The Ghost Fields Read Online Free

geese fly overhead, honking sadly. The house is visible from miles away, a ship rising from a grey-green sea.
    â€˜I wouldn’t like to live here,’ says Clough. ‘It’s as bad as Ruth’s place.’
    â€˜It’s a bit grander than Ruth’s place.’
    Blackstock Hall is indeed grand, a stern brick-built edifice with a tower at each corner, but there is no comforting stately home feeling about it: no National Trust sign pointing the way to the tea rooms, no manicured lawns or Italian gardens. Instead the grass comes right up to the front door and sheep peer into the downstairs rooms. If there was a path to the front door, it vanished years, maybe centuries, ago. Nelson parks by the side of the road and he and Clough approach the house through the fields.
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ says Clough, ‘the grass is full of sheep shit.’
    â€˜What do you expect?’ says Nelson, hurdling a stream. The sheep stare at him with their strange onyx eyes.
    â€˜I expect a proper driveway, since you ask,’ says Clough. ‘Bunch of gyppos would do it for a grand.’
    Nelson ignores this though he knows he should say something about the un-PC language. ‘It’s travellers, not gyppos, and we should respect different lifestyle choices, etc., etc.’ Instead he says, ‘Hope there’s someone at home after all this.’
    â€˜There’s smoke coming out of the chimneys,’ says Clough. ‘Probably burning a virgin for the harvest.’
    â€˜I should never have let you watch
The Wicker Man,’
says Nelson.
    Despite the smoke, it seems at first that the house might be deserted after all. Finally, after almost five minutes, the heavy oak door opens slowly and a woman’s face appears.
    â€˜Oh, there is someone here,’ she says. ‘We only really use the back door.’
    â€˜I wasn’t aware of that,’ says Nelson stiffly. ‘I’m DCI Harry Nelson from the King’s Lynn police. This is DS Clough. We’d like to speak to Mr or Mrs Blackstock.’
    â€˜You’d better come in then,’ says the woman. ‘I’m Sally Blackstock.’
    The door opens with difficulty and Nelson sees that the hall is full of packing cases. Clearly Sally Blackstock was telling the truth about this entrance not being in use. She’s an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, ash-blonde hair, blue eyes, no make-up. She reminds Nelson of an older version of Barbara in
The Good Life.
    â€˜This is quite some house,’ says Nelson.
    Sally Blackstock laughs. ‘It’s a mish-mash really. Built in Tudor times, burnt down during the Civil War, rebuilt in the Georgian era. The Blackstocks have lived on this site for over five hundred years and it feels as if we’ve still got all their rubbish.’ She gives one of the packing cases a feeble shove.
    â€˜Are you moving out then?’ asks Clough.
    Sally laughs. ‘I should be so lucky! No, we’re clearing up. I’ve got this mad idea about opening the house as a B & B. Now I wonder what I’ve started. Lunacy, the whole thing.’
    As they follow Mrs Blackstock down a seemingly endless corridor, Nelson can’t help but agree with her assessment. All the rooms in the house, though undoubtedly large and well-proportioned, are either empty or full of boxes. It’s hard to imagine the place being transformed into a haven of breakfast tables and comfortable sofas. Eventually, though, Sallyturns a corner and admits them to a large kitchen complete with Aga, armchairs and an open fire.
    â€˜We practically live in this room, I’m afraid,’ she says when Nelson comments on the fire. ‘The rest of the house is just too bloody cold. Now, what’s all this about?’
    The sudden switch from Barbara Good to Margaret Thatcher takes Nelson by surprise, as does the gear change into an extremely patrician accent. He says, aware that he is sounding like a