Their Lost Daughters (DI Jackman & DS Evans #2)(46)

A skein of greylags flew across the marsh. They wheeled and landed neatly on a lime-green patch of sedge close to the water. Their harsh, honking calls blended perfectly into the dreary landscape.

Marie felt a hand gently rest on her shoulder.

‘Does this place give you the creeps?’ asked Rosie softly. ‘Because it definitely does me.’

‘Me too,’ added Gary. They both sat down beside her on the wall and Gary stared at the dust that clung to his polished black boots. ‘My sister hated this stretch of the marshes.’

Jackman ambled towards them. ‘Your sister died, didn’t she?’

Gary nodded. ‘Not long ago.’

‘Is that why you wanted a change of scenery?’ Jackman said gently.

‘It was partly the case, but working at Harlan Marsh nick was . . .’ Gary sighed.

‘Did you come here a lot? You and your sister?’ asked Marie.

‘Only when we were bringing one of the animals to see the vet.’ He pointed across to the other side of the Roman Bank where a small farmhouse nestled in a clump of trees. ‘Our vet lived over there. He used to do consultations from his front room. Still lives there, I believe, although now he has a modern surgery in Harlan Marsh town. Nice bloke, great with our dogs. Even so, Anne hated coming out here.’

Rosie tilted her head. ‘Why?’

Gary smiled sadly, took out his warrant card holder and removed a small colour photo. ‘My sister, Anne.’

Marie hid a smile. They looked like twins.

‘Right from when she was a little kid, she would do anything rather than go across Hobs End Marsh.’ Gary pointed to the area immediately in front of them. ‘That stretch over there. Years ago it was called Chapel Marsh, but the name changed during the war. It has always had a bad reputation, and most of the older locals still refuse go out there.’

Jackman gave a little sigh. Every local knew some weird and wonderful story, and it certainly got in the way of their investigations. He had little time for mumbo-jumbo.

‘So what superstitious crap keeps them away?’ he asked. ‘This part of the coast is one of the richest areas for collecting samphire, it should be a little goldmine. So what are they scared of? Jack-o’-lanterns or boggarts? The green mist? Or perhaps it’s the Black Dog!’

Gary smiled and raised his hands. ‘I know, I know. Superstition is alive and well and living in Lincolnshire.’ His smile faded. ‘But even I don’t like this part, and I really don’t believe in boggarts.’

‘But your sister did?’ Rosie handed him the photo.

‘Oh no. Anne didn’t believe in all that stuff. I think all those stories she heard as a kid affected her, and she did have some sort of odd sensitivity to atmosphere. It’s difficult to explain, but there were certain places that upset her quite badly.’ He looked out over the sedge and reeds of the watery marsh. ‘And this was one of them.’

Gary took the picture back, stared at it for a moment and then carefully returned it to his warrant card holder. ‘Frankly, although I think Anne was right about the place, there might have been other reasons for the locals keeping away. People say they’ve seen someone in dark clothes walking around at night. They say only a devil would walk those paths in darkness.’ He held up his hands and grinned. ‘But I say that a smuggler would certainly walk here. This marsh meets the Wash, and the Wash meets the North Sea.’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘And the North Sea meets boats stuffed with illegal incoming drugs.’ Jackman nodded. ‘We’ve already talked about this, but in more historical terms.’

‘We’ve got rid of most of the trade in this area, but you’ll never stamp it out completely. There’s always some silly sod ready to take on the marsh and the killer tides,’ added Gary.

‘So what was the original folklore story about this spot? And why was your sister so affected by it?’ Rosie leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees.

‘I forget the whole story, but it is supposed to be one of those places where weird natural phenomena occur when the weather is just right. And you can imagine what the old web-foots make of them! Mind you, although all marshes have their ghost lights, it’s the sheer abundance and regularity of the marsh lights here that make it different. That and the strange noises. A whole plethora of weird sounds come from Hobs End, something to do with movement in the boggy soil I think. Anyway, one day when we were walking our dogs up to the Wash bank, Anne said she heard whisperings, voices, saying things she didn’t want to listen to. It scared her half to death. Then a few years back, my old dog did a runner after a visit to the vet’s, and we came down here looking for him. Anne heard things then too.’

‘The same sort of whisperings?’ Rosie was beginning to sound like a schoolgirl in the dorm at midnight.

‘No, she said it was more like church music, chanting or singing. It had her in pieces. She fair ran off the marsh, she did.’

‘A boggart that sings! That’s a new one for the old crones to pass around when they’ve finished reading the tea-leaves.’ Jackman shook his head. ‘Where the hell is our archaeologist? We are sitting around telling bloody stories while Emily could be breathing her last.’

‘I’ll go back to the house and look out for him, sir.’ Rosie brushed dried grass off her trousers.