"Mr Burgess?" he called again.

There was no answer. Matt went inside.

The front door led straight into the main room, which had a large fireplace with a gleaming pair of bronze tongs and a small shovel leaning against the grate. The fire had evidently burned during the night, as the ashes were still strewn over the hearth. The place was a mess. Tables had been overturned and books and papers scattered on the floor. All the inside shutters were hanging off, some of them broken in half. Matt's foot caught a stray pot of paint. He picked it up and put it to one side.

The kitchen was in a worse state. The drawers were open and their contents had been thrown everywhere. There were broken plates and gla.s.ses and, in the middle of the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of whisky lying on its side. Matt glanced up. A huge carving knife had been thrust into a kitchen cupboard, its blade penetrating the wood. The handle slanted towards him. It looked odd and menacing.

Every fibre of his being was telling him to get out of here, but Matt couldn't leave now. He found himself drawn to the stairs. Narrow and twisting, they led up from the kitchen and before he knew what he was doing, Matt was on his way up, dreading what he would find at the top but still unable to stop himself. He wasn't expected for another half an hour. Maybe Tom Burgess was still asleep. That was what he told himself. But somehow he didn't believe it.

The stairs led to a landing with three doors. Gently, he opened the one nearest to him.

It led into a bedroom, and this was worse than anything Matt had seen downstairs. The room looked as though a whirlwind had hit it. The bedclothes were crumpled and torn, spread out over the carpet. The curtains had been ripped down and one of the window panes was smashed. A bedside table lay on its side, with a lamp, an alarm clock and a pile of paperbacks thrown on to the floor. The wardrobe doors were open and all the clothes were in a heap in one corner. A tin of green paint had toppled over, spilling its contents into the middle of the mess.

Then Matt saw Tom Burgess.

The farmer was lying on the floor on the other side of the bed, partly covered by a sheet. He was obviously dead. Something a some sort of animal a had torn into his face and neck. There were hideous red gashes in his skin and his fair hair was matted with blood. His eyes were bulging, staring vacantly, and his mouth was forced open in a last attempt at a scream. His hands were stiff and twisted in a frantic effort to ward something off. One of them was smeared with green paint, which had glued his fingers together. His legs were bent underneath him in such a way that Matt knew the bones must be broken.

Matt backed away, gasping. He thought he was going to be sick. Somehow he forced his eyes away and then he saw it, painted on the wall behind the door. In the last moments of his life, the farmer had managed to scrawl two words, using his own hand smeared with paint: RAVEN'S GATE.

Matt read it as he backed out of the room. He shut the door behind him and reeled down the stairs. He remembered seeing a phone in the kitchen. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver and dialled 999 with a finger that wouldn't stop shaking. But there was no dialling tone. The phone had been disconnected.

He threw down the receiver and staggered out of the house. The moment he reached the yard, he threw up. He had never seen a dead body before, let alone one as twisted and tortured as that of Tom Burgess... He hoped he would never see one again. He found that he was shivering. As soon as he felt strong enough, he began to run. He had forgotten the bicycle. He just wanted to get out of there.

Matt ran back up the drive and on to the main road, heading in the direction of Greater Malling. He must have run for at least half a mile before he collapsed on to a bed of gra.s.s and lay there, the breath rasping in his throat. He didn't have the strength to go on. And what was the point? He had no parents and no friends. He was going to die in Lesser Malling and n.o.body would care.

He didn't know how long he'd been lying there, but at last the sound of an approaching car reached his ears and he sat up and looked down the road. The car was white, a four-wheel drive with a sign attached to the roof. Matt breathed a sigh of relief. It was a police car. For the first time in his life, it was something he actually wanted to see.

He pulled himself to his feet and walked into the centre of the road with his arms raised. The police car slowed down and stopped. Two officers got out and walked over to him.

"You all right?" the first one asked. He was middle-aged and plump, with a high forehead and thinning black hair.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" the other asked. He was the younger of the two, thin and boyish with cropped brown hair.

"There's been a murder," Matt said.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"A man called Tom Burgess. He's a farmer. He lives at Glendale Farm. I've just come from there." The sentences came out short and staccato. Matt was finding it hard to st.i.tch the words together.

The two policemen looked doubtful.

"You saw him?" the senior man asked.

Matt nodded. "He was in the bedroom."

"What were you doing there?"

"I was meant to meet him."

"What's your name?"

Matt felt the impatience rising inside him. What was wrong with these men? He had just found a dead body. What did it matter what his name was? He forced himself to calm down. "I'm Matt," he said. "I'm staying with Jayne Deverill at Hive Hall. I met Tom Burgess. He asked me to visit him. I was there just now. And he's dead."

The older policeman looked more suspicious than ever, but his partner shrugged. "We just pa.s.sed 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 a and that was when Matt began to worry. She seemed confident a 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 a or someone a 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 gla.s.s. 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 Matt saw that one of his front teeth had been chipped diagonally in half. "Can I help you?"

"How long have you been here?"

"All morning. I got here about half eight."

"Do you work for Tom Burgess too?"

"I'm helping him out with the decorating."

"Have you seen him today?"

"I saw him about a quarter of an hour ago. He looked in to see how I was getting on, then he left... Something to do with his sheep."

"That's what I just told you," Miss Creevy said.

Matt felt the blood rush to his cheeks. "He's lying," he insisted. "They both are. I know what I saw." Suddenly he remembered. "Tom Burgess left a message," he said.

He swung round and pushed the door shut to reveal the wall behind it. But the wall, which had been off-white before, was now green. And the words that the farmer had painted had gone.

"Be careful," Ken Rampton warned. "Wet paint..."

Sergeant Rivers came to a decision. "We won't waste any more of your time, sir," he said. He grabbed hold of Matt, his hand tightening on his shoulder. "As for you, I think we should have a word outside."

Miss Creevy followed them back downstairs and out into the yard. Matt wondered if the policemen were going to arrest him. In fact, he suddenly realized, that was exactly what he hoped would happen. If they arrested him, maybe he would be taken back to London. Maybe this sort of behaviour would mean that he could kiss the LEAF Project goodbye. But before anyone could say anything, Miss Creevy stepped forward. "I wonder if I could have a private word with you, officer?"

They spoke for about two minutes. The sergeant glanced his way a couple of times and nodded, while Miss Creevy shrugged and spread her hands. Finally he walked back over to them.

"You ought to know that wasting police time is a very serious business," he said.

"I'm telling the truth."

"Let's not have any more of that, thank you."

The policeman had made up his mind. Matt could see that. He bit his tongue.

"I understand you've been in trouble a few times before," Sergeant Rivers continued. "You're with the LEAF Project, is that right? You ought to count yourself lucky. Personally I don't believe in all this do-good stuff, to tell you the truth. You're a thief, and the best thing for you would be to be birched and locked up where you can't do any more harm. But that's not my decision. The courts have sent you here and if you had any sense, you'd be grateful and stop trying to draw attention to yourself. Now, we'll say no more about this nonsense. But I don't want to see or hear from you again."

Matt watched as the two policemen drove away. Then he turned round. Miss Creevy was smiling at him, her long grey hair flapping in the breeze. There was a movement at the door and Ken Rampton appeared with the paintbrush still clutched in his hand. He said nothing. But he too was smiling.

"Go back to Hive Hall," Miss Creevy said. "Mrs Deverill is waiting for you."

"To h.e.l.l with her!" Matt shouted.

"You can't escape from us, Matthew. There's nowhere you can go. Surely you can see that by now."

Matt ignored her and grabbed the bike.

"There's nowhere you can go." The woman echoed the words in a high-pitched voice.

Ken Rampton began to laugh.

Matt pedalled away as fast as he could.

LOCAL AFFAIRS.

Greater Malling had once been a small, attractive village but it had grown into a large, unattractive town. There were still a few reminders of what it had once been: a pond, a row of almshouses and a lopsided sixteenth-century pub. But the roads had come, cutting in from every side and joining together at noisy intersections. New houses had elbowed out the old. Offices and car parks had sprung up, joined by cinemas, supermarkets and a clattering bus station. Now it was very ordinary. Somewhere to pa.s.s through on the way to somewhere else.

It had taken Matt an hour to cycle here from Glendale Farm. He had been afraid that the road would play another trick on him and deposit him somewhere he didn't want to be. But he was still wearing the stone talisman that Tom Burgess had given him. Somehow the little golden key had unlocked the maze of country lanes and allowed him to find his way.

Matt parked the bike outside a launderette. It occurred to him that someone might steal it but he didn't care. He wouldn't be needing it again.

He was looking for a railway station and a train to London. That was the decision he had made: to get as far away as possible from Yorkshire and never come back. Unfortunately, there was no station. The line to Greater Malling had been closed down years ago, and if he wanted a train he would have to go all the way to York. He found a traffic warden and asked about buses. There were two a day. The next one wouldn't be leaving until three o'clock. That left three hours to kill.

Matt walked aimlessly down the high street and found himself facing a library a a modern building that already looked down-at-heel, with shabby, pebbledash walls and rusting window frames. He thought for a moment, then went in through a revolving door and up a staircase that was signposted REFERENCE. He found himself in a wide, brightly lit room with about a dozen bookcases arranged along the walls, a bank of computers and an enquiry desk, where a young man sat reading a paperback.

Something nasty, something very dangerous, was going on in the village of Lesser Malling. Somehow it involved many of the villagers, Mrs Deverill, an abandoned nuclear power station and something called Raven's Gate. It also involved Matt. That was what unnerved him most of all. He had been chosen. He was sure of it. And before he left Yorkshire, he was determined to find out why.

Raven's Gate. It was the only clue he had, so that was where he decided to begin.

He started with the books in the local history section. The library had about a dozen books on Yorkshire and half of them made brief references to Greater and Lesser Malling. But not one of them mentioned anything by the name of Raven's Gate. There was one book that seemed more promising and Matt carried it over to a table. It was called Rambles Around Greater Malling and had been written a some time ago to judge from the old-fashioned cover and yellowing pages a by a woman named Elizabeth Ashwood. He opened the book and ran his eye down the contents page. He had found it. Chapter Six was ent.i.tled Raven's Gate.

Matt turned the pages and found Chapter Seven. He went back and found Chapter Five. But Chapter Six wasn't there. A jagged edge and a gap in the binding told their own story. Someone had torn out the whole chapter. Was it just a random act of vandalism or had it been done deliberately? Matt thought he knew.