In the Moors (25 page)

With a swift movement, Rey's hand flicked out like the tongue of a reptile, pinning my wrist. The book slid from his knees onto the floor. Sometimes lovers cannot wait another instant to caress each other, but this was no lover's touch. It felt about as tender as steel, although he wasn't hurting me.

“Seventy-three,” he said.

Thoughts spun through my head. They'd made an arrest at number seventy-three. Aidan Rodderick was safe. Cliff was free. “You've found the house. You've found him!”

“No, Sabbie. This house isn't where Aidan is, if he's anywhere at all.”

I realized I was leaning backward, pulling away from the grip around my wrist, breathing fast through my mouth, in and out. I straightened my back and snatched my arm away, circling it with my other hand, as if nursing it back to health. “Stop playing games with me, Rey.”

“I have a feeling that the team would say you were playing games with me. If they had any idea you were doing this, which they don't, thank God.”

Finally my confusion found form in anger. I scooped the book up from the floor and threw it at him. It hit his chest like a kite. He caught it and smoothed out the pages.

“You're perfectly right, Sabbie. This is number seventy-three, Edward Villas, Clifton, Bristol. You might've seen it on the telly dozens of times. In fact, I'm sure you
did
see it. You remember now, don't you?” He appraised my open mouth, his own gaze impassive. “This is where Josh Sutton lived with his family before he was snatched and put to death. They stood TV reporters outside it, they had cameras waiting for the family to emerge.” His mouth screwed in distaste. “Vultures.”

My legs buckled. I sank down onto the edge of the sun lounger. I knew he was right—it was all too easy for a journey to get confused with what is already in the deeper recesses of the memory. But it was pointless trying to defend myself. I had failed Rey … I had failed Aidan.

Rey stood as I faltered and sagged. “I didn't hold out much hope, Sabbie. In fact, I'm pleased with this result. It's proved conclusively that the things you get from this … spirit place … are not consistent. Or reliable.”

I looked up at the hard line of his jaw and the glitter of his eyes. “I've only tried to be of help.”

“I'm going to ask you politely. Keep out of my investigation. Allow the professionals do their job. We're about to have a major breakthrough and I can almost promise you that it won't be long before we find Aidan.”

I could feel my pupils expand with shock. “Breakthrough?” I echoed.

“Houghton has agreed to be interviewed by a psychological profiler. A few nights in the remand wing has helped him see sense. I'm confident he'll give us all he knows.” The line of his mouth lifted into a smile of triumph. “He's about to confess to murder.”

TWENTY

The soft chink of
Christmas sleigh bells drew closer. It was Caroline Houghton's tea trolley. I was back in the dustless gleam of her lounge. Across from me, taking up quite a slice of sofa, was a lady in her late fifties, a dumpy woman in a tartan kilt—a garment that did nothing at all for her figure—teamed with a twinset in a sort of apricot colour. The chink of china stopped as the door swung open and Caroline drove her contraption into the room.

“I hope you two have been getting acquainted,” she said.

The tartan lady nodded both chins vigorously. “Oh, we have. It's been so interesting. I've never met a shaman before.”

Last night, after Rey had left, taking the triple-coated Slamblaster with him, I felt about as worthless as the garden spade I'd had to chuck out after it lost its handle. A spade with no handle … a shaman who didn't listen to her animal guide.
Throw them both in the bin
, I'd whined.

It was lucky I had an evening free of clients, because all I had wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and eat chocolate. But first I had rung Caroline—I'd needed to give her a selected version of my visit to the prison, and I felt sure that her matter-of-fact tones would calm me down and focus my attention. She'd certainly sounded more upbeat than I did, remembering that her son had been locked up for a week. Over the phone, she had told me that a member of the family liaison team had arrived in time to forewarn her about the news of the Wetland Murderers' bodies before she was confronted by it on the telly. I hoped that it was Rey who'd set up the visit. I hoped that because I really needed corroboration, right then, that he had any sort of soul.

“Did you have a hand in finding those evil people, dear?” she'd asked.

My cheeks had pricked with heat. “That information wasn't supposed to be released.”

“It wasn't. It's just my hunch.”

I'd heard my breath whoosh down the line as it crackled between us. “I only wish I could help in any way to locate Aidan, but my attempts so far have been useless. Worse than useless, really,” I'd added, as I recalled the gunshot sound of Rey slamming my front door behind him.

“Sabbie, dear. Are you free for coffee tomorrow? There's someone I'd like you to meet.” Her voice was so composed I wondered if she was trying to enroll me in her Women's Institute. “It's Nora Rodderick,” she'd continued. “You came up in conversation, you see.”

“Aidan's grandmother?” My antenna shot up above my head, waggling like cobras summoned by a flute. “Are you absolutely sure she wants to meet me?”

“Yes, dear,” Caroline had said. “She really does.”

I didn't bother with breakfast before I left for Caroline's; I already knew her morning coffees were served promptly at ten with rich pastries.

And true to form, Caroline was building her little towers of tables, place mats, saucers, doilies, and finally the green and gold cups before pouring the steaming liquid, adding the right amount of sugar and milk to each one from memory.

“I wondered if I'd have to shoulder my way through newshounds again,” I said, watching her with awe. “But there's only one bloke left now.” I'd been momentarily tempted to feel sorry for him, huddled inside his dog-eared sheepskin coat against the cold.

“He's the worst.” Caroline shuddered. “He follows me right up to my garage, screaming questions at me every time I go out.”

She settled the coffee pot onto her trolley and walked purposefully across to her window. She didn't cower behind the curtains today. She stood full centre and shook a fist at the solitary newshound who lingered by the gate.

“Look,” said Nora, holding up one of my brown glass bottles. “Sabbie has given me this!” There was the vestige of a Devonshire accent in Nora's voice.

“I had one of those, they're lovely. Use it in your bath.”

“Well, I'm very grateful.” Nora Rodderick recrossed her ankles. She'd been doing this every half minute or so. I wondered if the slight change in position was a substitute release valve, letting off an invisible charge of pressure from within. She seemed immensely calm to me, but perhaps that's how people under strain behaved within range of Caroline's influence. Or perhaps it was something to do with being in the Women's Institute—a remnant of the wartime spirit that kept up the home morale. One simply didn't show one's feelings, even if one was melting with tears.

“We pray daily for him,” she said. “The whole village. The school playground is a riot of colour—bouquets on every railing. I believe that keeping him in our thoughts will keep him alive until he's found.”

She opened the handbag on her lap and delved in. I assumed she was searching for a tissue to keep the tears at bay. What she brought out made me blink. It was a laughing Buddha, carved from wood and painted in glowing colours, maroon and gold and indigo, then lacquered to a high gloss. It fitted snugly in her hand.

“Aidan had this in his satchel when …” She hesitated, then smiled. “Funny, how they've gone back to satchels, isn't it? Some of the children have a sort of big zipped-up pencil case for their pictures and things, but Aidan has a satchel. He's so proud of it.”

She was struggling to keep her grandson in the present tense, willing him to still be alive.

I was staring at the Buddha in horror. With the experience of the Slamblaster
fresh in my mind, I never wanted to work with an inanimate figurine again. “It's … it's not really a
toy
, is it?” I faltered.

“He has a thing over this,” said Nora. “Stella brought it back for me from her student travelling days. She did visit a lot of interesting places, before she had Aidan. Anyway, it used to grace the dressing table in my spare room, the one we made into a nursery. He was eighteen months at the most when Stella found a job. Well, she didn't want to be a drain on me, and I encouraged her independence. But little Aidan cried for his mummy something dreadful.” She placed the Buddha in the centre of the coffee table, where it chuckled at us in silent, macabre mirth. “He took a shine to this, started carrying it everywhere, called it Buddy. I remembered what Stella told me when she brought it back from Thailand, and I turned it into a story. If you rubbed his fat tummy, he'd send you good luck. We used to rub Buddy's tum each morning as Stella went out the door and wish she'd come back safely. Of course, she always did.”

Nora retrieved a lace-hemmed hanky from her cardigan sleeve as tears welled up and overflowed from eyes as red as wounds. With the amount of crying she must have done lately, I was surprised she hadn't gone over to man-sized tissues, but old habits die hard.

Without speaking, Caroline passed round fine china plates, each with a tiny pastry cup filled with custard, soft fruit, and whipped cream. These must have taken hours to make, and I reckoned I could dispose of mine in less than a minute.

“Try to eat,” she told Nora. “To keep up your strength.”

“Oh, you're right, of course. Stella needs me.” She picked up the fruit cup and took a valiant bite. “And Aidie'll be back, you'll see, tumbling over the furniture and upsetting the flower vases!” She put the pastry down, as if the tiny morsel she'd taken was going to last her some time. “Did Liz bake these? I recognise her light touch.”

“An institute member,” Caroline explained, turning to me. “They're being so kind to us both, aren't they, Nora?”

Nora nodded. “Stews, bakes … they sent me over the winning floral arrangement yesterday.”

“You've been friends a long time?” I was touched by the camaraderie of the two women, the victim's granny and the accused man's mother.

“Oh yes, years,” said Nora. She looked at Caroline, who'd perched herself on one end of the three-seater, now that we had been fed and watered. “And we've all known Cliff since he was wee. No one round here believes he did it. No one.”

There was a tremor in her voice. I thought of my own determination to clear Cliff's name. None of us
knew
he was innocent. It was all gut feeling. As Rey had said, it was proof that counted. Proof or a confession. I cleared my throat.

“I can't promise that I'm going to be any help at all, Nora.” I wanted her to be let down now, before her hopes were raised too high.

“Caroline's told me how you've been supporting Cliff. And she said you had a hand in finding that awful place out on the moors.”

“Yes. That surprised me as much as anyone else.” It was the truth. As the days went on, I was beginning to believe I might have dreamed it all, and Rey's scepticism encouraged this process.

“I understand that you can't contact Aidan,” Nora was saying. “Well, of course you can't, but I wondered if … because his Buddy was something he loved … oh God, he'll be distraught without it!”

I didn't speak. I could think of nothing to say that would soothe this woman's pain. She blew her nose with her bit of lace, and continued
. “I'd just like you to try. I'll quite understand if … ”

There was a long pause in the room. I thought about the body of Josh in its shallow grave, and how his Slamblaster toy hadn't been placed there with him. And when I finally took the Buddha in my hands, a sensation flashed through me. The images weren't visual, but the symbols that came into my mind made me feel uneasy. I lowered Aidan's precious Buddha gently into my lap. I didn't want to drop it, not even onto the deep pile of Caroline's silk rug.

“What happened on that afternoon,” I began. “To the satchel, I mean. Did he have it with him?”

“He took it to school. But when he disappeared, it was in the classroom.”

So the Buddha had been nowhere near Aidan's captor. Strange, then, that it shot such despondency into me. Or was its psychotic grin disturbing my balance?

“So different nowadays, though,” said Nora, dipping into her handbag again. I held my breath, concerned what would emerge from it this time. An envelope; inside it a photo. “In my day we had to sit behind our desks for the school photo. Two children at a time, sitting behind a double desk, and then they cut the picture down the middle so it was only you. But now, well, look at this.”

Aidan was at the very top of a climbing frame, his legs dangling through the bars, his face mischievous as a pixie. He was brim full of the climb, his socks half down, his shoes a bit scuffed, his hair all messed.

I looked up at Nora. “He's wonderful,” I said.

“I know. That
is
him—captured perfectly. He has a thing about that playground equipment. It was made for him. In fact, he's a bit of a problem at school. Not ‘settled,' the teachers say. If he's missing from class, they know where to find him.”

“Out on the climbing frame?”

“He's been told off and warned off I don't know how many times.”

I looked back at the photo. It felt as if Aidan winked—
was winking
—
at me. Always up to monkey business. A little monkey.

“We warned him against strangers,” she said, her voice rising. “Stella was insistent. I think he must have been offered chocolate, he's a sucker for that.”

I passed the photo back. “This must be so difficult to bear.”

Nora nodded, taking shaky breaths of the floral-scented air. “They wouldn't have heard his screams,” she said. “It's what I've been thinking since the beginning. It's only one class, for all the five- and six-year-olds, you see. The juniors don't even have the same playground access. And they'd have been clearing up from painting. I help in the class from time to time; I know how loud things can get. All those little darlings, having fun.” She tried to turn a sob into a chuckle. “I can't sleep for thinking about it. But that makes me feel better. My suffering isn't a hundredth of Aidan's.”

Caroline got up and went to sit next to Nora, her arm around her friend's shoulders for long minutes, while sobs wretched out of her. I mostly looked at the Buddha, who seemed to be telling me I was a callous fiend to put Nora through these questions.

Even before I picked the Buddha up, I'd guessed he'd been nowhere near the abduction site. Tucked safely at the bottom of the satchel hanging on a school peg, he wouldn't hold any of the terror of that moment. So why did he impart such an aching sadness?

After a while, Nora spoke into her palmed hands, which were shiny with tears and saliva. “I needed a proper cry,” she said. She was the sort of woman who would be embarrassed about showing her feelings before strangers, but I think she already had begun to consider me as a friend. “I've been holding things in a long time.”

“It'll do you a world of good,” said Caroline.

“Nora,” I began, “there's something in the Buddha. Was Aidan going through a difficult time before he—You mentioned he hadn't settled at school, for instance?”

“He can be a bit wild, but he loves his class. Runs in through the door of a morning. Of course, it's just as well, because Stella needs to go to work in the day. She's a one-parent family, you see.”

I recalled the TV appearances, Stella's frightened, tear-struck face, alongside the grim visage of Garth Stanford.

“Doesn't Aidan see his father?”

“He has him for the odd weekend, yes.”

“Does Aidan like Garth?”

“He seems to. I've taken him to visit myself and I can't deny that he fair raced away from the car when I dropped him off.”

“The police have interviewed him,” Caroline broke in.

Nora nodded. “He was one of the first, I think. But they let him go.” She looked directly across at me. “Stella had this dreadful relationship with Garth when she was at university. I could tell that he was … how can I put it? He isn't the man I'd wish as the father to my grandson. He's not stupid—he got his degree—but he's done nothing with it. Nothing with his life. A waster is what I'd call him. Far too selfish to want to snatch his son and have to tow him around with him.”