The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer

water. Everything which should be there
seemed
to be there.
    â€˜I don’t know what’s missin’,’ he confessed.
    The vicar chuckled again. ‘Then perhaps you should consider going into another line of work entirely,’ he suggested. ‘Still not got it?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Would you like me to give you a big clue?’
    For a second Woodend was tempted to tell him to stuff his clue, then curiosity overcame him.
    â€˜Aye, go on,’ he said.
    The vicar’s smile was now so wide it looked as if it might crack his face in half.
    â€˜Were you ever in the Army?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜In peacetime? Or during the war?’
    â€˜Durin’ the war.’
    â€˜Then even if you’re a very dim detective indeed, you shouldn’t need a better clue than that.’
    Of course he bloody shouldn’t, Woodend agreed silently, as enlightenment dawned.
    His war had been bad enough, but the one which had preceded it had been even worse. One million young British men had died fighting in the Great War – the so-called ‘war to end all wars’. The soldiers had been slaughtered like cattle, and there was no village in the country – not even the tiniest hamlet – which had not lost some of its sons.
    And there was no village – not even the tiniest hamlet – which did not have its own war memorial.
    Some of the memorials were large and imposing. Some were very unprepossessing monuments indeed. The richer parishes had used marble, the poorer an altogether more modest stone.
    But they all had one!
    Except Hallerton!
    â€˜What happened to the cenotaph?’ Woodend asked. ‘Was it taken away at some point?’
    â€˜As far as I know, there’s never been one
to
take away. Certainly, there’s no mention of one in any of the church records.’
    â€˜That’s incredible,’ Woodend said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it possible.’
    The vicar smirked. ‘There are more things on heaven and earth than are ever dreamed of in a dull policeman’s philosophy,’ he said.

Twelve
    H ettie Todd sat on the steps of the caravan she shared with her mother, idly watching the fairground workers putting up the rides. She loved the life which went with belonging to the funfair. She loved the aroma of outdoor cooking, and the strong smell of hot diesel from the generators. She loved the bright flashing lights, and the loud tinny music. It didn’t bother her to be always on the move, because it was the people you shared the space with – not the particular space you happened to be occupying that night – which really mattered.
    The men had been hard at it all day, she thought. They didn’t care that there had been a brutal murder only a few hundred yards from where they toiled. They wouldn’t have reacted any differently if the whole village had been massacred. They had a job to do, and what went on beyond the boundaries of the fair was no concern of theirs.
    Their job – their whole function in life – was to create a fantasy world in which to envelop all those who came to visit it. Create it – and then destroy it. Because only a few days after it had gone up, it would come down again, and the funfair would move on, leaving behind it only the echoes of laughter to prove that it had ever been there.
    Hettie smiled, self-mockingly.
    Create a fantasy world! Echoes of laughter!
    She might see it like that, but the men certainly didn’t. To them, the machinery of the fairground – the exotic world which they built and then demolished – was nothing more than bolts to be slid in place and nuts to be tightened. Fairground folk might have the power to
create
an escape from reality, but within themselves they were the most practical, down-to-earth people in the whole world. And there was good reason for that – for while outsiders might view them as nothing but idle gypsies