Cages

sense, but it’s a vague, nebulous thing, just out of reach. He doesn’t want to look at it too closely for fear of it delineating into something unequivocal. Right now, he thinks that Annabeth might have killed somebody who absolutely deserved every bit of suffering they endured. Somehow Griffin Cox knows about it – possibly from his association with Mark Fellowes at his last jail. He requested to be moved to HMP Holderness when he saw her in the prison magazine. He stops himself, cowling inwardly. How could he have made that connection? Sure, he could hear a story about a young woman having killed her abuser, but how could he then identify her as the prison officer busy running a creative writing course? He can’t work it out. Thinks instead of Cox. Could he really be responsible for abducting half a dozen teenagers? Could he really have dumped Bronwen Roberts in a sinkhole on this farm? If so, why? He refuses to believe that people sometimes can’t help themselves. Refuses to countenance the notions that killers are born, not made. He feels horribly ill-informed. He needs to understand Griffin Cox, if only to stop himself going mad.

‘What brought them here in the first place?’ asks Rufus, sucking his teeth in discomfort as the wind twists about him like damp rope. ‘Why this exact spot? What’s the connection?’

‘His pal. Wilson something-or-other. Known him since he was a bairn. He was a general handyman for Cox’s mum when Cox was growing up. Anyways, he’s the one who spilled the beans. He’s geriatric now but Ben thinks he might be clearing his conscience. Told a member of staff at his care home, and she got in touch with the police, and it’s been getting bigger ever since. Made a full statement, claiming that he helped Cox put Bronwen Roberts down a sinkhole in the low field at Chappell’s Farm. I doubt there’ll be much left of her if it’s even true, and he’s not exactly a reliable witness, but if there are forensics then there’s a chance it could lead to Cox.’

Rufus looks down at his left hand and realizes he’s got a lit cigarette between his index and middle finger. He doesn’t remember asking for it or being given it, but he raises it to his lips and enjoys every second of his in-breath. ‘I don’t know much about him, other than the fact he went to a posh school and was a bit chummy with a member of the Cabinet …’

Ruth pulls a face. ‘He wasn’t chummy with anybody. Had an awful time at school, which doesn’t sound very good value for five grand a term. Very much a mummy’s boy. It was just her and him, you see. Older mum, hadn’t ever expected to be blessed with a child. They were living on savings, rattling around in this big old place down in Cambridgeshire. She was a funny fish, and I’m using that as a euphemism for “fucking nuts”. We don’t know who the father was, which no doubt wasn’t easy to deal with back then. Old money, as it were. She doted on him. Had him believing he was somebody destined for greatness. Had him believing he was going to be remembered through the ages. Reality kicked in when he went to boarding school. Older kids used to dress him up as a girl and have him sleep in their beds, if you can believe that was allowed to go on. He was the designated “pretty boy” in the dorm. Must have messed him up, or at the very least, added another layer to what was there before.’

Rufus smokes his cigarette. Thinks of the small, inscrutable man in his writing group. Can’t help but feel a surge of pity for the child he was.

‘Mother had him thinking he was the new Renaissance – got him playing instruments and translating Latin and Greek texts when he was still a nipper. Went half-loony before he was five, opening the house up to all of the hippies and bohemians who wanted the Summer of Love to last for ever. God knows what he was exposed to.’

‘And Wilson something-or-other?’ asks Rufus.

‘Father figure, I suppose. Lived not far off and was paid to keep the house shipshape. Don’t ask me if there was something going on with him and Mum as I don’t know. Either way, they were close. My source who went to prep with Cox – he reckons that Wilson was the one who put a stop to the bullies in the end. One of the ringleaders woke up to find a stranger in the dorm. He’d been tied to his bed and there was tape over his mouth. Told his pals that he’d thought he was having a nightmare: this grotesque thing with a hook nose and a gnarled back, sitting on his bed like a succubus. He tried to cry out but couldn’t make a sound. Then the man leaned over him, took off the tape, and told him to open his mouth. Poor posh lad did as he was told. His visitor poured dirt down his throat.’

‘Dirt?’

She shrugs. ‘Mud. Sand. Ash. I don’t know. But it nearly choked him. Visitor didn’t speak other than to tell him to leave Griffin alone. Then he was gone.’

Rufus stares up at the clouds, hoping for a square of blue. Grinds out his cigarette. He’s had enough. Wants to get home. Wants to put this whole silly game behind him.

‘This Wilson – you think it was him?’

‘Makes sense,’ says Ruth, taking out her phone and snapping off a couple of shots of Rufus looking bemused. ‘He’s loyal enough to have looked after the old house all these years. Loyal enough to have visited Cox once a fortnight since he was arrested. Hasn’t been to see him since he moved over to Holderness, but that’s no doubt because he was ill. Must have come as a shock to Cox to find his old