Free Roots of Evil by Sarah Rayne

right of the gates, and on the other side were what appeared to be a series of neglected airfields strewn with single-storey, corrugated-roofed buildings. Edmund sat for a moment, the car’s engine still ticking over, and stared at the straggling dereliction. So this was Ashwood. This was the place that once upon a time had spun silvered illusions and created celluloid legends.
    Trixie Smith was waiting for him, in a weather-beaten estate car. Edmund reached for his umbrella, switched his car’s engine off, and shrugged on a quilted rainproof jacket before getting out to walk across to her. She was wearing a long mackintosh that in the damp atmosphere smelt slightly of dogs.
    ‘I hadn’t realized it would be quite so tumbledown,’ said Edmund, peering through the grey curtain of rain.
    ‘It looks to me,’ observed Ms Smith as they plodded across the squelching mud, ‘as if the whole lot’s about to sink into the mud anyway.’
    ‘It’s a mournful place,’ agreed the person propped against the inside of the security booth, clearly waiting for them. ‘Practically the end of the world, and myself I wouldn’t waste petrol on coming here. Still, that’s your privilege, and I’ve brought the keys to let you in as you wanted.’ He came out of the sketchy shelter of the booth and introduced himself as Liam Devlin. He was dark and careless-looking, and he looked as if he took the world and its woes very lightly indeed. He also looked as if he might be wearing yesterday’s clothesand had not bothered to take them off to go to bed last night.
    ‘I thought,’ said Edmund severely, ‘that your firm acted as site agents.’
    ‘So we do. But if,’ said Mr Devlin, ‘you can find a reliable contractor who doesn’t mind the ghosts, and who’s prepared to tidy this place up and keep it tidied, you’ll have done more than I ever could.’
    ‘Ghosts?’ said Edmund sharply.
    ‘Lucretia von Wolff. Who else did you think I meant?’
    ‘Oh, I see. You know Ashwood’s history, then?’
    ‘Everyone in the western world knows Ashwood’s history, Mr Fane. This is the place where the baroness killed two people and then committed suicide.’
    ‘She wasn’t a baroness,’ said Edmund, who was tired of telling people this.
    ‘You believe the official version, do you?’ demanded Trixie of Liam Devlin.
    ‘Isn’t it what most people believe?’
    ‘I don’t. I’ve been doing some delving,’ said Trixie. ‘And I’m becoming less and less convinced of Lucretia’s guilt.’
    ‘Is that theory or fantasy, Ms Smith?’ Devlin appeared perfectly happy to enter into a discussion in a field in the middle of a rainstorm.
    ‘Neither. The facts are there, and the reports about Alraune fall into a coherent chronological pattern. The birth at the beginning of World War II – the disappearance before the war ended. And,’ said Trixie, ‘I’m perfectly used to people scoffing at my theories, Mr Devlin, so you needn’t raise your eyebrows like that. I’mparticularly used to men scoffing. And usually,’ added Ms Smith pointedly, ‘they’re men with inadequacies.’
    ‘Ah. In that case I stand chastened and rebuked.’
    ‘Well, don’t stand too long, because if we stay out in this rain any longer we’ll all catch pneumonia,’ said Edmund crossly. ‘How far is Studio Twelve from here? That’s the one Ms Smith wants to see.’
    Liam glanced at Edmund’s shoes, which were leather, and with what Edmund could only feel was a slightly malicious air, said, ‘Well, now there’s the unfortunate thing. Studio Twelve’s on the very far side from here, wouldn’t you know it would be.’
    ‘Can’t we drive across to it?’
    ‘You can try,’ said Liam cordially. ‘But in this quagmire you’ll probably get bogged down within about ten seconds.’ Again there was the faintly mischievous look to where Edmund had parked, as if he found the meticulously polished car rather amusing. ‘Come on through the gates and we’ll