Sergeant Rivers opened the door.
There was a man working in the room, wearing a pair of white overalls that were flecked with green paint. Everything was different. The sheets and blankets had been removed from the floor and the bed was propped up on its side against the wall. The curtains had been hung up and although one of the windows was still broken, there was no sign of any broken glass. The scattered clothes had disappeared. So had the body of Tom Burgess. The man saw the two policemen and stopped work.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, sir.” The sergeant took a quick look around. “May I ask who you are?”
“Ken,” the man replied. “Ken Rampton.” He was in his twenties, scrawny with a sly, crumpled face and curly fair hair. He smiled and Matt saw that one of his front teeth had been chipped diagonally in half. “Can I help you?”
“How long have you been here?”
“All morning. I got here about half eight.”
“Do you work for Tom Burgess too?”
“I’m helping him out with the decorating.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“I saw him about a quarter of an hour ago. He looked in to see how I was getting on, then he left… Something to do with his sheep.”
“That’s what I just told you,” Miss Creevy said.
Matt felt the blood rush to his cheeks. “He’s lying,” he insisted. “They both are. I know what I saw.” Suddenly he remembered. “Tom Burgess left a message,” he said.
He swung round and pushed the door shut to reveal the wall behind it. But the wall, which had been off-white before, was now green. And the words that the farmer had painted had gone.
“Be careful,” Ken Rampton warned. “Wet paint…”
Sergeant Rivers came to a decision. “We won’t waste any more of your time, sir,” he said. He grabbed hold of Matt, his hand tightening on his shoulder. “As for you, I think we should have a word outside.”
Miss Creevy followed them back downstairs and out into the yard. Matt wondered if the policemen were going to arrest him. In fact, he suddenly realized, that was exactly what he hoped would happen. If they arrested him, maybe he would be taken back to London. Maybe this sort of behaviour would mean that he could kiss the LEAF Project goodbye. But before anyone could say anything, Miss Creevy stepped forward. “I wonder if I could have a private word with you, officer?”
They spoke for about two minutes. The sergeant glanced his way a couple of times and nodded, while Miss Creevy shrugged and spread her hands. Finally he walked back over to them.
“You ought to know that wasting police time is a very serious business,” he said.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Let’s not have any more of that, thank you.”
The policeman had made up his mind. Matt could see that. He bit his tongue.
“I understand you’ve been in trouble a few times before,” Sergeant Rivers continued. “You’re with the LEAF Project, is that right? You ought to count yourself lucky. Personally I don’t believe in all this do-good stuff, to tell you the truth. You’re a thief, and the best thing for you would be to be birched and locked up where you can’t do any more harm. But that’s not my decision. The courts have sent you here and if you had any sense, you’d be grateful and stop trying to draw attention to yourself. Now, we’ll say no more about this nonsense. But I don’t want to see or hear from you again.”
Matt watched as the two policemen drove away. Then he turned round. Miss Creevy was smiling at him, her long grey hair flapping in the breeze. There was a movement at the door and Ken Rampton appeared with the paintbrush still clutched in his hand. He said nothing. But he too was smiling.
“Go back to Hive Hall,” Miss Creevy said. “Mrs Deverill is waiting for you.”
“To hell with her!” Matt shouted.
“You can’t escape from us, Matthew. There’s nowhere you can go. Surely you can see that by now.”
Matt ignored her and grabbed the bike.
“There’s nowhere you can go.” The woman echoed the words in a high-pitched voice.
Ken Rampton began to laugh.
Matt pedalled away as fast as he could.
LOCAL AFFAIRS
Greater Malling had once been a small, attractive village but it had grown into a large, unattractive town. There were still a few reminders of what it had once been: a pond, a row of almshouses and a lopsided sixteenth- century pub. But the roads had come, cutting in from every side and joining together at noisy intersections. New houses had elbowed out the old. Offices and car parks had sprung up, joined by cinemas, supermarkets and a clattering bus station. Now it was very ordinary. Somewhere to pass through on the way to somewhere else.
It had taken Matt an hour to cycle here from Glendale Farm. He had been afraid that the road would play another trick on him and deposit him somewhere he didn’t want to be. But he was still wearing the stone talisman that Tom Burgess had given him. Somehow the little golden key had unlocked the maze of country lanes and allowed him to find his way.
Matt parked the bike outside a launderette. It occurred to him that someone might steal it but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be needing it again.
He was looking for a railway station and a train to London. That was the decision he had made: to get as far away as possible from Yorkshire and never come back. Unfortunately, there was no station. The line to Greater Malling had been closed down years ago, and if he wanted a train he would have to go all the way to York. He found a traffic warden and asked about buses. There were two a day. The next one wouldn’t be leaving until three o’clock. That left three hours to kill.
Matt walked aimlessly down the high street and found himself facing a library – a modern building that already looked down-at-heel, with shabby, pebbledash walls and rusting window frames. He thought for a moment, then went in through a revolving door and up a staircase that was signposted REFERENCE. He found himself in a wide, brightly lit room with about a dozen bookcases arranged along the walls, a bank of computers and an enquiry desk, where a young man sat reading a paperback.
Something nasty, something very dangerous, was going on in the village of Lesser Malling. Somehow it involved many of the villagers, Mrs Deverill, an abandoned nuclear power station and something called Raven’s Gate. It also involved Matt. That was what unnerved him most of all. He had been chosen. He was sure of it. And before he left Yorkshire, he was determined to find out why.
Raven’s Gate. It was the only clue he had, so that was where he decided to begin.
He started with the books in the local history section. The library had about a dozen books on Yorkshire and half of them made brief references to Greater and Lesser Malling. But not one of them mentioned anything by the name of Raven’s Gate. There was one book that seemed more promising and Matt carried it over to a table. It was called Rambles Around Greater Malling and had been written – some time ago to judge from the old-fashioned cover and yellowing pages – by a woman named Elizabeth Ashwood. He opened the book and ran his eye down the contents page. He had found it. Chapter Six was entitled Raven’s Gate.
Matt turned the pages and found Chapter Seven. He went back and found Chapter Five. But Chapter Six wasn’t there. A jagged edge and a gap in the binding told their own story. Someone had torn out the whole chapter. Was it just a random act of vandalism or had it been done deliberately? Matt thought he knew.
But the library offered more than books.
Matt went over to the man at the enquiry desk. “I need to use the Internet,” he said.
“What for?” the librarian asked.
“It’s a school project. We’ve been told to find out something about Raven’s Gate.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Nor have I. That’s why I want to go on the Internet.”
