by Vince Vogel
“Who was the monster?” Dorring asked, his gray eyes gazing eagerly at her.
She didn’t say anything for a while and let the sound of the rain hitting the window fill the room.
“I don’t know exactly where the name came from,” she eventually said, “but we used to call him the Huntsman. In the two years that he was going—and some say he still is—he took six poor souls to Hell with him. Did terrible things to the bodies.”
“What things?”
She reared back and shook her head as though he’d offered her a spoonful of poison.
“Carved things into them with a knife,” she said in a voice verging on a shriek, her old eyes gazing into the past and seeing something terrifying.
Dorring leaned forward and placed a hand on hers. The eyes came alive and he gazed softly at them.
“What things?” Dorring asked.
“Words and pictures.”
“What words?”
“I can’nay recall for sure.”
“Was this in the local newspaper?”
“Not all of it,” she said. “I was friends with the local reporter. He showed me pictures he’d taken of the crime scenes. An’ thank Christ he did, because our local bobbies did nay except cover it up. Told terrible lies to keep everyone asleep at night. Keep us asleep all the time. People walk about McGuffin with their heeds in clouds.”
“Is that why the local papers are gone? To cover it up?”
“Aye. You see, Craig Johnston was the local reporter back then. He refused to tow the official line. Took on the police over it. Said the people had a right to know. They accused him of stirring up fear.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead,” she said blankly. “He shot himself back in ’97. They reckon it was from all the stress. Said he’d been gambling on the mainland and lost a lot of money. But it was all bull. Craig Johnston liked a flutter, but he was’nay daft enough to get himself in trouble.”
“What about the pictures of the crime scenes?”
“All his stuff got taken as far as I know. His wife still lives in their old cottage in the woods by Gough’s Creek. Maybe you could go speak to her, but I wouldn’t expect much. She’s been pretty mute about it all these years and lives like a recluse with her two dogs.”
“Who came for the newspapers?”
“John Chalmers—that’s the auld detective. He came burstin’ in here one day an’ demanded all the copies. Raided the offices of the McGuffin Post, too.”
“But why wasn’t it in any of the mainstream news?” Dorring asked.
“When the mainland reporters showed up, the local police told them that Johnston was making it all up. Was trying to cause trouble for the island because of a dispute between him and the police. They made him out to be a mad man, so the mainstream news left it all alone after that.”
“So the police were actively covering up?” Dorring asked.
“It’s my belief that they were. Aye.”
“Why?”
“Because they were protecting the killer. Because he’s obviously got power.”
“Like Lord Appleby?” Dorring suggested.
She glanced sharply at the window. The curtains were drawn but she still looked fearful when she glanced that way.
Turning back to Dorring, she said, “If it is, then there’s nay we can do aboot it.”
13
Dorring left the library confident that the killer had been on McGuffin long before he’d ended up in Helmand fourteen years ago.
In a doorway at the edge of town, he took a map of the island from his rucksack and checked where Gough’s Creek was. Then he pulled his hood over his head and stepped onward through the rain.
About a mile into the countryside, he came to woodland. Stepping into it, he began walking towards the creek on the other side. While he went along, the leafless trees creaked and bent in the rain and wind. Dorring got the eerie feeling they were alive and communicating with each other. Then, when he was deep into the woods, he realized that it wasn’t only the trees that gave him an odd feeling.
Dorring turned sharply.
He was walking along a shallow gorge. It drifted upwards to his left and something drew his eyes to the trees about thirty yards up the gentle slope.
Then he saw it.
The outline of a figure dressed in a hooded coat. For a second or two they stared at one another. Then the figure raised something and Dorring immediately sprinted off.
The forest crackled with gunshot and the bark of a nearby tree exploded. Head down, Dorring threw himself forward through the trees, dodging outstretched branches that grabbed at him like spindly hands. More shots repeated and each one made the skin of Dorring’s back jump up an inch.
Nevertheless, at the rate he was running, the sound was getting further away, the distance increasing between himself and his attacker. He felt a thud hit his rucksack and it almost threw him forward onto his front. With effort, he stayed on his feet and continued plowing onwards through the trees.
Seeing the edge of the wood, he turned sharply left. If he entered the open fields on the other side, he was sure to be an easy target. The gunshots had ceased for the moment and he gathered that the shooter was busy trying to catch up.
The forest floor began sloping down and Dorring heard the sound of a rushing river. He felt that he may be out of the shooter’s sight for the moment and took the opportunity to throw himself into a ditch he spotted.
He crawled into it, removed the rucksack from his back so he could lie it flat next to him, took his hunting knife from it and pulled bracken leaves down over the top, lying on his front in the mud with his eyes peeking out.
Facing the direction he’d come, Dorring could see nothing except the rainswept trees moving and creaking. Could hear no other sounds except the rain and the gentle din of the river. He gripped the knife in his hand. The guy must be well acquainted with woodland, Dorring told himself. He made no sound. No snapping of branches. Maybe it was the sound of the rain over the top, but Dorring sensed nothing.
That was until he saw him.
The figure came from behind a tree only five yards in front of where Dorring lay, stepping lightly and cautiously over the brush. Dorring couldn’t believe that he was only now seeing him.
Three yards.
The knife gripped and his body primed.
One.
Dorring leaped out and the guy turned the rifle on him. Dorring was too quick. He grabbed it and forced it upwards so that it pointed at the gray clouds. The weapon exploded and birds flew from the trees. They grappled over the weapon and eventually Dorring knocked it out of his hands, the gun thrown into bracken. But he left his feet wide open and the figure expertly swept them away with a low kick. Dorring was only just strong enough to stay semi-balanced, but it allowed the figure enough time to reach into his side and pull his own knife.
The two circled each other. Just like in the alleyway.
“I’m going to find out who you are,” Dorring said. “You’re him, aren’t you? The one in Helmand.”
The mouth poking from the hood simply smiled.
He came at Dorring. Raised the blade and attempted to bring it down on him. Dorring swooped around expertly, avoiding the knife like a matador avoids being gored by a bull’s horns. As he twisted around the onrushing figure, he slipped his own blade across the thigh.
“Agh!” his adversary cried out into the trees, grabbing his injured leg.
He screamed and came at Dorring again. But Dorring was the matador and the figure was a simple beast. Dangerous but lacking in subtlety. When he rushed past, Dorring slipped his knife across the other thigh. Now the figure went berserk. His knife slashed through the rain—right to left, left to right, up, down—and came at Dorring like the snapping jaws of a starving dog. It was no longer sufficient to play the matador. Now Dorring had to leap and roll to avoid the knife.
Dorring made a mistake. In jumping away, he allowed too much distance between them
. He gave his opponent time to grab up the rifle he’d dropped.
Realizing this immediately, Dorring turned and threw his knife at the figure. An arm flicked up to protect the face and the blade planted into the forearm.
“UGH!” he screamed.
The figure ignored the injury and reached for the rifle. With no other choice, Dorring ran once more through the forest.
The sound of the river swallowed up the sound of the rain and he saw the rushing water though the gaps in the trees. The gun went off and Dorring felt a sharp pain in his shoulder where the bullet grazed it. The sudden pain jolted him, but didn’t put him down. Pushing himself hard to the river, he dove into the rushing water as it slid past the bank. He then swam hard underwater and flew along with the fierce current. By the time he had to come up for air, he was some hundred and fifty yards further along. Balancing in the water, he gazed back at the trees and couldn’t see the figure. Then he saw the muzzle flash light up the dank air and a bullet splashed into the water a few feet from his head. He dived down into the river again and once more swam away, the flow guiding him onwards and away from the figure.
14
The river led close to Gough’s Creek. When its flow left the woods, Dorring got out of the freezing water and made his way along the edge of a field, constantly checking his surroundings for people. Thankfully, when he eventually arrived at the cottage, he did so without spotting a single soul following him.
Gough’s Creek was mostly salt marsh and more woodland. The cottage was in a forest right on the edge of the coast. The trees cradled the gray stone cottage and surrounded it like the arms of a mother.
As Dorring walked the dirt track that led to its front, exhausted from the cold and rain and with his injured arm throbbing, he was met with more hospitality.
The door of the cottage was flung open and two Doberman Pinschers came bolting towards him from the open doorway. He froze immediately and got ready for their attack. However, once they were a few yards from him, they stopped and merely glared at him, teeth bared and emitting low growls. Dorring could do nothing but stand and watch them carefully, awaiting their snarling jaws.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” a woman’s voice cried and Dorring glanced over the dogs toward the cottage.
Standing there holding the barrel of a shotgun on him was an elderly woman. She was plump and dressed in blue overalls. Her knotty gray hair blew about her head in the breeze and there was a hard look on her ruddy face.
“My name’s Alex Dorring,” he called to her.
“You part of Appleby’s lot?” she asked, stepping out of the cottage and coming towards him.
“No. I’m on my own. I want to ask you about your late husband, Craig Johnston.”
She frowned and held the shotgun even firmer to her shoulder as she came to a standstill behind her dogs.
“What do you want to know?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
“Your husband tried to get to the bottom of something.”
“And what something is that?”
“A killer.”
She cocked an eye at him.
“Who are you?” she asked slowly.
“I told you my name.”
“Your name means nothing to me. Why are you so interested in ma husband?”
“Because I’ve come to find that killer.”
“An’ then what?”
“I aim to kill him,” Dorring said, looking her straight in the eye.
She nodded in the direction of his arm. “What happened to your arm?”
“I was shot by a man I believe is either the killer or someone protecting him.”
“Huh! They’re all protecting him.”
“Why?”
“Why’d you think? Because it’s worth their while an’ greed makes a mockery of morality.”
“Well, it won’t work on me. My morality is never for sale.”
Her narrowed eyes studied his solemn expression.
“You English?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“What brought you here?”
“I told you. I’ve come to find a killer.”
“No,” she snapped irritably. “I mean, why has the killer brought you here? What’s he to do with you?”
“Because it’s not just on McGuffin that he’s done bad things,” Dorring explained. “Years ago, he did things in Afghanistan during the war. He was there. I saw his work and it’s led me back here.”
“So you’re not here for Appleby then?”
“If he’s the killer, then yes.”
“He might be,” she said, her eyes going dark. “It was certainly a theory my husband held.”
“I’d like to hear his theories,” Dorring said.
She bit her lip and continued to study him. Dorring watched as something passed over her face and the expression softened.
“Perhaps you should come in,” she said, lowering the shotgun. Then turning to the dogs, she added, “Flotsam! Jetsam! At ease.”
The dogs relented and she turned and went off in the direction of the house, the beasts doing the same and obediently accompanying her as she waddled down the pathway. Dorring cautiously followed behind, keeping at least a few yards from the dogs at all times.
Inside the cottage, he saw that the windows were shuttered from the inside. The only light was provided by a low wattage bulb in a dusty lamp.
“I’ve just put the kettle on,” she said. “You want a tea?”
“Sure,” Dorring said, feeling that a hot drink would be very welcome in his current wet and cold state. “But I don’t know your name?”
“You mean you came all the way here without knowing it?”
“I was only told about your late husband earlier on. The person who told me never mentioned your name. Only that you still lived out in Gough’s Creek.”
“It’s Patricia.”
She held a hand out and Dorring approached her. The two dogs immediately reared up.
“At ease!” she commanded.
When the dogs had backed off, still growling in undertones, Dorring took the hand and they shook.
“I’ll get you a cloth for the arm,” she said when they’d let go of each other’s hand.
While she made the tea and Dorring wrapped the cloth around his arm, the two dogs stayed close to their mistress and stared at Dorring the whole time. As for the shotgun, she kept it close to hand.
“Why’re you so cautious?” he asked.
“Huh! You tell me you’ve just been shot at and ask why I need to protect myself.”
“I guess it’s a little odd. But tell me why.”
“Because they may someday turn up here. They’ve broken in before. The night they found…” She looked up at the ceiling. “The night I lost Craig,” she continued, “I came home to find the door broken down and the place a mess.”
“What were they after?”
She turned from the drinks and frowned.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I can guess, but I’d like to know for certain.”
“They wanted pictures and notes that Craig had made. Anything connected to the bodies found back in the nineties. They wanted to bury the whole thing. But I managed to keep some of it.”
She handed Dorring his tea and then asked him to follow her. They left the cottage via a back door and walked across a dirt path that traveled through vegetable patches and a muddy yard.
At the end was a wooden shed with a rusted corrugated roof. Taking a key from a necklace she pulled out from the neck of the overalls, Patricia Johnston unlocked a padlock. The dogs were right behind her the whole time.
She entered and asked Dorring to follow.
He was immediately taken aback when he spotted a wall lined with metal mantraps used for hunting, the things hanging on chains and dangling from the wall. There were other things too. A workbench covered in machine parts. Probably from a tractor. As well as a bag of thick plastic cable ties that might come in handy at some s
tage.
Standing at the end of a large table covered over in blue tarpaulin, Patricia asked Dorring to grab the other end and they lifted it a couple of yards to the side.
It revealed a wooden hatch in the floor.
Kneeling in the dust beside it, Patricia used a key to unlock a padlock. The hatch opened on a set of wooden steps that led into darkness. Reaching a hand inside, Patricia Johnston flipped a switch and a light flickered on.
“The previous owner made a bunker,” she said as she stood up and began descending the steps. “Built it back in the fifties around the time of the Cuban missile crisis. Thought the commies were gonna bomb us all. Craig thought it was cool when we bought the place in the eighties.”
“Was the previous owner also a gamekeeper?” Dorring asked.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“All the mantraps.”
Dorring followed her down and the dogs stayed at the top, guarding the entrance. Downstairs was a breeze block cellar with shelves along one wall filled with tinned food. In a corner was a bed and a chemical toilet, silver metal shining in the electric light.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t the general layout of the bunker that left an impression on Dorring as he reached the bottom of the steps. No. His attention was taken by what was on the wall straight ahead.
It resembled a detective’s board. Photographs of faces were pinned to a huge chalk board and linked together by red lines. Notes had once been written in marker pen beside the pictures, but over time they’d faded so that Dorring couldn’t make out what was once written there. He recognized the faces in several photographs, though they were at least twenty years younger. One of them was Bruce Appleby. Lord Appleby. A line linked him with a picture of the cop named Fergus. Minus the gray hair. But still sporting the spiteful look. Above Bruce Appleby was a picture of an old man with a supercilious scowl printed in the skin of his bony face.
“That’s Patrick Appleby,” Patricia Johnston said. “He were lord when Craig were alive. The pig’s dead now though. Son’s taken over.”
Dorring gazed into the blank, arrogant eyes awhile before moving on. All the red lines led out of Patrick Appleby and it appeared to show his former control over the others. Next to Fergus was the photo of a round-headed man with a combover.