunt’s lover had been the artist. The paganism in the work was redeemed by the portrayal of the Lamb of God, which had been carved with exquisite delicacy. It was standing in a field of thorns. Behind the Lamb a panoply of birds, animals and fishes twisted in confusion. Facing It was a wolf, vast and menacing, a figure of terror: massive shoulders, a lolling, slobbering tongue, legs strong enough to cover infinite distances in search of prey, the nose sensitive enough to find them, wherever they might seek to hide.

Its eyes were fixed on the multitude behind the Lamb. In them Nightingale could read an eternal hunger large enough to devour the world. This was Satan, the Devil stalking the earth. Looking into the wolf’s eyes, Nightingale shivered, seeing reflected there the expressions of lust, depravity and greed of all the people she had ever arrested. For a shocking moment she felt vulnerable, as if the wolf was somehow seeking her out, even as she stood in this quiet place of God. But if the wolf was endless terror, the eyes of the Lamb spoke of eternal peace. In His face was the essence of compassion, redemption and love. Yet it was also sad, as if He knew of the sacrifice He would have to make to save those sheltering behind Him.

‘Come on, let’s go.’

Nightingale left reluctantly, as if she had been dragged away from the edge of an important discovery. Stepping into Amelia’s immaculate house the smell of roast pork made her mouth water. In what was now an established routine, Nightingale poured their drinks whilst Amelia prepared the vegetables.

‘Another ten minutes,’ she called out and Nightingale went to explore the drawing room, across the hall. Sunlight filled the far end in a golden pool. In the shadows by the door was a baby grand piano. Music for a Chopin Nocturne was open, waiting. She recognised the tune and her throat tightened. She had played this for Grade eight, when she was fourteen, in the winter before she had first run away from home. She took another sip of her sherry and sat down.

Her fingers were stiff and she fumbled the first arpeggios, then she found her rhythm, slower than her previous fluid style but safe. The music settled over her like a gentle net, trapping her in its silken chords. As the harmonies developed, she ceased to think about the individual notes. The sound, the sensation of being part of it, the glorious heat at her back and the memory of the sculpture in the church melted together until she could feel their connection. Everything was as it was meant to be, and for once her place within it was clear.

She looked up to find Amelia staring at her.

‘You’re very good.’ She opened her mouth as if to say more then said simply. ‘Lunch is ready.’

During the meal she quizzed Amelia again about her family. Amelia parried the questions with skill, sometimes open and expansive, at others cautious, pleading ignorance or loss of memory. When apple pie and ice cream was served, she changed the subject to her aunt and Lulu Bullock.

‘I know they were lovers, you know. It’s clear from my aunt’s diary. That must have been a scandal.’

Amelia sighed in resignation as she refilled their glasses from a fresh bottle.

‘It was. A big one.’ She twirled her wineglass and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘However, one of the advantages of being middle class in a rural district is that one has to be tolerated. Your aunt, all the Nightingales, were almost gentry. Lulu’s uncle was a local JP and benefactor.’

‘So they were politely ignored?’

‘Ignored at first. After a while most people spoke to them in the local shops.’

‘Why did they split up?’

It was an innocent question but Amelia flushed and drained her glass.

‘Why does any relationship fail?’

‘And my father?’

‘He was a wanderer, never staying anywhere for long, quite the free spirit, until he met your mother.’

She looked around for more wine and raised the bottle in invitation to Nightingale who shook her head. After the sherry she had paced herself but it hadn’t slowed Amelia. Something about the woman worried Nightingale. She was friendly and warm yet she was also evasive, as if she couldn’t trust her guest or had a secret to hide.

What could there be that was even more scandalous than female homosexuality all those years ago? Whatever it was, she would need to find out another time. Amelia had returned to the defensive and she would learn nothing more today. She gave the older woman the expected peck on the cheek and invited her to lunch at the farm the following week. Being there might stimulate more memories.

It was Monday July 15
^th
. Schools were beginning to break up and along the coast of North Wales tourist money was starting to flow once more. The unoriginal but accurately named Sea View Caravan site was half full. Within a week all the vans would be let and the site heaving. One of the reasons the Mackie family came early was to enjoy the relative peace for a few days, though their teenage children did not appreciate that fact.

The eldest, Tasmin or Taz to her friends, was sixteen going on twenty, and already miserable because she’d had to leave her boyfriend behind. Her younger sister Dawn was just thirteen and the baby of the family, but she wasn’t beyond taking Taz’s make-up. Nathan was fourteen, lanky and greasy haired, with shoulders that had just started to burst the seams of his school shirts. As the only boy and middle child he’d led a curious existence, both spoiled and overlooked.

This was the second year that they had used the site. Mrs Mackie, Irene, liked it because there were two restaurants, a café and a takeaway Chinese all within walking distance, which meant that as the week went on and her husband, Hugh became more relaxed about money, they would eat out more and her real holiday would begin. But this was day two, one of the tricky days. The children would be fractious until they had made new friends at the site and Hugh stressed out because memories of work would be fresh and he’d be tired from the previous day’s drive. Irene was snappy because she
did
have a job as well, had packed, unpacked, acted as peace-maker, dog-walker, nurse, cook and home help in the previous twenty-four hours, and this was her holiday too! At least the weather was kind.

Taz put on a miniscule bikini, halter top and micro shorts and flounced out of the caravan with a beach towel as soon as she had done her share of the drying up. Dawn whined to go with her but she was gone before anyone could stop her.

‘Be back for lunch by twelve-thirty, young lady!’ Irene called before telling Dawn to grow up and asking Nathan to take her with him to the campsite activity park. The dog bounded off after them happily, on a long lead. Nathan thought himself too old for slides, swings and climbing frames but had little option other than to obey.

At the beach, Taz’s long-limbed slender body soon attracted attention, some of it welcome. By eleven o’clock she had made two new friends, Chloe, who talked posh and came from somewhere near London, and a girl whose nick-name was Boo and who refused to tell them her real name because it was gross. Chloe and Boo were the same age and attractive in different ways, not least because of the freshness of their youthful skins and bodies. Some young men on the beach started a game of football nearby and redoubled their efforts when the girls began to watch.

‘I’m hot. Fancy a swim?’ Boo stood up and brushed sand from the back of her calves.

‘Yup.’ Chloe sprang up and started off down the beach. Taz stayed where she was.

‘You coming?’

‘No thanks. I’ll wait here.’

Boo shrugged and sprinted to the sea, jiggling nicely. Taz breathed a sigh of relief. She had a fear of the sea so strong that she still held her father’s hand if she went for a paddle. She had never learnt to swim and the idea of having her face under the water terrified her. Even being splashed made her shudder.

The newly formed group parted for lunch and went back to their respective families, watched by most of the men on the beach, attached or otherwise. One in particular studied them well.

They regrouped at two and concentrated seriously on their tans. Taz avoided the water all afternoon, finally having to admit to Boo that she had a phobia of the sea.

When she returned home to the caravan, early for a change, she helped her mother prepare supper without being asked and tidied her siblings’ mess away. Irene knew at once that she wanted something and waited with a mixture of irritation and amusement for the question to be asked. The family was finishing ice creams for dessert when the request finally came.

‘There’s a disco on in The Barn tonight…’

‘No.’ Hugh didn’t even look up.

‘I’d be going with Chloe and Boo. Chloe’s eighteen.’

‘I said no.’

‘I promise I’ll drink water and fruit juice all evening.’

Hugh eventually looked up.

‘Can’t you hear me? No.’

‘You let me last year and I was younger then.’

Now he looked confused.

‘Did I?’ He turned a questioning face to Irene.

‘Yes you did. On the strict understanding that she would be back by eleven. And she was.’

‘Oh.’

Taz waited in silence.

‘Where did you say it was?’

‘In The Barn. Only ten minutes away. And it has to stop at eleven-thirty anyway because that’s all the licence allows.’

‘Well, all right then.’ Hugh received a hug and a kiss. ‘But I will be there to pick you up at eleven, not a minute later.’

Taz opened her mouth to argue but caught her mother’s eye and shut up.

‘Are your friends coming here?’ Irene was curious to see them.

‘No. We’re meeting at the gates at seven thirty.’

‘Pretty confident, weren’t you.’ Her father raised his eyebrows.

Taz bit off a sharp retort, not wishing to antagonise him.

‘We agreed that they’d wait for ten minutes and then go without me, in case you said no.’

‘You’d better hurry Taz, it’s gone seven already.’ Irene knew how long it would take her daughter to get ready.

‘Can I go?’

‘No you can’t, Nathan. Dad and I are going to have a quick drink after we’ve washed up and you and Dawn can come with us.

It was twenty-five past seven by the time Taz finally found the right shoes and earrings. She shouted goodbye and left the van quickly, hoping to avoid the comments that she knew parental scrutiny would give rise to. Her skirt had little more material in it than had her shorts, and her blouse was fine enough for the colour of her purple bra to show through.

She was in such a rush to reach the site entrance that she missed her way and ended up in the wrong part of the camp. Cursing she looked around, trying to regain her sense of direction. It was already half past and she knew that Chloe and Boo wouldn’t wait long. After a couple of false turns she found the main tarmac road that ran through the middle of the camp and trotted along it as fast as her heels would let her. She ignored the wolf-whistles and concentrated on finding her way. Of course by the time she reached the gates Chloe and Boo had already left. The problem was that she wasn’t sure of the way.

‘Lost?’

The man had come up behind her silently and his voice made her jump.

‘Just trying to remember my way to The Barn.’

‘Oh, I’m walking past it. It’s not far, come on we can go together.’

Taz hesitated. He was a stranger but a very good-looking one. He was a tall, with sleek dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that were set off by his tan. When he smiled his teeth were very white. It wasn’t as if he was asking her to get in a car, after all.

‘OK.’ She followed him and he solicitously made sure she was walking on the inside.

He said that his name was Des and that he was on holiday with friends. She noticed that his fingernails were neat and impeccably clean, like his white shirt and fawn trousers. He had a small pack on his back that he carried easily and his jokes made her laugh.

Half way along the empty road he turned right down a footpath.

‘A short cut. Saves several minutes. You might even catch up with your friends.’

She followed him after a bare moment’s hesitation. It was just wide enough to walk side by side provided she kept her left arm angled in front, away from the nettles that ran along the bordering hedgerow. She noticed that the brambles among them were bearing tight green fruits.

When she landed hard on her back in the wheat she thought at first that she had tripped over, but then she realised that he was kneeling over her, his weight on her arms, and she opened her mouth to scream. Something was stuffed into it so far that it touched the back of her tongue and made her gag. Tape went over it before she could work her jaws to spit it out, then her hands were tied behind her back.

He pulled her to her feet so hard that she felt something give in her shoulder, and pushed her ahead of him through the waist high crop. They cut at an angle away from the footpath towards another field separated by barbed wire. At the fence he raised the top strand of wire and forced her through. She scraped her thigh on a lower barb and nettles stung her calves but she was too scared to notice.

Her mind had become a blank of white terror that overwhelmed her and made it impossible to think. At some point she noticed that she was crying and long trails of snot ran from her nose. The realisation brought her to her senses. She was behaving like a pathetic victim, just following this man’s tacit instructions obediently. He had abducted her and was taking her far away from the possibility of rescue. Men only abducted girls for one reason. Her mind shied away from the word rape yet at the same time sought to define it. Was it like sex but with violence on top?

She had lost her virginity at the end of year disco only days before in a fumbling adventure that had left her confused and a bit sore. It hadn’t been as exciting as she had expected, but it hadn’t been too bad either. If she pretended to like what this man was going to do to her would it please him enough to make him gentle? She risked a glance back at his face. One look into his eyes made her heart beat skip as another rush of adrenaline surged through her. The pleasant young man who had been chatting her up minutes before had disappeared. In his place, in the same perfect body, walked a monster with eyes that were already lusting after her, and a snarl on his face that spoke of a taste for blood. Instinctively, she knew that this man fed on fear and any sign that she was willing to cooperate would inspire him to violence and excess. The tears that had stopped whilst she had started to think, started again. When she sobbed loud enough to be heard through the gag he laughed.

They had crossed a second field and he paused to look around. She could hear waves in the distance and realised that they were completing the third side of a square. The caravan site would be on her right. It was set in a dip so she couldn’t see any sign, but she thought she would be able to find it given the opportunity.

When the man bent down to ease through the fence his grip on her arm loosened. Taz took her chance and broke away. At first she tried to run fast but with her arms tied behind her back that was impossible so she settled into a shambolic jog. Of course it wasn’t fast enough. He caught her easily and delivered a punch to her temple that knocked her to the ground.

‘You’ll fucking pay for that, bitch.’

He yanked her to her feet again, sending a fresh jolt of pain through her shoulder. This time he held onto her in a grip tight enough to burn her skin where the friction of their uneven pacing twisted her arm with every step.

He dragged her through yet another barbed wire fence scratching her arms and back in the process. She realised that she was not going to escape and for the first time wondered whether he intended to kill her. Her knees gave way at the thought and he was half dragging, half carrying her by the time they found what he had been looking for. A sheep shelter, reduced to a tumbled cross of dry stone walls appeared in a fold of the hill and he grunted in satisfaction. Stubby trees hid most of it from view.

The man threw her to the ground in the shelter of its walls and gave her a look that dared her to move. Taz was petrified. She lay where she had fallen and watched him start a bizarre ritual. From his pack he took out more rope and tied a length to each of her legs, looping the free ends around heavy stones in the wall so that she was spreadeagled. Her arms he left tied behind her back. There was the stink of urine and to her shame she realised that she had wet herself in terror. He delivered a stinging slap to her cheek.

‘Filthy bitch.’

He pulled her skirt and knickers away, leaving her bare below the waist. Then he took a large thermos from his pack, opened it and poured some of its contents over her, washing her. He reached into a pocket of his trousers confidently as if expecting to find something but then started to search frantically.

‘Fuck it!’ He emptied his pack then tried his pockets again but whatever he had been expecting to find had gone. His loss earned her a kick in the ribs.

‘Never mind. I still have enough imagination for us to have some fun, sweetheart.’ He knelt over her and began to undo the tiny buttons of her blouse, the tips of his fingers cold against her skin.

‘Who had too much sun today?’ He traced the white outline of her bikini on her flesh. ‘I saw you lying there, flaunting it for every man and boy that passed. And all the time I was thinking about what we would be doing later. It was a lovely way to spend the day.’

He continued talking in an almost conversational way as he stripped her remaining clothes away. The normality of his voice persuaded her more than the violence that he was completely insane. When she was naked, he stood up and stared at her as he removed his fawn trousers, then his pants. At the sight of him she closed her eyes and turned her head away, making him laugh.

‘Yes, it affects most girls like that. Now, let’s see. Oh, it’s only eight o’clock…and it won’t go dark until ten, so we have plenty of time. I’m not going to leave you here, you see. Normally, I’d wash you thoroughly afterwards but outside I’m having to improvise, so the sea will suffice. Don’t shake your head like that. I know you hate the water, I heard you tell your friend today. That’s what’s going to make drowning you later so much fun. But in the meantime,’ he bent over and stroked a breast, ‘shall we begin?’

He sat on the cliff top smoking a cigarette and watched the tide rise. His damp clothes were spread on the grass beside him and he was wearing the spare trousers from his pack. Two hours hadn’t been long enough to do things properly but he had managed to have some fun. To make the link to Griffiths he had worked outside this time. Apparently the police hadn’t made the connection between Lucinda and the crimes for which Wayne had been imprisoned, and his sometime friend was starting to complain that the attacks weren’t similar enough, despite the missing fingers. That detail was possibly too small for the bungling coppers to notice.