The Hanged Man (Bone Field 2)

by Simon Kernick

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Simon Kernick

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Four Days Later

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The remains of seven women have been found in the fields near a farmhouse in Wales.

  Who are they? And who put them there?

  DI Ray Mason and PI Tina Boyd are determined to find out.

  For Ray Mason the search is an intensely personal one, and goes back to a trauma in his childhood, and to a promise he made to the parents of the first victim of the ‘Bone Field’ killings.

  And Ray Mason likes to think he never goes back on his word.

  His hunt for the Bone Field killers will take him from the farmhouse in Wales through a dilapidated housing project in West London to a disused quarry in the south of England where it soon becomes very clear that his and Tina’s lives are in terrible danger …

  About the Author

  Simon Kernick is one of Britain’s most exciting thriller writers. He arrived on the crime writing scene with his highly acclaimed debut novel The Business of Dying, the story of a corrupt cop moonlighting as a hitman. Simon’s big breakthrough came with his novel Relentless which was the biggest selling thriller of 2007. His most recent crime thrillers include Siege, Ultimatum, Stay Alive and The Final Minute. He is also the author of the bestselling three-part serial thrillers Dead Man’s Gift and One By One.

  Simon talks both on and off the record to members of the Counter Terrorism Command and the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, so he gets to hear first hand what actually happens in the dark and murky underbelly of UK crime.

  Also By Simon Kernick

  The Business of Dying

  The Murder Exchange

  The Crime Trade

  A Good Day to Die

  Relentless

  Severed

  Deadline

  Target

  The Last 10 Seconds

  The Payback

  Siege

  Ultimatum

  Wrong Time, Wrong Place

  Stay Alive

  The Final Minute

  The Witness

  The Bone Field

  Digital Shorts

  Dead Man’s Gift

  One By One

  Flytrap

  This one’s for Max, and for all the good times in Barclye and the Galloway Forest where some of this book was written.

  Prologue

  Hugh Manning knew he was a marked man but he’d planned for this day for a long, long time. Fifteen years ago he’d thrown in his hat with the wrong people and from that point forward he’d been preparing for a way out. In the interim he’d made a serious amount of money. Millions. Most of which the taxman had never seen.

  Right now, though, sitting in the cramped spare bedroom of the cottage he’d bought through an offshore company three years earlier, he would have given up every penny just to be able to sleep properly at night. For the last two weeks he and his wife had effectively been on the run. Diana had had an idea who he’d been working for but, even so, she’d still been shocked when he’d announced one morning that they had to leave their beloved Georgian townhouse in Bayswater for ever, with just enough luggage to fit in the car.

  She hadn’t liked it, of course. There’d been tears, anger and recriminations. But Diana had enjoyed the money just as much as him, and anyway there was nothing she could do about it. If she’d stayed behind, they’d have come for her too.

  The plan had been to take a ferry from Felixstowe to Rotterdam using the fake passports he possessed in his and Diana’s names, buy a pair of airline tickets for cash in a bucket shop, then fly from Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport to Panama City. Panama was a country neither of them had ever visited, or even researched online, so no one would come looking for them there. Manning had watched a programme on it once, though, and thought it looked a nice place to live. Even the healthcare system was world class. They’d rent a property and settle in one of the quiet towns on the Pacific coast, living comfortably on the $2.2 million he kept in a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands until they died peacefully of old age many years down the line.

  As plans went it was thorough and well thought-out, but then, like most good lawyers, Manning was a thorough man. Unfortunately, what looks great in theory can fall apart very quickly in practice, and when they’d arrived at Felixstowe there’d been some sort of security alert going on. Diana had panicked, convinced that the alert was about them, and had refused to travel. In truth Manning had panicked too, but he’d still blamed Diana for their hesitation, and now, instead of basking in the tropical sunshine of Central America, they were stuck out here in the featureless flatlands of rural Lincolnshire, waiting for the police to conclude that the two of them were dead or had fled the country and lift the all-ports alert Manning was sure they had put in place.

  He was sitting at the window in the spare bedroom from where he had a good vantage point over the rolling, treeless fields, watching for Diana’s car. She’d left to go shopping for supplies in Horncastle – an hour’s round trip at most, but she’d been gone close to an hour and a half, and he was beginning to get anxious. Diana had never been the ideal wife and he certainly hadn’t been the ideal husband. They’d lived in a state of mutual tolerance for years, and he knew she’d had at least one affair (which was about ten fewer than him), and even now, years later, she still bitterly resented the fact he’d never given her children. But right now she was the only person he had in the world, and he needed her.

  The cigarette in his hand was shaking, and he drew deeply on it, trying in vain to stay calm as he blew the smoke out of the open window. He was meant to smoke outside as Diana couldn’t stand the smell of it – something she never tired of telling him. Just as she never tired of telling him how she couldn’t understand why he’d taken up the cigarettes again at the age of thirty-nine after ten years without them – but then she hadn’t known the full extent of the depravity of the men he’d been working for, or the
things he’d seen. Cigarettes had been one way of coping with the stress of his work. The other was alcohol.

  He looked at his watch. 4.55 p.m. Where the hell was she? She was usually pretty efficient at the shop, being just as keen to avoid being out in public as he was. The problem was, he couldn’t even phone her. Although they both carried unregistered mobile phones, the reception at the cottage, and for at least a mile around, was non-existent, so he was just going to have to sit tight. So far the authorities hadn’t put out photos of either of them – and it was possible they wouldn’t since there was no direct evidence linking Manning (or indeed Diana) to the crimes they wanted to question him about. After all, he was just a middleman. But if they did … If they did, it was going to be almost impossible to stay hidden.

  And in the end, it wasn’t the police he was scared of. It was the men he worked for. Because they could get to him anywhere, even in police custody. If he was caught, he was a dead man. There was no question of it.

  In the background, Sky News was playing on a loop on the portable TV, with the same story dominating: the aftermath of the June Brexit vote, now a month old but still the subject of endlessly rehashed and increasingly redundant arguments, both for and against, as if any of it really mattered. But at least it kept the hunt for him off the headlines.

  Manning stubbed the cigarette out in the mahogany ashtray he’d once used for his Cuban cigars, and as he looked back out of the window he saw the old red Mercedes C Class saloon he’d bought for cash at auction appear from behind the hedgerow and turn on to the long dirt track that led down to the cottage. He could make out Diana in the driver’s seat, nervously hunched over the wheel – she hated driving, having got used to not doing it during the years they’d lived in London – and he felt an immediate relief that she was home. They were safe for another night at least. As soon as they’d unloaded the shopping he’d open a bottle of decent red wine and pour them both a glass.

  He switched off the TV and shut the window, then went downstairs to the lounge and put some Beethoven on. As the first bars of Symphony No. 9 filled the room, he walked into the hallway. Diana was fiddling with her key in the lock, probably trying to open it with all the shopping in her hands.

  As he opened the door for her a single spasm of pure shock surged through his body because in that one moment he knew that it was all over, and that all he could hope for was that death would come quickly.

  Diana was standing in front of him, trembling with fear. There were two men with her, both dressed from head to foot in the same plastic overalls that police officers wear when searching murder scenes, their faces partially obscured by surgical masks but still recognizable, which Manning knew was always a bad sign. The youngest was in his early twenties, a shock of blond curly hair poking out from beneath his plastic hood. He held a large black army knife tight against the skin of Diana’s throat. A grotesque, almost childlike grin spread behind the mask.

  Manning had never seen him before. He would have remembered. But the young man had the look of a true sadist.

  The man standing next to him was familiar. Manning remembered seeing him once before, on a dark and terrible night many years earlier that was etched on his memory for ever. The man was much older now, in his sixties, but with the same strangely blank face that was hard to describe, and an unforgettable air of malevolence. He held a pistol in his hand with a long silencer attached, which he pointed at Manning’s chest. Strangely, though, it wasn’t the pistol that terrified Manning so much as the battered-looking briefcase the man held in his other hand. Manning dreaded to think what might be inside it.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you, Mr Manning,’ the gunman said quietly. His voice was a low hiss, partly muffled by the mask, with the hint of an eastern European accent, and there was an almost playful quality to his words as if he was expecting to enjoy whatever was coming.

  ‘I’m er …’ Manning tried to speak but he couldn’t get the words out. His mouth was dry and his legs felt weak.

  Diana was whimpering quietly and a tear ran down her face, but Manning couldn’t worry about her. He was too busy desperately trying to think of something to say that would stop these two men from killing them both.

  The gunman nodded to the blond man, who pushed Diana into the house, still holding the knife to her throat, brushing Manning aside as he came in. The gunman came in afterwards, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Do you have a desk in here anywhere?’ he asked.

  Manning looked at him, not sure if he’d heard correctly, so the gunman repeated the question, except this time he pushed the barrel of the gun against Manning’s forehead.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Manning answered urgently, wondering what on earth they wanted a desk for. ‘We do. It’s in the main bedroom.’

  ‘Take us there,’ said the gunman, motioning with the gun.

  Manning stole a look at Diana but she was staring straight ahead, the blond man holding her tight to his body. He was grinning like a schoolyard bully. Manning forced himself to turn away and walk slowly up the stairs knowing that, in all likelihood, he wouldn’t be coming down again. He wanted to run, to fight back, to do something, but the gunman was following right behind him. If this was a movie, all it would take was for Manning to turn round, deliver a hard kick to his chest, and send him tumbling down the stairs, then he could make a break for it out of the spare bedroom window, across the conservatory roof, and down into the field beyond. He’d have to leave Diana behind, but he’d be willing to do that. If it meant saving himself.

  The problem was, this wasn’t a movie, and Manning was no hero.

  So he did as he was told, trying to stop his body from shaking, wondering what he could say that could possibly stave off the inevitable. And all the time he cursed himself for his stupidity, and for the greed that would now be the death of them both.

  The bedroom was the biggest room in the house with a large double bed and a writing desk facing the window that Manning occasionally worked at. He stopped in front of it and the gunman put down his briefcase and told him to take a seat.

  ‘You now have two choices,’ he said as Manning sat down. ‘You can watch your wife die very slowly, then die slowly yourself …’ He paused as the blond manhandled Diana into the room, threw her roughly on the bed, and stood above her with the knife. ‘Or she and you can both die quickly and painlessly.’

  ‘Please don’t do this,’ said Diana, sitting up on the bed.

  In one swift movement the blond man slapped her hard round the head with his free hand, knocking her sideways. The suddenness of the action made Manning jump in his seat. He hated seeing violence. His employers might have been thugs but theirs was a very different world to the one he liked to inhabit. Diana fell back on the bed, crying, and he instinctively leaned forward to comfort her.

  ‘Don’t move,’ snapped the gunman, and Manning immediately returned to his former position.

  The gunman then addressed Diana. ‘The next time you speak, or even move, my friend here will cut you with the knife. Do you understand?’

  Diana nodded fearfully.

  The gunman looked satisfied. ‘Good.’

  He leaned down and opened the briefcase, pulling out a notebook and pen, which he put on the desk in front of Manning. Next, he pulled out a half bottle of cheap whisky, placing it next to the notebook.

  ‘Do you like whisky, Mr Manning?’ he asked, taking a step back.

  Manning swallowed, looking down at the floor. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘That’s a pity, because you’re going to have to drink the contents of that bottle in the next three minutes. If you don’t, your wife loses an eye.’

  ‘Look, we don’t need to—’

  ‘Shut up.’ The words cut through the hot, still air of the room. ‘I’m not interested in your feeble begging. You just have to do as I say. Now.’

  The fear Manning felt in those moments was worse than anything he’d ever previously experienced, because he knew now that th
e gunman couldn’t be reasoned with. He and Diana were going to die in this room.

  He stared at the whisky bottle, ignoring Diana’s anguished weeping. He couldn’t face her. Not now. Not in the knowledge that what was about to happen to her was his fault.

  ‘You’ve already lost thirty seconds,’ said the gunman.

  Manning made his decision. He picked up the bottle, unscrewed the top, and drank deeply, ignoring the fiery hit of the alcohol. If he had to die, then at least this way he’d be pissed and not really knowing what was going on.

  He took two more gulps, swallowed hard, felt his eyes watering. The end of the gun barrel was barely two feet from his face. Six months earlier he’d taken a week’s crash course in the Israeli martial art of Krav Maga, having wanted to learn how to defend himself in dangerous situations. One of the techniques he’d been taught was how to disarm a gunman. He’d been good. The instructor had called him a natural. He knew exactly how to get the gun off this man now. But what you could never replicate in the classes, however good they were, was the sheer limb-stiffening terror that came from having a firearm pointed at you for real.

  Manning took another gulp of the whisky. The bottle was now half empty and he was beginning to feel lightheaded.

  ‘Stop,’ said the gunman. ‘Put down the bottle and write the following sentence on the notepad. “I am so sorry. I cannot go on.” Write it now.’

  Manning put down the bottle, focused on the page in front of him, then picked up the pen and did as he was told. His handwriting, never the best in the world, looked terrible but he could make out the words and, in a way, they were very apt.

  The gunman examined the page and made an approving noise before nudging the bottle towards Manning.

  Manning closed his eyes and took another mouthful of the whisky, preparing himself for the end in the easiest way possible.

  And then he heard a yell like a battle cry coming from Diana, and a commotion behind him as she tried to scramble off the bed. It seemed she wasn’t going to die quite as easily as him.

  He opened his eyes and saw that the gunman had momentarily pointed his gun towards the bed.

  Without even thinking about it, Manning jumped up from the desk, his mouth still full of whisky, and grabbed the man’s gun arm by the wrist, yanking it so it was pointing away from him. As the gunman swung round to face him, Manning spat the whisky straight into his eyes and shoved him backwards hard enough that he fell down on his behind, still holding on to the gun while frantically rubbing his eyes.