Raven's Gate

“We just passed Glendale Farm,” he said. “Maybe we should take a look.”
    The other man thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” He turned to Matt. “You’d better come with us.”
    “I don’t want to go back there!” Matt exclaimed.
    “You can wait in the car. You’ll be all right.”
    Reluctantly Matt climbed into the back seat and allowed the two officers to take him back the way he had come. He gritted his teeth as they turned into the driveway. The car slowed down, the wheels biting into the gravel.
    “It seems quiet enough,” the older policeman said. He turned round to face Matt. “Where did you say you saw him?”
    “Upstairs. In the bedroom.”
    “There’s someone here,” the younger one said.
    Matt looked out of the window. The policeman was right. A woman had appeared to one side of the house. She was tall and thin with limp grey hair hanging to her shoulders, and he recognized her. She was one of the women he had met in Lesser Malling. She had been pushing a pram. What was her name? Creasey. Or Creevy. Now she was in Tom Burgess’s garden, hanging out a basket of washing. Matt couldn’t understand what was happening. She had been inside the house, so surely she had seen the state of the rooms. Hadn’t she been upstairs?
    The policemen got out of the car. Feeling increasingly uneasy, Matt followed them. The woman saw them coming and stopped what she was doing.
    “Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”
    “My name is Sergeant Rivers,” replied the older man. “This is Police Constable Reed. Who are you?”
    “I’m Joanna Creevy. I help Tom Burgess with his housework. What’s wrong?” She seemed to notice Matt for the first time. “Matthew? What are you doing here?” She scowled. “You haven’t got yourself into trouble, have you?”
    Matt ignored her.
    “This is a little difficult,” the sergeant began. “The fact is that we just met this young lad on the road.”
    “You left your bicycle here, Matthew,” the woman said. “I thought you must have been visiting.”
    “Matthew claims that Mr Burgess might have been involved in some sort of accident,” the sergeant went on.
    “It wasn’t an accident,” Matt interrupted. “He’s been killed. Cut to pieces. I saw him…”
    The woman stared at Matt, then broke into laughter. “That’s impossible,” she said. “I saw Tom ten minutes ago. You just missed him. He’s gone to see to the sheep in the far paddock.”
    The policemen turned to Matt.
    “She’s lying,” Matt said. “He didn’t go anywhere ten minutes ago. I was here just now and he was dead.”
    “That’s a terrible thing to say,” Miss Creevy muttered. “Tom is fine. And here I am, hanging out his socks!”
    “Go and look in the bedroom,” Matt said.
    “Yes. You do that.” The woman nodded – and that was when Matt began to worry. She seemed confident – one step ahead of him.
    Sergeant Rivers nodded slowly. “We’d better sort this out,” he said.
    They went into the house and Matt saw at once. Although it was still untidy, Miss Creevy – or someone – had cleared away most of the evidence. The books and papers had been straightened. The shutters were folded back. And the knife had been taken out of the kitchen cupboard … but the gash it had left was still there. They continued upstairs.
    “You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Miss Creevy said. “Tom has been redecorating and I haven’t had a chance to start work yet.”
    They reached the landing. The door of the bedroom was closed, just as Matt had left it. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t think he could bear to look at the body a second time. But he couldn’t back out now.
    Sergeant Rivers opened the door.
    There was a man working in the room, wearing a pair of white overalls that were flecked with green paint. Everything was different. The sheets and blankets had been removed from the floor and the bed was propped up on its side against the wall. The curtains had been hung up and although one of the windows was still broken, there was no sign of any broken glass. The scattered clothes had disappeared. So had the body of Tom Burgess. The man saw the two policemen and stopped work.
    “Good morning,” he said.
    “Good morning, sir.” The sergeant took a quick look around. “May I ask who you are?”
    “Ken,” the man replied. “Ken Rampton.” He was in his twenties, scrawny with a sly, crumpled face and curly fair hair. He smiled and