Three Mile Drove, Chapter Ten (standard:horror, 5786 words) [11/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Nov 08 2006	Views/Reads: 2999/2121	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Serialization of a completed horror story, set in the English fens. A flashback precedes chapter ten.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

monkeys. They kept jumping up and down and seemed to be warning each 
other away. But it was the way they kept looking at her that made her 
feel very frightened indeed. 

If she wasn't so sensible, she might have thought she'd fallen right
through the ground into a comic book world, the kind that only 
children's minds could create, or that she'd died from her fall and 
that for some childish act that she'd made, she'd been sent into a 
world of mad people. 

Except that she recognised one figure, one person who had just entered
the room, and as her eyes widened in recognition he'd made straight for 
her. She hadn't liked the look on his face at all. 

CHAPTER TEN 

McPherson had a sudden thought as he pulled out of the drove, pulling
the car to a halt and reversing back at speed to the T- junction. He 
swung the car around and brought it to stop outside the black, wrought 
iron gates of Jacob Tomblin's bungalow. He needed to establish for 
certain whether there had been a gypsy presence in the drove, 
irrespective of whether the forensic team found a link between the 
missing child and the ankle sock. Jacob Tomblin, he knew, missed 
nothing. Going past his house was like passing through the gatehouse of 
a high security estate, and besides, he might be able to provide him 
with leads. Old Jacob had been a bit of a rogue in his time, so word 
had it from some of the old stagers at the station, but he'd provided 
them with information in the past, and even though he'd found him to be 
a cantankerous old bugger, McPherson thought he was well worth a try. 

He marched through the open gate, cursing as he tripped on a loose block
in the tiled path. The front door opened even before he'd had the 
chance to rap on it. ‘Now then young man, what can I do for yer?' Jacob 
Tomblin's leathery skin creased into a brief smile, revealing ground 
down, yellow teeth. McPherson recoiled from the strong smell of onions 
that flooded from his mouth as he spoke. 

The smile faded as he ushered McPherson through, ‘The missing girl again
no doubt,' he muttered, following McPherson through into his lounge. 
‘When are yer goin' to realise yer backin' a loser lookin' for ‘er in 
these parts? There's about as much likelihood of ‘er turnin' up around 
‘ere as you've got of becoming chief of police.' 

McPherson blanched at that, Jacob Tomblin had the habit of hitting where
it hurt, of punching below the belt, but you had to accept as much if 
you wanted results. He'd never intended to hang around for very long in 
the lower levels, he'd banked on his good education boosting his career 
like rocket fuel, the way it had done for others, except that despite 
his years of service he hadn't managed to progress beyond sergeant, and 
he couldn't understand why. He'd never mixed freely with his work 
colleagues, that much was true, but he'd never stepped on anybody's 
toes either. And when you came to think of it, those who had made it – 
inspectors, superintendents and suchlike, they were all more interested 
in advancing their careers rather than playing at being good buddies 
with their work colleagues. 

‘Thanks for your faith in me Jacob.' McPherson twitched his thin lips
into what might have been a smile, ‘From your vantage point at the head 
of the drove here, I'm wondering whether you might have noticed any 
unusual comings and goings lately.' 

‘Like what?' 

‘Like gypsies for instance.' 

‘Yeah there's been a few gypos, all I've seen is them, them and that
young bloke who took over Regan's place yesterday.' 

‘I'm not interested in him,' surprised that even a man with Jacob
Tomblin's nose for things could have been aware of Darren Goldwater's 
presence so quickly. He gave the old man a brief account of his find at 
the derelict house, and of his son's insistence upon a gypsy presence. 

‘Well o'course it will have been the gypos, who else could it o' been,
I'd o' known. Yer told me the last time yer come, yer'd seen kids and 
mess in there. There's yer reason lad, mark my words. Yer enquiries 
have lead yer up a dead end street. A bit like Three Mile Drove, ain't 
it lad, if you think about it.' 

Jacob Tomblin cackled, but McPherson wasn't indulging in the humour of
the old man's analogy, and he certainly didn't care to “think” about 
it, perhaps because he knew that what Jacobs said was about to be 
proved to be true. 

‘So what can you tell me about this gypsy presence?' McPherson asked
brusquely, turning towards the window and staring out across the rich, 
dark soil of the fenland. 

‘I recognised the old red truck,' Jacob said with elaboration. 

‘Go on,' McPherson swung back to face him, the cold blue eyes showing
impatience. The old man had a habit of leaving you short of a full 
answer, which he found an irritating aspect of his character, but the 
retired farmer knew that, and played on it for all it was worth, he'd 
no doubt about it. 

Tomblin picked a bogey from his nose, crushed it between his fingers and
let it drop to the floor. McPherson gave a brief grimace of disgust; 
Tomblin saw the motion and grinned. ‘No problem lad, s'what hoovers are 
for.' 

But McPherson realised his action had been intentional. Turn and face me
if you want information, he was saying through his gloating, derisive, 
smiling eyes. Don't speak with your back to me; treat me with respect 
if you want to get anywhere. 

‘The old red Dodge truck belongs to Scouser  Smith.' 

‘Who the hell is he?' To McPherson the name pictured a Liverpool
dockyard worker rather than that of a gypsy, but he was learning his 
lesson as he kept his eyes firmly on Jacob. 

‘If yer spent more time amongst us rustics, rather than sticking to
those nice city street, then I'm sure the name would be known to yer, 
o' course, it would mean getting' yer nice shoes dirty and yer smart 
suit splashed with mud more offen, would'n it lad?' Tomblin, a good six 
inches shorter moved closer and lifted his head provocatively towards 
McPherson, who felt a surge of resentment he struggled to control. What 
he wouldn't give right now to land one on the old man's inviting jaw. 

But it would be would be more than his job was worth to do that. Nice
urban streets, as this old country bumpkin put it, were rife with drug 
pushers, violent drunks, they were infested with family feuds and 
neighbour disputes, and in the daytime, unoccupied houses were sitting 
ducks for a petty criminal who could sometimes haul in with one 
robbery, about as much as he could earn in an entire year. That was 
what kept him to the nice city streets. So much for Jacob Tomblin's 
philosophy. 

McPherson stiffened, he was becoming ever more indignant at being
referred to as “lad,” and drawing the conclusion that being in the 
presence of this man carried an irritation factor comparable to that of 
having a bluebottle buzzing around your head for an entire year. And 
yet he must persevere. 

Tomblin grunted amidst McPherson's icy stare, ‘They moved out a couple
o' days ago, three or four vans, that's all there were, an' as I say, 
Smith's ol' Dodge truck. The truck sticks out like a sore thumb, it's 
got some kind o' logo on the side, some kind o' cancer relief poster I 
think it is. I doubt that it means anythin' to the bloke for a minute, 
mind yer. Just a means of addin' some credibility to his dealin's if 
yer ask me.' 

‘Any idea where I might find him?' McPherson said clearing his throat,
his eyes watering. The smell of onions was unbelievable. 

Jacob Tomblin narrowed his grey brows, his ferret like features livened
as he turned and headed away from the lounge, ‘Hang on a minute lad, 
I'll fetch me crystal ball.' 

‘There's no need for that Jacob,' McPherson said sourly, ‘quit winding
me up. I need to trace this little clan. If you've any idea at all 
where they might be headed I want to know.' 

Jacob Tomblin coughed just then. He coughed so long and loud that
McPherson thought his lungs might erupt through his mouth. 

‘They're diddycoyes lad. Any bit o' land within a ten mile radius that
they ain't been thrown off I reckon. You have to learn to use these...' 
Jacob Tomblin smiled, though it was more goading than friendly, as he 
thrust his fingers towards McPherson's eyes so closely that the rapid 
movement caused him to flinch and blink, ‘... instead of using my eyes 
and ears lad. You search long and hard enough and yer'll find him. You 
do the spadework, yer the one who's paid the big money fer it.' 

The old man had a point of course, and McPherson knew it. His salary was
hefty in comparison with a lot of people in the region, and it was 
partly gained by extracting from the public whatever sort of 
information they could provide or were willing to give. How many crimes 
after all, could be solved without public support? He needed eyes and 
ears and old Jacob was all too aware of it. But right now, what really 
mattered was the welfare of a young girl who'd been missing for far too 
long. Finding her was paramount and Jacob wasn't assisting one little 
bit by his attitude. 

‘Just one question Jacob,' McPherson paused as he was leaving, ‘who, or
what was there to cause Smith and his clan to leave old Regan's 
property. Gypsies normally have the habit of hanging around, 
particularly on vacant land. The term “traveller” is old hat these 
days, so what might have happened?' 

Jacob shrugged, his bony shoulders protruding through the white vest
that he wore, ‘The new fella I reckon,' he said automatically. 

‘Except, Jacob, that they had gone before he arrived,' McPherson
countered just as quickly. ‘You've just told me yourself that they left 
a couple of days ago, and you, who miss nothing, know of Darren's 
arrival only yesterday. So why suggest something you know to be false?' 
McPherson stared long and hard at Jacob Tomblin. For once there was no 
wry look about the man, no derisive smile, no cracking of the dark, 
leathery features. 

‘Something got your tongue Jacob?' 

‘No,' the old man's face animated quickly, ‘I just lost track that's
all, people do that, even you I reckon.' 

Without response, McPherson made for his car. Yeah sure everybody fouled
up at some stage, but Jacob Tomblin knew more than he was letting on, 
his years of experience told him that, and experience never let you 
down. 

So what had made the small band of travellers up and go, had they gone
of their own accord? He'd more than one reason to find out, if it meant 
searching every acre of land in the region. There would be a backlash 
from the hierarchy, no doubt, they would cringe at the expenditure. But 
he was prepared to risk that for a conclusion. Apart from its 
possibilities in tracing the missing girl it might also forward his 
career in the long term. *                                 * 

Darren fingered his way through the estimates that lay on his makeshift
kitchen table. Throughout the day, a steady flow of contractors he'd 
sought out by way of Yellow Pages had arrived at the bungalow. None of 
them had proven to be cheaper than he'd imagined; one or two had been 
what he'd call extortionate and the providers of these had borne all 
the traits of “cowboys,” but in the main the quotes hadn't been that 
outrageous, when all said and done. Of course the dwelling had the 
advantage of being comparatively small – a kitchen, lounge, main 
bedroom, one which might be used either as an auxiliary bedroom or a 
large store-cupboard, and the other one, a toilet. 

Darren glanced at his watch and saw the time was approaching five pm. He
gathered his papers and locked up, noticing that the chill of the day 
had gone and the late afternoon air now had a mild feel about it. He'd 
arranged  to spend another evening at the inn before making his way 
back to Nottingham in the morning with the intention of putting his 
house on the market. 

He'd turn over the estimates for the bungalow later that evening over a
pint, before making a final decision on who to employ to carry the work 
out. 

He was dropping the estimates onto the front passenger seat of the Jeep
when a sudden shriek broke the air. His ears pricked. What the hell was 
the sound, which broke across the fens, almost always at evening time? 
It wasn't exactly human, and yet it didn't sound wholly animal either. 
Again the sound invaded his ears, though there were two this time, the 
other one slightly lower in pitch, so that together they made a wailing 
harmony grotesquely out of key. 

Foxes, Claire had tried to assure him, though there'd been something
strange in the way she'd tried to do it. Too positive if you like, but 
whatever, her assertion hadn't convinced her at all. 

It's eeriness though, was getting to him, as was more than a little
curiosity. Leaving the Jeep, he unlocked the high gate that led to the 
rear garden and then stood for a moment, staring at the old bridge 
beyond. He turned his head westward, in the direction he'd seen the 
weird old farm worker heading earlier that day.  The farm worker who'd 
been about to tell him something, as he recalled, until Claire had 
shown up. 

There was still a little light left, enough for him to feel his way for
a while at any rate. If he didn't find the cause of the unearthly 
noise, which was baffling him, he'd have a damned good try. He trudged 
through the weeds of the rear garden and made his way over to the 
bridge, from where to took the narrow trodden track alongside the dyke. 
It was wet underfoot now that the frost had thawed, and his boots sank 
deep into thick mud. Amidst the heavy going, a voice from inside told 
him to leave it for the time being; that there would be a better 
opportunity to find the cause, when he wouldn't become completely 
enwrapped by the black blanket of the night. But there was another 
voice inside him that wouldn't have it. He'd always had an inquisitive, 
questioning nature, and the representative of this factor voiced its 
opinions more strongly, gaining the upper hand for the time being at 
least. 

As Darren had suspected, the track veered away from its westbound route
alongside the dyke and arced northwards so that now he was treading 
through open fields. In the distance he could see the two banks of 
conifer trees which led from the drove, past Tomblin's house and then 
stretched across the fens for almost as far the eye could see, though 
it appeared to end, way to the north, amidst a thick woodland copse. 

The ear piercing shrieks rang out again and again, though the sounds
didn't seem to Darren to be getting any closer. They just seemed to 
hang in the air above. An awful sound, excited, agitated, perhaps, but 
to him totally incomprehensible. 

The twin rows of tall conifers grew closer and Darren saw that the path
led close to the northern boundary of Tomblin's house, from where it 
appeared to curve round to join the makeshift track separating the 
banks of trees. 

Darren was passing Tomblin's house when through the branches of the
sycamores surrounding it he saw a light flickering from an upstairs 
window. He thought he saw a silhouette standing in front of it, but 
when he glanced again there was nothing to be seen, even the light had 
been extinguished. 

Daylight was almost gone. Somewhere an owl hooted before the sub-human
cry sounded again. He reached the junction of the makeshift track, 
probably just large enough for the average tractor to pass along, and 
turned north. His only option now was to travel a little further with 
the help of what light remained, and if as he suspected, he'd found 
nothing, then he'd change direction and head back to the Jeep via the 
drove. 

It was easier underfoot now, and he felt less strain on his legs. Darren
was grateful for that, he'd never been more aware of his advancing age 
than he was now. 

He heard the swish of branches behind. 

‘Where do you think you're going stranger?' Darren whirled around in
shock at the harsh, fenland voice that grunted loudly in his ear. 
‘Taking a walk...' he said automatically, finding himself staring into 
a tall, broad shouldered man's face, which looked more threatening in 
the semi-darkness... he stiffened, he was no oil painting this bloke, 
‘though I don't see what it's got to do with you.' 

‘Anything that goes on behind my property has to do with me,' the man
snorted, ‘besides this is a private track and you're trespassing.' The 
voice was muffled, as though he was speaking with a handkerchief 
pressed to his lips, but it was also disturbingly unfriendly. IQ below 
zero, Darren thought, though capability of aggression probably lodged 
at maximum. The man towered over him by perhaps as much as six inches, 
which would put him at about six-three. He was so close that he could 
smell the stink of his breath, the staleness of it, the vulgar 
combination of alcohol, fags, and whatever rotting food he'd been 
eating as his evening meal. 

Darren became aware that he'd started to tremble, though it wasn't fear
that gripped him but the sudden rush of adrenaline. He thought the oaf 
was probably right, that in all probability he was trespassing, but he 
didn't take kindly to his attitude and he certainly didn't like the 
look of him from what he could make out in the twilight, one little 
bit. He seemed every inch the rural bully, and ever since his 
schooldays he'd never been afraid to take on a bully. 

‘Hear what I say stranger?' the big man snarled, ‘either get off my land
now or I'll throw you off.' 

‘Got something to hide have you?' 

Darren didn't know what made him ask the question, but despite the
gathering darkness he could see the fury in the ogre's eyes. He saw the 
way the uneven jaw-line widened, he saw the way the chiselled, yellow 
teeth suddenly clenched, and most of all he saw the way the huge hands 
clenched into giant fists. 

So you have got something to hide, Darren thought, though he didn't
voice his thoughts. 

He might be prepared to confront a bully, but not on this particular
bully's own doorstep and in his own environment, and in an enraged 
state of mind as this bloke clearly was. When and if he chose to 
confront him it would be on his own terms. He'd review this encounter 
when his frayed emotions and nerves had settled enough for him to be 
able to do it. He brushed past the big figure and headed back along the 
track towards the drove, firmly expecting the man to lunge after him, 
to clasp those big, what seemed deformed hands around him, thus forcing 
him into an inescapable confrontation. 

But it didn't happen. Tomblin uttered some indecipherable kind of
sentence lost in the wind. But whatever words the rustic thug had 
uttered he wasn't responding. Tomorrow he'd call in and see McPherson, 
tell him about what had occurred. *                                     
* 

McPherson drove into Bramble Dyke early the following morning and struck
lucky straight away. An old red Dodge truck, full of scrap waste was 
pulling out of the filling station, turning right and heading towards 
the village cross-roads. 

He slowed and followed as the truck reached the crossroads and trundled
left, passing a half dozen terrace houses and an old peoples' centre to 
the right. Bits of debris were falling from the overloaded vehicle but 
McPherson was far enough back to negotiate the hazards safely. The road 
angled sharp left once it passed the old peoples' centre, whereupon it 
ran for about a quarter of a mile before ending, surrounded by open 
fields. 

McPherson followed the truck towards the end, where it slowed opposite a
smallholding and pulled onto concrete wasteland, the site of a recently 
demolished vegetable packing warehouse. 

He waited until the truck was on the site, then watched as a small wiry
figure jumped out of the cab and began to unload what appeared to be a 
precarious cargo of old exhaust systems. Leaving his car at the 
roadside he picked his way carefully through the metal wasteland that 
was beginning to form around the new site, passing three dingy caravans 
as he did so, the occupants peering through door hatches and regarding 
him with wide-eyed curiosity. He cast a wary eye on an unfriendly 
looking Alsatian-cross, loosely anchored to some old iron railing. It 
growled and bared its teeth on his approach. 

‘Is your name Smith?' 

‘Who wants to know?' the small man mumbled as he turned towards
McPherson. 

McPherson felt a cold stare directly upon him, the man's eyes fuelling
with resentment and suspicion. He'd a fair idea this bloke could smell 
a copper from a hundred yards away. 

‘Sergeant McPherson, Ely police, I'd like a few words.' 

‘I ain't done nothing illegal –quiet!' Smith yelled, taking his eyes off
McPherson for a moment and turning to the Alsatian. 

‘I could start with an overloaded truck,' McPherson said coldly, ‘you've
left a load of junk all along the road...' he broke off, sniffing; 
there was a distinct smell of sewage about the place. It wouldn't be 
long before the smallholder opposite complained, he knew that much. 

‘That's not why you're here though is it?' Smith said in his heavy
Liverpudlian accent. ‘You CID blokes ain't interested in keeping the 
roads clean, and I ain't committing any crime parking up on disused 
premises.' 

‘I heard you were camping for a while on Sam Regan's land. That true?' 

‘Yeah, no crime in that either. Unoccupied ground...' 

‘Not any more,' McPherson cut in sharply, ‘somebody's taken it over.' 

‘Yeah, well I heard about that,' Smith said, heaving down an old exhaust
and letting it fall perilously close to McPherson's feet, ‘it's why I 
moved out.' 

‘Is it really Smith?' McPherson said, glaring at him over the close call
that had caused him to move a couple of paces back, ‘or did something 
else happen to make you go?' 

‘Nobody makes me do anything I don't want to. It's like I say, I got
word that the property was about to change hands, thought I'd do the 
decent thing and move.' 

‘Left all your garbage behind though, amongst other things,' McPherson
said squarely into Smith's eyes, he wasn't sure he was telling the 
truth; he sounded too defensive somehow. He suspected that the move was 
made in haste. It was the reason for the haste, which intrigued him. 
But if he was getting to Smith, the traveller wasn't letting it show. 

‘The derelict old house,' McPherson continued, ‘you know, the one close
by Shaun Tomblin's property, have you or your lot been in it recently?' 


‘Why the fuck should I? What bloody reason could I have for going in
that place? Ain't nothin' there for us. We stick to our vans and truck, 
we don't touch shit-holes like that.' 

No, you have mobile ones of your own, McPherson thought, ‘It's just that
his old man, Jacob, thinks you might have been.' 

‘Jacob Tomblin?' McPherson saw the nerves in Smith's neck visibly
twitch, ‘Well, he's got it wrong then, ain't he?' 

‘He sounded fairly convinced to me.' 

‘Get real McFarland – why do you want to know anyway?' 

‘McPherson,' the policeman corrected him tersely. He shoved his hands
deep into the pockets of his trench coat, the weather was turning cold 
again; the mild conditions had been short lived. ‘I'm investigating the 
disappearance of a child.' 

‘I don't know anything about no missing kid,' Smith snapped, resentment
further creasing his craggy face. 

‘I don't recollect saying you did Smith, I just need to satisfy myself
that you and your people haven't been in that old house.' 

‘No, it's like I said, I never went anywhere near there. Neither would
the rest of them for that matter. I can call them all out and ask if 
you don't believe me!' 

There was an emphatic look in Smith's eyes that confirmed to McPherson
all he wanted to know. He did believe him. Smith was telling the truth, 
he doubted that he'd been anywhere near the place. Wherever the ankle 
sock had come from, it had nothing to do with Smith's lot. 

Gypos, Tomblin had said – well it didn't seem so. 

What he needed now was help from the forensic team. Perhaps they'd have
the results when he got back. McPherson strode back across the concrete 
to his car, his coat collar turned against the biting east wind. 

The drive to Ely took him about fifteen minutes. There was a fax message
on his desk when he arrived which didn't please him one little bit. No 
DNA found on the sock, no evidence to identify its origin. That was all 
he needed, well, not quite all because just then the enquiry office 
clerk poked his head around the partially opened door, ‘A chap by the 
name of Darren Goldwater is in reception, Tim, he says he'd like a 
word.' 

‘What the hell does he want,' McPherson mumbled, throwing the fax to one
side. He strode quickly along the corridor, down a flight of steps, and 
flung open the security door that lead to the foyer. 

He found Darren Goldwater sitting patiently on the bench seat provided,
‘What can I do for you Darren?' he asked as amiably as he was able. 

Darren told him of his encounter in Three Mile Drove the previous
evening, watching McPherson's face become increasingly more sombre as 
he did so. 

‘That will have been Shaun Tomblin, from what you say. He's a dour chap,
but fen people are like that until you get to know them. I don't see 
that you've got a lot to complain about really though, do you?' 

Darren glowered, to his disgust McPherson was talking in a manner which
implied his patience was being sorely tested. 

‘I mean it's trespass, and trespass is illegal whichever way you look at
it. If I found you snooping around in my back yard I wouldn't be at all 
happy, I can tell you.' 

Darren felt his skin redden, ‘It was the bloke's attitude. He gave me
the most threatening look I've ever experienced. Okay, so maybe I was 
where I shouldn't have been, but it was those weird sounds I keep 
hearing that made me go that way. I mean – they're just not human, and 
yet I don't think they come from animals either. There is something out 
there, something not right – something very wrong in fact, I'm sure of 
it, and by the very nature of Tomblin's response I reckon he's covering 
up.' 

‘Come on Darren, how can something not be human, and yet not be animal
either? You're letting your imagination run riot.' McPherson spoke as 
though he were lecturing an erring schoolchild and Darren felt his 
blood rising even further. 

‘And what do you expect me to do, might I ask, search every bloody acre
of the fens, just because you keep hearing noises?' McPherson sighed 
loudly and then his voice rose above a whisper. ‘My bosses are going to 
love that. It would take a lot of manpower, without any concrete 
evidence I can't do anything. Look, budgeting rules, OK, can't you see 
that? I can't just go prying on the man, turning over his property and 
his land without any evidence to back it up.' 

‘Didn't you say you'd found an ankle sock?' 

‘Yes, but there's nothing to link it with the missing girl,' McPherson
snapped. He became aware of lighting a cigarette in a non- smoking 
area, and that he was pacing quickly back and forth. He whipped open 
the main door and threw the cigarette into the street. ‘I need genuine 
proof Darren, if I had that I might just take you up on it, but it 
doesn't extend to trespassing on other people's property. Do you get 
it?' 

‘Is that a warning?' Darren asked. He felt that if he got any hotter
he'd explode. 

‘Take it any way you want,' McPherson said, turning his back and swiping
his security card through the receptacle, then launching his lean frame 
through the opening door. 

Darren watched him go, a deadpan look on his face, ‘The man's about as
much use as an empty beer cellar,' he mumbled, casting an eye at the 
enquiry officer as he spoke. 

From behind his reinforced divide, Darren thought he saw the officer
smile, though if there was one it quickly disappeared. 

Darren walked out into the street, where he jumped into his Jeep, bound
now for Nottingham. But he'd be back in a day or so, and with renewed 
determination. What he wouldn't give to pull one over on the arrogant 
McPherson if he could only have the chance. He might only be a novice, 
but then this prat probably had all the detective skills of a 
three-week probationer. 

Then he thought of Claire Summerby, and that one simple reflection
cheered him. It cheered him no end. For him, Friday evening couldn't 
come soon enough. 


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