There were three rooms upstairs: main bedroom, bathroom – toilet still embedded in the floor, the bath long gone – and the spare room. The doors were all long gone, stripped out like anything else that might have been of value. The bedroom was dim; a tin sheet still covered the window. Tranter shone his torch.
Bare floorboards strewn with chunks of plaster. Rotten wallpaper hanging from walls and ceiling like coils of dead skin. A board creaked underfoot. In answer, the walls made a scratching, scuttling sound.
“Rats,” Tranter said.
The bodies lay side by side in the far corner. They were casually dressed – jeans, sweaters. Good quality but dirty. Stakowski took a step forward.
“Careful, Sarge.” Tranter pointed out a ragged hole in the boards. “Put my foot through there. Both female – late thirties, early forties. One had a wedding ring. Not dead long. Rats would’ve done more damage otherwise.”
“Owt else?”
“There’s more masks in the spare room like the one outside. Dozens. And the bathroom...”
“What about it?”
“Might be connected, might not.”
“Show us.”
A dozen candles had burned down on the floor where the bath had been, leaving thin black soot-trails on the wall tiles, where a photograph of a man was fixed. There were markings on and around it, in something dark and crusted.
“Is that blood?”
“Could be. Ever seen anything like this?”
“Not as I remember. And I would.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s an inverted pentacle there.”
“A what?”
“Five point star, sarge. Used in witchcraft and stuff.” Tranter shrugged. “Went out with one of those Goth girls for a bit.”
“’Bout the rest?”
“Dunno, sarge. Same sort of thing, I’m guessing.”
“Probably right, if that bugger’s involved.” Sirens nearby. “Come on. Sounds like the circus is coming to town.”
“If who’s involved?”
“Him in the picture.”
A thin shape in the front doorway, hands on hips. “Sergeant Stakowski. We meet again.”
“Dr Wisher.”
“How nice of you both to trample over my crime scene. Hope you’ve had fun. Don’t let me keep you from your real work. Assuming you have some.”
Stakowski ushered Tranter outside. “Charming lady,” he murmured. “Think you’re in there, lad.”
“So you know him, Sarge?”
“Mm?”
“The guy in the picture. You know him?”
“Oh aye. You don’t?”
“Looks familiar from somewhere.”
“Oh, you’ll have seen that bugger around alright. That psychic johnny, off telly – bloody con-artist. Cowell, that’s his name. Allen Cowell.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T
HEY DIDN’T LEAVE
until the afternoon; Vera dug her heels in over that.
“We have to go,” he said.
“And we will.”
“I’m not messing you around, sis. I saw them. It was real.”
“I know. You’ve hardly said a word since. Just what needs saying. Only happens when you’ve had a real one. Normally can’t shut you up.” That was harsh. “Sorry.”
“No. It’s true.”
“So we’ll go. But
not
till I’ve mended fences with them in Liverpool. I’m still your manager, last I checked. Aren’t I?”
“Aye.”
Aye
. The bastard North again. “Right. So. Pulling out like that could fuck your career. So, I’ve some feathers to smooth and a future appearance, by you, at no extra charge, to arrange.
I
care about that, even if
you
don’t. So we’ll go – today – but when I’m ready. Not before. Clear?”
They drove in silence, out of Manchester. City and suburbs thinned out quickly, and they were in another world: green, yellow and grey moors, crags and gullies, steel-coloured tarns, black spiky thickets of wind-warped trees. Places nobody went. A landscape made to hide the dead. Not far from here, on Saddleworth Moor, Brady and Hindley had buried their victims; some were never found. How many victims, out there, of crimes not even reported? They might pass Johnny, Mark and Sam, and never know. A wilderness of unmarked graves; a desolation of unpunished crimes. The few scattered towns were lumpen grey beleaguered outposts, on hills or in valleys in the rain that began to fall. So little distance travelled, and yet so much.
The light was failing, the dirty grey clouds thickening to a rotted velvet black above, but the streetlights hadn’t come on. A road sign:
Kempforth 5
. God, almost there. No sign of it yet though. Nothing human in sight except three houses by the roadside, thin lampposts lined up into the distance, drystone walls criss-crossing the hills, and they all shivered in the rain like ghosts. They could wash away any moment and leave the moorland as it’d been centuries before. They’d believed in witches here; easy to understand why. By night here you’d believe in vampires, werewolves, the bloody lot. She hated the North, fucking hated it. And now here they were; the worst place of all. The black sun.
When the mist came down she pulled into a layby, almost crying with relief.
“We can’t go on in this,” she said.
“Put the fog lights on and slow down. Just have to be careful.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Allen, we’ve got to turn back.”
“Vera, we can’t. We can’t.”
“But
look
at it, Allen, for pity’s sake.”
“I know. I know. But we’ve got to, sis.”
She looked across at him. “Allen, please.”
He looked out of the window. “Think
I
want to go back?” he said at last. “Do you?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Then
why
?”
“Cos I’ve
got
to. No choice. If
you
don’t understand that, nobody will.”
She didn’t answer.
“There’s a price on everything, sis. A price
for
everything. Law of life, that is. Sooner or later, we’ve all got to pay what we owe.”
Vera realised she was crying. Her breath hitched when she tried to speak. “I can’t. Allen, I can’t. Please don’t make me.” She could feel it already. The pull of every brick and stone and turf of sod of the place trying to drag her back.
You belong here. Never left. We know you for what you truly are
. The years, the cosmetics, the elocution lessons, the bank accounts, the Bentley, the house on the Downs: all just shells. Shuck them away and there was just a skinny, scabby-kneed girl in grubby underwear, huddled on a stained mattress beneath an unshaded bulb and waiting for the door to open, the next punter to come through.
No. Not true. She was more than that. But the closer she got to Kempforth, the less she believed it. And yes, she’d got away, but it had dragged her back in the end.
She hated Allen then, hated him for bringing her back. She tried speaking but she couldn’t, only sob. Headlights flared through the rain-speckled window as another vehicle skimmed past. A warm hand curled around her own. She looked up. Allen was crying too.
“I can drive the car back,” he said, “Once it’s over. Whatever it is. There’s a railway station down there somewhere. You get the train back to Manchester.”
“What about you, you daft ha’p’orth?”
“I’ll settle up here. Pay someone to drive the car back.”
And it wasn’t that she wanted to say yes – anyone would’ve wanted to – it was that she almost did. She’d helped him keep afloat so long, so easy just to let go, to let him sink at last. She’d done her bit, hadn’t she?
No, of course she hadn’t. Her bit would never be done.
“Don’t talk daft.” Deep breath. “Can you get us the wet-wipes from the glove box?”
Talk daft. Get us
. The bastard North, creeping back into her voice again.
“Aye, lass.” His, too. Kept growing back, like a cancer, no matter how much you cut away. She cleaned her face and reapplied her makeup.
Cars swished back and forth on the Dunwich Road.
“This is it,” he said. “They promised me. If I do this, I’m free. All the debts’ll be paid off.”
She put her makeup back in her handbag and put it back in the footwell. “Alright, then.” She turned the ignition key, pulled out. The streetlights had come on at last; dull blurred embers of orange and cherry red now lit their way.
THE TESTAMENT OF SERGEANT EDWARD HOWIE CONTINUED throughout but on reachin the front i proved myself to be no mean soldier gaining promotion to lance corporal full corporal and finally to my fathers pride an mothers concern i was made a sergeant an even emmas mother could no say ought agin me then i might even hope to gain an officers commission given time should the war continue long enough an i found a part of myself hopin it would even though i knew it to be the ruling class dividin the proletariat agin itself for at the same time it brought my respect in emmas eyes but then came
T
UCKED INTO BED,
all her usual wild energy gone, Mary looked tiny and fragile as eggshell. Martyn tucked her in, stepped back so Anna could kiss her goodnight. Mary’s eyes flickered open when she did.
“Look after Daddy,” Mary whispered, and closed her eyes again. A moment later she was breathing in and out, deep, slow regular breaths. Fast asleep.
“Yes, ma’am,” Anna murmured, and straightened up. She didn’t turn round.
“Brew?” asked Martyn.
“Please.” Her voice was tight. He knew the signs. She was going to kick off
big
-style. They went downstairs and she managed not to speak until they reached the kitchen, then it spilt out. “The
hell
did you think you were doing back there?”
“What?”
“Back there. Running off like that.”
“Protecting my daughter.”
“Could have fooled me. Looked to me like you couldn’t wait to get away.”
“Oi–”
Anna folded her arms. “Keep it down. She’s asleep.”
“I was going after that bastard!”
“And what about Mary? She was scared to death. She was terrified you weren’t coming back. What if something had happened to you?”
The one real sodding thing he’d done since getting out of Roydtwistle, and she was pissing on it. “And what about the other kids they’ve taken?”
“It’s
your
child I’m worried about. Somebody has to be around here.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“I’m trying to get some sense into your bloody head.”
“You’re so ruddy perfect, you look after her.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Cos you’re so bloody perfect.”
“No. I’m not. But Mary comes first for me, and she should for you as well.”
“Right.” He looked down, didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to.
“Pretty good sprint that, though.”
Kick the dog, then throw it a bone – but then he saw the faint smile on her lips and had to chuckle too. “Have me moments. How about that brew, then?”
“You make it. Do something useful round here for a change.”
“Bog off.”
They talked a little while; mostly about what Martyn had seen. The painted mask, the bucket on the table, the wall of white, disfigured faces.
Anna looked up, frowning.
“What’s up?”
“Mm? Nothing.”
“Just... looked like summat’d given you the collies.”
Anna shook her head. “Dunno. What you just described–”
“’Bout it?”
“I’m sure I’ve seen something like that somewhere.”
“What, round here?”
“Not sure...”
“Anna?”
“Sorry. Drifting off.” She put her mug down, stood. “You know, I’d forgotten what a pain in the arse you can be.”
“Soz.”
But he smiled; so did she, and squeezed his arm. “Good to have you back,” she said. “See you in a bit. Will you be OK on your own?”
“Think I can go to toilet without falling in. Where you off?”
“Upstairs. Something I want to check on.”
T
HE
S
TATION
H
OTEL,
like the town, had seen better days; unlike Kempforth, it still possessed a faded grandeur. It was made of the same biscuit-coloured stone as most of the older buildings. Once-ornate satyr’s heads, now badly eroded, leered above the lintels. In the lobby, oil portraits of the local gentry adorned the oak-panelled walls.
“Now what?” asked Vera.
“First of all, let’s sort the room out.”
“It’s sorted, Allen. Booked it before we left. Their best room, apparently.”
“Yes. Yes. Alright, we take our bags up. Dinner, maybe. Then the police.”
“Police? You never said anything about the police.”
“Why do you think we’re here?”
“I don’t know, Allen. How about you actually tell me?”
“Not here.” Allen went to the desk and rang the bell. Vera saw a stack of business cards for a local minicab firm and picked one up; driving a Bentley round Kempforth didn’t seem a great idea.
A fortyish woman shuffled through the door behind the desk. Bloodshot eyes; cheeks turning into dewlaps. Everything about her seemed to be sag. Vera had a brief sensation of looking in a mirror; this was her if she’d never left.
“Hiya.”
“Hello,” said Allen. “We have a booking? For a twin room?”
“What name?”
Allen glanced at Vera. “Latimer.” Better than booking him in as Allen Cowell. Keep a low profile. But Allen Cowell was one thing, Alan Latimer another. Alan Latimer had never really left at all.
A lift with a grimy mirror took them to the third floor. The ‘best room’ had threadbare carpets and a wonky toilet seat. “Christ. Hate to see the worst one.”
Allen was at the window, looking out. Vera shivered and hugged herself. You couldn’t see much from here; the mist hid everything beyond the row of shops opposite. Victorian buildings, decrepit, old, boarded-up, blotched with decay and discoloration. Dying relics of an age of industry. The Christmas lights along the street gleamed through the mist; they looked lurid and cheap. But Allen wasn’t looking at any of those.
After a moment, she went over, put a hand on his arm. His hand covered hers; they both looked out to where the Dunwich would be.
“So? You said you’d tell me.”
Allen took a deep breath, nodded. “Bad things have happened here.”
“I know
that
, Allen. They happened to us for a start.” Oh, god. He was going to tell the police about
that
. Some idea of confession being good for the soul. No. No-one could know. Ever. “Allen, no. You can’t tell them. Not about Walsh and–”