The Hanged Man (Bone Field 2)

by Simon Kernick

  The blond knifeman meanwhile had grabbed Diana, pulling her backwards into his grip. She looked at Manning desperately, and he looked back at her for the briefest of moments as the knife blade punched through the pink T-shirt she was wearing – and then he was running for his life, literally jumping over the gunman, his foot making contact with his head with a satisfying whack.

  Manning felt a euphoria he hadn’t felt in years as he sprinted the few yards across the landing and into the spare bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He crossed the room in a moment and yanked open the back window facing on to the garden, and scrambled out.

  There was a drop of about four feet on to the conservatory roof and, as the door flew open behind him, Manning jumped down, hoping the glass would hold. It did, and he scrambled down the angled roof before rolling off the end and landing feet first on the patio, impressed by his agility.

  When he’d been writing the suicide letter, Manning knew the gunman wouldn’t want to shoot him. He’d want to make his death look as natural as possible. But now, with him making a break for it, there’d be no such hesitation.

  Without looking back, Manning raced across the patio to the line of mature laurel trees that marked the property’s boundary, keeping his body low.

  There was a sound like a pop, followed by the ping of a bullet ricocheting off one of the flagstones a few feet away, and Manning realized with a surreal sense of surprise that he was being shot at. He angled his run, staying low, and leaped through foliage as another shot rang out. Knowing he was temporarily sheltered by the trees, he ran alongside them until they gave way to the farmer’s field at the back of the property.

  Here, the wheat crop was waist high but not thick enough to hide in, so he kept running across the uneven ground, knowing that the further he got from the house the harder it would be to hit him with a bullet. One of the intruders must have travelled to the house in the back of the Mercedes, which meant they’d hijacked Diana somewhere nearby. It wouldn’t have been too hard to do in an isolated area like this, where traffic was almost non-existent at the busiest of times. But it meant they had the keys to the Mercedes as well as access to the car they’d travelled up here in. It wouldn’t take them long to cut him off.

  Manning looked back over his shoulder. The house was now fifty yards away and there was no one following him, but as if on cue he heard the engine of the Merc starting up round the front of the cottage. He kept running, increasing his pace. A stone wall with a single line of barbed wire separated the field he was in from the next field along, where a bright yellow rapeseed crop grew. Beyond that was the road. He had to get there before they did, and figured he had three minutes at most as it was about a mile by car to the point where he was going to emerge.

  He vaulted the wall, catching his wrist and leg on the barbed wire, ignoring the pain as it cut into him, and kept going through the rapeseed field. On the other side of the road he could see a small wood, little more than a few rows of trees but enough to give him cover.

  Manning wasn’t particularly fit. He tended to use the cross-trainer and the weights in the gym but it wasn’t enough to compensate for his sedentary lifestyle, and the last time he’d had such a burning in his lungs was on day one of the Krav Maga course when he’d thrown up twice. He was panting like a dog and his hamstrings seemed to be tightening with every step as he approached the end of the second field. A large, impenetrable hawthorn hedge taller than he was stood between him and the road and he felt another spasm of fear as he realized he had no idea where the gate was. He looked round wildly and his heart sank as he saw that it was a good hundred and fifty metres away in the direction his pursuers would be coming from.

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear a car. He recognized the sound of the engine.

  It was them. Closing in.

  Manning slowed down, suddenly crippled with indecision. There was no way he’d get to the gate before they cut him off. And yet there was no other way out. He considered turning round and running back to the house, but what if one of them had stayed behind? He had to do something. Now.

  He made a snap decision, and immediately accelerated, sprinting at the hedge. As he reached it, he jumped up and grabbed at the top branches, tearing his hands on the thorns as he forced his way over it through sheer willpower, the thorns shredding his clothes. He fell down the other side, landing in the road, and looked both ways. The car wasn’t in sight and, as he got up and ran into the trees and the first sign of shelter, he felt the euphoria return.

  He knew this area well enough. As the trees gave way to another field, this one sloping down towards another, smaller copse at the bottom, he saw the house up ahead of him. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there, but right now it was his only hope. He glanced back over his shoulder. He could hear the car, moving slowly and still some distance away, but the road was no longer visible, which meant they couldn’t see him.

  The house, a rambling detached cottage with ivy strangling it on every side, was separated from the field by a single wooden rail fence. Manning clambered over it, slowing as he ran into the back garden. He needed to hide, and plan his next move. The garden was a mess, full of tangled bushes, and an old shed, but nothing that offered effective concealment.

  He stopped and listened, realizing that he could no longer hear the car. The warren of back roads, tracks and country lanes round here was chaotic and, even though he was still less than a mile away from where he’d started, his pursuers wouldn’t necessarily be able to find him here.

  He walked round the house, looking in the windows. Nothing moved inside and there was no car in the driveway at the front, so he tried the back door and smiled with relief as it opened into a kitchen and dining area that was filled with all kinds of junk and clutter. A pile of crockery was drying on the draining board and there were drops of water in the sink so whoever lived here hadn’t been gone that long.

  Manning picked up a china tea cup and poured himself a drink of water, gulping it down in one go, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with a tea towel before setting it back. His breathing was slowing down, and for the first time he thought of Diana, who by now was almost certainly dead. He hoped at least they’d made it quick, and hadn’t punished her for his sins.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pootle,’ he whispered, using the pet name he’d had for her back in the early days of their relationship when life had been a lot easier. He was going to miss her. He really was. Because now he was truly on his own with just the money in his pocket and a mobile phone with no signal. Even his passport was back at the cottage, and for the moment at least that was where it was going to have to stay.

  He continued into the hallway and saw a landline phone on a sideboard next to the front door. He could dial 999, surrender to the police and take his chances, and for a long minute he stood there looking at the phone before finally dismissing the thought. If he cooperated with the police for a lesser sentence, he probably wouldn’t even make it to trial before his employers got to him. And if he kept his mouth shut he’d carry the rap for all kinds of crimes, and probably never see the outside of a prison again. At least for the moment he was still in control of his own destiny. He had a chance of getting out of the country and making that life for himself in Panama. It wouldn’t be as much fun doing it alone but it was still considerably better than the alternatives.

  His breathing was coming back to normal now and he was just contemplating his next move when there was a loud knock on the front door.

  Manning froze when he saw the silhouetted head at the frosted glass of the door’s small round window.

  It was the gunman.

  He cursed. He’d been a fool to think they wouldn’t be right on his trail. These people were professionals. They weren’t going to let him go that easily. And he hadn’t locked the back door behind him either.

  The man knocked again and Manning took a step backwards into the shadows at the bottom of the staircase – which was when he heard the
sound of the back door opening.

  Trying to stay as calm as possible – and Jesus, it wasn’t easy – he turned and began crawling up the stairs, making himself as small a figure as possible so the man at the front door wouldn’t pick up movement. The stairs were thickly carpeted and didn’t creak, and he was up them in a few seconds and looking around for somewhere to hide. The door in front of him led into the bathroom but there was never going to be anywhere suitable in there so he doubled back on himself and crossed the landing, darting into what looked like a junk room, before closing the door gently behind him.

  He looked around. The room contained a single bed covered in boxes of junk, with more boxes littering the floor, and an old ceiling-high dressing cupboard covered in scratches. He could hear movement downstairs. They were in the house now and it wouldn’t be long before they came up. He needed to think fast.

  He went over to the old-fashioned sash window and stared out. It was a long drop to the ground, further than he could jump without risking injury. But what choice did he have? The first place they’d look for him was the cupboard. Unless …

  He glanced down at one of the boxes on the floor, a large, heavy-looking wooden chest, and a thought suddenly occurred to him.

  Slowly he prised open the sash window until it was fully extended and the gap wide enough to climb out of, then he opened the chest. It was full of old clothes, and what looked like a whole curtain.

  He was sure he could hear someone coming up the stairs now, imagined that gun with the silencer attached. And the knife … the knife with the black blade he’d last seen slicing through Diana’s T-shirt, and which he knew could eviscerate him in seconds.

  Moving as quietly as he could, he emptied the chest of clothes, placing them on to a pile of books stacked up in one corner. There still wasn’t a lot of space left but, probably for the first time in his life, Manning was thankful that he was only five feet seven, because he was small enough to squeeze inside. He pulled his knees up so high it felt like they were breaking, grabbed the chain attached to the lid and brought it down – and then cursed. The lid almost shut but not quite, leaving an inch-wide gap. But there was nothing he could do about it now because almost with his next breath he heard the soft bump of footfalls outside on the landing.

  He quieted his breathing, trying without success to force himself down and allow the lid to close, until he heard the sound of the door to the junk room slowly opening.

  Then he stopped breathing altogether.

  Through the gap he watched as a man came into the room. He could only see his legs but recognized the jeans as belonging to the blond knifeman with the malicious smile.

  Manning swallowed, the terror he was experiencing so intense it was like every bone in his body had turned to ice.

  The legs stopped at the window and, as the blond man crouched down to put his head out to look, Manning saw the razor-sharp tip of the knife in his gloved hand. He heard the man curse in a London accent and turn away. Next the man opened the cupboard, before going down on his hands and knees to look under the bed.

  Manning could see him clearly now. He was barely three feet away. The moment he stood back up he was going to see the not-quite-closed chest right in front of him. He’d lift the lid, see Manning inside, and drive the knife into him. Again and again.

  It took all his willpower not to cry out. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest and was sure that any second now the other man was going to hear it too.

  The blond man rose, and Manning could see him turning towards his hiding place, imagined him spying the chest and smiling that malicious smile …

  He began to shake. Please make it quick. Please make it quick.

  The legs were now right in front of the box, and Manning held his breath as the man bent his knees as he reached down to open the chest.

  It was all over.

  Four Days Later

  One

  Picture the scene. You’re at an isolated farm in the middle of the Welsh countryside. You know a young woman has been taken there by men who are going to rape and kill her. You’re certain you know who these men are. You’re also certain that they’ve killed women like this before a number of times, and yet you have no real evidence against them.

  In one of the farm’s outhouses you discover huge vats of acid that will be used to dissolve her body when they’ve finished with her, just as they’ve dissolved the bodies of the others. You investigate further and discover a windowless cellar with occult signs on the walls that you’ve seen at other crime scenes associated with these men.

  Like a modern-day knight in shining armour, you rescue the young woman in a blaze of glory, arrest the perpetrators, and now, thanks to your detective work and personal bravery, you have enough evidence to put them away for mass murder for the rest of their miserable lives.

  End of story.

  Except, of course, that wasn’t how it happened.

  I found the farmhouse all right, but the men I wanted were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the place was guarded by some of their associates and in the ensuing gunfight three of them were killed, as was the young woman who’d been taken there, and the whole place was burned to the ground. I managed to get out in one piece, but it might have been easier if I hadn’t because I got no thanks for what I’d done, even though over the course of the next month the mostly dissolved remains of a further seven women were dug up in the grounds, with the strong likelihood of there being more victims whose remains had dissolved altogether, leaving no trace of their existence behind.

  The place was dubbed ‘The Bone Field’ in the media, which might not have been particularly original but was certainly a fitting description. The clamour for arrests was massive, but although I might have been certain who the main perpetrators were, any physical evidence linking them to the farmhouse was destroyed when it burned down, and these were clever people with money and influence. They’d been killing for a long time and they knew how to cover their tracks.

  To complicate matters further, even now, three months later, none of the people who’d died at the Bone Field had been identified, even the woman I’d tried and failed to rescue, who was an illegal immigrant I knew only as Nicole. Of the three men killed in the gunfight at the farm, two were local guys who’d clearly been paid in cash for their services, as no record of any bank payments to either of them existed, and the other was a north London thug with links to organized crime. The problem was, none of them were going to be talking any time soon.

  In the end the only lead was the farm itself. It turned out the property had been bought by an offshore company based in the Cayman Islands in 1996. So, Dyfed-Powys Police, whose jurisdiction the case fell in, brought in us, the National Crime Agency, to find out who owned the shell company. But the world of offshore finance is anything but open and transparent, and of course the shell company was owned by another shell company based in the Isle of Man, which in turn was owned by another one in Liechtenstein, and so on. The trail went round the world several times because that’s how it goes when people are trying to put as much distance between themselves and their transactions as possible. If you’ve got big money, and access to good lawyers, then there are plenty of places to hide.

  The good news, though, is that there are only so many layers you can put in place, and if the people hunting you are determined enough, and have enough resources – and with a high-profile case like this, where there was the potential for government embarrassment, we definitely had the resources – then eventually they’ll peel them all away until they find a real live person at the end.

  And that’s what we’d finally found. A real person. A London-based lawyer who was a nominee shareholder in a Bermuda-based outfit that had made a large payment into the chain in 2015. The company had now been shut down, but that didn’t matter. There was a record of a payment and that’s all we needed to put the pressure on him.

  But Hugh Manning was no fool. He’d worked out that one day either we or his e
mployers would come for him, and when we’d knocked down the front door of his stratospherically priced Bayswater townhouse, a week ago now, he and his wife Diana had already upped sticks and gone, leaving both their cars and their passports behind. Since then they’d gone completely off grid, and the suspicion was they’d already left the country, using fake ID. There’d been a lot of debate about whether to publish Manning’s photo in the media but, because he wasn’t considered a suspect in the killings themselves and the evidence against him for even indirect involvement was limited at best (plus, of course, he was a lawyer and therefore might sue), the decision had been made up top not to, which hadn’t helped us much. But that’s the Brass for you. Their main priority is usually covering their arses.

  The thing about criminals, though, is that it doesn’t matter how clever or careful they are, they will always make at least one mistake, and I can tell you from years of experience that there are no exceptions to this rule, which is why most of us stay in the job. Manning’s mistake had been a very minor one, but it was enough. A few years back he’d bought a cottage in north Lincolnshire through – you’ve guessed it – a network of offshore shell companies, and because we had no idea the property existed, we almost certainly wouldn’t have been able to find it. Unfortunately for Manning, two years ago he’d needed some emergency plumbing work done at the cottage and his wife had paid for it with one of her personal credit cards. When we’d gone back through all the statements from their various accounts, we’d found that transaction, phoned the plumbing company, and got the address.

  And so here we were in the middle of the rural flatlands of the Lincolnshire Wolds, my colleague and I, looking for the cottage.