Death Walks Behind You

by Scott Hunter

  “Can I help?”

  “I’m looking for DS Wilmot,” Moran said. “I have an appointment.”

  The PC looked at his watch. “DS Wilmot? I wasn’t expecting him. But he’s got to get here from town if he’s coming, so I imagine he’ll be a while yet.”

  “He said half past nine.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat, sir? I’ll give Exeter a ring. And the name is?”

  “DCI Brendan Moran.”

  “Oh. I see. I do apologise, sir. Just a moment.”

  Moran sat down, disgruntled. He was tired and irritable. After the briefest of conversations the PC put the phone down.

  “Sorry, sir, DS Wilmot sends his apologies but he can’t get here today. He’s been seconded to something urgent, apparently.”

  “What?” Moran went to the counter. “Look, someone died here last night. It’s got to be dealt with.”

  “Died, sir?”

  “Yes. Died. Can I make a call?” Moran reached for the receiver.

  The PC deftly removed the phone from the counter. “I’m sorry, sir, that’s not possible.”

  “What the hell do you mean, not possible? Look, a woman died in the village last night. In your village. The car and the body are missing. Now let me make a call.”

  The PC sniffed. “I have no record of this, sir.”

  Moran felt his blood rising. “I was interviewed by DS Wilmot in the early hours of this morning. He’ll have made a report. Now, please can I phone Exeter?”

  The door opened and closed, and a cheery voice said, “Morning, William. Everything all right?”

  Moran glanced behind him. A man in his late forties wearing a worn hacking jacket and a genial expression stepped forward with hand outstretched. “Richard de Courcy.”

  “DCI Brendan Moran.” De Courcy’s grip was firm and dry.

  “I was explaining that police procedures work a little differently in our neck of the woods, Mr D,” Frobisher said.

  “Good man, William. Quite right.” De Courcy turned to Moran. “Local lad, our William. Followed his father’s footsteps and took over as our local bobby after poor George was diagnosed.” De Courcy turned a sympathetic eye to Frobisher. “How is dad, William?”

  “He’s not too bad, Mr D. I’ll pass on your good wishes.”

  “Be sure to tell him I’ll look in later in the week.” And then to Moran: “we look after our own here, DCI Moran.” De Courcy reached over the counter and patted Frobisher on the epaulette.

  Moran noted the familiarity with which the young PC addressed the newcomer. Familiarity and respect. But there was something else in his tone – unless Moran was imagining it – and that was the unmistakeable timbre of fear.

  “I simply wish to make a phone call, PC Frobisher.” Moran kept his voice even and reasonable.

  “No harm in that, William,” de Courcy said. “He is one of yours, after all, eh?” His face creased into a smile, the crow’s feet becoming more prominent at the corners of his eyes, which were blue and clear. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I found another body this morning.”

  Moran’s heart skipped.

  “Torn apart like the last one,” de Courcy was saying. “If I didn’t know better I’d say it was a wolf, or one of those wild cats they keep reporting on the news.” De Courcy registered Moran’s shocked expression. “A deer, old boy. We’ve had a few killed over the last couple of months. Woods are well stocked with the delightful beasts, but some bloody animal is knocking them off.”

  “Thanks for letting me know, Mr D,” Frobisher said. “I’ll see if we can’t get one of those experts down from Exeter to set some traps.”

  “Good man, William. Got to put a stop to it, eh? Nice to meet you, Mr Moran. You’re here on police business, I take it?”

  Moran shook his head. “A holiday, actually.”

  “Oh, splendid. Staying long?”

  “Until next Wednesday.”

  “Very good, very good. Well, enjoy your break. It’s a lovely spot. We’re proud of it, aren’t we, Will?”

  “We are indeed, Mr D.”

  Moran wondered if PC Frobisher was going to salute de Courcy on his way out. When Moran returned his attention to the counter he saw that the telephone was back in its original position. He was left with the distinct impression that his call had been authorised not by Frobisher, but by de Courcy.

  Frobisher appeared to have lost interest, shuffling papers at the far end of the counter. Moran picked up the receiver and made his call. He was told that DS Wilmot was unavailable and likely to remain so for the rest of the day. Moran gave up, nodded curtly to Frobisher and left. As he walked back to the cottage it started to rain.

  Preparing a late breakfast – porridge to start, followed by toast, orange juice and a pot of coffee – Moran asked himself some questions. They were not comfortable ones.

  Is your brain up to its old tricks again, Brendan? Is this whole thing some kind of Charnford Abbey flashback?

  He knew his brain to be an unreliable witness. After all, during the investigation at Charnford Abbey it had constructed a fully-formed, highly attractive persona of its own devising in the shape of English teacher Holly Whitbread, as real to him as the solid abbey walls had been – and yet Holly had been a phantom, a product of his own imagination. He still couldn’t believe it, still caught himself thinking about her during those quiet, unguarded moments before sleep. And along with these uncomfortable recollections came the fear that he might be heading for a permanent loss of faculties, poised on the crest of some cerebral breaker which would shipwreck him on the rocks of full-blown mental illness forever.

  But he actually felt fine. Sure, the leg pained him a bit and the limp would always be there, but apart from that, physically he had never felt better. This morning’s weariness was merely the product of a restless night, nothing more. Moran buttered a slice of toast and crunched it thoughtfully. The woman, Blanche, had been real. And dead. He would stake his professional reputation on it.

  The question was what to do about it. Moran swirled the last third of his coffee around the bottom of the farmhouse mug. See, swirl, sniff, sip, savour … the five Ss of wine tasting. Well, he’d seen and swirled. Now it was time for a little sniffing.

  He locked the cottage door behind him. His watch told him it was eleven fifteen, almost opening time.

  Moran paused at the spot where the Lexus had been parked and bent to examine the ground. The rain had cleared and the sun warmed his back as he looked for tell-tale tyre tracks, or any personal indications that Blanche had indeed parked her hired car here by the cemetery wall. However, the ground was firm and clear of mud. There were no signs of a struggle, nothing left behind to give any clue as to what had happened. In short, no evidence at all. Moran harrumphed and continued along the lane to the Green Man .

  The interior of the pub was gloomy and Moran squinted as the door creaked shut behind him with a soft thump. An overweight barmaid in a low-cut top was leaning across the bar with a copy of Hello magazine open in front of her. The only other occupant was a white-bearded regular reclining in the far corner with a folded paper on his knee and a pewter tankard at his elbow. He grunted a greeting and immediately returned his attention to the paper.

  “What can I get you?” The barmaid straightened up, adjusting herself.

  Moran tried to fix his eyes somewhere between neck and forehead. “I’m looking for someone by the name of Celine. Do you know where I might find her?”

  “Celine? Nope. Sorry.”

  “She was here last night,” Moran said. “Chatting to Terl.”

  “Don’t know her.” The girl shook her head.

  “Is Terl about? Perhaps he–?”

  “Terl’s off today,” the girl cut in abruptly.

  “I see. When might he be back?”

  “I have no idea.” She sighed. “I just work here on Sundays and Mondays. I don’t see Terl very often – just so long as he leaves my wages, that’s fine. Where he goes
and what he does is up to him.”

  “Right. Well, thanks anyway.”

  Moran left the pub, narrowly resisting the temptation to slam the door behind him.

  Best just forget it, Brendan. There’s probably some rational explanation. Maybe she wasn’t dead; maybe she was asleep after all…

  Maybe.

  He guided his car out of the village and drove the three or so miles to the nearest main carriageway. A petrol station beckoned from the far side. Moran crossed the junction and pulled in. His mobile phone showed two bars on the signal meter. That should do. He dialled a number.

  “DI Pepper.”

  The voice brought a smile to Moran’s face. His new DI, Charlie Pepper, was a fiery Midlands girl whom he had grown to admire and like in equal measure over the preceding months. She had shown her mettle during the Ranandan case, fighting off a murderous attack in her own home and playing a leading role in pulling the teeth of an internationally active drug ring. He could imagine her at her desk, twirling a strand of short blonde hair between her expressive fingers as she held the receiver to her ear. “Hello, Charlie.”

  “Guv? I thought you were on holiday.”

  “So did I. Look, Charlie, I have a small favour to ask, that’s all.”

  “Oh yes? You’re supposed to be taking it easy. You know, R and R and all that.”

  “I am. I have a very pleasant cottage, a local within a stone’s throw, copious woodland stocked with all manner of wildlife, a dozen or more public footpaths to explore–”

  She interrupted him. “But something’s bugging you, right?”

  Moran chuckled. “Right.”

  Charlie sighed. “Go on, then. What do you want?”

  “I just need a few airline passenger lists checked, that’s all.”

  “Airport?”

  “Not sure, probably Heathrow, or maybe Bristol.”

  “More, please.”

  “OK. I’m after the name of a passenger whose first name is Blanche, married, surname unknown. Airport of origin unknown, but definitely the US.”

  “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “I wish. I’m sorry, Charlie, I know it’s not much to go on.”

  “Arrival date?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Guv!”

  Moran grimaced and held the phone away from his ear before going on. “Sometime over the last couple of days. Another thing; she hired a silver Lexus. That might help.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Moran could almost see Charlie’s keen eyes sparkling as she scribbled down the scant details. He tapped the iPhone over to loudspeaker.

  “I don’t think you can fly direct to Bristol from the US, anyhow.” Charlie’s voice filled the car. “I think the flights are via everywhere: Paris, Amsterdam, Dublin.”

  “See, you know more than I do already.”

  Charlie gave a sigh of mock-disapproval. “OK, I’m on it. Only if you tell me what’s up, though.”

  Moran briefly explained the events of the previous evening.

  “Sounds weird, for sure. Leave it with me; I’ll see what I can do. DS Banner is at a loose end right now. He can make a start.”

  Moran grinned. DS Banner, the team’s resident male chauvinist, was still acclimatising to taking orders from a senior officer in lip gloss. He was going to love this one.

  “Thanks, Charlie. How’s things?”

  “Not too bad. The Chief is keen to find the last of the Ranandans’ buddies. We reckon one or two are still lurking around the town centre.”

  “You be careful, DI Pepper.” Moran clocked the intonation of concern in his voice and realised with a jolt that to describe Charlie Pepper as someone he ‘liked’ didn’t tell the whole story. Not at all.

  “Banner’ll look after me, never fear.” Charlie gave a throaty laugh.

  “I’m sure he will. Listen, Charlie, my mobile network doesn’t seemed to have extended its reach to this neck of the woods. You can reach me at the Green Man, Cernham. Leave a message, OK?”

  “No probs, guv. Try to forget it for now. You’re on hols, yes?”

  “I’ll try. Take care. Bye.” He rang off.

  Moran sat for a while, deep in thought. The Ranandan drug ring had not been your run of the mill local operation; it had been a significant strand of a massive international cartel. He knew they had only succeeded in cutting off one of many tentacles, and the continuing presence of eastern bloc heavies in the Thames Valley worried him. These people didn’t play games. He had lost three officers on the Ranandan case, and the possibility of further casualties was unthinkable. He sat quietly and listened to the buzz of passing traffic. What was the name of that creature from Greek mythology? The Hydra, that was it. If you cut off one of the heads, two more sprang up to take their place.

  Watch out, Charlie, he whispered under his breath. Just watch out...

  Chapter 4

  Moran’s eyes shot open. He stiffened and then relaxed as he remembered where he was. He’d decided to have an afternoon nap, but judging from the fading light filtering into the cottage he had slept for much longer than he had intended. However, he had to admit that he felt a great deal better for it. You’re getting old, Moran, that’s your trouble…

  He went into the snug little kitchen and made a pot of tea. He felt rested and at ease – chilled, Charlie would have called it. So, what to do this evening? It was a no-brainer, really. The pub was nearby and the landlord amenable. Besides, there was always the chance that Celine would drop by, and it wouldn’t do any harm to chew the fat over Blanche’s disappearance. By now there might even be an explanation, or at least some indication of what had happened. You’re on holiday, Brendan, he told himself. You have a mild interest in this, not a professional one. DS Wilmot could pick up the thread when his ‘urgent’ secondment had been completed.

  Not my problem, Moran repeated to himself, mantra-like, as he gave the teapot a final stir and turned on the prehistoric-looking TV set, which crackled into life in a buzz of horizontal static. He’d read somewhere that a small percentage of TV interference was caused by tiny electrical remnants of the Big Bang. It seemed a fantastic proposition that the beginnings of the universe could be observed from a remote holiday cottage while enjoying a cup of tea, but the astronomers seemed certain of their facts.

  “Yes, but you can’t tell me what actually caused the Big Bang, can you?” Moran said aloud. He wouldn’t have described himself as a religious man, but he was careful to maintain what he considered to be a healthy interest in the science versus religion debate. As far as Moran was concerned, science only went so far in explaining the way things were. For instance, the boffins knew that gravity existed because they had laws which could predict its behaviour, but ask a scientist what gravity actually was and they would struggle to answer. As for religion, Moran had left his Catholic upbringing behind after his fiancée, Janice, had been killed in an IRA revenge attack, while recent events at Charnford Abbey had cemented his view that those involved in organised religion of any sort were just as flawed, if not more so, than their non-believing counterparts.

  He took a thoughtful sip of tea and watched the television flicker and buzz. No mobile signal, no TV channels. They were well and truly cut off from the rest of the world here in Cernham – which was why, he supposed, the pub was so important in the community; it was the centre of social activity where you found out who was doing what to whom.

  Moran strolled to the door and opened it, sipping his tea and basking in the mild spring air. He cocked his head. Was that music? He listened again and remembered Terl’s Morris dancers. That was religion, of a kind. Nothing wrong with celebrating nature’s rebirth. You’ll end up a bloody druid, Moran, he grinned to himself as he finished his tea. He zapped the TV off, donned his jacket and followed his ears.

  The music and applause grew louder as Moran passed the churchyard. He smiled in anticipation. Morris dancing was one of the dafter but more endearing traditions of his adopted country.
He turned the corner and there they were: a motley crew of colourfully dressed crazies, dancing and twirling as if their lives depended upon it. With their red braces, hats adorned with bright flowers and waving handkerchiefs they were a wonderfully eccentric sight. A crowd of villagers had gathered, beer tankards in hand, to cheer them on. Moran pressed through and entered the bar where he ordered a pint of local ale. The pub was transformed from his lunchtime visit and doing a roaring trade. Moran was gratified to find Terl back on duty, noting with relief that the surly lunchtime barmaid was conspicuous by her absence. Sleeves rolled up and forehead perspiring, the landlord was hard at work and clearly enjoying the boost in trade. He acknowledged Moran with a brief nod. Moran returned the greeting and went outside to enjoy the Morris men. He could talk to Terl later when the rush was over.

  Moran found a gap in the semicircle surrounding the dancers, sipped his ale and tapped his feet to the rhythm. The musicians were doing a great job, accordion, tabor and violin belting out the tunes with gusto. With a jolt he recognised the accordionist as Celine. Her hair was arranged in long plaits and she was wearing a multi-coloured skirt and white blouse. Around her neck were garlands of spring flowers and her cheeks were rouged with exaggerated ovals of outdoor heartiness. She caught Moran’s eye and winked. However troubled she had been the previous evening, she seemed to have made a good recovery.

  The Morris men clattered their sticks in time to the rhythm of the tabor. The music bore some similarity to the pipes and drums of Moran’s youth. He remembered watching the marches and the pipe bands, as well as the eventual and inevitable escalation into dark days of violence and confrontation. He didn’t want to go there, and quickly switched his mind back to the present.

  The dancing ended to enthusiastic applause from the crowd. The dancers clapped one other on the back and made their way inside in twos and threes to replenish their tankards.