Three Mile Drove, Chapter Twenty Two

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Darren halted. He’d gone the wrong way, seeing the track narrowing into a pathway as it wound behind the ruins, cutting increasingly thinly through open fenland now disappearing amidst the gloom.
Realising that his targets had fled the other way, he turned to face the house. He could see it’s smouldering remains, like the wrecked shell of a huge, beached ship in the gathering darkness.
Then they came once more, those horrendous cries, slicing sharply through the air. Somewhere, ahead of him, though not directly. He should have taken the other route or at least used his ears to guide him; he might have known the screams would fill the air again.
He’d lost them now, he should wait until morning, the voice of reason spoke up, more clearly than ever. But he was too fired up now, in the last few minutes he’d plunged into a fire ravaged house and freed a child and some wretch so badly deformed the sight had struck him to the core. He’d been within perhaps feet of discovering the root of what had been haunting him since his arrival here. He could walk back to his hotel, but he’d simply walk the floor all night. He wanted answers now, and he’d find them, even if his only tool was the torch in his pocket.
He’d chosen the wrong route; therefore he’d take the right one, no matter what lay ahead. Retracing his steps he walked back to the point where the main track diverged into two, and took the opposite route.
He shone his torch at the track; from what he could see in the faltering light it curved in an arc, north easterly. The shrieking cries died away, the wind dropped as the rain began to fall more heavily, like thin nails driving into the ground beneath his feet.
Reaching a point where the track straightened out so that it ran directly north, he thought he saw movement ahead of him, but with the light so poor it could have been anything.
Forcing himself on without so much as a sign of the thing he’d seen, he began to despair that he’d ever see an end to the avenue of trees which seemed to be pressing in on him, as if they intended his suffocation. His legs growing tired, Darren thought it must be at least fifteen minutes since he turned into the track. Ahead of him there was only darkness, he let out a curse as the last flickers of light died from his torch; any flame from the fire behind had either been extinguished or was hidden by the trees. Perhaps he’d travelled so far he was beyond its glow. As his pace dwindled he saw the futility of his mission spread out before him like a huge screen. He’d seen this bank of trees from the roadway, noticed how they stretched through the fens like endless spires, and yet he hadn’t appreciated the true depth of it.
There was sound behind him, and it wasn’t the whistle of wind either. It was the kind of treading only man or large animals made, the steps seeming to match his. He turned, seeing nothing, cursing himself for his stupidity. The drumbeat of rain, he told himself, that’s all it was. He was letting his mind run away with him.
But the rain slackened, and still the sound was there behind him. Closing, quickening. Alarm warnings pounded in his head like peels from mighty bells as he forced his tired legs to carry him faster. Brushing sweat and rain from his eyes he saw in the distance a dim flicker of light, and with it, the shrieks and cries burst out again so loudly they pierced his ears.
Suddenly the bank of trees fell away and he found himself in a circular opening, like a ramshackle camp. A large barn dominated the centre; flickering light from what might have been an oil lamp emanating from beyond a flapping door. From what light there was, he could see that several wooden buildings, not unlike beach huts were scattered around the perimeter.
Darren turned in a circle, fear and disorientation grabbing at him like a ferocious clawed hand. The wind had risen, the rain began to pelt again as if the elements had been trying to lull him into a false sense of security, as he made for the barn door, knowing there was little else he could do.
As the door seemed to fling itself open to greet him an awful gut-wrenching stench met him head on. He staggered back, unable to breathe. But even as he did so he felt an arm clasp around his neck like the coil of a snake.

* *

Remnants of fire hung in the air like the aftermath of a murky Guy Fawkes night. The fire service had done their job by the time McPherson arrived, assisted by steady rainfall. It seemed to be a straightforward fire they believed, no sign of arson, though McPherson remained to be convinced of that. A derelict house, at the centre of his investigations spontaneously bursting into flames just didn’t gel. But something else had caught McPherson’s eye as he’d arrived, and he’d wasted no time in checking it out.
He’d seen Darren Goldwater’s Jeep, its tail bar reflecting in his headlights, apparently abandoned by the roadside. He’d taken a closer look and found that all four tyres had been slashed. There had been no sign of movement, either human or animal, and now apart from the rush of wind through trees all was silent.
McPherson had knocked on Shaun Tomblin’s door but received no reply; the place had been in darkness. He’d turned back to the lane, to be confronted with headlights bouncing through the gloom towards him. The car screeched to a halt a couple of metres from his feet and before he’d a chance to react, Claire Summerby had leapt out.
She’d seen his Jeep, and seen McPherson standing alone. Now, looking at the grey pall of smoke blending forebodingly in the dark sky, she grabbed his arms.
‘Where’s Darren, oh God, he’s not in there?’
‘No, there’s nobody in there, the fire service have checked it out, and I’ve scoured the area.’
McPherson took a step back, selecting a cigarette from a packet he replaced in his pocket. ‘The fire service say there’s no evidence of arson. I find that difficult to believe somehow.’
Claire shrugged, stifling a cough in the acrid air, ‘Well Darren is hardly likely to have started it, is he?’ She swept a strand of hair from her face, more out of nervousness than anything, ‘but that is his Jeep for Christ’s sake, he can’t just have vanished.’
‘No,’ McPherson cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, ‘I’ve asked the same question myself, all his tyres seem to have been slashed, could have been the work of vandals, non better than the Tomblin kids eh? With their property just behind us. Nobody in of course, I’ve just tried there. Darren’s probably just walked it from here.’ He frowned, a tiny orange glow illuminating the dark as he drew on his cigarette.
‘Just walked it?’ Claire’s mind raced, ‘I doubt that.’ The unease that had been building steadily during her drive here now coupled with her own troubled emotions to produce outright panic. She grabbed his arm, pulling him to the beginning of the track, ‘Come on Tim, he’s in danger.’
McPherson resisted, the furrows tightening on his brow, ‘I’ve already told you the place is deserted. Now what’s this all about Claire?’
‘You won’t find anything because the problem exists way out there,’ she thrust her arm out along the track, her fingers extending above the trees, ‘at least two miles out in the fens, perhaps more. I don’t like the sound of this; it seems he’s been set up. Christ, it might already be too late, we haven’t got time…’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to need just a little bit more to go on before trudging two mile through fenland!’ McPherson clasped his throat between thumb and forefinger, he was making himself hoarse shouting into the wind. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘I haven’t got time, and for all I know, neither has Darren.’ She sighed, trying to tell herself to be calm, trying to rationalise, while trying to stem the resurgence of bitter memories. Knowing now that she was about to confront them head on, but to confront them for whose sake, hers, Darren’s? Knowing also, that it might be worse this time; and where would that leave Darren, where would that leave her?
And McPherson was unprepared.
‘Can you call for back up? I think we might need it.’
‘Oh yeah.’ McPherson laughed for the first time that evening, but out of frustration. ‘I’ve nothing to go on, apart from four slashed tyres. If I’m going to call the cavalry into the middle of nowhere, much as I might share your sentiment, I’m going to need something more than just four slashed tyres. Now, if I’m going to help Darren, you’re going to have to help me. It was why you were coming to the station, wasn’t it?’
He threw his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it beneath his foot. ‘Tell me Claire, as quickly as you can, just what’s been going on?’
Claire sighed, stopped and turned, ‘In a nutshell, it involves inbreeding, abduction and possibly murder. Given that, you don’t expect me to waste time explaining the gory details.’
‘If this is the case, why haven’t you told me before?’ McPherson uttered a curse that got lost in the wind, and snatched at his radio. Claire couldn’t hear what he said, but there was a new urgency in his expression, which increased in intensity the longer he talked.
‘They need a landmark,’ he shouted at her, ‘this place is such a wilderness they haven’t a clue where we are.’
‘Christ, you could probably smell the place for miles,’ Claire glanced at the smouldering ruins in agitation, slapping a hand on her brow, ‘there’s just the windmill on the other side of the road. It’s practically opposite this track and looms out at you on a dark night.’
McPherson nodded, barked the information into his radio and turned to her. ‘Let’s get cracking.’ Suddenly his yell pierced the air and Claire turned in alarm. The mixture of mud and slime that had concealed the trench running alongside the track subsided, McPherson losing balance, his right leg leading the way and propelling him down the channel like a wayward dog trying to escape its leash. His torch rolled from his grasp, embedding itself amidst the soaked soil. Claire, bending low, swept it up in a single deft movement, then directing its beam at McPherson, she offered an arm to pull him up.
But it was clear from the anguish on McPherson’s face that he wasn’t going to oblige, that he couldn’t, because as the torchlight shone on his foot, the grotesque angle at which it pointed left her in no doubt it was a break.
‘Just sit still,’ Claire examined it quickly, merely confirming what she already knew. She grabbed his radio. ‘Tell me how to use this thing.’
‘Just press the button and speak,’ McPherson groaned. He tried to lift himself up with his arms, but found his hands simply sinking down into the boggy trench.
‘Lie still,’ Claire said firmly, and then shouted into the radio, trying to make herself heard above the crackle of interference and the sound of the wind. She brought the radio down to her waist, ‘Right, they’ll be with you shortly.’ She cast an eye over him, satisfied that it was just his ankle, which had taken the brunt, ‘I need to push on.’
McPherson’s eyes widened despite his pain, ‘If the situation’s as bad as you say it is, you’re not going anywhere without professional support.’
‘Look Tim, Darren could be in trouble and I know the area like the back of my hand, I’d say that counts for a lot. Anyway, I don’t think you’re in much of a position to argue, do you?’
McPherson stared at her dumbfounded, tried to shift his position and screeched as pain shot like fire through his foot and ankle. Claire glanced at the radio, thought about handing it back then changed her mind. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll take this as back up.’
‘You can’t,’ McPherson grimaced, ‘it’s police property.’
‘Right now Tim, it’s police property on loan. It’ll ensure I guide your colleagues to the right place.’
McPherson clasped his hands to his forehead in pain and annoyance. The next time he looked up there was no trace of Claire Summerby.