Satan’s Rock

Part Seven

Schemes and Dreams

In a night of troubled dreams, Francine could manage only fitful sleep.  Her heart could not allow her to forget the warmth of Arthur’s enfolding arms, or how natural it had seemed, even though the mere recollection brought a flush of embarrassment, that she should seek refuge there.  Her head was filled by murmurings, strange conversations in words she could not quite detect, invitations that defied all reason in their insistence.  They called to her, awakening her time after time, growing ever stronger as the night passed.  In the early morning while all but a few of the servants in the house were still asleep she yielded to them at last:  she rose from her bed and slipped stealthily through the corridors of the Guest Wing, out into the darkness.

Once out of doors, the sounds in her head left no doubt: they emanated from the place in the park where the old oak had been blown down by a storm.    Oblivious to the dangers of the lingering darkness, she found her way on slippered feet through icy April rain  back to that great overturned giant,   The first vermillion glow of sunrise broke through the clouds to discover her at the brink of the wide pit left by the uprooted tree, staring down into the abyss and its exposed foundation rock.  Now so close, the urge to find union with that unyielding stone was irresistible.  Francine began to clamber down, an enterprise that, even had it been pursued with caution would have proved impossible on feet wet from the grass.  She had no thought of caution.   Within seconds her balance escaped her and she fell.  She fell so her head cracked against the stone and her arm doubled under her.

There was pain; a searing scream of protest wracked her injured skull; but it abated almost immediately.  Neither did her twisted arm complain for long:  where she lay against it the rock’s warmth, if that was how it could be described, flowed into her like balm, inducing her to seek more from its embrace.   This, it seemed to tell her, was the place she was meant to be.  She did not question it.  It offered the solace she needed so badly.  

She had been lying there how long?  Who could know?  The rain had ceased and the sky was becoming light, a morning chorus of birdsong surrounded her, yet she did not hear it:  all she heard came from beneath her; from the rock itself.   Words, indistinguishable at first, then drifting around her head like those that had invaded her sleep; so much stronger now, so much more assertive.   So much like those strange utterances she had shared with Arthur at the Bleanstead lighthouse as the sea beat in upon them that wild morning, when she had spoken of their experience as being ‘real’.  These, though, were not her own words; they were the words of a young voice, a female voice:

“Wow!    Are you weird or what?” Some other unintelligible words in the same voice, then a male response.

“I so did not!  I was a bit freaked, that’s all…”


Peter, his mind still filled with visions, had been ushered back to the room where he and Alice had first met.  Vincent had parked him on some cushions as a seat and Alice, kneeling in front of him, was trying to engage his eyes.  She did not seem quite as furious as before.   “Do you know where you are?”  She asked him.

“I don’t.”  Her hand was on his knee.  He didn’t like it: there might have been no threat, but those fingers, those tentacles were like a cat’s claws, ready to dig into his flesh.    “There seems to be a clock. I keep seeing a clock.  I can’t read the time from it – it’s all liquid and sloshing about…”

“Town, city?  Like London?   Like Big Ben, or something?”

“No, I don’t think so.  It’s just a clock face, only it’s old; like, ornate hands and everything…”

Vincent was further across the room, pacing.   “A street on its end, part of a big place like a city, a clock.   Don’t worry about it Pete, it’ll come through.  Describe the people you saw.”

As he told his host of the woman whose pain had reached into him, the angry man and the black figure of despair, Peter felt a return of sensation, as if, his head gradually clearing, something new, something dark was revealing itself.  He began to view Alice differently – there was an elusive part of her he had to reach, and for a reason, although he could not grasp what the reason was.

“It’s a strange thing – I never had this happen before.  I’m really sorry!”  He said humbly.

“No, mate, you don’t need to apologise!”   Vincent was magnanimous.  “I’d like to say it could happen to anyone, Pete, but that wouldn’t be true.  Listen, I think we should take you home now:  I’ll get my bloke to bring a car round.”

The red Aston Martin which arrived at the great doors to take Peter back to the mainland was impressive enough to allay his regrets at leaving.   Alice stood beside Vincent under the Arch, watching him leave.   Again, as he said goodbye, Peter experienced that urge to say something left unsaid.  But there was a menace in Alice’s beauty which deprived him of speech, and after a few hesitant mumblings he withdrew into silence.

Alice watched him go, ignoring the faint churning she had felt in her stomach when she caught his parting look.  “A street on its end?    A clock which could be from anywhere?  A woman in some sort of trouble and a big sad guy?   Okay, Vince, how am I going to explain that to my people?”

Vincent hugged her shoulders:    “You’re not, are you?  This is very much our bird, innit?  Look, darlin’, I told you he was special, didn’t I?  And I was right, yeah?”

“So why, if he’s that special, are you just letting him go?  Vince, this is really urgent!  We don’t have any time!”  Alice spelled the words out to him, slowly, as if that would penetrate what she saw as density in his head:  “If there is something there, I need to know it now!   Why not just get him back and sit him on that rock until he sorts out what street, and what city, and who the hell is the giant guy?”

“You get so, so uptight!”  Sighed Vincent.  “Just now you were accusing me of abducting a minor, now you want me to!  If we put him through that again now, he would probably go insane.  He doesn’t understand what is happening to him yet.  Maybe he never will.  But I know this much – if he comes to the answer, he’ll do it in his own way, and his own time.  We can’t rush it.  Besides, I don’t think he’ll be working alone.”

“How do you mean?”

“I didn’t say he had to be the only one, did I?”

Peter sat holding his breath as the man he had met at the gate, now his chauffeur, steered them carefully through Crowley’s tunnel. He felt he was still too close to everything that had happened to even try to make sense of it all:   maybe Mel would help him do that if they could meet up on FB tonight.   Meanwhile, Vincent’s parting words to him still reverberated in his head.    The rock guitarist had gripped his shoulders so as to make him look straight into his eyes as he said them.  Vincent was being ree-ally serious.

“Listen carefully Petey, alright?   Sort out that dream, yeah?  And when you have – when you can tell me what it means, or even if you’ve got an idea of what it might mean, whatever time of night or day, you call me immediately.   Doesn’t matter if it makes no sense to you, if you just feel like it’s an answer, ‘phone me.   I’ll be waiting.    Now, here’s my number.   Keep it safe, yeah?”

Avoiding college that afternoon did little to improve Peter’s cataclysmic sense of something that was just beyond his range of vision:  something black and somehow threatening.   He wandered aimlessly through the remains of his day, unable to concentrate, frightened to revisit his dream.  The recurring image of the dark man, so all-consuming and melancholy, loomed like a thunderhead over everything.  

“Petey?”  His mother looking in through the door of his room, gently concerned, seeing that something was wrong, but wise enough not to intrude.  “Are you ill, love?”

“No mum, I’m fine.”   Lena did not persist.   “If you need us, you know where we are.” She closed the door.

Mrs. Cartwright: Lena.   Graduated from ‘The Slade’ with a fine arts degree, met Robert Cartwright at a ‘Varsity ball in Cambridge when he, a student of theology and a little younger, was still an undergraduate.  Lena had been a mysterious, introverted companion; given to sudden outbursts of exhibitionism which were the more remarkable for their unexpectedness.   Bob was as radical then as now, by no means a convinced student of the conventional theologies, or, as he would put it:  ‘Trotskyite religion’.   They remained friends, she painting and establishing a reputation for herself as a graphics artist, he a struggling Anglican whose worldliness was forever in question.   Nevertheless he achieved his Doctorate and, when the Levenport living was offered to him, proposed to Lena.   She gave up a promising career to become the wife of an irascible and altogether unconventional priest.   They were, with certain reservations, dutiful parents, doting on each other and upon their only son:  but they rarely showed, and never spoiled, with their affection.  Peter was who Peter was:  a lonely child but a well-adjusted one.  Robert was a faintly dysfunctional father, perhaps, possessed by demons of a practical nature:  Lena at times very much the artist – self-obsessed, demanding, often terminally depressed.  Yet she still painted: it was the income from her art, rather than Robert’s living, which kept their lifestyle ticking over.

Once he was sure that he would not be interrupted, Peter turned his computer on and used the keyboard to text Melanie, describing everything he could remember of his day.  She called him back at once.   “Wow!   Are u weird or what?  Did you, like, throw up on his carpet or anything?

“I so did not!  I was a bit freaked, that’s all.”

Melanie thought Alice should have impressed him,  “What was she like?  Describe her for me.  Was she sexy?”

“Alice?  What care I what Alice was like!  Tall, black hair – could have done with a comb…

“Heavy eyebrows, big nose, sort of long?”

“Not that big!”

“Alice Burbridge!”  Melanie cried, triumphant,  “I bet it was Alice Burbridge!  She’s dead famous, Pete!”

“Yeah, right! I kind of thought she was going to stab me, some of the time.   Tell me what you think the dream – vision – whatever. was about.     You’re good at these things.”

“I think it was about too much happy cake.”

“Mel, serious, please?”

“Okay, okay.   There was a street, you said?”

“Yes, but on end.  I’m falling down it instead of walking.  The pavement’s vertical, and I fall into the sea at the bottom.”

“Was there anything else about it you remember?  Like the name on a shop, or something?

Peter searched his memory, “No, nothing.  It all happened too fast.   Vincent thought it might represent some sort of code, you know?  With the clock and everything?”

“I don’t see that.    I think it may be a series of clues.  Dreams draw on your experiences, don’t they?  Peter, try this.   Is there somewhere in your past – a place you visited that was so special…”

“…that I didn’t want to leave?   Like the West End, you mean?

“Right: London.  What made you think of that straightaway?”

“Dunno.  I sometimes remember it.  Kensington; went there with olds when I was, like, five or something.   Wicked day.   We did the Natural History museum.   Tiny kid, big skeletons; I was well impressed.”

“You didn’t want to come home?”  Melanie asked.

“No.  I wanted to stay longer, but you know my dad, he’s time-obsessed.   He kept lantering on about missing the train….Oh shit, the clock sloshing around!”

Melanie was triumphant,  “Yep.  Your dad is the clock, and the large place is one of those museums, or maybe just London.   Now, the street; are we looking at this the wrong way round….can u remember falling down, or anything?

“What,  on that trip?  No.”

“Ha ha.  Or panicking?   Did anything make you frightened?   You were only five.”

Peter shook his head, “I don’t think so.”

Melanie sighed,  “Well, we’ve got London, anyway.   Where else did you go, do you remember?”

“Not really.   I mean, we probably did the tourist places, like the Tower and things, but I don’t think they mean anything.”


“\I can’t, honestly.  I just think that this – whatever it is – I’m supposed to be seeing, should kind of stand out, u know?  Like really obvious, if you know what I mean.    Thing is, Vincent made it sound so urgent and important; I feel like I’m letting him down, yeah?”

Melanie made a face.  “I think he needs a big slap, giving you puff and putting you in this position.    I’ll keep working on it, but I can’t think of anything else right now.  Tell him London.  Maybe that’ll help?     See you at coll tomorrow, if you’re coming, that is.”

“Sarcasm  now!   Yep, I’m coming.  Come round here, if you got time, we’ll go in together.”

“Half-eight then.  ‘Night babes.”


“Yeah, what?”

“I should have said something to Alice.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno.  Just something.”

Peter closed his call with Melanie before he tapped out Vince’s number.


Alice was at home in her Lancaster Gate apartment when Vincent called:

“It’s London.”   His voice said.

Alice was not feeling charitable.  “Great!”   She growled:   “That’s just great!    That narrows it down a lot!”

“Alright, alright!  We still have four possible days when this could happen, don’t we?    Give the lad time, Al.”

“No time.” Alice told him, with resignation in her voice.   “If – and I do say ‘if’ because I don’t believe this whole cockamamie thing with visions and stuff anyway – if it is London it’s going to happen in the next eighteen hours, because tomorrow night the whole circus is moving on to Manchester, then Newcastle.  It flies out from Newcastle on Friday, doesn’t return to London; and I’m not supposed to be telling you this oh Jesus what’s the matter with me!!  We don’t have any time at all, Vince!”

“Well, do you know the itinerary for tomorrow?  That might help a bit, yeah?”

“Yes, I do.   And no, I can’t tell you, because that’s top secret.   You know we aren’t disclosing any details of his schedule.  I’ve already said far too much.”

“I’m not a bleedin’ spy!”

“If this goes belly up you might as well be!  If they discover I’ve been feeding you information the Court’s ‘ll mince us, Vincent. So you’d better pretend you don’t know me for a while, okay?”


Salaiman Yahedi rose early as a matter of habit.    Six o’clock was, for him, the best time of the day.   When he strolled in the Park,  joggers, deliverers and carriers, all with a head-down purpose of their own, would scarcely notice him.   If he now and then acknowledged a stranger as they passed, there was no inquisitiveness on either’s part:  no-one studied faces; no-one noted, specifically no-one noticed him.  Yahedi was an expert at these things.  Salaiman Yahedi, who was wanted in almost every country in the western world, might, you would have thought, have been happier in the crowd, losing himself in a host of faces, but no: he preferred the few to the many, the early-morning people who were lost in their own world as much as he was lost in his.

Those who placed barriers for an event later that day were not security men, they were just workmen with barriers.   They had no interest in who was around, who might be attending to the detail of their work.   So Yahedi was able to wipe the dew from a bench and sit watching them for a while, just casually.  None but the most discerning could have seen that, whilst he sat there, he was sizing up the relationship between those barriers and a certain window on the third floor of a prestige hotel across Park Lane.   No-one else could see (for Salaiman was satisfied that he himself could not) the small, circular hole he had so painstakingly incised in all three layers of glazing in that window; working for hours into the previous night.

Yahedi relaxed, enjoying the morning.    There was no smell quite like that of English grass before the day had bullied and bruised it.  It offered some compensation for the eternally low temperatures, the ever- present threat of rain.   Curious, though, that on a morning so fine there should be flocks of seagulls as far inland as the Capital: he assumed the weather on the coast must be less kind.  Salaiman amused himself as he watched their wheeling, spiralling flight for a while, before he returned to his hotel for breakfast.  His day’s work would not begin for a couple of hours yet.  He stood up, preparing to do battle crossing an already busy Park Lane, and in a moment’s carelessness nearly collided with a woman in a red tracksuit who was jogging past.

“I am very sorry, excuse me!”   He apologised.

“It’s okay.” The woman seemed preoccupied, troubled.  As she ran on, Yahedi watched her retreating back thinking how beautiful she was, so tall and with such a shock of black hair, and how he would relish practising his very specific arts upon her.   Some would always escape.  There was nothing he could do; unless, of course, they should run across each other again….

© Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

Header Image: Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Dinosaur: Harald Matern from Pixabay

A Place that was Ours.  Chapter Twenty – Exclusive:  The Hargreave Papers

“And here we are!”  I make an expansive ‘here we are’ gesture.

Matthew Poultney frowns.  “I’m sorry.  Exactly where are we?  So Crabtree cuckolded your father nearly thirty years ago.  If that’s your final clue, your story doesn’t amount to much.  It certainly doesn’t render Crabtree unfit for power.  In fact, having a famous footballer as his bastard son rather adds to his image, don’t you think?  Where’s the story, Chas?”

I grin at him.  “Did I say that was the last clue?  It was not.”   I cross to the bar and press the intercom button.  “Can you come up please, sweetheart?”

The voice at the other end sing-songs, “Just a minute!”

“You didn’t tell me you had a partner!”  Poultney exclaims.

“Matthew, you’re the newspaperman, you’re supposed to know these things!  We’d best wait; she gets annoyed if she is left out of the loop.  Another drink?”

As I refill his glass I draw my guest back to the window, which gives him a view of the river at twilight, one of my own favorite moods.  “You’ll be selling all this, then?”  He says.

I answer him reflectively:  “No – as I said, I like it here, my partner does too.  We’ll be in the States a while, but I’m still under contract to Torley.   The official version of my status is ‘on loan’ while I’m in LA.  The directors at Torley have identified a number of opportunities over there – they see the Millennium year as one for new ventures – so I may not return for a season, but I will come back.”

“Is that your boat?   How strange!  I expected something more of a statement.”

“Acres of white fiberglass and decks ripe for partying?  We prefer a boat to sail in.  We’ve an ambition to take her down to the Mediterranean; maybe next year, if we get more time.”

“You and your partner?   Where is she, by the way?”

“Behind you,” Nel says.

Matthew turns, a spontaneous word of apology on his lips, but his eyes take in Nel’s condition and it changes to a startled “Oh!”  which he quickly recovers.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…”

“Nothing to be sorry for!”  Nel absolves him blithely.  “We two are soon to be three.  It’s quite natural, you know.  It happens all the time.  I’m Nel, by the way; he always forgets to introduce me.  I’m sorry I couldn’t join you earlier; I had some work to catch up on.”

“I’m neglectful of my manners but very protective,”  I tell Matthew.  “Now you see why I am so insistent that what we are about to tell you doesn’t get traced straight back to us.  Nel’s going to be here alone for a few weeks clearing up her caseload before she follows me to LA.  I don’t want her to be troubled by anyone; your colleagues in the press – or Mack’s friends from the local boxing academy, come to that.   So this is yours exclusively; we give you all the clues, now, and you follow them up, will you?”

Matthew nods.  “Let’s see what you have.”

A file has been sitting neatly on one corner of the coffee table all this time.  Nel opens it, spreading the contents, a photograph or two, sheets of A4 covered with Nel’s spidery scrawl, and one rather scruffy little notebook.

“The book belonged to John Hargreave,”  I explain, bringing John’s memory freshly to my mind as it has, time and again, in these last few years.  “John was my friend and a friend of Susan, Crabtree’s daughter.  It was found on his body.”

“What happened to him?”  Matthew asks.

“He was found lying beneath the old viaduct bridge in Casterley.  He had multiple injuries.  I ended up with the book because he had expressly wished his father should give it to me if anything happened to him.  It was almost as if he had a premonition.”

“It’s a diary,” Nel chips in, passing the book to Matthew, “most of it is filled with mundane stuff, apart from the last couple of pages; they’re crammed with sequences of dates, numbers and letters.”  She aligns the sheets of A4 paper neatly across the table.   “There are a lot of sequences covering four specific dates, and we have worked on most of them, but I’ll just take this one example.”  She lays out the letters and figures she picked out on our first weekend together.  “The whole sequence reads LBEWHT1727MB1812WE HCL19.”

Matthew frowns:  “That sounds like a registration code – for an operating system, or something.”

“Doesn’t it?  It isn’t.”   Nel gives him her bleakest lawyer’s smile.  “It took me a while to decipher, but it finally came together on one of our regular weekends. We were sailing out of Bedeport, then, and a chance sighting of a boat called the ‘Lizabet’ moored on the East Wharf provided the spark.  The Harbormaster’s records did the rest.  The date fitted, and so did the time.  LB, or, in Harbormaster’s longhand, a boat called the ‘Lizabet’, is recorded as mooring on the EW, the East Wharf, at HT (High Tide) which was at 17:27, or 5:27 pm that day.   With me so far?”

“Only just.”  Matthew mutters,  “So this is a log for something?  ‘MB’, what’s that?”

“Or ‘who’ if you prefer.  Martin Berry.”  Nel interprets for him.

“Ah.  The ex-chairman of Casterley Football Club, no less.”

“No Less.  And the owner of a mysterious company that operates lots of little white vans – unmarked little white vans that beetle about all over the place.” Nel enriches the image by making her index and middle fingers ‘run’ back and forth across the table top.

“So you are saying one of those little white vans picked up something from this boat, the ‘Lizabet’, and took it to Martin Berry’s warehouse, where it arrived at 18:12.   Then what?”

“Then WE.  It was taken from there to Wesfane Electronics, before finally being moved on to HCL at 19.00 hours, or 7 o’clock.”

“HCL being High Cheviot Lodge, Mack Crabtree’s place.” I cut in.  “John was clearly tracking a package along its journey from the ‘Lizabet’ to Mack’s home.”

“That could be anything!”  Matthew protests; “Something he asked Berry to obtain for him – they’re close friends, aren’t they?”

Nel’s hands sweep the air in an animated gesture of frustration.  “No, no!  This is on an industrial scale!  The delivery we’re describing took place on 12th of August in that year.   It’s just an example.  There were eight similar movements tracked by John that day, another ten the day after.  Some were reverse sequences.  The ‘Lizabet’ appears to have loaded six parcels from Wesfane via Berry before she sailed on 14th.   All-in-all there were 48 movements across the four days when John was on vacation from Uni and was able to record them.”

“And these photographs?”  The journalist waves at two pictures resting amongst the other paraphernalia on the table.

“These are of the Lizabet when she was last moored at Bedeport.”  I tell him.  “Nel and I took them.”

“But that’s a private yacht.”

“Exactly.  So this isn’t all above board, is it?  This is a smuggling operation, Matthew, and a big one!  Drugs, we suspect.”

“Not what is regularly thought of as drugs;”  Nel explains.  “Not class A amphetamines, heroin, cocaine… these are very specialist drugs, often travelling with their own teams of advisors, medical professionals, highly qualified chemists?  Where, in the context of a major sports event, do you find a covert organization to administer an instant blood transfusion, or calculate your maximum EPO tolerance from your personal body mass and energy profile?”

If Matthew had been a rabbit, his ears would have twitched.  “Organised doping?”

“Come on!”  I  implore him,  “We all know it happens! The Athletics World Championships took place in Stuttgart, Germany, on 21st of that month, by which time it would not have been difficult for an inconspicuous German registered boat (the ‘Lizabet’) to have navigated through the Rhine and Neckar Rivers to a little town called Bad Wimpfen, which happens to be about sixty-five kilometers from Stuttgart’s back door.  Or for a little white van to make Manchester in time for the World Triathlon Championships, which were also held in that month.   We’ve been investigating the biggest sponsors of sport, and their employment of performance-enhancing techniques, for a while now.”

“Innovating continuously to keep ahead of testing regimes imposed by the world’s sports authorities  is big business.”  Nel takes up the thread.  “There are enormous sums of money involved, with each sponsor seeking market advantage, and a famine of sufficiently talented specialists ready to compromise their careers.”

“A small backwater like Casterley is an ideal situation for a laboratory,”  I add.  “It needs a front, of course.  Industrial coolers seem as good a cover as any.”

Matthew grins.  “Casterley at the hub of all sport’s doping problems?  That’s a little hard to take.”

Nel snaps back: “No, not at the hub of it, just one outpost of a peripatetic network thriving throughout the European market.  But if one of the hands on its helm should become UK Minister for Sport?  I wonder what a difference that would make?”

I continue: “We believe Crabtree’s and Berry’s organization exists on the wealth the larger sponsors are prepared to pay to ensure their competitors win.  That makes Crabtree the last man you’d want to be in control of future sports strategy for the whole of these islands.  There’s a greater cause, though.  Wherever there’s big money in sport there are doping problems, and it’s getting more sophisticated with every year.”

Nel reassembles the contents of the file, selecting a single sheet of paper which she places on the top.  “Chas and I have done a lot of work on this, and this is the first time we think we might have evidence that could fuel a criminal investigation if you want to play it that way.  Personally, I would rather see Mackenzie Crabtree’s face decorating the front pages for reasons other than self-aggrandizement.”

Matthew clicks his tongue:  “What about Berry’s part in it?”

I nod.  “Both of them – we owe it to John Hargreave.”

“His material was a catalyst, for us.”  Nel passes Matthew the A4 sheet she has singled out.  “His last diary entry: WE1225MB1403.  It is sketchy, rather hurried.  He was following a consignment from Wesfane, which arrived with Martin Berry at 12:25.  He picked up its trail again when it left Berry’s for the docks at 3 minutes after two o’clock – that would have been to make the tide, presumably, although John was never able to verify it…”

We explain our belief that John was discovered by Berry’s security men.  “He was not exactly a stranger to them.  They had come upon him pursuing a more innocent mission on Berry’s land some years before.”

Only this time, perhaps because of the sensitivity of the package he was tracking, John paid the ultimate penalty.  His father had confirmed to us that he had seemed preoccupied when he left the house after an early lunch that day.  When he didn’t return in the evening, Mr Hargreave telephoned the police.  John’s body wasn’t discovered until the following morning.  The notebook was found on him because, presumably, Berry’s ‘security’ didn’t bother to search him before they threw him off The Bridge in the early hours.

“You’ve no evidence he was murdered?  No.”  Matthew strokes his chin, then sits quietly for a moment, riffling through the notebook’s ragged pages and staring at Nel’s tidily organized stack of notes.  “And this – this book – is the only link to those consignments?”

Nel and I exchange glances.  “The book stays with us,” I tell him coolly.

Nel taps on the top of her file.  “I’m passing this to you if you’re interested.  There are photocopies of the relevant pages and transcripts of all our workings.  It’s all there, but this…”  She takes the book firmly from Matthew’s hand, “We’ll reserve for the police investigation.   We provincial solicitors, you know, we have such suspicious minds.”

“Rightly so.”  Matthew grins.  “It so happens there is somebody at our ‘paper working on the ‘drugs in sport’ story.  I’ll need to liaise with him, but I think we’ll all end up in agreement.  The regulatory authority for athletics, the IAAF, is heavily engaged in the same battle as yourselves.”

“Mack gets fried, then?”  I am looking for his confirmation.

“We’ll certainly look at that angle…”

“Oh, Matthew, you know that won’t do!  We can’t let that man get where he wants to go!”

“You really resent him, don’t you?”

“Shouldn’t I?  Looking at this, shouldn’t you?”

“Looking at this, I don’t know what his connection is.  Nor do you.!”

I glance in Nel’s direction and she returns my enquiring expression with a nod.  “Yes, let’s do it.”

“One more clue, then,”  I say.  “And a story, about the day we thought we would move our boat from Bedeport to its present mooring.   Nel has moved in with me here, it’s summer and the weather has been good, so we elected to do the transfer by sea.”

“This was recent?”

“This was last week.  We needed to replace some equipment, and I knew there was a chandlers’ in Bedeport.  I didn’t know (although apparently you did) that it was owned by Dave Crabtree.”

“Mack’s son.”

“I’m unsure which of us was more shocked at the sight of the other.  For my part, I wondered if I had inadvertently walked right into the centre of the very organization I was investigating; for his, the reasons were quite different.  We managed to complete my purchases with a minimum of communication then, as I was paying the account, he suddenly asked if I wanted to go for a drink?  I said yes.

“Well, we sat in the corner of the lounge bar at ‘The Shippe’ for about ten minutes cuddling our pints and avoiding looking at each other.  Then he suddenly said:  “You deserve the truth.”

“I asked him what he had on his mind and he didn’t seem to know what to say.  When I suggested whatever it was would be better out than in, he just stared into his drink like he wished he could dive in and drown.  Then he blurted it out.  ‘You haven’t forgotten her, have you?’ I asked if he meant his sister and he said, ‘She would want you to know’.

“He needed to unburden himself so badly, I could see that, yet he couldn’t bring himself to betray his family.  So I dug the story out of him, pint by pint and piece by piece.

“The night before my court case, he told me, Susan discovered the real reason her father had split us up.  Since our break-up, she had been sullen and angry with everybody, and especially resentful of her father’s insistence that she accept Dave as a sort of chaperone, but that night, to quote Dave’s words exactly, she ‘went completely mad’.   She was going to tell the world all she knew about her family’s business affairs, she was going to come to court the next day and show her father for the liar he was.  She didn’t believe anything her father told her.  Susan stormed out, went to her room, declaring her intention to pack her things and leave.  Mack pursued her. He was enraged.  The row went on in her room.

“At that point, I asked Dave if he thought something had happened to Susan.  I felt if I could frame the question correctly he might let the whole truth slip out because we’d consumed a powerful amount of beer by then.  The only reply I could get was that there had been ‘a terrible row’ that wasn’t only centered on Susan’s relationship with me, but because ‘she knew a lot’.

“Do you think she was murdered?”  Matthew asks.

“I think Dave meant she knew a lot too much, more than Mack could let her divulge in open court.  I remember Angie telling me once that Susan was ‘dead good’ at chemistry.  Assuming our suspicions about her dad’s activities are correct, she must have had some awareness of what was going on around her.   Dave claims he left the house because he ‘couldn’t take it anymore’.  When he returned, two days later, after my court case, Susan’s room had been cleared and he was ‘heavily advised’ by his father to say she had left home that night.”

“So Dave will say he doesn’t know what happened as a result of the row between Susan and her father.”

“He doesn’t; I’m fairly convinced of that, and nor can I say for sure.  Could anyone kill their own daughter?  She would have to be found, wouldn’t she, if we wanted to prove that after so long.

“The other day I was looking at a map of the Casterley area, with the idea of rounding the evidence off, you might say – checking out any loose ends.  I came upon this loose end quite by chance, as I was tracing the road that passes the front of High Cheviot Lodge, Mack’s place, the one I used when I went to visit him and the one I was accused of using as a way of stalking him – it’s known as the Leverton road.   I saw that another road ran parallel to it – I’ve since learned it’s actually called ‘Old Leverton Lane’, and in more prosperous times it was a second route to the town.  That’s all in the past now, though, and it lost its purpose when the main South Road cut across it.

“Anyway, ‘Old Leverton Lane’ passes the rear of High Cheviot Lodge.  I’ve used the road a few times without realizing and you can’t see the house from that side because there are a stream and a heavily wooded bank hiding it from view; woodland where Angie and I once walked before the property owner, Mackenzie Crabtree, recently fenced it off. I believe he did that so no-one else would discover a place of rest we stumbled upon quite accidentally, a place beside the steps that lead up through the wood where someone lays flowers still.  Where someone, at least, remembers.”

I stop talking then because I know if I continue my voice will break and the tears I feel filling my eyes will overbrim.  I don’t want to reveal how I still carry the rose of Susan Crabtree’s life, sister or friend, in my heart.

Matthew Poultney is saying something I am required to hear.  “You think his daughter is buried there?”

“I do.”  I will not disclose too much.  If everything and everybody in my life has been a carnival of shadows since one moment of consummation  on a riverbank; if the days, the weeks, the years, have counted nothing since, and every road in my soul leads back to my remembrance of Susan, I would not make it known to those who I try to love – who have tried so hard for me, and from each one of whom I have striven ceaselessly down the years to seek an essence I discovered once, and never will again.

I turn to find Nel’s eyes upon me.   She knows because she has always known; and perhaps, although I can’t be certain, she accepts.

“So that’s it,”  I tell Matthew.  “You have all the clues now, and unless we are wildly wrong, they will provide you with enough nails to crucify the old demon.  It’s a strange feeling, really, because in a number of ways he’s protected me almost as if he has feelings for me, but there are some crimes you cannot forgive.”

“You’re off to America.  Tonight?”

“Tomorrow, I think.  I’m doing a bit of a tour, taking in Paris, first.  John Hargreave’s absolute favorite aircraft was the Concorde, and since they’ll be scrapping it soon, I thought I’d hitch a ride on one to New York from Charles De Gaulle.  It’s almost impossible to get bookings, so I’m going to try my luck with a travel company who’ve commissioned a flight; they usually find themselves with a seat or two to spare.  I’ll sort out the New York to LA link when I get there.  I have one or two friends I want to look up – experience the Big Apple for twenty-four hours or so.”

Nel smiles at me, quietly, and I am able now to return her smile.  We fall into silence.  Matthew Poultney stands by the window.  The sun has set out there, beyond the glass, beyond the river, beyond the hills.

Nel puts her hand in mine.



© Frederick Anderson 2018.  All rights reserved. Each chapter of this book is a work of fiction.  All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events in the story or stories are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or events is entirely coincidental.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content






23rd July in the millennium year 2000