by CJ Carver
‘Don’t give up, OK?’ Lucy urged. ‘The ambulance is seconds away . . .’
The shaking increased. Lucy held her breath, willing the girl to keep breathing, stay alive . . .
The girl’s body tensed and gave a long, final shudder, then fell limp.
Lucy’s mind howled. NO!
She started cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Thirty chest compressions then two breaths. She didn’t stop until a paramedic caught her hands and drew them aside. While he bent over the girl, another began checking her vital signs. Lucy scrambled out of the way. Tried to steady herself. Get her brain working. She was trembling top to toe. Prioritise! she yelled at herself.
She looked away from the girl. It helped. Her mind kick-started. Go ahead and secure the area. Help others who may be wounded. Stop anyone else from getting shot.
Back in the car. Hands sticky with blood. Heart thumping. Howard driving, talking to Control, giving them a running commentary. He’d already warned them about the girl but the medics would still try and resuscitate her.
‘We’re approaching the house from the north,’ Howard kept up his commentary. ‘The doors and windows to the house are closed. I can’t see anyone. I’m driving past the house and through a set of columns. Arriving in a stable yard.’
He’d made a sensible decision, Lucy decided, not to get out of the car straight away in case the shooter was still around. Her eyes went to two dogs lying on the ground, obviously dead. Oh, shit. Her mouth tasted sour. She prayed this wasn’t what she thought it was.
‘There’s a horsebox,’ Howard continued, ‘a Land Rover, a Jaguar XF and a VW Golf. ’ He rattled off the vehicles’ registration numbers, a precaution in case someone did a runner in one of them.
He stopped the car. Cautiously they climbed out. Lucy looked around, every sense attuned to detecting movement. The rise and fall of a chest. The blink of an eye. Fingers squeezing a trigger. She didn’t want to die today.
‘TFU are on their way,’ Howard hissed. Tactical Firearms Unit.
‘How long?’
‘Three minutes.’
It didn’t sound long but they couldn’t wait. Their priority was to preserve life. They had to find the shooter. Arrest them if they could.
They headed for the rear of the house. Lucy’s dread increased when she saw a dead cat lolling half-in, half-out of a doorway.
They put their radios to silent. Stepped into a boot room. Ancient flagstone floor. A chest freezer on the left. Loads of muddy boots and wellies, waxed jackets. They crept down a corridor, peered into a kitchen. Her eyes went straight to the figure lying face down on the floor.
The woman’s legs were splayed apart, one arm flung wide, the other clutching a bundle of clothing partly beneath her, maybe some washing, but then Lucy’s heart clenched. It was a child.
They both sped over. Although the bodies were still warm, both were dead. Her stomach twisted violently when she saw the glistening blue of an entrail showing through the mess of the woman’s sweater. She guessed a shotgun had been used and she swallowed drily, trying to quash the wave of nausea that followed. Legs unsteady, she rose when Howard did. He raised his eyebrows at her. You OK? She nodded.
Back in the corridor. Rooms to the right and left. Ahead was a spacious hall with silk-lined walls and deep red Turkish-style rugs.
Howard gestured left, asked the question with his eyes. She gave another nod. He was beginning to move away when Lucy’s heart jumped. She thought she’d heard something.
‘Ssst,’ she hissed. He stopped.
Nothing.
She pointed upstairs. Howard came and stood with her, listening.
Zero.
Be careful, he mouthed at her.
While he headed back to check the rooms leading from the kitchen, she moved quietly into the hall. Took the first door on the left and into a library. Thick tartan carpet, open fireplace, walls of books. As soon as she saw the room was empty, she moved into what appeared be an artist’s studio with York stone floors, an easel, lots of paint pots, canvasses, jars and brushes. Also empty.
The next was a family room. Big squashy sofas, widescreen TV, oversized portraits of several children on the walls, books and toys scattered, a playpen. As she scanned the area she caught the smell of something off. Cautiously she moved forward. With each step the smell got worse. Faeces, urine, fear. Her stomach became oily as she took step after step, searching the room.
She found him behind the second sofa.
A boy. A teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen. He lay at an angle, his shoulders twisted. One arm lay stretched out, reaching towards Lucy. He’d had his throat cut. Blood saturated his chest. His eyes were open, staring past her, his expression surprised. With a shaking hand, she quickly checked for his pulse. His skin was still warm, but no pulse. Not even a flutter.
Lucy exhaled. Sweat greased her skin. Her heart was pounding so hard she wondered she didn’t feel faint. She crept to the door. Where was the killer? Still here? Or had they gone?
She slipped back into the hall and to her horror saw a man at the far end, tiptoeing for the kitchen. Six feet or so, broad-shouldered, mid-fifties, dark curly hair. He was carrying a shotgun and even from where she stood she could see the blood that stained his clothes. He was covered in it. He was stalking Howard.
No thought. No hesitation.
‘POLICE!’ she yelled. ‘FREEZE!’
The man swung the gun around. His eyes were wild, his mouth caked in spittle.
Lucy dived back into the family room.
No gun went off. She hadn’t been shot. Sweat was pouring off her and she could hear panting. It took her a second to realise it was coming from her own mouth.
‘Police!’ she yelled again. ‘Put your weapon down!’
‘How do I know you’re police?’ The man’s voice was raspy and racked with tremors. ‘I can’t see you.’
She wasn’t going to stick her head around the corner and get it blown off. ‘Put the weapon down and I will show myself.’
‘How do I know you won’t shoot me?’
‘My name is Lucy Davies. I am a police officer. Put your weapon down.’
Silence.
‘Sir.’ Howard’s voice. Soothing and mild, like soft caramel. ‘If you would look at me, you will see I’m wearing a uniform.’
Silence, during which she prayed the man was looking at Howard and not about to shoot him.
‘Now I will show you my warrant card.’
Cautiously Lucy slid to the doorway and peered round. As she’d hoped, the man was gazing at Howard who was holding up his card but she wasn’t sure the man was seeing it. Good news: he’d lowered the gun. But she didn’t like the fact he was still holding the damn thing.
‘Police.’ The man’s voice shook. ‘I rang you ages ago. Where have you been?’
‘Sir. Give me the gun.’
Howard held out his hand.
Something on Howard’s face made the man crumple. ‘Oh, God.’ He made a guttural sound, almost a groan. To Lucy’s immense relief, he handed the gun over.
As soon as Howard ejected two shells Lucy tore down the corridor. ‘Sir, you have the right to remain silent. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence . . .’
As she neared, she brought out her handcuffs. She wasn’t going to take any risks with this guy. She wanted him cuffed and in the back of the car with the doors locked. To her horror, he took one look at her closing in, glanced at Howard, and in that moment, Lucy knew that she had done exactly the wrong thing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Before Lucy could call a warning to Howard, form the words stop him! the man ran into the boot room, slammed the door and bolted it.
Fuck! She couldn’t have timed it better if she’d tried. She was hanging up her uniform in two weeks to start as a detective and she was going to look so stupid . . .
Spinning on her heels she tore for the front door, flung it open. Erupted on to the porch and pounded round
the side of the house, past a rhododendron and an apple orchard. Pounded into the stable yard. Empty. Wildly she looked around. He couldn’t have got far. He was larger than her, more bulky. She was small and quick, whippet-like. If she knew where he’d gone she’d catch him up in no time.
Two police cars rocketed into the yard but she didn’t pause to tell them what was going on. She had no time to waste. She had to find him. She broke into a run for the stable yard. Glanced inside the first stable.
Hell, she thought.
A little grey pony lay dead on the straw.
The next stable was empty but the next, a big loose box, held another dead horse.
She jogged past a horsebox. Joined Howard briefly to check out a smoking oil drum where a pile of bloody clothing was blazing. What looked like the remains of a tweed jacket, sturdy trousers, leather shoes. The smell of an accelerant hit her, petrol maybe. The man had obviously tried to burn his clothes earlier to cover forensic evidence, but he hadn’t bargained on them turning up so soon.
A police officer was running towards them with a hose already spilling water. They left him to it. While Howard ran to a five-bar gate, she tracked the drive around the house, coursing the ground like an agitated hunting dog. She came almost full circle before she saw footprints leading from the massive rhododendron bush. Two sets. One smaller than the other. Both led to the drive. From there, she followed the prints until she saw the smaller ones leading into the orchard.
An ambulance drove into the stable yard. More police cars arrived. In the distance she heard the distinctive clatter of a helicopter approaching. Saw a bunch of cops begin to move out. The hunt was on. She had to find the man before someone else did. The last thing she wanted was to start her new job looking like a total prat.
The footprints didn’t go far. They led to a mess of ground churned up by a horse. The hoof prints headed up the drive. Lucy scanned further to find a set of larger footprints – they looked the same size as the ones from the rhododendron – heading deeper into the orchard. She followed them. The air was changing rapidly, the temperature dropping. On the news this morning, the weather girl had predicted light showers, but Lucy was wondering if they were in for something more serious, like a snow storm.
She worked her way through the orchard and over a fence acting as a boundary from a stretch of woodland. A police helicopter passed overhead, the whirring sound vibrating against her breastbone and in her ears. She continued cautiously, carefully scanning the ground as she walked, occasionally ducking beneath a branch, stepping over muddy, leaf-filled puddles. The wood was dense with low-lying limbs and shrubs, and from time to time she lost sight of the man’s tracks and had to pause and scan around before she found them again.
She came to a slope and began to climb. The woods grew darker. Sleet began to fall. Pulling up her collar, she plodded on.
She tried to keep her bearings but it was difficult and after a while she wondered if she’d find her way back. She glanced over her shoulder, unnerved at the thought. She wasn’t from the country. She was city born and bred and found the dark stillness oppressive, almost threatening.
Stop being a baby, she told herself. You’re twenty-six years old. There are no goblins here.
Slowly, carefully, she followed the tracks until suddenly, the woods parted and she came to a lane. She looked up and down. No traffic, no parked cars. Just the sound of rooks cawing. She scouted the area searching for more footprints but found nothing. Had the man left a car here? If he hadn’t, then as far as she was concerned he might as well have vanished into thin air.
Shit, shit, shit.
She’d bloody well lost him. Howard had done a top job in disarming the man and in her eagerness to cuff him, she’d stuffed up. A rookie could have done better.
Despondent, she turned and began retracing her tracks. Her trousers were soaked and smeared with moss and green fungus and mud. Her hands were freezing and her mind had fallen as grey as her surroundings. She felt like doing nothing but going home, turning up the heating and drowning her sorrows with a bottle of anything. Vodka, wine, she didn’t care as long as it took the edge off her failure.
She wondered where the man had gone. Assuming he was the father, she would have expected him to commit suicide after killing his family, but perhaps they’d disturbed him before he could finish the job. What a waste. She couldn’t comprehend what had driven him to kill his wife and kids, the animals. What had the horses and dogs done to deserve such brutal treatment? And that poor bloody cat . . .
She’d been walking for a good twenty minutes before she realised she was lost. She’d been walking in her own tracks but at some point had started following an animal trail without thinking for who knew how long. For fucksakes, not only was she a crap police officer but her orientation skills were less than zero. Standing next to an ivy-coated tree, she looked around, listening intently, hoping for some kind of clue to her whereabouts.
Overhead, the canopy of branches parted to show nothing but a dimming sky. Please God it wasn’t that late. She checked her watch to see she’d been out here for well over an hour. Crap. It was going to be dark soon. Pulling out her phone she saw Mac had texted her.
The first message said: Are you OK?
The second: I need to know.
Third: I’m on my way.
That was the trouble with having had a relationship with a fellow cop. Not that it had been a relationship as such being an orgy of wall-to-wall, beach-to-beach full-on, fantastic sex, but DI Faris MacDonald didn’t see it like that. What was going to happen when he became her full-time boss in two weeks, God only knew.
She sent him a message back: Don’t come. I’m OK.
Then she texted Howard. Her fingers were shaking with cold and she had to retype most of the message before it became comprehensible.
After she’d tucked her phone away, she spotted a patch of leaves that were darker than the others, as though they’d been disturbed. She crouched down, wondering if an animal had been here and then she looked ahead, and saw something out of place. A piece of wood hammered into a tree trunk.
Carefully she stepped forward. Pushed past some branches. A structure appeared. She looked up to see a tree house. Her heart gave a bump. Sitting in the tree house was the man. He was partly protected from the elements by a roof but his legs were dangling outside and were soaked. He didn’t seem to notice. He was staring blankly into the distance.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He didn’t respond.
His skin was white and waxy-looking, his eyes dark hollows. Pain was etched into every pore.
‘I’m PC Lucy Davies,’ she added. ‘What’s your name?’
Nothing.
‘You must be feeling cold. I certainly am. We’ve been out here for over an hour by now. Time to go and get a hot cuppa, don’t you think?’
He didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t blink. Just stared his dead-eyed stare God alone knew where.
She knew she ought to radio Control to tell them she’d found him, but since she couldn’t bear the humiliation of having to admit she didn’t know where she was, she thought she’d wing it for the moment. She looked at the wooden ladder propped against the tree. Looked up at him. ‘Mind if I come up? I hope it’s not too high as I’m not great with heights.’
Still he didn’t move. Didn’t give any indication he knew she was there.
The rungs were slippery but firm enough. When she reached the top she had to crouch in order to enter. The house had three walls and was open on one side, which was where the man sat. It was small and empty of anything but a floor covered in rotting leaves and a dead mouse in one corner.
‘I’m coming over to join you,’ she told him. ‘I could do with a rest. It’s not often I go for a walk in the country. I’m more used to pavements, to be honest. My boots are soaking.’
Lucy shuffled over to join him, her senses alert in case he did something unpredictable, like attack her. But she didn’t think that would h
appen. He appeared catatonic.
She settled next to him, careful not to touch or startle him in any way. She kept up her one-sided conversation, her voice modulated and calm, non-threatening, as she took in the view. Trees, trees, and more trees. Some were brown, others black but as the temperature continued to drop, everything started to freeze. Like her feet. She couldn’t think when she’d last felt so cold.
Then it started to snow. Soft fat flakes the size of pennies. Great.
She stuck her hands under her armpits. Swung her legs back and forth, trying to keep the blood flow going. At this rate, she was going to get hypothermia. And what about him? He was wearing nothing but a suit. Albeit a blood and mud spattered suit. Black leather shoes that were covered in mud. He must have changed into the suit after he’d set fire to his clothes. It was his bad luck the police had arrived before they’d turned to ashes. At least she was wearing a thermal vest and a thick pair of woollen socks. She’d learned to dress warmly since she’d been transferred up here.
She felt her phone vibrate as messages began coming in, no doubt from Howard and Jacko, her sarge, and everyone in between. She didn’t move to answer them. She didn’t want to spook the man.
‘You know we can’t stay here all night,’ she said. Her teeth were chattering, her whole body racked with shivers. ‘We’ll freeze.’
No reaction.
‘Neither of us are dressed for this,’ she added. ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get sick. I have people who depend on me.’
She was picturing Howard as she spoke and didn’t think she’d said anything profound, but for some reason he turned his head and looked at her. His gaze wasn’t distant any longer, it was focused on her, one hundred per cent.
He said quite clearly, ‘I’m sorry.’
And then his face crumpled. His grief showed in his eyes, from deep within his core, and wrenched Lucy so hard she felt her own emotions rise in response but she couldn’t show any reaction, she was a police officer. The man turned his face skywards, his face still creased with pain.