Roz Watkins - Cut to the Bone

Above us I could see the black speck of the drone hovering like a mutant insect, while in the distance smoke was still rising from the wildfire. Together they induced a sense of end-of-the-world doom. Plagues and fires and all that good stuff. But I was lacking my usual big-case emotions – a mix of excitement and terror akin to what Eddie the Eagle must have felt standing at the top of the ninety-metre ski jump. So far all I felt was the crushing weight of responsibility and a dose of low-level depression.

‘Why come to Gritton and work in an abattoir?’ I said. ‘A beautiful young woman, who must be well-off, yet she’s cleaning up pigs’ guts in a backwater village.’

‘It is weird.’

‘Anna Finchley said she thought Violet had come to Gritton for another reason and the job was an excuse. We need to know that reason.’

‘Did you talk to the brother?’ Jai asked. ‘Gary, was it?’

‘Yeah. And that’s another odd set-up. I got the impression he can’t stand this place and he and his sister hate each other. It’s all simmering under the surface.’

‘It’d be more than simmering if I had to work with my sister.’

‘Ha, I’m sure.’

I wished I could have had the chance to simmer about my sister.

‘Sorry,’ Jai said. ‘That was insensitive.’

‘It’s fine. She died twenty-five years ago. You don’t need to be sensitive. In fact, I’d worry about you if you started being sensitive.’

A mile later, we came to a sign: Welcome to Gritton. Please drive carefully.

I pulled around a steep bend and looked at the road ahead. A flush of adrenaline hit my stomach and I slammed on the brakes.

‘Bloody hell,’ Jai said. ‘What’s that?’

In front of us, the road seemed to have collapsed into a spectacular sinkhole, but as I looked more closely, I could see it was in fact an image painted onto the road. ‘Wow,’ I said, allowing the car to crawl towards the crater and fighting the urge to shut my eyes as we drove over it. ‘That slowed me down.’

‘It’s good to see that you shut your eyes when things get tricky,’ Jai said.

‘I just squinted a little! But you wouldn’t want to drive here if you had a weak heart. I suppose it must be to slow people down, but it’s a bit brutal.’

Once we’d passed the fake sinkhole, the lane rose steeply beside a row of stone houses with freshly painted windows in Farrow & Ball colours. On the other side was a park, tree-fringed and pristine, a children’s play area at its centre. Every lawn was immaculately mown and weed-free, every garden fenced with railings, every door beautifully painted. The street lamps were Victorian-style. There weren’t even any people, as if they’d lower the tone. The only things that disturbed the look were notices attached to the lamp posts, although even they were tastefully done. Don’t Build on our Burial Grounds! Stop the Development!

‘Is this a real village or a filmset for a period drama?’ Jai said.

‘It’s creepy,’ I said. ‘And everything’s fenced in. Look at the railings by the sides of the road. That would annoy me. You can only cross in designated spots. I’d feel the need to climb over them.’

‘That could end in tears,’ Jai said.

‘I hope you’re referring to my dodgy ankle rather than the size of my arse.’

Jai laughed. ‘Naturally. But yes, it’s almost too perfect.’

‘The village or my arse? Because that’s far from perfect.’ That had popped out before the censorship lobes in my brain had a chance to click in. Trying so hard to get our banter back that I crossed the line into dodgy territory. ‘Yes,’ I said hurriedly, cringing inside. ‘It’s quite Stepford. Almost ominous. But there are cameras everywhere. That could help us.’

‘There are tunnels in this area,’ Jai said, ignoring my babbling. ‘I wonder if that’s why they have all the fences. Are they scared of kids wandering off and falling into them? I heard they stretch for miles. Old lead mines and stuff. I’ve seen videos on YouTube. I wondered if you fancied dragging me down there? Maybe at night? In a storm? When they’re about to flood?’

I laughed, relieved I’d got away with the inappropriate arse comment. ‘Honestly, Jai,’ I said. ‘One little incident where we nearly die in a flooded cave and you won’t stop going on about it.’

We reached the rim of the valley, where the road sloped down again. A sign said, Thank you for driving carefully through Gritton. Underneath, in very faint letters as if they had been repeatedly scrubbed clean, were the words, Village of the Damned. It was almost reassuring that there were vandalising teenage scrotes in residence amongst all the perfection, but I wondered what the village had done to earn that accolade.

In another half-mile, we drove through red-brick housing which looked more normal and messy, as if people actually lived there, although there were still barriers to the pavements and some of the roads were gated. Ahead was rocky moorland and in front of it a field containing a collection of dubious-looking run-down caravans in various shades of dirt-colour.

‘That must be the place,’ I said.

I pulled up and climbed from the car, narrowly missing a neatly curled dog turd. The place contrasted so extremely with the main village, it was almost as if it was trying to make a point.

‘Nice.’ Jai unfolded himself slowly as if he didn’t want to get out.

Ten caravans were spread over a field of unkempt grass. No people were in evidence but one or two curtains twitched, and there was the muffled sound of kids screaming and dogs going ballistic inside the caravans.

‘The shutters are going down and the hackles are going up,’ I said.

‘Yeah. The cop-detection radar’s good in places like this.’

The largest caravan was aligned in front of the others as if on guard. Its wheels had either disappeared or sunk into the ground, so it looked as if it had sat down. The door squeaked open and a ginger Staffie charged out at us, barking and slavering. Jai and I both took a hasty step back and crashed into one another, demonstrating our smooth professionalism.

A boulder-shaped orange-haired woman emerged from the caravan, lunged forward, and grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck. It carried on barking but at a more strangled pitch.

The woman gave us the same look I’d given the dog turd. ‘What?’

I flashed ID. ‘We’d like a word with Daniel Twigg. Which is his caravan?’

‘Why are you after him?’

‘Which is his caravan please?’

‘How do I know you’re not those animal activists? They’re dangerous, you know.’

I held up my ID again. ‘Because we’re police. Feel free to call and check.’

‘Why aren’t you wearing uniforms? You look too scruffy to be police. Well, you do.’ She pointed at me. ‘He looks okay.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Which is his caravan?’

She frowned at us, causing creases in her face which matched her dog’s. After pausing long enough to demonstrate that she was still sceptical about me and was complying out of her good nature and not because she had to, the woman gestured towards a small caravan with trails of green mould drifting down its side. ‘He’s not well. He’s come back from work, so don’t go bothering him.’

‘Thanks.’

We moved gratefully away from the dog, which was baring its teeth and salivating.

‘What on earth …?’ On each side of the caravan door was a pile of rocks. But pile didn’t properly describe it. The rocks were balanced on top of one another in teetering stacks about four feet high, even though the base rocks were smaller than the higher ones.

‘Rock-balancing art,’ Jai said. ‘It’s what constitutes a wild time round here. No glue or cement or anything – just gravity and physics.’