Chandler picked up the rear alongside Flo and Luka. The pair had struck up an immediate friendship, both young and disgustingly pretty. They whispered to each other, discussing the case, believing that they couldn’t be overheard.
‘It’s all a ruse,’ said Luka, dodging a low branch. ‘A wild goose chase with nothing at the end. A prank they can’t back out of.’
Flo half-shrugged her slim shoulders, her black hair crinkled in the heat, her dark skin glowing in the sun. She had a different angle. ‘If that’s the case what are Mr Johnson and Mr Barwell getting out of it? Are they fantasists?’
Luka’s shrug matched hers. ‘Maybe they wanted to create the perfect crime; maybe they even believe they have committed the perfect crime, without having committed one at all.’
‘For what though?’
‘For something to do? To write a book about it?’
Her hand snaked out to touch his arm. ‘It’s one way to get a book deal, I guess. “My time locked up as a serial killer.” ’
Luka doubled down by putting his free hand on hers, risking his balance on the rocky ground, risking it being slapped away.
‘Anything’s possible.’
Despite feeling a mix of envy and nausea as he watched the young love blossom before him, another idea popped into Chandler’s skull. Even more outlandish than theirs had been, but just as conceivable. What if their pair of suspects were wangling for a false imprisonment lawsuit? They’d already been held in custody longer than was legal without access to a lawyer or any form of representation. Maybe this was what they were counting on. Stall and stall, give half-truths or no-truths, let it fizzle into nothing and sue the department later. Make off with a generous settlement and/or book deal as Luka suggested. Once they got off this hill, Chandler decided that he would need to get on to the magistrate quickly to smooth things over, something Mitch didn’t seem to care about, a bloodhound on the trail, blinkered to anything around him.
On reaching the cabin Gabriel was offered the chance to get his bearings. The site was quiet, the police tape oscillating in the gentle breeze. The fire was well and truly out, the remains sifted thoroughly and any surviving evidence collected. All that remained of the dwelling were a few charred planks of wood and guesses about what it had once been: a hunter’s cabin, possibly even a meth lab, though they didn’t often get that type of thing around here and never this remote. Chandler hoped to discover what exactly had gone on in there, find the truth. It seemed Gabriel wanted to know too.
‘What happened here?’ asked Gabriel, staring at the ruins. A tremor seemed to course through his body. ‘Why is it burned down?’
‘You tell us,’ said Chandler.
Gabriel shrugged, the tremor persisting. ‘I don’t know. Did everything burn up?’
Chandler tried to read the lightly bearded face, judge whether Gabriel was pleased that everything had been destroyed. His study was interrupted by Mitch who placed himself where the front door of the cabin used to be. ‘So, tell us where you went from here.’
As Gabriel closed his eyes and set about reliving the story of his escape, Chandler glanced towards the crest of the Hill. About a hundred metres up the slope and framed by the low angle of the sun he noticed faint shadows in the dirt. Stepping closer he made out two sets of footprints leading towards the ridge in the distance. Were they from some of the many officers who had trampled through here logging evidence? Or the suspects? Were they a remnant of the chase between Heath and Gabriel?
Reaching the first set, Chandler bent down to take a look. The tread was clear in the dust and didn’t match those from standard-issue police boots. A pair of trainers, he guessed, and hopefully of the kind Gabriel and Heath wore.
Jabbing a pen in the soil to mark the spot, he set off for the ridge carefully following the prints, leaving everyone else behind. Two different sets of footwear had come in this direction, the prints following almost the exact same path, stride-distance apart, a litter of broken branches and torn leaves marking the route, including what looked to be a few fibres of clothing torn off by the rough bark of a tree trunk. He reached the crest of the ridge. It sloped gently away on the other side. It was difficult to see much beyond the first layer of trees. He’d need help to search further. Turning around, he went to see what was going on back at the cabin.
Gabriel strode past him.
Chandler almost fell backwards in surprise. Gabriel glanced at him, offering a hint of a smile.
But his suspect wasn’t free. Closely behind him trailed his uniformed entourage, gradually making their way into the bush.
An hour passed, Gabriel moving in anything but a linear fashion, zigzagging, twisting and turning, practically chaotic in nature. It seemed obvious to Chandler that their hound dog couldn’t recall the route he’d taken earlier. Either that or it was a drawn-out attempt to ward them off the scent.
Still the entourage followed, an atmosphere already sticky with tension becoming unbearable as the sun reached its peak. Chandler tried to focus his mind on the task but his body cried out for water and shade. Sweat gripped his uniform, dripping through his eyebrows and into his eyes, blurring his vision. As he passed under a branch, he tried to blink it away, and for a moment in the heat haze the slight figure of Gabriel morphed into the squat form of Arthur from all those years ago, the old man shuffling along, hunting in vain. Squeezing his eyes shut he shook the mirage from his head.
Just then Gabriel paused and looked around at the scenery.
‘Do you need a break?’ asked Mitch, his jacket slung neatly over his arm. His white shirt remained crisp and remarkably dry, as if he had no sweat glands at all. A freak of nature, thought Chandler.
‘No,’ said Gabriel sharply, as if angry at being distracted.
‘What is it?’ asked Chandler, stepping closer.
‘The forest here looks familiar. That rock,’ said Gabriel and set off, his pace quickening.
‘What about it?’ called out Chandler as he trailed behind.
‘The bend in the horizon . . .’ Twisting towards them Gabriel stumbled, banging into an unyielding tree trunk, and fell to the ground.
‘Are you okay?’
Gabriel winced and tried in vain to get up. Chandler grabbed him and helped him to his feet. ‘I’m okay, but can I get rid of these? For now?’ he said, presenting the cuffs that were bound behind his back. ‘In case I fall again. It’s hard to move.’
‘I’m not going to be caught out like others, Mr Johnson,’ stated Mitch.
‘I’m not going to run.’
‘I said no.’
Chandler approached his former colleague, voice lowered. ‘What if he gets injured?’
‘We make sure he doesn’t. We look after him. You look after him,’ said Mitch.
Chandler stared at him. It was like peering at a rock face, hard, chiselled and uncompromising.
‘If he falls, he could sue us. And how will that look on your record?’
‘No,’ Mitch said.
Gabriel shrugged, turned and walked on. His pace slowed, possibly in protest, possibly in exhaustion from walking and talking, recalling details of his escape, a tree he vaguely remembered passing, a dried-out stream that conjured images from the day before. Closing his eyes in what he said was an effort to aid his memory, Gabriel persistently stumbled, causing Chandler, Mitch or whoever was nearest to lurch towards him and keep him upright.
It took half an hour of this sluggish progress to irritate Mitch.
‘Take them off,’ he finally ordered, to no one in particular.
Everyone stopped, including Gabriel. As Chandler stepped forward to remove the cuffs Mitch took charge. ‘Mr Johnson, we’re letting you out of these cuffs for now but I need to see more progress.’
Gabriel nodded.
Gabriel stuck to his promise and the pace immediately increased, the now freed man seeming to almost float over the ground. Chandler’s senses heightened. In the cuffs Gabriel had been pretty helpless, but now they had
a free-moving suspect with possible knowledge of his surroundings. Despite the increase in pace, the random zigzagging continued, dragging the group along behind.
The day swept on, the relentless sun fraying nerves and patience. As Chandler was beginning to think that it was a waste of time and that they should return and get Heath, Gabriel suddenly stopped, the group concertinaing behind him.
‘What is it?’ asked Chandler.
‘I fell here,’ said Gabriel, shivering, terror coursing through him. Chandler held back, as if contact would break the spell. ‘He nearly got me.’
The tremor returned, even more intense. Chandler wondered what the hell they were going to do if their suspect had a nervous breakdown. Then suddenly, Gabriel set off at a sprint, the suddenness of the movement catching everyone out. He easily gained ten metres before the entourage had a chance to react.
‘Stop!’
Mitch and Chandler yelled out simultaneously but this did nothing to slow Gabriel who moved with a sure-footed nimbleness.
Chandler led the chasing pack. Roper and others from Mitch’s squad jogged up hard on the outside; Luka too, though it was increasingly hard to determine what team he ascribed to now.
Despite further calls to stop, Gabriel increased his lead. After a few hundred metres he disappeared behind a set of boulders. Unleashing his handgun Mitch ordered his officers to get their tasers out, find Gabriel and take him down.
Chandler charged onwards, panting for air. Rounding the set of boulders he expected to find that Gabriel had disappeared into thin air, but there he was, standing at the edge of a small clearing in the scrub, soil disturbed in rectangular patches, the edges too perfect to be natural. The gravesite.
‘Freeze there, Mr Johnson!’ shouted Mitch, his officers moving into position to let loose the electric barbs of their tasers if required. But Gabriel wasn’t moving. He had his back to them, his shoulders jerking as he sobbed and continued to gaze at the clearing, even as Mitch forced him to his knees and reattached the cuffs.
Chandler stared at Gabriel. The horror was etched on his face, tears of relief staining his dusty cheeks. This is where he could have found himself. Underneath one of these six mounds of dirt, including the one nearest to them that looked recent. At the most, it was a few days old, the soil retaining an element of darkness, not entirely devoid of moisture, the sun-scorched clay crusted like freshly baked pastry on top.
28
The smell hung in the air, the drying soil offering little resistance to the unforgiving aroma of decomposition underneath. As Chandler turned his head to the side to stifle a retch, he spotted Mitch pacing around in the background, mumbling into his iPhone, calling in the forensic team and providing running commentary on what had been discovered.
The atmosphere was burdened by the stench and a searing hot mix of tension, anticipation and sweat. Turning his head from the grave, he risked another breath. He was determined to be there when they uncovered it. As he inhaled the searing air he found himself staring at Gabriel who watched on from the side, chewing his nails in a look of apprehension and shock.
Chandler turned back to the scene. A whiff of what lay under the earth invaded his nostrils. He could resist no longer. Making for the bushes he deposited his breakfast. And made the first discovery. A pickaxe lazily hidden under some rocks. Around the handle was a ripped section of shirt. Green checks. Chandler recognized the pattern.
‘Over here!’ he shouted.
Mitch scooted over, trying to maintain an air of authority through his palpable delight.
Chandler pointed at it. ‘It matches Heath’s shirt.’
‘Good,’ said Mitch, before addressing them all, loudly. ‘This could be the breakthrough we need. Tape that area off for forensics to look at.’
As some of Mitch’s team set about this, Chandler took a minute. Heath. Their killer. That would explain the state of his hands when he had arrived in the station: blistering caused by hacking through hard earth. The piece of shirt used as protection. Chandler’s instinct had been wrong. Gabriel truly was the innocent party, merely trying to escape town and the clutches of a maniac.
Chandler had got it wrong. Completely wrong.
The forensic team funnelled out of the chopper as if dropped straight into a contagion zone, already bedecked in white smocks, equipment in unmarked cases. He didn’t envy having to wear one of those full-body jumpsuits out here in summer. The team of eight stormed past him without greetings, professionals on a mission, stopping only to shake hands with Mitch.
Chandler got up to join in and watched on as they set to work, the entire team dropping to their knees around the graves, sweeping layers of crumbled soil away with their fine brushes. Chandler wondered what state they would find the body in and whether they would discover clothing or skin first.
‘Let’s keep going,’ said Mitch to everyone. ‘We have evidence to tie one of the suspects to the scene. Let’s see what we are tying him to.’
The deeper the forensic team probed the worse the smell became. Chandler watched them pass VapoRub around to smear under their noses to dampen the scent. Someone finally offered him the jar and he used it, but the sour, throat-clogging stench of death forced its way through the heavy stink of menthol all the same.
A sweep soon brought the first hint of body: a hand, bare and uncovered, the skin loose and grey like dripping candle wax, the nails cracked, rough and square cut, those of a man who worked with his hands, the withering of the skin giving the appearance that they had grown since death. Work paused and everyone absorbed the now visual confirmation that they had a body.
With delicate work the face was revealed, the eyelids thankfully closed. Chandler noted how well preserved the body was, the lack of moisture in the air assisting and making it hard to tell at first glance how long the body had been buried. His guess was at least a few weeks, given the decomposition. What he could tell was that the victim was male, early thirties, short brown hair with a broken nose – whether it’d been broken pre- or post-mortem, it was impossible to know at this stage.
‘How did he die?’ Mitch broke the silence to ask the question.
That was easy, even from Chandler’s limited perspective. With the greying of the tissue-paper-like skin, the dark discolouration and frayed rope fibres around the throat, it was evident.
‘Strangled,’ he said, glancing at Gabriel to see how the proposed victim took the news. Gabriel was staring at the murdered body with a look of shock.
‘With?’ interrupted Mitch.
‘Looks like rope,’ said the lead forensic officer.
‘Photograph it. Take some fibres and bag them,’ said Mitch. He turned to the lead officer. ‘I want to find out who the deceased is straight away. Check him for ID.’
Mitch turned from them and called over Yohan who held the satellite phone.
‘We have one,’ he bellowed down the handset. ‘A body. Male, early thirties, no ID as yet.’ A smile crept over his face, a smile Chandler knew well. Things were finally going Mitch’s way.
With the first body discovered, the forensic team turned their attention to the other graves. Each patch of disturbed soil revealed another victim, soon numbering five in total, in more advanced states of decomposition than the first, the sex of each impossible to determine. But the manner of death seemed to be the same, strangulation, and an unspoken assumption that it had been a horrible demise.
As each grave was uncovered, Chandler studied Gabriel’s demeanour. He remained at the fringes, eagle-eyed, giving little away. Chandler wondered if he were thinking about just how close he had come to having his own plot here in this unforgiving ground.
29
With the professionals in place, Mitch dismissed the majority of the others, posting a couple of his team as site security and another couple in the car park to monitor the reporters who would no doubt be desperate to find out what was going on now that the chopper had appeared.
Chandler approached Mitch. He nodded towards
the still-handcuffed Gabriel.
‘What do we do with him?’
‘Has he asked to be released?’
Chandler shook his head. He had expected some sort of rant about being kept captive then dragged out here to relive his experience, but Gabriel had merely watched on as if shocked to the core as they had uncovered the bodies. ‘No, but his lawyer will surely press for it, given that we know it’s Heath.’
In response, Mitch bit on his oddly blue lower lip. Mitch’s theory of the two being in partnership seemed to be in ruins but Chandler recognized the reluctance to acknowledge that he was wrong. Not that he was in any position to gloat.
The next question caught Chandler off guard.
‘What do you think?’
Chandler paused. He waited for some ruse but there seemed to be none.
‘I think that there is no harm keeping him around on the pretext of tying up loose ends. If we let him go he could disappear. He has no address and no reason to hang around after what has happened to him. He escaped once and was hard to find. If we give him a day’s head start we might never find him.’
The nod from Mitch suggested that he agreed. It felt odd to work in true partnership once again, rousing a warmth in Chandler that was only partly due to the weather.
‘There is a chance that he’ll thank us for saving him,’ said Mitch.
‘A remote chance,’ noted Chandler.
‘If he starts making noises or threatening to sue, then release him,’ said Mitch. ‘But get some form of forwarding address.’
This was the answer Chandler wanted. Heath might be their killer, but a few questions still clawed at the back of his skull.
Chandler got ready to guide Gabriel back through the woods.
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Johnson,’ said Mitch, removing the cuffs from Gabriel’s wrists.
‘I was glad to help, but I’m also glad it’s over. Out here it all came back to me.’ He looked at Mitch, then Chandler. ‘Now hopefully you can make it stick. Now you found his shirt.’
‘We’ll do our best, Mr Johnson,’ said Mitch, before striding away to resume command.
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