Chapter 37
STEPHEN
Stephen parks in the pub car park and assesses his surroundings before moving another muscle.
He finds country pubs odd places to hang out.
They are mostly filled with a plethora of elderly locals who complain if anyone under the age of forty enters or if the noise levels raise above a certain decibel.
And if it’s not the elderly locals who take over the place, it’s the youth who think it’s suitable to laugh and swear really loudly right next to a family with a young child who are trying to enjoy a pleasant meal.
Stephen gets out of the car, walks the short distance to the entrance and then finds a quiet booth at the back of the pub, settling into the padded seat with his back towards the corner.
He likes to have eyes on the exit and to be able to see who’s approaching.
He also enjoys people watching, fascinated by their behaviours.
Yes, he’s a person too, but he knows he’s different somehow.
Watching people is like watching television for him.
It’s busier than he likes. He was expecting a quiet pub with a few locals and maybe a Labrador stretched out in front of the roaring fire, but it’s exceptionally busy for a weekday evening.
He prefers it when the background noise is a quiet hum rather than a loud roar.
He can barely hear himself think. It’s a struggle to form or organise any thoughts right now.
He considers standing up and walking out, but no, he’s here for information.
The detective is counting on him to bring back vital details that will help them solve Sophia’s disappearance.
Not to mention the idea that people in this village are possibly sacrificing people for the good of their livelihoods and farms is a morbid thought if there ever was one.
What he really wants to be doing right now is combing through the heaps of diaries, journals and newspapers piled high on the kitchen table back at Rosemore Cottage with the detective.
It’s like a treasure trove of information spanning decades from a hundred years ago. Like looking into John Hammel’s soul.
While he waits for Frank, he ponders his call with Rachel earlier today. It makes no sense. He remembers texting her as clear as day, but she’d never received anything. How odd. And yet, despite it being an interesting question that needs an answer, it isn’t his number one priority.
‘Mr Mallow, what can I get you?’
Stephen flinches as if burned as Frank Hammel speaks above him. He hadn’t noticed him approach, despite his eyes being focused on the entrance the whole time.
‘Whisky. The smokier the better.’
‘Good choice. Won’t be a moment.’
Frank turns and walks to the bar, weaving in-between various customers, all of whom greet him with a nod or a hearty handshake.
Frank instantly engages in conversation with the barman.
Stephen envies those who converse with others so easily.
For him, it’s a constant battle between the words that come out of his mouth and the words his brain wants to say.
The ones from the brain, if he allows them out, would easily cause offence or make others uncomfortable with their bluntness, whereas the words that come out of his mouth sometimes aren’t the ones he means to say and often leaves him feeling confused and disappointed.
Frank arrives a few minutes later holding two glasses. Stephen takes the one handed to him. He smells the smoky peat as soon as he brings the glass to his lips.
‘Cheers,’ says Frank as he takes a mouthful.
Stephen frowns. Doesn’t one usually raise their glass and then clink them together to initiate a “cheers?” Or has he got that wrong? Battling against the words in his head, he remains silent and takes a sip instead.
‘So … what would you like to know?’ asks Frank.
He leans against the wooden booth and spreads one arm out along the back of the bench.
Stephen has been working on recognising body language and Frank appears to be relaxed in this environment.
Stephen, on the other hand, is far from relaxed, crossing and uncrossing his legs and constantly shifting his position on the seat, unable to get comfortable.
He may as well make a start. The sooner he asks the questions, the sooner he can get out of here.
‘Run me through the events of the day of Sophia’s disappearance.
I need to understand her movements. Was there anything out of the ordinary?
Tell me what she said, what she did, where she went.
As much detail as possible. Don’t leave anything out.
’ Stephen pauses for a moment and then adds, ‘Please,’ because it’s the socially acceptable thing to say when asking so much of someone.
Frank clears his throat as he swirls the dark golden liquid around the bottom of his glass. ‘Sophia and I had a falling out the day before, so we weren’t on speaking terms.’
Stephen opens his mouth to ask what they had fallen out about, but Frank beats him to it. ‘She was seeing this local bloke, Callum, and I caught him sneaking out of the house that morning. He was older. She was sixteen. You can imagine my reaction.’
Stephen catches himself before he repeats the words in his head. Something doesn’t ring true.
‘How much older was Callum?’
‘Can’t be sure, but he was at least mid-twenties. He was one of the local farm boys. Worked over at the pig farm with Diane.’
‘Diane Bevan.’
‘Yes.’
Stephen jots down his findings on his pad of paper. ‘So … the morning of the day before she disappeared, you found Callum sneaking out of her bedroom,’ says Stephen.
‘Yes. I told her she was too young to be engaging in … that sort of thing.’
‘She was sixteen. It’s legal.’
Frank shoots him a stern look; clearly not the response he’d been looking for from Stephen. ‘She stormed out of the house and didn’t do any of her chores that day, so I had to do them, didn’t I?’
‘Um … I suppose you did, yes.’
Frank stares at Stephen for a moment. Had Stephen said something wrong? Frank had asked him a question, so he’d answered it.
‘Right … well … anyway … Sophia didn’t come back to the farm till later that night. I was angry. I’d had a few drinks.’ Frank chugs the rest of his drink; the glass now empty. He signals to the barman for another two.
‘You were angry and had a few drinks.’ Sometimes Stephen likes to repeat the facts, to ensure he hasn’t misunderstood the person he’s talking to. Some might say it comes across as condescending, but he needs to ensure he knows exactly what is going on, that he has everything clear.
‘That’s right.’ Frank doesn’t seem at all fazed by Stephen’s repetition.
Stephen watches as a waitress brings over two fresh drinks. He hasn’t finished his first one yet. Stephen waits until she’s walked away, a sudden idea springing to mind.
‘Frank, were you aware that your daughter was attracted to other women?’
It seems he catches Frank at the worst possible time – mid gulp – because Frank coughs and splutters, grabbing a serviette from the table and dabbing his mouth where splashes of whisky are clinging to his rugged beard.
‘Good God, man! Why would you blurt out something like that? Are you insane?’
Stephen shrugs. ‘It’s a perfectly acceptable question, Frank.’
Frank dips his head, glancing around at the bar, as if checking whether anyone is listening in on their conversation. ‘Y-Yes, I was aware, Mr Mallow. She never told me as much, but … I was aware.’
‘Stephen, please. So, would you now like to rephrase your previous answer about a young man leaving her room?’
Frank clears his throat and takes a breath before picking up his glass once again. He nods at the one remaining on the table, the one Stephen hasn’t touched yet. ‘Drink up, Stephen. You’re already lagging.’
‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Frank?’
‘No, I’m trying to get drunk. It helps to have company.’
Stephen sighs, already tired of Frank’s reluctance to answer a simple question.
He picks up his glass, takes a large sip, holding the whisky in his mouth for a moment, then swallows.
It burns as it travels down his throat. Once empty, he slams the glass on the table and picks up the second one.
There. Maybe that will keep the old man happy.
Doesn’t look like he’ll be driving back to Rosemore Cottage tonight.
Frank, after taking another sip, settles back in his seat and continues. ‘Fine. There was no boy. We had an argument about something else.’
‘Which was?’
‘She kept asking questions about John Hammel, our ancestor who hung himself from The Hanging Tree a hundred years ago. He started the family curse, you see.’
‘Tell me about this curse.’
‘Like I said, John Hammel started it. He killed himself and, in the religious community, that’s a big sin, especially back then.’
‘Yes, but why did he hang himself?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, I believe it does.’
Frank stares blankly for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know why John Hammel hung himself?’
‘That’s what I said, but this curse … it ruined our family for decades.’
Stephen stops scribbling words on the page and looks up. ‘Interesting,’ he says. ‘Just your family?’
‘No, a lot of families seemed to be affected by it.’
‘Why’s that do you think?’
‘Good God, man, I don’t know how curses work!’
Stephen bites his bottom lip. ‘So … Sophia was interested in this curse. She was asking questions about it and you got into an argument. Then what?’
‘Yes, she said it was for a school project, but I didn’t believe her. I told her to leave it alone. I left the house that night and, when I came home later, I went straight to sleep.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Stephen looks him dead in the eyes. ‘Where did you go after your argument with your daughter?’
Frank opens his mouth, but then closes it. ‘I went to see some friends of mine. Someone in the village council. We had work to do before the next monthly newsletter came out. It was a late night.’
‘Your friend’s names are?’
‘William Davies, Diane Bevan and Ceri Griffiths.’
Stephen writes them down, making a mental note to tell the detective that they finally have a full name for Griffiths; the fourth founding family of the village council. ‘Anything else?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Sophia liked to spend time sitting underneath The Hanging Tree. She often went there. I saw her there the next morning while I was letting the ducks out into the yard. She often left her sketchbook up there hidden in the tree so it didn’t get ruined.
Not always, but sometimes she did. I get the feeling she didn’t want me seeing what she drew. ’
Stephen pauses, Frank’s words not quite clicking into the right place again.
It answered why Stephen had found her sketchbook hidden in the tree, at least. Frank’s farm is all the way on the other side of the village, so if he’d been letting the ducks out into the yard, how the hell had he seen his daughter at The Hanging Tree, which was situated near Rosemore Cottage?
‘Do you often keep your ducks at the cottage?’
‘What?’
Stephen shifts in his seat, a warmth spreading across his chest. ‘You said you saw your daughter while you were letting the ducks out into the yard in the morning, but how could you when your farm isn’t anywhere near the tree?
Who were you visiting at Rosemore Cottage? Or do you keep your ducks there?’
Frank drums his fingers on the table. ‘You’re very perceptive.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Very well. Yes, I was at the cottage. I didn’t live there, but I still owned it at the time.’
‘Were you letting the ducks out or visiting someone?’
‘Neither.’
Stephen waits a moment, takes a sip of his drink. The heat is spreading. It’s making him want to flap his hand in front of his face, the way people do even though it makes barely a bit of difference. He’s getting irritated that Frank continues to lie to him.
‘Like I said, I owned the cottage back then. I rented it out as a holiday let. I was there to double check the people had arrived. Normally, the visitors would send me an email or leave a voicemail to say they’d arrived, found the key and settled in, but they didn’t.’
‘Are you saying there was no one staying at the cottage at the time?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. No one turned up.’
‘What was their last name? The people who were supposed to rent it?’
‘How the hell should I know? It was a decade ago.’
Stephen leans forwards. ‘I’m really going to need you to remember their last name, Frank. It could be important.’
Frank grunts, staring straight past Stephen at the wall.
Stephen checks over his shoulder in case he’s looking at something in particular, but it appears he’s merely doing that thing that most people do when trying to summon a forgotten memory: they stare blankly into space in the hopes it will help.
‘Lankin.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, but it definitely started with L.’
Stephen’s shoulders slump slightly. He’s not sure what he was expecting. A lightbulb moment, perhaps. But the revelation of the name doesn’t help him. There are still many questions to ask.
Stephen takes a sip of whisky to steady his racing mind. He’s had two tipples now within a short period of time and is feeling the effects. Nausea, wonky vision and numb fingers. He reaches forwards for his pen, but he can’t grab it quite right. It skids across the table and onto the floor.
‘My apologies,’ says Stephen, shuffling off the seat. He reaches to grab it with shaking hands, but his body has other plans. The last thing he sees is the floor hurtling towards him. His head bounces off the side of the table and the world turns dark.