With a sharp yank the hatch door came up without too much trouble and for a moment he peered into the darkness below, the only light to penetrate creeping in through the hatch. A set of wooden steps led down into the basement and he tentatively took each one until his feet found the concrete floor. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust and took in the sheer enormity of the underground chamber. Some kind of bomb shelter maybe.
No one had been down there in a long time. Everything was iced in thick dust. Nothing had been moved in months, probably years.
Here: boxes of old LPs, books. There: fusty bedding, pillows. Here: an aging typewriter sitting atop a dusty cabinet. There: plastic storage crates filled with tins of old currency, some battered cine film reels, World War Two memorabilia. Built onto the farthest wall was a stained gun rack devoid of weapons and directly beneath it was a dustsheet covered picture frame.
Gently removing the sheet, he took a step back. The photograph was a sepia image of a handsome man in his early thirties, very stiff and serious. Severely parted hair, crisply starched white shirt and black tie, the man appeared official, almost regimental, though there was nothing in the image to suggest military. There was something very captivating about the man’s features, and for a few seconds York felt as if everything around him had dissolved away, leaving only the picture in clear focus. Finally, he tore himself away feeling strangely unnerved.
Replacing the sheet, he picked up the shoebox containing the cine film. He hadn’t come all the way to Lincolnshire to go back empty-handed.
Back in the kitchen he threw the trapdoor closed and replaced the carpet. He left the house via the back door, finding himself in a large grassy backyard, that familiar floral aroma all around. About to turn and leave he spotted something at the bottom of the garden that begged a closer look.
As he drew nearer he shivered in the afternoon sun, the monstrous creation entangled in intestinal roots and foliage. At first glance it looked like a kids play unit, on second, it was revealed as the maniacal contraption it really was: a full-sized assault course. Cargo nets, mud ditches, scaling wall, crossbeams, plunge pit, the works. He’d seen this kind of thing a couple of years ago at a military camp in Gloucestershire. They were implemented for young soldiers training to go into Iraq, preparation for integration into Desert Storm. But they’d been around since long before that. The question was, what the bloody hell was one doing out here?
50
Four days he’d gone without a hit. That had to be some kind of record on someone’s list, somewhere. His dealer was over two hundred miles away. That was probably a good thing.
Back in the small market town, York headed to the main street and parked up. Time was getting on now, the sun much lower in the sky, cooler. Some of the shops on the main street had begun closing up, and Hartford & Clay’s Real Estate was following suit. Out in the street was a rotund man in his mid-forties wearing a black shirt and purple tie hauling down the shutter.
‘Hello,’ York called, startling the man. ‘I’m looking for Frank Blithe. He still around?’
The man turned and held out his hand. ‘You found him. What can I do for you?’
‘DCI Nicolas York,’ he revealed taking Blithe’s hand. ‘I called earlier.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Turning away, Blithe retrieved a handkerchief and sneezed into it four times. ‘Excuse me, Detective, bloody hay fever out here is a killer.’
‘I’ll bet. Listen, I can see you’re locking up, but I was wondering if I could bend your ear for a few minutes. I’m not here officially. Just chasing up a ghost actually.’
Blithe sneezed again. ‘Well, sir, if you’d be happy to sit across from me while I indulge in a pint, I’d be happy to talk to you. You haven’t sampled England’s best ale until you’ve had a pint around here.’
*
Sneeze.
Sneeze.
Sneeze.
‘So,’ said Blithe wiping his raw nose, ‘Nicolas, did you say?’
York nodded. The Cup of Blood was quieter than earlier, the lull period between folk leaving work and coming back later. Sitting at the bar was a surly regular being very vocal about football to the aging landlord. The old guy’s face said that he’d heard it all before, a million times over, about a million different clubs. The only other sounds emanated from a fruit machine chiming away in the corner.
Blithe had been right about the ale, it was one of the best pints York’d had.
‘You say you’re up here chasing ghosts?’ asked Blithe. ‘Well, if you’ve been up to the Faulkner house, you already know that ghosts are all that’s left up there. The place has been stripped.’
‘I saw that,’ York confirmed. ‘Who stripped it exactly?’
‘No one really knows,’ said Blithe. ‘Pikey’s come through here a lot, though. Chances are it was cleared out by them. When they’re around they set up camp not far from there…are you okay, Inspector? You’re looking a little pasty.’ Sneeze.
‘I was stabbed a few days ago,’ replied York matter-of-factly. ‘So what do you know about the Faulkner family? Did you know any of them?’
Slightly taken aback, Blithe said, ‘Erm, yeah, I knew Julian a little bit. He didn’t come into town much, and I tended to give him a wide berth when he did.’
‘Why's that?’
‘Don’t know really. There was just something about him. He was quiet but so intense, as though he might explode at any second.
