Ribblestrop Forever! (29 page)

‘It will be your death,’ said Mr Ian. ‘Hopefully.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘Yours and theirs together. Now will you excuse me?’

Doctor Ellie looked into Mr Ian’s eyes and for a moment there was silence between them.

‘I made a mistake,’ said Doctor Ellie. ‘I thought I could communicate with you. And I was wrong.’

Gary Cuthbertson had arrived.

He was sitting in a small, steamed up-car, about two hundred metres from the car park. He’d found a lay-by and was waiting for instructions from his brother, for both men were as corrupt
and violent as each other. They’d been sacked at the same time, too, so revenge was an extra bond between them.

‘Ready to go, Darren?’ he said. ‘Ready to get him, are we?’

‘We’re ready,’ said Darren.

‘What about you, Gordon?’

He was talking to two of his former football team – bitter young men who had also been excluded from the High School. Darren had been the promising striker, until young Imagio had
humiliated him. Gordon, his friend, had spent most of his sixteen years stealing, cheating and causing pain.

‘If you want him dead,’ said Gordon, ‘why don’t you do him yourself? Why are
we
taking the risks?’

‘And where’s the money?’ said Darren.

Gary Cuthbertson smiled at them both.

‘That’s really not the attitude, lads,’ he said. ‘You were keen enough last night and we discussed the financial rewards very carefully.’

‘He’s a big bloke,’ said Darren. ‘Captain Routon’s ex-army – he’s not going to go down easy.’

‘He’s a stupid bloke as well, lads. And he’s not expecting an attack. You surprise him, hit him hard, and if it’s in the right place—’

‘What if he recognises us?’

‘He won’t. You’ll have your hoods up, your faces covered. You’re just a pair of hikers, walking the moor. It’s a chance encounter.’

He pulled out an envelope of banknotes and waved it.

‘Routon has no idea we’re here, Darren. That’s why it’s easy. He’s going to be out there on the rocks, keeping an eye on things. When the kids go off, Ian’ll
send him to a nice, high place to keep watch.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s what the balloon’s there for. Foxy’s going to tell us. Routon’s wearing a bright red coat – he’s unmistakable. So all you do is get behind him
and whack him.’

The boys nodded.

‘Whack him with what?’ said Gordon.

‘You shove him off the cliff, lad,’ said Gary Cuthbertson. ‘You give him a great big High School farewell. Hit him, if you want. But get the idiot out of the game – get
him down and chuck a rock on his head. What I’m giving you now is just the deposit.’

‘When do we do it?’

Gary’s phone was ringing. ‘That might be the news we’re waiting for.’

He clicked his phone open. ‘Mr Ian?’ he said. ‘Do we have lift-off?’

‘Yes,’ said a tinny voice. ‘Are you in position?’

‘I am, lad. With two very capable and enthusiastic young murderers.’

‘Everything’s ready. The children are moving out now. I’ve told Routon to get as high as he can. Foxy’s checked in and he’ll call you himself with an exact
location.’

‘We’ll be ready.’

Meanwhile, at the camp, there was a final round of hugs and handshakes.

The co-ordinates had been received and checked, and the routes were being plotted. Some of the teams would be heading in the same direction at first, so the teachers organised time delays to
avoid congestion. Captain Routon blew his whistle and Sam’s team set off first – Sam, Henry, Caspar, Oli and Ruskin. They were so proud to be leading that they moved out of the camp at
a swift jog and disappeared round the flank of Flashing Tor, their backpacks juddering up and down. The first Priory team went second and then Asilah moved out with most of the orphans. Fifteen
minutes later Millie’s group set off and then Mr Ian’s second team, who turned off sharp right and plunged down into the valley depths. After a long fifteen minutes, the final groups
were released and the camp suddenly seemed horribly empty.

‘It’s a question of waiting now,’ said the headmaster. ‘I have to say I feel rather tense.’

‘They’ll be all right, sir,’ said Routon. ‘Have they let us down yet? Ever?’

‘They know what they’re doing. I just hope the weather holds.’

‘It doesn’t seem to trouble that balloonist,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘What a view he must have.’

‘I’ve always wanted to go up in one of them,’ said the headmaster, dreamily. ‘It was one of the things I wanted to do before I was sixty.’

‘That’s next week, isn’t it, Giles? You’re going to have to get your finger out.’

‘I’m going to take a wander,’ said Mr Ian.

The teachers looked at him.

‘I want to get up high, where I can see the teams. Routon, you go up Flashing Tor. I’ll take the path up to Hangman’s Drop.’

‘Right-o.’

‘I’d go up to the top, if I were you.’

‘You don’t mind me keeping the binoculars?’

‘Not at all. There’s a plug of rock at the summit – you’ll see everything if you stand on top of it.’

Doctor Ellie stood up. ‘I’m going to go for a stroll in the woods. There’s one of the oldest oak woods round here, you know. One of the flare paths cuts right through
it.’

‘Routon,’ said Mr Ian. ‘Can I keep this coat on? Mine’s ruined.’

‘Course you can, sir. That’s a shooting-range coat, that is – visible for miles. If you got shot in one of them, you knew it was on purpose.’

Mr Ian managed a laugh. ‘I’ll see you all later,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back here and get a weather update.’

The red figure seemed tiny from above.

Timmy Fox could see him easily, just with the naked eye – he was a little speck inching along a footpath. He’d let the balloon drift into the centre of the valley and could see most
of the children in their different groups. The Sanchez group was the one he’d been told not to lose and they were already way out in front.

He got the red coat in his sights again and radioed ex-Inspector Cuthbertson.

‘Foxter, here. The children are moving and our subject’s all on his own.’

‘Where’s he heading?’

‘North-north west and climbing. Hangman’s Drop, I’d say – I’ve got it on the map.’

‘I’ll call Gary. He should be moving.’

‘There’s a nice shortcut through the woods – cut him off nicely. He’s got twenty minutes, I’d say.’

‘I want to know when he’s up on a ridge, all right?’

‘I’ll keep you posted.’

Cuthbertson cut the radio link and took out his phone. His brother answered at once.

‘Percy.’

‘Gary. Just had word from on-high. Routon’s moving.’

‘We’re ready.’

‘Hangman’s Drop – you got it?’

‘We’ll find it. What about the kids?’

‘They’re all on the moor, Ian’s just checked in. He’s going to round his up before lunch and pull back. The Ribblestrop lot are heading straight for the storm and the
Sanchez group are on their way.’

‘Lightning Tor?’

‘Lightning Tor tomorrow.’

‘Good. We’ll sort Routon – get that job out the way.’

‘Hit him hard, Gary. Don’t take chances.’

Back at the museum, Vicky Stockinger was putting on thin rubber gloves.

She would have preferred to work with Doctor Ellie, but everything was happening so quickly now – she could feel a terrible sense of urgency. Only that morning she’d received a
letter from Ribblestrop District Council, confirming that their modest grant was to be withdrawn at the next round of budget cuts. That would mean a deficit and that would mean the collection would
be divided and re-housed.

Eleudin had to be moved – at once.

She unlocked the side panel of his case and folded it down.

The child lay back on the pot that supported him, exposed to the world and its harsh, corrosive air. She allowed herself one photograph, then set the camera aside to get on with the important
job. She had bandages, impregnated with Egyptian spices. She had moulded them together into pads and they were moist and thick as cream. She was tempted to dust the bones, but she was terrified
he’d crumble into nothing. The restorers had wired him together, years ago, and he had been sprayed with a chemical that had, over time, turned brown-yellow. The little skull looked like
paper – there was something so bird-like about him, so delicate.

She unfolded a mat. With trembling fingers, she took the ribcage. She supported the head and laid him on his side, folding the little arms. The pelvic bones were no longer attached, so she
positioned them afterwards, and set the legs carefully against the chest, so he was hugging himself. The gold around wrists and ankles gleamed under the lamp. He did look peaceful. He wasn’t
sleeping, he was meditating, patiently, but it seemed so wrong that he could no longer see the stars and meteors he’d known through the centuries. She lay bandages over him, gently swaddling
the body, wrapping so that the paste cooled and preserved him. When it came to the little face, she arranged the padding so he could just peep through a gap, and then she lay the largest part of
the pottery on top.

She paused.

There were so many cases, and so many tiny treasures. She took her keys again and unlocked one after another. She took out coins and a hair-grip. She took out a ring and a necklace, and then she
took the discs they’d once thought were playing cards. She lay all the treasures around him. Then she did her best to place the other sections of the pot so he was properly encased. More
bandages followed, and soon she was looking down on a huge white cocoon. She had a box ready – one of the re-enforced plastic kind they always used for moving treasures. She packed foam and
polystyrene into every gap and sealed the lid. That was when she heard the footstep, and stifled a gasp of fear.

There was somebody in the museum, on the floorboards above – and whoever it was, was moving quietly.

A board creaked and there was a footfall on the stair. She saw a black shoe and, above that, a dark trouserleg. The shoe was shiny and she knew at once that it was a policeman.

‘Miss Stockinger?’ said a voice. ‘Are you in the basement?’

Vicky didn’t trust herself to speak.

The foot was joined by its twin and, with a creak of timbers, they climbed down the final steps. It was a man, with three stripes on his arm. He had a lean, boxer’s face and a shaved head.
His eyes swept round the open cases and came to rest on Vicky’s hands.

‘Having a clear up?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Vicky.

‘The door was open. You are open, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wouldn’t think so. No lights on upstairs.’

Vicky licked her lips. ‘I just wanted to . . . get this little job done.’

‘What little job?’

‘We’re closing. Some of these things . . . the more valuable . . . are moving to London.’

‘Where’s Ellie Mold today? Is she with you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘No.’

‘Does she carry a phone?’

‘No, I don’t think the does.’

The officer was silent. His eyes were raking over the cases again. He turned and stared at some photographs.

‘Is she all right?’ said Vicky. ‘You want to . . . speak with her, do you?’

‘We need a little chat. You had the Ribblestrop children here, didn’t you? Last . . . Tuesday.’

‘Yes. We did.’

‘Were their teachers with them?’

‘No. I think . . . maybe one of them was. There’s a teacher called Doonan. I think he was looking after them.’

‘They’ve gone awol, Vicky. Absent without leave.’

‘Who have? The children, or—’

‘All of them. Every man, bird and beast.’

There were footsteps on the boards overhead again. Vicky’s eyes flicked upwards.

‘That’ll be Deidre,’ said the policeman. ‘Child Protection. So where would those Ribblestrop children and teachers be, Vicky? Where would you go looking for them, if you
were keen to track them down?’

‘Well, . . . at school, I presume.’

‘I just told you, my dear. We made a visit there yesterday morning and they’ve flown the nest.’

‘Then . . . I don’t know.’

The second police officer was coming down the steps. She appeared to be limping, slightly. When she emerged into the light Vicky could see that her face was a mass of boils and swellings. The
right eye was heavily bruised.

‘Where are they?’ she said. The woman’s voice rasped, as if her throat was damaged.

Vicky tried to reply, but couldn’t find any words.

‘How does a school disappear?’ said the policeman. ‘Where could they have gone, do you think?’

Vicky managed to speak. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but if you want to leave a number, I’ll get back to you if I hear anything.’

A child laughed and both officers swung round. There was a footstep again, light but unmistakable. A puff of dust burst from the ceiling, as if the foot had stamped on the bare boards and
dislodged it. The sound came again, but this time it was behind Vicky, in the corner of the room.

‘Who’s that?’ said Deidre.

‘Nobody,’ said Vicky.

The officers looked at each other, frozen.

‘I’ll check upstairs,’ said the policeman quietly. He was about to move when the lights went out. They were plunged into total darkness and there was a scurrying of feet. The
police officers cursed. One of them took a step and tripped.

‘Where are the light switches?’ cried the woman. She was fumbling in her bag.

‘It’s the fuse box,’ said Vicky. ‘It’s always—’

‘Oh my word . . . Stay where you are . . .’

Deidre found her phone and seconds later she had the flashlight on. The thin light cast dramatic shadows, lining the room in black bars that swung and shifted as she turned. They made their way
quickly up the stairs. The museum was still and empty, and the only footsteps were their own.

‘What is this?’ whispered the policeman. ‘Where the hell did all this come from?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Vicky, looking where he was looking. Her voice was shaking.

‘How can you not know? Have you got the children here?’

‘No! I don’t know where they’re from. They . . .’