(select section to jump forward)

Jump to Ch.1
Jump to Ch. 2
Jump to Ch.3
Jump to Ch.4
Jump to Ch.5

1.

Y the time Chief Inspector Robert Sanders arrived at the mouth of the cave, he’d endured all he could. Bowers, and his cousin John, the two guides he’d hired to lead him across the moors, had tried to undermine his authority every step of the way, laughing every time he’d stumbled or sank knee deep in the blanket bog. They seemed impervious to the rain and wind that battered them, whereas Sanders, used to paving and shelter from the buildings in the city he knew like the back of his hand, would sway with every gust of wind that blew his hood clear off his head. He belonged back in Doncaster with his colleagues, not here on the North York moors with two men who were probably criminals themselves.

The morning before, Sanders had spoken to Bowers on the telephone. He had ended the call rest assured that he’d found the right man for the job. Bowers’ gruff voice and short, terse answers displayed a stoical acceptance of what was being asked of him: Lead Sanders to the cave and leave him there. No guide back. No questions. He hadn’t tried to pry information from Sanders or ask why he hadn’t brought his own men along. All he’d wanted to know was where Sanders needed to go and how much he was going to be paid.

Sanders had met them at The Oak pub with thunderheads gathering over the surrounding hills. By the time he arrived, they were already half in the bag, John peering at him through drunken eyes, not bothering to hide his disdain for this interloper in uniform. Sanders had seen his type during the war. A reprobate dressed up as a soldier harbouring a grudge against authority. Bowers had said little in the way of greeting, and when Sanders handed over the money, he spilled a few coins into John’s cupped hands, before pocketing the rest without a thank you and instructing Sanders to follow.

They had been walking for almost three hours when Bowers held up his hand. Dusk was approaching and the rain had begun to slant sideways as the wind shifted direction and gathered momentum. Gusts battered them, causing their yellow rain slickers to press flat against their bodies before billowing out as though they were being pumped full of air and deflated over and over again.

“Up there,” Bowers said, pointing to a cluster of rocks standing jagged and black where the land rose to an incline. “See there? See the light?”

The wind carried his words to where Sanders stood, shrugging off his backpack and swinging it around to fish inside for his binoculars. He glassed the landscape until he found the rocks and within them a light, dim and flickering in the rain. Sanders slung his pack over his shoulders and walked around them.

“Follow me,” he said, the very action and order an attempt to regain some of the authority he felt had been lost. They followed, but more out of curiosity to see who had drawn Sanders to such a godawful place on such a hellish night than out of any respect for the badge.

By Sanders’ approximation, they were around two-hundred yards from the rocks when the sound of singing, carried on the wind up and over their heads, caught their ears. ‘My Darling Clementine,’ not quite distinct and distorted by the wind and the thunder that had begun to rumble in the distance.

“Is that what I think it is?” John said. “A cowboy, Bowers. We’re hunting a cowboy!”

Sanders turned. “Keep it down, you idiot. If we can hear him, then he can hear us.”

As they drew closer, Sanders saw that the source of the light was coming from inside a cave. Not a deep cave, he surmised, otherwise the light, a faint orange glow as that of firelight, would have been all but invisible. The cave was embedded in a slope covered with shale lit by the occasional flash of lightning. A hole perfect for a rat to hide out in.

The singing ceased, and for a moment Sanders wondered if they’d been heard. He waved for his guides to keep low, both in voice and body, and together all three huddled as one behind a rock at the cave’s mouth.

“Right, men,” Sanders whispered. “On my word, we rush him.”

When the singing struck up again, Sanders gave the order. With him leading, they advanced.

 

2.

ANDERS already had his Enfield no.2 drawn as he crossed the threshold. He may have shouted to the man by the fire not to move, or it may have been that he had said nothing at all as the shale gave and a sound like thunder blocked out his guides’ cries as the mouth of the cave was sealed in a rush of peat and rock and falling debris.

On seeing Sanders, Dennis Ward had back-peddled away from the fire, his mouth forming an O as the flames sputtered in the wind before settling again in the still. Sanders had turned then, his pistol trained on Ward as he surveyed the wall of debris that had appeared at his back. With his free hand he pressed against the wall, feeling something give, but only for a second as another thunderous crash silenced the voices from the other side.

A sharp sting then on the back of Sanders’ neck, causing his free hand to clutch at the spot as he turned to see Ward moving towards him, his arm raised as he prepared to cast a second stone. The limp Ward carried afforded Sanders the chance he needed to gather his thoughts. He fired, aiming low, intending to hit Ward in his good leg, but Ward crouched into a ball in a defensive move to make himself small. The bullet hit him in the stomach, doubling him over and toppling him forward onto the ground. Sanders was on him, pushing Ward’s face into the dirt so as to muffle the obscenities that came from his filthy mouth. But Ward was strong. He struggled and writhed beneath his captor and somehow managed to gain an advantage, digging his fingers into Sanders’ wrist and turning his hand in on itself so the gun was levelled at the ground between them. Ward’s thumb found the back of Sanders’ trigger finger and pressed down, sending three shots echoing around the walls of the cave. The sound was deafening. Sanders pressed Ward’s face against his shoulder in a perverse embrace, trying desperately to bring the revolver around to hold it against Ward’s head. Ward managed to keep Sanders’ gun hand at bay, and when the pistol fired twice more in quick succession, the bullets spanged off a wall and ricocheted into the fire. The mini explosion caused both men to part, panting heavily as they fell back into the dust. 

Sanders took aim at Ward between the eyes. 

The gun clicked on an empty chamber.

At the sound Ward attempted a smile. It came out a sneer rendered deathly in the flickering light. He held out his hands in supplication before drawing them back to clutch the wound in his stomach.

“You found me,” he said.

From the other side of the wall the storm raged, as all that remained of John and Bowers, their garrulity and cocksureness, was cast asunder across the moors.

 

3.

T the sight of Ward grimacing at him from across the fire, Sanders was filled with a rage so all consuming, it was though an invisible force had pulled him to his feet. He kicked at the fire, sending sparks and ashes flying into Ward’s face. Ward sputtered. He tried to clamber to his feet and failed, collapsing to the ground with a hand pressed to the wound that had begun to seep blood through his fingers.

Sanders stood over him. Said, “You’re going to pay for what you did to her, Ward.”

Ward looked up at him, eyes wide.

“Who?”

Sanders placed a boot on Ward’s game leg. The wound he’d leave until later. He didn’t need Ward passing out just yet.

“You know who I mean, you bastard. Rosie.”

“Like hell I will, copper.”

Sanders applied pressure. Ward writhed but didn’t make a sound. He hawked up some phlegm from the back of his throat and spat on Sanders’ boot. Sanders pressed down hard then released his hold.

“That’s alright, Ward. We’ve got time yet.” He nodded at the wound. “Better get that seen to first. Stem the flow, then we’ll have a little chat, shall we.”

He took a Sentinel first aid kit from his pack and tossed it to Ward.

“I’m assuming you know how to dress a wound.”

Through clenched teeth, Ward said, “What do you think.”

Sanders moved cautiously to Ward’s side of the fire. Said, “Don’t try anything funny.”

“I’m not about to try anything at all.”

Sanders pulled up Ward’s top clothes from around his waist and began dressing his wound, applying mercurochrome, wrapping the bandage and securing it with adhesive tape. He worked fast, efficiently. Trained.

“I don’t think the bullet has hit anything vital, but we won’t know until we get you to a hospital,” he said. “Careful how you move or you’ll bleed out.”

He returned to his side of the fire as though being in such close proximity to Ward sickened him. Ward hesitated before carefully pulling down his clothes. He rested on an elbow and drank water from a canteen and followed it with brandy from a small silver-plated flask. Sanders followed suit, drinking water from his own canteen.

While the two sat in a moment’s silence, Sanders observed his quarry. His cheeks and forehead were cracked with deep lines. The pores on his bulbous nose looked deep enough to gather pools of rain. His face had a grey pallor, out of which peered cold grey eyes like shards of steel. A tangle of black hair almost met a pair of bushy eyebrows that joined at the middle. His moustache was unkempt with stray hairs covering a thick upper lip. Stubble covered his chin. Instinctively, Sanders stroked his own, neatly trimmed moustache. He lowered the hood on his slicker and ran a hand through his blonde hair.

“So,” Ward said. “Who were your mates?”

“Guides,” Sanders said. He moved to the wall. Pressed an ear against the mass. The sound of the sea in a shell and thunder rolling across the moors.

“Guides?” Ward said. “Are things that tight with South Yorkshire police that you had to deputise the locals? No coppers up north to lend a hand? Well, looks like your fool’s errand has cost them.”

Sanders swallowed the shame of having blood on his hands. He sat down on the opposite side of the fire.

“I don’t consider bringing a man to justice a fool’s errand.”

“It is if said man is innocent.”

“The innocents don’t run and hide. Only a guilty man would do that.”

“Or a man already condemned.”

Ward took a stick from a small pile by his side. He stoked the fire and as the flames came back to life, lay back carefully to rest his head on a bedroll caked with dirt.

Sanders said, “How long did you think you could last out here?”

“I wasn’t planning on lasting out here at all,” Ward said to the ceiling. “I’d have been in Loftus by now if it wasn’t for this damn storm.”

Sanders removed his slicker. He laid it flat on the ground and reached inside the breast pocket of his uniform. The pack of cigarettes he’d kept there had somehow gotten damp, though the jacket was dry. He remembered then, struggling to light a cigarette outside The Oak as a gust extinguished his match. He threw the pack into the fire. Said, “May God damn you, Ward.”

“Seems he already has by sending you my way,” Ward said.

“And it’s good that He did. It’s over, Ward. Your time’s up.”

“Looks that way for both us, I’d say. Unless you’ve brought a pick along.”

Sanders pointed at the wall behind his back. “There’ll be a give somewhere. It’ll crack eventually.”

“I wouldn’t bank on it.” Ward pulled a tin of shag from out of his bedroll. He rolled a cigarette, struck a match on a rock and lit it, making a show of inhaling deeply and blowing the smoke out slowly towards the ceiling. He eyed Sanders. “Well. You know my name. Care to share yours?”

Sanders took a moment before answering.

“Sanders. Chief Inspector.”

“Royalty,” Ward said, flicking ash onto his leg and brushing it off with a hand. “You have a first name to go with that?”

“Chief Inspector is fine.”

Ward clasped the cigarette between his lips. He threw the tobacco tin across the fire. Followed it with the box of matches.

“Here,” he said. “No sense in us both being uncivil. There are papers in there too if you need them.”

The tin landed at Sanders’ feet. He looked down at it sitting there. Thought about handling something that had been touched by this man whose hands had been all over Rosie.

The craving won out. Sanders rolled, put light to his cigarette. He hadn’t realised how cold his hands were until he cupped them around the flame.

“So,” he said. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play games with me, Ward. She has a name. Rosie. Rose Elizabeth Dawson. Seventeen. Seventeen years old and you took advantage of her.”

“Lies.”

“You did, Ward. You took advantage of her, then you beat her within an inch of her life.”

“Lies. Whatever she’s told you, they’re all lies.”

Sanders told himself to keep control. It was essential he kept control.

He said, “She hasn’t been able to tell us anything, though, has she. But she will. Once you tell me where you’ve taken her.”

“Oh, no no,” Ward said. “You’re not pinning kidnapping on me, Sanders. If she’s done a bunk, it’s up to you to find her.”

“And I will. As soon as you tell me where she is.”

“Nice try, copper, but you can forget it. She’s right where I left her.”

“Where?”

“In her flat, where’d you think?”

“You’re going to tell me you took her. I’m going to take you back, and you’re going to pay for what you did to her.”

“You’ve already convicted me in your mind, haven’t you? Is it not enough I’m pulled in for every petty theft that goes on in town, you want to add kidnapping to the list as well? Then go on. But know this, Chief Inspector Sanders: everything you think you know is wrong.”

“You raped her. Then you beat her up to put the fear of God into her.”

“All you know is what she claims, and it comes together in your mind. Why? Because you see me. Dennis Ward. Thief. Vagrant. Drunk. So it must be true. Now here you are, righting wrong. Hurrah. I doff my cap, sir.”

Ward laughed, then groaned as the pain from his stomach reached his ribs.

Sanders said, “You’ve no remorse at all, have you?”

“Or no hope. No hope of anyone believing that a girl like Rosie could have seen something in me other than the man sat before you. That’s why I laugh, copper. It’s absurd really. I mean, what would you say if I was to tell you that she liked me, Damaged Dennis Ward. But let’s not stop there. What if I said she liked me enough to sleep with me. Want a child with me, even. What would you say then?”

“Psychopaths can be very persuasive.”

“Yeah,” Ward said. “So I’ve heard.”

“So, you’re trying to tell me that Rosie, someone good, someone honest and decent and pure would sink as low as to accuse you of rape to what . . . save face?”

“Yeah, frankly, I am. But that’s not to say she was overtly malicious in her actions. She may have said something to Kathy that got twisted around, bent out of shape, I don’t know.”

“That would be Kathy Price. The girl Rosie worked with at The King’s Head?”

Ward snorted. “That’s her. Kathy Price. The biggest gob in Yorkshire…”

“She reported the rape when Rosie couldn’t bring herself to.”

“Reported it. Wait, when was this?”

“Two days ago. The night you beat her. I followed up Kathy’s report with a home visit to Rosie, but she was gone. If only she’d reported it sooner, I might have been able to step in before you got to her.”

“Yeah. And whatever Rosie told her, I hope she’s regretting it now.”

“You’ve made sure of that, haven’t you, Ward?”

Ward cursed under his breath. He had met Kathy once or twice and in passing. She’d be there whenever he’d pick Rosie up at the end of her shift. Kathy never liked Ward, and when she’d found out that he and Rosie were seeing each other, she’d taken to whispering in Rosie’s ear behind the bar while Ward sat drinking an ale.

“She hurt me, Rosie did. She couldn’t tell the truth about us, and that hurt me a lot.”

“Thought you’d teach her a lesson, is that it?”

Ward shook his head. “No. I swear I didn’t.”

“Neighbours four doors away heard her screaming. Heard you shouting, calling her a bitch and a liar. They heard you, Ward. You were seen going into her house…”

“Yes, I did, but just to talk to her. To make her see sense. She was talking about having an abortion.”

“After you made her see sense, you took her, to make certain she didn’t go through with it.”

“I didn’t take her. I didn’t do any of those things that you or she or anybody else says. Sanders, you have to believe me.”

Sanders lunged, grabbing Ward by the collars and pulling his face close. Sanders’ voice came out a whisper, hissing into Ward’s ear.

“Don’t ever use my name again, do you understand?”

Ward’s eyes, watery and with the light making the tears dance, nodded.

“You’re lying,” Sanders said. “But that’s okay. Play your game a little while longer if that suits you. We’re very much alone here, Dennis.”

Sanders released his hold, noticing how Ward was shaking a little inside his clothes. His face had taken on a sickly pallor. Sanders stoked the dying fire and welcomed its warmth as it rushed up to meet his face. Took his place opposite Ward and began to roll another one of his captive’s cigarettes.

 

4.

ARD struggled to his feet, limped to a corner of the cave and urinated. He had the strange child-like notion that if he didn’t look at Sanders, then Sanders wouldn’t see him. 

Sanders’ voice at his back then, saying, “Tell me about Tommy Buchanan.”

Ward stared at the wall. An ant scuttled down its damp face. He sent it on its way with a trail of piss. 

He could feel Sanders’ eyes on him. They were burrowing into the back of his head, searching for a crack, waiting for something to give. Ward’s brain was tired, the blood loss making him woozy and confused to the point that even he was beginning to doubt himself. But he wouldn’t break. He’d stay solid, like the dirt wall that confined them both to this place.

He eased himself down by the fire. Looking into the flames with Sanders just about out of focus behind them, he could imagine himself being on trial in hell.

He said, “You’ve spoken to Tommy?”

“That’s right,” Sanders said. “Miss Price was very helpful. As well as reporting the rape, she also told me you were seen drinking with Tommy Buchanan on the night Rosie went missing.”

“Damn it,” Ward said. “I should never have gotten him involved.”

“Why not?” Sanders said. “I know if I wanted to scare someone, the first person I’d look to for the job would be Tommy Buchanan. The man is beyond reproach. It amazes me that he’s still walking the streets.”

“He’s clever, that’s why,” Ward said. “You should know that already.”

“Oh, I do. He’s a regular down at the station is Buchanan.”

“And what did he have to say about all this?”

“He denied ever being there, and for once I’m inclined to believe him. He’s a big bloke is Tommy. You think someone would have seen or heard him. You’re a loud mouth, Ward, but I’m not having it that Tommy managed to keep himself quiet through it all.”

 “Well, he did,” Ward said.

 “But that’s not all,” Sanders said. “We have a second witness. Another neighbour, who says he saw you come back.”

“What? When?”

“Before I turned up on the scene. I reckon I must have missed you by minutes. Seconds, even.”

“Well, whoever it is this neighbour says they saw, it wasn’t me. It must have been Tommy. That’s it. It must have been Tommy who took her.”

“No,” Sanders said. “He was with his mother at the time.”

Ward had to laugh at that. “That’s what he said, is it? Well, it must be true then, mustn’t it.”

“His mother confirmed his story.”

“Yeah, because she’s scared stiff of him, that’s why.”

 “So, everyone’s lying except for you, Ward, is that it? Rosie. Kathy. Tommy. The neighbours. And now Mrs Buchanan as well. Looks like the whole world’s against you, doesn’t it.”

“Look. I’ve told you. I went there to talk to her, that’s all. Tommy came along because he’s a nosy sod, and nothing more. But then, when she started shouting, he just lost it. He didn’t even say anything, he just hit her.”

“And you did what, just stood there? Let this girl who was carrying your baby get beaten to a pulp?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” Ward said. “I was shocked.”

“Because you thought she deserved it. You told me yourself how much she hurt you.”

“No! I wanted her to know that what she was planning to do was wrong, that was all. It’s just…it got out of hand. The whole thing got out of hand.”

Sanders jumped to his feet. Ward flinched, raising his hands in front of his face to protect himself from another onslaught.

“Because of you, Ward,” Sanders roared, his finger pointing down at him. “Can you not see that you’re the cause of all this? If you left her alone in the first place then none of this would be happening. Why didn’t you just leave her alone!”

For a second there, Ward expected Sanders to come at him again, and for the first time he felt fear at what this man could do to him. He’d been here before. Down at the station, being questioned for something he may or may not have had a hand in. And sometimes, even if he was innocent and the crime was so petty it would mean him spending a few nights in jail, he’d admit to it just to make them stop banging his head against a wall.

Sanders drew in a shaky breath. After what seemed like a very long time, he sat down. Looked to Ward like he’d found some kind of control. But for how long? Ward wasn’t sure if he could hold out much longer. Not as long as that wall there stood fast, that was for sure. He could feel his resolve draining away like the blood from his stomach.

“Your life is over now, Ward. You have nothing left to gain. I just want to hear you say it. Just admit that this, all of this, is your fault. Can you do that, at least?”

Slowly, Ward lowered his hands and met his captor’s eyes. They had regained some of their focus, no longer looking through him but at him, searching for something he could not give. And for the briefest of moments, Ward actually felt sorry for Sanders. He’d come out here in the hope of…what? Making a name for himself down at the station? Winning a personal crusade? Did he imagine himself as a lone avenger, a harbinger of justice?

No. He didn’t seem like the type to entertain such fanciful notions. Ward could tell that Sanders, carrying the air of authority that came with the stripes, was a man who took his position seriously. Perhaps his colleagues ribbed him for not turning a blind eye now and again while they took a slice of whatever was going on the black market. Maybe him coming out here alone was something he’d been forced into, lacking a fellow officer he could call a friend to accompany him. No, that didn’t add up either. A missing girl? They were probably searching for her elsewhere, just like they were searching for Ward. 

Yes, that was it. Sanders was here alone because they couldn’t spare the manpower. The thought that there were other policemen doing exactly as Sanders was doing relieved Ward of the nagging feeling that something was amiss.

“Maybe this is my fault,” he said. “Maybe you’re right and I should have left her alone. But she came to me. I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”

Sanders straightened up, his arms resting on his knees. “Go on.”

“She told me her mum died when she was very young. And then, when her father left for the war, she stayed with her aunt somewhere up Derbyshire way. Buxton. Or Bakewell. One of the Bs.”

“Her aunt?”

“Yeah. On her father’s side. She didn’t treat her very well by all accounts. Very strict. She didn’t like her going out, being a young girl and all. Maybe that explains why she got with me, eh? She probably did it just to annoy her aunt. Anyway, once her dad died . . .”

“In the war?”

“That’s right. Shot down. Missing presumed dead. When word got back, there was nobody left to make her stay. Her aunt had no hold over her, so she took a train to Doncaster. Said she came looking for work, but I always thought she was running from someone.”

“And she found you.”

Ward lowered his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “She was working in The King’s Head pulling pints when I met her. She was doing alright.”

“Until she met you.”

“Seems that way.”

The silence that followed caused Ward to look up. He hoped in vain Sanders had somehow vanished, that his admittance that he had led her down the path that brought Tommy Buchanan to her door was enough to send him away.

Sanders was still there.

“Then what?”

“Well. We got talking one night in the pub.”

“What about?”

“You know, chit chat. Films mostly. Chaplin. Laurel and Hardy. She liked comedies. I only really saw her laugh when we were at the pictures. They were never really my cup of tea. I always liked the westerns myself. My Darling Clementine, that was a good one. That’s what we were going to call our baby. Clementine. If it was a girl, of course.” Ward smiled at the memory. “But it was worth sitting through the funnies just to see her laugh. I used to spend half the film watching her. The way the light flickered on her face made me think it should have been her up there on the screen.”

Sanders said, “She was very pretty, wasn’t she.”

The comment caught Ward momentarily off guard, but he was no fool. He’d seen this trick before. Soften the suspect by making him think they shared something. He didn’t bite, just welcomed the small victory in knowing that he had one over on Sanders. He had been inside Rosie. He had touched her skin, smelled her hair after she’d bathed. All Sanders had was an impression of how she might have looked before Tommy got to her. Before Ward got to her.

“Jesus,” he said. “I wish I’d never met her.” Roughly, Ward wiped a tear away with the heel of his hand. “For Christ’s sake, give me a cigarette, would you?”

Sanders hesitated before tossing the tin and the matchbox across the fire. Ward started to roll. His hands shook through fatigue, blood loss. Maybe even fear for where his soul was headed. He sealed the cigarette loosely with a tongue turned dry. Brought up some spit and wet his thumb to collect the flakes of tobacco he’d spilled onto his trousers. He brushed his finger against his thumb and the flakes dropped into the tin. He struck a match on a thumbnail and inhaled deeply. The sweet tobacco smoke mingled with the smoke from the fire, causing him to cough.

“Better?” Sanders asked.

Ward drank water from his canteen. “Better,” he said.

“Then continue.”

“Well,” Ward said, “The more we stepped out together, the more I began to fall for her. She clung on to me. It wasn’t long before she told me that she loved me. And that was the best feeling. Nothing compares to that.”

Ward pulled on his cigarette, exhaled a thin stream of smoke and smiled. To Sanders it looked almost postcoital. Then the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he said, “On the other hand, it was like she was a bit embarrassed to be seen with me. If someone came into the pub who she knew, she’d busy herself so as not to spend too much time talking to me. Most people in town know who I am, and word was bound to get back to Rosie about me being a thief and a draft dodger. Not that I ever made any bones about how I’d turned out.”

A crack of thunder then, louder than before, closely followed by the sound of rain washing against the mud wall. Ward felt the temperature drop, and from the looks of it, so did Sanders, pulling the collars up around his throat and hunching his shoulders. He thought about offering Sanders a tot of brandy, but dismissed the idea. Even if it meant him going without for now, he’d let Sanders ask him first, like he had to ask for his own damn cigarettes.

“When we were alone was when I was happiest,” Ward said. “Away from the snide remarks.”

“And this was mostly at her flat, or yours?”

“Hers. I didn’t want her seeing where I stayed. It’s a bit of a dump. And besides, I didn’t want Tommy or any of his kind coming round while she was there.”

“But she met him anyway, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Ward said. “She did.”

“He made quite an impression. Did you feel proud, knowing that you were the one who brought them together?”

Ward didn’t respond. He watched Sanders unscrewing the cap on his canteen and taking a drink, all the while keeping his eyes on Ward.

“So how long before she told you she was pregnant?”

Ward sighed. “We’d been seeing each other for about four months, that was all.”

“Were you happy when she told you?”

“Of course I was. It was a chance to show everyone that I could be just like them, with a family, a job, a purpose in life . . .”

Ward trailed off. He dragged on the last of his cigarette and flicked the dog end into the fire.

“Then it all changed. She started to ignore me. Said she’d made a mistake and needed to think about things. The next thing I know, Bill, that’s the landlord, told me I needed to start drinking somewhere else. The King’s Head wasn’t open to me anymore. Said there’d been talk about me.”

“From Rosie?”

“Kathy Price, but, yeah, of course it came from Rosie.”

“What kind of talk?”

The next words felt like bile coming up from out of Ward’s stomach.

“Talk about rape.”

“It seems to me,” Sanders said, “that Rosie was a decent person. I can’t believe she’d be so malicious as to create such a serious accusation against you. That is, if your stories about cosy bedtime reading and trips to the pictures are true.”

“Well, they are, and she was. I stopped by her flat to ask why she’d say such things, but she was never home. I’d wait outside the pub for when she finished work, but Bill would come out first and threaten to do me in if I didn’t move on.”

“And the night she was home, the night you caught up with her. What then?”

“Well, one night I was having a drink with Tommy in The Dog. We’d been going at it pretty hard and he started goading me. Telling me that he’d seen Rosie stepping out with other men, laughing at me, stuff like that. And that if that was his baby she was carrying, he wouldn’t stand for it. I didn’t believe him, of course. I would have heard if she was putting it about. He was just trying to get my goat, see what I’d do.”

“So you decided to pay her a visit.”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

Ward tried again to shift his weight, find a position that would alleviate the pain. It was no good. Whichever way he lay brought fresh agony. He grunted. Said, “I’m tired.”

“I want to hear this before you pass out on me.”

Ward thought he saw a prick of light in the wall above Sanders’ head. At first, he put it down to his vision becoming impaired because of the pain, but when a roll of thunder passed over the cave, he knew it must have been lightning. There was a hole in the wall that wasn’t there before. It was small, but it was there. Something had to give. He only hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

Ward dragged the memory of the night up from the pit he’d tried to bury it in. It crawled up out of his subconscious like something alien. A monster trying to find purchase in his brain, claws digging into the soft tissue before resting on his shoulder, urging him to tell all.

“When we got to her flat, I knocked on her door while Tommy went around the back. I knew she wouldn’t answer. It was just a distraction while Tommy jimmied the bathroom window. We’d done enough burglaries together, it was second nature to him. Anyway, he got in and the sight of him coming out of the bathroom sent her fleeing to the front door.”

“Where she found you.”

“Right. She looked scared, so I told her not to be. And then Tommy came up behind her and pulled her back into the flat.”

Ward tried to swallow but couldn’t find saliva enough for it not to hurt. With a shaking hand, he reached for the brandy. It felt warm and good going down. So good, in fact that the urge to share the feeling overcame him and he held the flask up to Sanders.

Sanders shook his head.

“What happened then?”

“I followed them in and closed the door behind me. She started to shout at us. Told us to leave or she’d scream. So, I told her not to do that, that I just wanted to talk, but she wouldn’t shut up. She said she was going to have an abortion and that it was all a big mistake. And I . . . I lost control. I grabbed her by the shoulders, but not to scare her, you understand. I just wanted her to see me. I asked why she’d spread such horrible lies about me, but she couldn’t give me a straight answer. She tried to blame it on Kathy, saying that she’d only told her how I forced her into it. I called her a liar and a bitch and she started to cry. But she never said she was sorry for what she’d done. Only that it was a mistake. Over and over, she kept saying it was all a mistake.” 

Ward placed his head in his hands. “It was hopeless. I said to Tommy that we’d better go.”

“Don’t stop,” Sanders said. “Keep going.”

Ward pulled his head from out of his hands. It felt like his head had been filled with wet sand, and it took every ounce of strength he had to raise it level again.

“That was when he hit her. Open handed and hard enough to shock her into silence. When she opened her mouth to scream, he punched her. Caught her in the ear and she went down.”

Sanders drew a breath in through his nose, long and slow. He let it out as he asked Ward what he did next.

“I went to get up, but he pulled out a knife, told me to stay put. Then he knelt down beside her and held the knife to her eye. Said he was going to blind her because she was evil like all the rest. And I froze. I couldn’t move out of my spot. He was holding that knife on her, and all I could do was sit there useless.”

“You didn’t try to stop him?”

“I pleaded with him to put the knife down, and he looked at me with this strange smile on his face. He put the knife on the floor and straddled her. And then he started hitting her again. Hard but slow. Methodical, like.”

“Methodically,” Sanders said, the very word itself like a shard of glass carving an image into his brain, “and still you did nothing.”

“No,” Ward said. “I did nothing. What I should have done was rush him. Tried for the knife. Anything.”

“Because you wanted it,” Sanders said. “You wanted to see her suffer.”

“No. That’s why I ran out of there.”

“And you didn’t think to alert a policeman? To go back and save this woman who was carrying the child you claim was so precious to you?”

“No,” Ward said, the shame consuming him now, making him want to confess to taking her because at least that way he could have said, “Yes, I did! I went back and I got her out of there!” Instead, he said weakly, “I panicked. I thought I’d get done for it, so I ran.”

“Ran where?”

“Home. I packed a bag and caught a lift off a bloke carrying sheep in a van and I dropped off here.”

“Except there’s a gap that needs to be filled in. The neighbour said he saw somebody come back and enter the flat again from the front. That’d be around the time Kathy was talking to me. But still, you’d already taken her, hadn’t you. I was too late.”

In that moment, things began to clear in Ward’s mind. Sanders was here because he felt guilty for not catching Ward in time. If he’d caught him trying to remove Rosie from the flat, he could have collared him and taken her to a hospital.

“So, you claim that you ran,” Sanders continued. “That much I’ll give you because I think you’re a coward. But I also think that you came back to kidnap her and cover your tracks. You said yourself you didn’t think anyone would believe you didn’t have a hand in it.”

“No, I didn’t. It must have been someone else. Tommy, or . . . I don’t know!”

“Oh, come off it, Ward,” Sanders said. “You panicked and you went back for her so that she couldn’t tell anyone how you beat her half to death. Her injuries were some of the worst . . .” Sanders shook his head and shivered.

Lightning struck again, lighting up the cave this time. Sanders spun round to see the hole, larger than before, but too high to get a hold of. He turned back to Ward, said, “It just might come down after all.”

And did Ward detect a note of desperation there? Was Sanders wanting that confession before whomever found them could take Ward away from him and get to the real truth? But what was the truth in all this, and where in God’s name was Rosie?

“Just might,” Ward said. “Might be that it all comes tumbling down.”

 

5.

T wasn’t until the first pricks of morning light began to show through the hole that Ward realised how long they’d been cooked up together. At intervals he’d dozed off, and whenever he jerked back out of sleep, he’d see Sanders sitting there, staring at him. Sometimes, it took him a minute to realise he was awake again, Sanders looming over him in his sleep while others drifted in and out of the dark spaces behind him. Tommy, grinning and cocking a wink as he passed by. Rosie, her face mutilated, smiling through broken blood stained teeth. Others, too. Faces from the streets. Barrow boys. Drunks. Spivs. The women who turned their heads so as not to catch his eye. The men who condemned him as a coward and a cripple for not fighting in a war that had taken their sons and brothers. And always Sanders, standing front and centre, waiting for him to confess.

Sanders said, “You’re awake, then.”

He’d been observing Ward for the past two hours. Watching the rise and fall of his stomach as he breathed, the spastic jerks as he mumbled in his sleep. He’d been trying to pick out anything that might hang him. But all he got from Ward was a jumble of words that collided with each other incoherently.

Ward raised himself on an elbow and reached for his canteen.

“I think dawn’s broke,” he said. “And the storm. I can’t hear the storm anymore.”

“It died out an hour ago. It’s still raining though. Not as hard as before, but it’s still coming down.”

Sanders worked a crick out of his neck, rolling his shoulders with his hands pressed against the small of his back. He took a piece of folded paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. Came around the fire to Ward’s side, rested on his haunches and unfolded it so Ward could better see what was written on the inside.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “If you won’t confess verbally, then you’ll have to put it down on paper instead.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I could tell a magistrate you confessed and he’d believe me, but if I’m being honest, there’s a chance you won’t survive this. I thought you’d died in your sleep a couple of times. It will make it a lot easier for myself if I could show them a signed confession.”

“You’re insane,” Ward said. “I can’t sign that. And even if I did, it would be under duress. I’d tell them you forced me into it.”

“Not if you were dead. Don’t worry, I’ll tell them you signed to clear your conscience so you could meet your maker knowing you did the right thing.”

“No,” Ward said. “Why would I do that? Then they’d never find her, would they.”

“We’ll find her,” Sanders said. “Wherever she is, she’s already dead, I’m sure of that now. That’s why you won’t say anything. She's been left somewhere in a shallow grave. And I can tell them that you, Dennis Ward, told me where she is so that she could, at least, have a decent burial.” 

Sanders took Ward by the wrist and placed the piece of paper in his hand. He took a pencil from his pocket, licked the nib and placed it in Ward’s lap. “Now sign,” he said, and walked back to his side of the fire.

Ward read what was written on the paper. Written by hand. Not typed in an office somewhere back in civilisation. In fact, not official at all. It looked like a prop from a children’s game of cops and robbers.

“What the hell is this?” he said. “Did you write this while I was sleeping?”

“That’s right,” Sanders said. “But it’ll still stand, I’m sure.”

“You don’t sound sure. It sounds to me like the last act of a desperate man.” He cleared his throat. “‘I, Dennis Ward, do confess to the abduction and murder of Rose Elizabeth Dawson, whose body can be found where I left her. Signed’ Dot. Dot. Dot.” Ward screwed up the paper into a ball. “This is a joke, right?”

“You throw that into the fire and you’ll regret it,” Sanders said.

“How? You planning on torturing me now, is that it?”

“It never crossed my mind,” Sanders said. “I think you’re going to die anyway. I just need to secure your confession before you do.”

“Even though I’m innocent.”

“None of us are wholly innocent. And even if you are, someone has to pay for whatever’s happened to Rosie. Might as well be you.”

Ward paused with the paper in his hand. He dropped it down by his side.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said. “Someone will be along soon enough now the storm’s died down. They’ll be looking for you, for the guides. Someone will come.”

“I doubt it,” Sanders said.

The words hung in the air like a gull caught in an updraft. Cautiously, Ward asked him what he meant by that. Sanders said nothing. He just sat staring. Ward felt a chill crawl up his spine and the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

“If I sign this, I’m a dead man. You’ll kill me, won’t you?”

Sanders continued staring and saying nothing, as though he was sculpted from marble.

Ward said, “Why doubt anyone will come?”

Sanders shrugged. “Because maybe it’ll take a while for them to catch up with me. Maybe they don’t think you’re worth the manpower. Who knows. I’ve long given up trying to understand the law I’m appointed to uphold.”

“So you’re rogue? What, you thought I’d get off with it, is that it?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes. You did, didn’t you. Because you know I’m innocent, but you couldn’t pin anything on Tommy. You keep saying how I should be held accountable for setting the wheels in motion and that I should confess to taking her. But something’s wrong.”

Ward shut his eyes tight and tried to pick out things that Sanders had said. Even with his eyes closed, it was hard to concentrate. Shadows and spots seemed to swirl and dance behind his eyelids. And then, from out of the blue, Ward found the thing he was looking for nestling in a corner of his skull. He opened his eyes and was surprised to find that Sanders wasn’t looking at him anymore. He had his eyes fixed on a point above his head, his lips moving. In the still, Ward could hear him whispering a prayer. Was he asking for forgiveness for something he’d done? Or was it the strength to carry out something he was about to do?

Ward said, “You mentioned before how pretty Rosie was. That she was a pretty girl.”

Sanders stopped praying. His eyes rolled down to meet Ward’s.

His voice came from somewhere far away. “Yes.”

“You saw her then?”

“Of course I saw her.”

“Yeah, but only in photographs, right? Or by description.”

Sanders took a moment to answer. “Both.”

“But before you said something about . . . about her injuries. That they were some of the worst. Some of the worst what, Sanders? That you’d seen?”

“I thought I told you never to speak my name.”

Ward fought the fear and continued.

“Well, how would you know?” he said. “You haven’t seen her injuries. You got there too late. You said so yourself. She was gone when you got there. So how would you know?”

“You must have told me. In your condition, your memory’s probably gotten a bit muddled.”

“No, I didn’t. I said Tommy hit her. But I didn’t say anything about how she looked.”

“You didn’t need to,” Sanders said, his voice raising to a shout. “It doesn’t take much to imagine how much damage somebody of Tommy’s size could inflict on someone so slight.” Quietly, he added, “And so innocent.”

So that was it, Ward thought. This was a revenge mission. Sanders was here to revenge Rosie. But that still didn’t explain who had taken her or where.

“You knew her, didn’t you?” he said.

Mirroring Ward’s pose of supplication when he first found him, Sanders held out his hands. He brought them together and clapped.

“You’ve got me,” he said.

Ward didn’t know how to feel. Elated that his innocence was at last to be believed. Or the dread of finding out what had really happened. Fearing the answers, he didn’t dare speak. After what seemed like an eternity, Sanders broke the silence.

“You want to know how I found you, Ward? She told me. About how you brought her here on the train. How you’d drink in The Oak then head out onto the moors. They remembered you. The guides, I mean. They remembered you boasting about how you’d hide away in a cave whenever the police came looking for you. That you were thinking about taking Rosie up here. My Rosie. To do whatever you could with her in the same place you chose as your stinking hideout.”

Ward felt his head getting lighter. His nerves fluttered on an empty stomach, causing him to dry heave into the dirt by his side.

“What’s the matter, Ward?” Sanders said. “Has something upset you?”

“I don’t understand,” Ward said, feeling for his canteen. His mouth had become incredibly dry and bitter tasting.

“Allow me to elaborate,” Sanders said. “And then, after I give you this,” he held up Ward’s canteen, “we can talk more about you signing that confession.”

Sanders took Ward’s flask of brandy from out of his pocket and had a long pull. He winced at the taste before having another.

“I suppose you’ve a right to know before I kill you. I suppose I owe you that much seeing as it’s you who’s going to be found guilty of killing her.” Sanders held the flask upright over his open mouth and let the last drops of brandy burn his tongue. “I’m not going to pretend this is going to be easy for you to hear, Ward. But believe me, it’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to tell.”

Ward made to move, though he knew not where. The pain was excruciating and he fell back onto his bedroll.

“You see,” Sanders said, “when Rosie’s father didn’t come back from the war, she was left open to all kinds of scum. Like you, Ward. Her aunt, God bless her, did all she could for her. But she wasn’t strong enough.”

“You knew her aunt?”

“I met her. A fine woman. But it was Rosie’s father I knew best. James Dawson. We served together, he and I. Became brothers in a sense, like men often do when they’re tasked with protecting each other’s lives.”

 Ward wanted to say something, but his throat felt like it was filled with salt. The pain in his stomach had become a dull, persistent throb to match the one in his head. But he couldn’t die. Not yet. Not before he knew the truth about what had happened to his beloved Rosie.

“Being a widower, Jim struggled to raise Rosie, but he was doing a fine job until war broke out. He told me how difficult it was for him to part with her. She was only fifteen at the time. Entering womanhood and in need of a woman’s guiding hand. When he started receiving letters from his sister complaining about how Rosie took to disappearing for nights on end, he knew if he didn’t make it back he’d need someone to look out for her. You can never imagine what it is to feel proud, Ward, so I don’t expect you’ll understand.”

Ward opened his mouth to speak, but all that came was a faint whistling sound as his breath leaked feebly from out of his throat. Sanders held up a hand.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “You’ve talked enough.” Sanders took a drink of water. It felt cool after the brandy. “When I came back home,” he said, “I had one priority. From the letters and photographs Jim shared with me I saw a beautiful young girl, and I have to admit I couldn’t wait to meet her. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived at her aunt’s house to find her gone. So, I followed her to Doncaster, and signed up for the police force. I always liked the idea of being a policeman ever since I was a little boy. And I did well at it. Climbed the ranks. Earned the respect I felt was due to me.”

“And Rosie,” Ward said. “What about her?”

“Well, that was a disappointment. I offered her a home, stability. Love, even. She rejected me. I only ever wanted to keep her safe, that was all. Have her stay with me. I mean, is that such a bad thing?”

“No. No, of course it isn’t.”

“It isn’t. Even someone as low as you can understand that. But she said I wasn’t her father, that I had no right. But I never wanted to be her father.” Sanders dug a hole into the dirt with his boot, working the heel in short stabs. “She rejected the love and the roof I offered her. Then you came along. And she used you, Ward. She used you to get at me.”

“No.”

“Yes, Ward. She did. She started to see you because you were the most undesirable cretin that she could think of. You know, I’d see you sometimes. Walking down the street together, coming out of the pictures. Going into her flat. And it took all my might to keep away. I prayed that she’d see sense and, I suppose she did in the end. But it was too late then, wasn’t it? She was already carrying your left-over.”

Through laboured breath, Ward said, “You followed us.”

“Sometimes.”

“That’s why she clung onto me. It was you she was scared of.”

Sanders’ demeanour had gone from one of authority to that of a voyeur caught spying through a peep hole. Defiantly, he met Ward’s eyes and smiled.

“Oh, Christ,” Ward said. “Sanders . . . Chief Inspector . . . You need help.”

“I’ve got everything I need right here in front of me. You, Ward. At death’s door. That’s all I need.”

“Where is she?” Ward said.

“In a better place, I hope.”

“And that night, did you take her?”

“I had to. When Miss Price came to me, with her talk about rape and Tommy, I had to get to her. And I found her. She was just lying there and her face was a….a pulp… God.”

“So, why didn’t you help her? Take her to a hospital?”

“Why? So they could save that thing inside of her?”

Sanders delivered his confession like he was writing a report. There was no emotion in his words. No regret. Just a matter-of-factness that what he had done was right in his mind.

Ward retched. Tasted the iron blood on his tongue and spat into the dirt.

“That thing was my child, you bastard!”

“Exactly why I couldn’t let it live,” Sanders said. “Though I didn’t know it at the time, I was only carrying out Rosie’s wishes, and I’ve you to thank for telling me she wanted it aborted. It was easy to walk out of there with her. I took her to a place I knew, a doctor of sorts who performed certain tasks illegally. He was known to me. You’re all known to me, Ward. And after he’d done what I asked, he looked after her, nursed her. In the meantime, I helped coerce the neighbour into believing it was you he saw going back into the flat. It was dark outside. He was elderly. It was all so bloody easy, Ward.”

The sobs wracked Ward’s body, each jerk of his abdomen bringing pain unimaginable. The blood came thick, coating his tongue and clogging in his throat. Through the mess, he said, “You had no right.”

“We had every right!” Sanders bellowed, jumping to his feet. “It’s your fault she’s dead! You killed her! Or as good as killed her anyway! Just like you might as well have beaten her yourself, instead of Tommy!”

“She’s dead?”

Sanders slumped to the ground, landing heavily on his backside.

“What do you think?” he said. “Yes, she’s dead. The procedure, it was…complicated.”

“Complicated.” Ward coughed violently. His vision blurred but still Sanders remained as sharp in his mind as an age-old regret. “The body,” he said. “What have you done with her?”

“She’s somewhere. Somewhere she’ll be found easy enough. Somewhere I’ll claim you led me to. Thank you, Ward. Thanks for your help.” 

The last words faded as Ward felt himself slipping away. The light through the wall grew brighter as his eyelids grew heavier, until there was nothing but light to overcome the dark.

Sanders watched him die, as indifferent to his prey as that of a fox with a rabbit clamped between its jaws. He thought he saw something emanate from Ward and drift up towards the ceiling, but knew it could only be a combination of the light and fatigue playing tricks on him. Someone like Ward would be bereft of a soul.

He was thinking these things as the first steps approached from outside, voices that could only have belonged to the police who warned him not to do anything he’d later regret.