West Quarry Farm

By James Sillwood

Clive Philip Matteson is still out there. Still doing the same thing. It's not just the fact he kills them that's shocking, it's the way he goes about it. Who will be next?
Working at a supermarket, living with her teenage daughter and caring for her elderly mother, on the surface, Mel William's life appears to be ordinary. But Mel is on a quest. She is determined to find Matteson, the man who harmed her daughter, and nothing will stop her from hunting him down.
With a loving husband, a young daughter and plans to expand her own business, to the outsider, Rebecca Stead would seem to have the perfect life. Then, one day, she is thrown off course by a chance meeting.
A horrifying event binds these two women together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Sillwood
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370516278

James Sillwood

Living in the peace and quiet of Southern Brittany, James Sillwood readily acknowledges that the peaceful surroundings at his cottage inspire an atmosphere conducive to writing. After an itinerant early life, James has now settled in France and divides his time between writing and music. As an accomplished musician he plays regularly as a soloist and with a Latin jazz group. It is here, at his secluded home in Brittany, that Amatore's Restaurant has been completed. This book, along with West Quarry Farm and two other novels, have been long term projects; the first ideas for the plot and characters taking shape well over ten years ago. It has only been in the last year or so that he has been able to focus on finishing these works. When taking a break from performing and writing, James takes a keen interest in Breton culture and local history, enjoys trying out regional recipes, visiting local markets and exploring the surrounding area.

Book preview

West Quarry Farm

Don't stray too far from home

by

James Sillwood

Copyright © 2016 James Sillwood

ISBN: 9781370516278

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real

persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by

Steve Bareham

Chapter 1

The only access to the curing room at West Quarry Farm was from the interior of an old pig shed; an outbuilding now used as a maggot breeding farm. The stench of the place was such that very few people ventured inside and the curing room was basically unknown to the outside world. While no carcass had been hung in this room since the farm had been taken over twelve years earlier, the cutting table, offal trays, hoists and gambrels all remained as if they were still in use today.

If circumstances had been different and Charley Westhorpe hadn’t decided to set off for the South coast she would have been celebrating her nineteenth birthday in two weeks. The girl had planned to stay with a friend in Brighton two days before, but she hadn't turned up. It was now Sunday and her family were concerned as it was out of character for her not to get in touch. The fact was, Charley had spent the whole of the previous night at Quarry Farm, shackled up and suspended by her ankles from two hoists attached to the ceiling of the curing room.

It was cool in that room over Saturday night; a thin grey plastic travel raincoat was the only item of clothing covering the girl’s naked body. However, she was in no position to complain: Charley Westhorpe had been dead since four o'clock the previous afternoon.

A little after 2.30 pm on Sunday, Bobby Hunter, arms laden with tools, stepped into the curing room. While he was quick to close the heavy door behind him, he wasn’t quick enough to avoid letting in an intruder. He flicked on the light and the white tiles threw back a brilliant fluorescence from every wall. Bobby stood inside the door and waited for the greenbottle fly to settle. Come on, you little bugger.

His words were soon answered; for it wasn’t too long before the fly, exhausted from its frantic exploration of the room, came to rest on the carcass suspended from the rail.

Bobby sneaked over to the table and gently laid down his tools. Hanging from a rusted nail, jammed between two of the tiles, was the fly-swat. The intruder was now making its way across the pretty rose tattoo etched just above the girl’s shin. With one well-practised swipe the ‘little bugger’ was reduced to a smudge of red and black against the girl’s pale skin. Bobby studied the body rocking gently before him. He gave a sniff, yanked at the chain and the girl was raised a further six inches. No time to waste – must get on.

He first needed to remove the raincoat. Tig had been quite clear; said it was important that he put the raincoat in the incinerator along with the girl's handbag and any other clothes or jewellery – also to be sure to burn them all straight away.

Once the strips of plastic had been gathered together and put aside, Bobby hosed down the body and mopped the floor. He stopped to look at the little holes. Tig always says it’ll help let the blood and give the flies a good start.

But that ain’t no use. Tig knows I always lets their blood when we brings them in here. Also, thought Bobby, if Tig didn’t make so many holes in their bodies there wouldn’t be such a mess to clean up – Still, Tig knows best.

Bobby lowered the hoist a fraction and picked up the butcher knife from the table. You could make suggestions to Tig sometimes – he was good like that. And he never went on too much when things went wrong. Like yesterday for example. He never told Bobby off – just warned him not to be so rough next time. Good job you’ve got me as a mate, Tig said, or you’d be in real big trouble.

Bobby looked down at the girl’s face. Pretty thing she is, or was. Her hair looked stupid though – all matted and sticking out from her head like a wire brush. He crouched down and ran his fingers through the tangle but it didn’t make any difference, just sprang back again.

Poor thing, thought Bobby – such a mess. He stroked the back of the girl’s head. Funny? Feels smooth, no bumps. Why Tig said the girl had copped it when he bashed her head against the wall, makes no sense. Bobby felt again; smooth as the day she was born. Must remember to be more careful in future though. She seemed all right when he left her. Still, Tig knows best.

Must get on, Bobby reminded himself. There was a load of offal to collect from the abattoir that afternoon. It was Sunday and, if he didn’t make it by 4.30 they just chuck it all away. ‘Always look smart and don’t keep people waiting’ is what Mummy use to say. And not since that day she told him, had Bobby ever kept anyone waiting – not once had he ever turned up late for an appointment.

He looked forward to his visits to the abattoir. Mind you, he was pleased not to work there any more. The blokes were a laugh all right, but they weren’t real mates – at least, not like Tig is. True, they always have a good joke around whenever Bobby turns up. Calls him ‘Big Farmer Giles’, they do. Asks him if he’s forgot his smock and straw hat. And he can always make them laugh when he does his little dance. But still, much better now he doesn’t have to go there every day. He’s a man with prospects now, someone who people could respect. Got a really good business going, what with the maggot trade with the three biggest fishing tackle shops in East Sussex. And the bone fertilizer was now beginning to take off – definitely on the road to success.

Best get on, thought Bobby. Wondering thoughts make idle hands. Mustn’t forget to burn the plastic coat too. Tig said he’d be back at six to check.

Bobby placed a large tray beneath the corpse and for the next twenty minutes worked without any thoughts to interrupt his task. Within an hour he had arranged all the body parts under a canvas in the blow-room and stowed everything away. At a quarter to four Bobby Hunter got in the van and headed for Burgess Hill.

Chapter 2

Approximately ten miles South of Burgess Hill is the city of Brighton and, what is often quoted as its ‘posh neighbour’, Hove. Rebecca and Jason Stead were working in the downstairs study of their newly acquired Victorian terraced home in Devon Gardens; he looming over a stack of assessment papers at (what used to be) the dining table, she at her computer desk. Treacle, the half-tabby family cat, was making a tight circle, determined to locate the precise centre of the sofa.

What’s our postcode again? As soon as Rebecca said the words, she regretted it. She made a desperate attempt to close the page but the seller’s details remained in full view.

BN3 – Hang on. Jason got up. Who are you sending that to?

Rebecca hit the key again but the page was frozen.

Pair of fully-lined curtains with matching pelmet, Jason was reading over her shoulder. Nine pounds ninety-nine! But we paid over three hundred pounds for those.

Yes, but the windows here already have curtains. What would you have me to do with them? I’m not sending them back to the old house.

I know that, but ten pounds! Jason continued to recite each item aloud. Just before he reached the link to seller’s bank details, the screen woke up and the page disappeared.

That’s just the starting bid, Rebecca explained. They’ll go for more than that when the auction ends.

But do you really have to sell them on the internet?

God! thought Rebecca. You’d think I was booking up for a makeover. I’m only trying to keep us out of debt. She tried to keep cool and wondered if it would be better to do this when Jason wasn’t around.

Couldn’t you just ask around? he continued. See if someone we know wants to buy them? Better than inviting strangers into our home.

Oh yes? Rebecca was annoyed now. And who shall I ask? We’ve been here for nearly six months and I haven’t seen anyone. I’m stuck here with your daughter all day while you go off and chat to all your friends at college.

Now, hang on a minute. You think I’m working all these extra hours just to get a social life? Remember, we took on a massive loan to pay for this place –

This place! Rebecca raised her voice. I can’t bloody stand it here!

The door creaked and a small girl of three years stood in the frame looking from one to the other. The cat, seeing his chance, leapt from his favourite resting place and shot through the gap.

It’s all right Amy. Mummy and Daddy are just talking about something on TV, Rebecca said. You go and play in the kitchen. I’ll come in a minute.

The girl surveyed both of them carefully, then slipped away.

But I thought you loved this house? Jason now adopted his patronising teacher voice.

Rebecca sighed. Yes, of course I do, but there’s nothing for me here. You promised it would be better. You said I would be able to get my business going by the Spring. It’s nearly Summer now and I still haven’t seen anything I can afford.

They were both quiet for a minute.

We'd be better off buying somewhere further out in the country, Rebecca ventured.

But we’ve only just moved here.

The agent who sold us this place was looking over another house in this road the other day. Rebecca had been waiting for the right moment to bring this up. They were okay with us. I’m sure we’d have no problem selling.

Have you looked in the local paper for a greenhouse?

Rebecca scowled. Trust Jason to avoid the issue. There’s nothing in there, just land for developers, no plots or greenhouses, nothing.

What about the internet?

You really think I haven’t looked on here?

I suppose so. . . Listen, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to give our address on there. You never know who’s looking.

Rebecca took in a deep breath. No use telling him it’s all secure. It’ll only get him going.

Have you had any of those threatening messages again? Jason said.

No.

She was lying of course. If she told him about the email The Creep sent last week, it would only make matters worse. Anyway, you could hardly call it threatening. He was obviously some lonely bloke who gets himself off by telling woman what he’d like to do with them. In real life, he probably wouldn’t know where to start.

Is it really worth selling all this? Jason was looking towards the items stacked in the corner of the room. I mean you’re hardly getting much for them.

The unopened gas bill was hidden beneath the pile of vinyl records on his desk. Rebecca was tempted to pull it out and show him, but that would be pushing it. She turned back to the screen, clicked on the link to e-Trade and checked all the items on her seller’s listing.

Lady’s Pink evening jacket – 80% wool – size 12 - never worn – starting price £4.99

No photo of the jacket. Rebecca got up and left the room. Two minutes later she returned with a pink jacket in one hand and a bulky camcorder tripod in the other. She held them up. Can you take a photo of this for me? She smiled. (Since the age of fourteen Rebecca had discovered her smile could get her almost anything).

Jason looked up from his papers and gave the tripod a quick glance. Yes, but I don’t need that. It’s for that old video camcorder I gave to Brian before we moved. I’ll use the digital camera.

Rebecca studied the heavy contraption in her hand. So, this isn’t any use to you then?

No. Far too big for a standard camera.

Is it worth anything?

Oh, I don’t know – about fifty quid, I suppose.

Rebecca turned the contraption over and inspected it.

That’s if it was new of course, Jason added. You wouldn’t get much more than twenty for it second hand. He frowned and took a closer look. There should be a cap that fits on the top.

It’s in the drawer upstairs. So you don’t mind if I sell it then?

I suppose not. It’s no use to me now.

Rebecca screwed her eyes to read the label on the leg of the tripod then placed it in the corner next to the garden strimmer and two antique lamp stands. She returned to the computer and entered a search; specifications for Nikon model no.136. Once she made a note of all the details, she got up from the desk and stretched. Cup of tea?

Yep . . . please. Jason’s hand kept its pace across the page without a falter. He eventually looked up.

Rebecca, with hand outstretched, was standing beside him. Cup? she said.

Eh? Jason picked up the empty mug from the table. You can’t sell this. It’s got a chip in it.

Rebecca raised her eyes to the ceiling, took the cup from his hand and left the room.

At the end of the hall of No.22 Devon Gardens was a long rectangular room commonly known as the kitchen. Along the left wall was a window with a southerly outlook (although the word ‘outlook’ would be somewhat misleading as the view looked directly onto the wall of the neighbour’s yard). Beneath this window and taking up the whole length of the room was a stone worktop fixed above a line of oak base units. At the far end were two half-glazed French windows opening to a paved area: Not a garden exactly, more what Rebecca thought of as a breathing space for her plants. It was the combination of the ‘breathing space’, the South-facing window and the long worktop with ample storage units which persuaded Rebecca to make an offer for the property. Not that she was enthusiastic about improving her culinary skills. On the contrary, she had other plans for this room. Within a week of moving in she had spent the good part of an afternoon armed with a brush and pot of water-based distemper ensuring that every inch of the window was covered with a thin coat of white emulsion. Over the weeks that followed a few more changes were made to 'the kitchen'. With bags of compost stacked against the units, rows of plants on the worktops, trays of seedlings, watering cans and bottles of plant food, some people would consider the place to be cluttered. However, she made sure there was enough space in the corner for her daughter to play. It was soon to become Rebecca's favourite room in the house.

In the centre of the room was a long pine table where Amy, entertaining herself with a bowl of mashed banana, was seated at one end while her mother; a root-ball of a mature ocimum basilicum resting in the palm of her hand, sat a few feet away. Rebecca placed an offshoot of the plant alongside the others lined up along the table top as if on military parade. Taking care not to disturb the rich life-giving soil which clung to the root hairs, she traced her fingers down the stem of another shoot.

She gave a quick glance to her daughter who was mashing up the banana with her spoon. Don’t forget to put some of that in your mouth, Sweetie.

Don't like it. Amy made a face and pushed the bowl away.

Rebecca got up and moved alongside her. She reached down and picked up the spoon which had fallen to the floor, flicked off a couple of crumbs of West Dairies Cutting Compost and dipped it into her daughters bowl. Come on Darling, eat up. You usually love this. She moved the spoon towards her daughter's mouth. But then, changing direction, took a spoonful for herself. Yumm, she said.

Amy giggled.

After a couple of mouthfuls, Rebecca replaced the spoon in the bowl and returned to her cuttings saying Mmm. I think Mummy will have some more of that later.

It took about two minutes before her plan started to work. When she next looked up Amy had almost finished her dessert.

Did you say you were making a cup of tea?

They both looked up. Amy, mouth smeared with banana, let out a squeal.

Jason was standing the doorway, still dressed in his work suit.

Rebecca frowned, then remembered Jason had mentioned earlier he needed to go back to work and wouldn’t be joining them for supper. These occasional absences were now getting to be a routine. A shame really, because this was the time Amy was at her best.

Did you make a cup?

Cup? Oh yes, the tea. Sorry, I forgot.

With a sigh Jason moved towards the counter next to the sink (the most likely place to find a kettle). Between finger and thumb he pointedly lifted a pack of Green’s Rooting Compound and moved it aside. Isn’t this poisonous? he said.

Oh yes, but you should be all right with up to about six spoonfuls.

I’m serious. What if Amy gets hold of it?

That’s the very reason I keep it up there. She can’t reach it.

Jason didn’t reply. Under Rebecca's watchful eye, he lifted the kettle carefully from its base (bitter experience having taught him not to disturb the arrangement of pots placed around it). He filled it from the tap and made a big show of avoiding the tray of seedlings standing in the sink.

Rebecca turned her attention back to the cuttings. Life for Jason had turned into such a serious business of late. If he chose to be a grumpy sod, well, that was up to him. After all, it was his idea to move to Brighton. ‘A life by the sea would be so much better for Amy than living in a second floor apartment in Hammersmith,’ he'd said.

They had both fallen for the house; just a twenty minute walk to the centre of Brighton; only four minutes if you wanted to take the bus. The quiet tree-lined road of Victorian terraces was only a short walk to the sea-front and there was a big supermarket just around the corner. Jason secured a one year contract at the City School of English in Palmeira