Coming, Ready or Not

by Michael Fowler

  ‘Police – stand still.’

  It was a warning cry – Hunter knew what was coming. He remembered his training and skidded to a halt, slamming his arms down by his side and fixing himself statue-like.

  Seconds later he caught what sounded like the echoing, thumping sound of a horse bearing down on him. Hunter held his breath. He flinched as a monster of a dog shot past him, and then just as quickly disappeared into the swirling grey shroud. A few seconds later he heard a growl and a piercing cry come out of the mist. He couldn’t help but smirk – the dog had done its job.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder as the dog man sprinted past. Hunter followed him.

  Ahead the screams of physical pain were getting louder.

  Less than ten seconds later Hunter was watching over a man yelling and rolling around, trying to dislodge his lower arm from the mouth of a snarling German Shepherd. The man was in a great deal of pain.

  The dog man shouted, ‘Leave Prince,’ and a split second later the police dog had released its grip and was slavering over its capture. The dog man pulled back his dog and slung on a lead.

  It gave Hunter a better view of their prisoner. He was a slim man, with broad flattened boxer-type nose. His eyes met Hunter’s and they glistened with hate. He realised how good the likeness was to the e-fits.

  Was this Polly’s killer?

  Hunter eyed him up – he could feel his emotions rising and balled his hands into fists. Then, catching himself, he took in a sharp breath. The air was thick and cold and caught the back of his throat. He coughed, let it out and relaxed his hands. As he bent down to make the arrest, out of nowhere, four detectives appeared and Hunter found himself being pushed aside.

  The man kicked out wildly, but it was a futile attempt. He was pounced upon and quickly overwhelmed by a swarm of hands. Yanked upwards, he gave off another squeal of pain.

  ‘You’re nicked,’ shouted one of the detectives.

  ‘Get fucked,’ the man yelled.

  One of the detectives grabbed at his hair and demanded, ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  It didn’t take long to handcuff him – the man offered no resistance. As he was dragged away, Hunter could see from the bowed shoulders that the prisoner’s fighting spirit had been sapped.

  They trooped back over the moor, to the cottage, their captive’s feet hardly touching the ground. When they got back to the perimeter fencing Hunter could see that the man’s arm was bleeding profusely. He pointed it out to Inspector Forbes, who, after a quick check, determined he required hospital treatment before being taken into custody.

  He was driven away with a police escort to Liskeard Hospital.

  With a degree of frustration Hunter picked up where he had left off and tramped back up the path to the cottage. Stepping inside the front door he heard noises coming from the floor above and made his way to the stairs. The steep stairway was in semi-darkness. He tried the light switch at the bottom but there was no bulb in the holder. He carefully negotiated the steps. On the top landing Hunter halted and looked around – wondering how on earth someone could live in these conditions. The place was squalid and exuded damp and coldness – the conditions seemed rawer inside than outside.

  The door immediately in front was ajar. He heard the sounds of a cupboard being opened from within. He called out ‘Grace?’

  ‘In here, Hunter.’

  Pushing open the door he stepped into a room that smelt stale and sweaty. A patch of light streamed in through a gap in the boards covering the window allowing him to pick out objects within the sparsely furnished room. Against one wall was an old fashioned brass bed covered in stained sheets. Grace was standing in front of a set of drawers. She was peering inside the top one.

  ‘I’ve found some women’s underwear,’ she called out. ‘And what looks like Gemma Cooke’s watch from the description.’ She pointed backwards, ‘And just check out what’s on the bed.’

  Hunter followed the line of her arrowed finger. In the centre of the messy bed he saw a laptop computer. The lid was up and the screen was on.

  Grace glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’ve had a quick look – its Elisabeth’s. He’s right in the doo-dah.’ She turned around. ‘By the way which of the Moore brothers is he?’

  ‘He’s refusing to talk.’

  ‘And no sign of the other one?’

  Hunter shook his head, ‘Not yet. They’re still searching the outbuildings – and the dog’s having a nose around.’

  ‘Well, at least we’ve got one of them – and a load of evidence. That’s a start.’

  Following debrief Hunter telephoned Detective Superintendent Leggate and gave her an update. ‘It’s Scott Moore we’ve got. We’ve identified him by his mobile phone, and he’s got Dale’s number stored. The techies are going through it at the moment to see if we can get a location.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea where he is at present?’ she asked.

  ‘None, boss. We’ve been ringing the number stored on Scott’s phone all afternoon but he’s not picked up. He’s completely gone to ground.’

  ‘What about Scott – is he saying anything?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. Won’t even confirm his name. To be fair they’ve only done one interview with him. He was at the hospital four hours getting treated for the dog bites’ – he started to smirk and fought it back – ‘ten stitches he’s got.’

  ‘Serves him right. Did no one tell him our gang’s bigger than his.’ She paused then continued, ‘You said you’ve recovered evidence?’

  ‘Yeah, Elisabeth’s laptop and Gemma’s watch. Definitely theirs. And DS Macey has identified some ladies underwear from two of their jobs. It’s certainly stacking up against them.’

  ‘Are they happy down there that it's both brothers involved?’

  ‘Well we’ve finished searching the cottage where they’ve been living – it’s a right shit-hole of a place – there’s very little in it and we’ve not found any mask, so it looks as though Dale has it.’

  ‘So what’s the plan of action now?’

  ‘They’re gonna bed Scott down for the night and start interviewing him again tomorrow morning. The technicians are going to work on his phone overnight and see if we can get a location for Dale. There’s nothing else me and Grace can do until tomorrow so we’re calling it a day.’

  ‘Okay, well done, Hunter. And pass on my thanks to Grace. Keep up the good work you two and let me know how you get on tomorrow. As they say, tomorrow’s another day.’

  Barnwell.

  It was beginning to rain. He fastened up his hood and cursed. He couldn’t do this much longer – hiding away like this. Soon will be her time, he told himself. That bitch would soon know she couldn’t do this to him.

  He shook off the droplets of rain from his waterproof jacket and focussed on the house across the street.

  If he leaves the house tonight, she’s history.

  Cornwall.

  Hunter was enjoying the final mouthful of his Cornish pasty when the pub door opened with a clatter and in stepped DC Stuart Highton. Hunter watched his head dart from side to side and then they locked eyes. He strode towards him.

  Out of breath he said, ‘I’ve just come from your hotel – your partner said you were here.’

  Hunter swallowed the food. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I think it’s about to,’ Stuart replied. He thrust a mobile towards Hunter’s face. ‘Scott’s mobile,’ he announced, ‘And look what he received half an hour ago. The techies opened it.’ Highton pressed the enter button and a picture and text message appeared on the screen.

  Hunter viewed it. The image was dark and grainy. He dismissed the picture for a few seconds as he read the text: ‘The bitch has it comin ha ha.’ He looked at the image again, screwing up his eyes as he tried to make sense of it. Suddenly, he realised what he was looking at. Urgently, he delved into his jacket for his phone. ‘Fuck me – I need to get hold of her!’

  Barnwe
ll.

  In the darkness of the bedroom Dawn Leggate slipped off her jacket and started undoing her blouse – she needed a shower, after the frustrating day she’d had. Pulling the cotton blouse away from the waistband of her skirt she stepped towards the curtains. Taking a hold of the right hand drape she began tugging it across the window. Outside it was raining. The wetness was making halo effects around the streetlamps. She glanced across the street, to where a path wended its way towards woodland. A car passed below her, making sloshing noises, and as the headlights picked out the hedgerow she jumped. She saw movement – just a will-o’-the-wisp movement – but it was enough for her to realise there was someone hiding among the bushes by the path’s entrance.

  Quickly composing herself she continued closing the curtains, but as she brought them together she created a gap – just small enough to peak through. She searched for a few seconds and then she caught a glimpse of the figure lurking among the shadows. She studied the shape carefully, but could only make out that whoever it was had on dark clothing and had covered their face. A knot formed in her stomach. She let go of the curtains and ran to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Michael, there’s someone hiding in the bushes opposite the house.’

  Michael Robshaw appeared at the bottom. ‘What?’

  ‘Honest, Michael. I’ve just been watching them for the past couple of minutes. They’re just stood there watching the house.’ She could feel herself starting to shake. She felt sick.

  Her words spurred him into action. Picking up a pair of trainers by the hall radiator, he slipped one of them on. Then picking up the other he shouted back, ‘Get on to the station. I’m going round the back to sneak up on them.’

  Dawn hurried downstairs for the phone.

  Michael Robshaw clambered over the garden fence and landed heavily on the other side on his knees. He felt the wetness on the grass instantly soak through his trousers and he cursed. Pulling himself up he listened. All he could hear was the sound of the rain hammering upon the roofs of nearby parked cars. He poked his head around the corner of the house. He couldn’t see a soul. On tiptoes he sprinted across the street, only stopping when he collided with a line of conifer trees, which bordered a garden. He slunk against them and again listened. No sound of life. The path to the woods was only twenty yards away. He knew that in the last five of those he would be exposed, but hopefully, he thought, pressing his back against the shrubbery, he would have the element of surprise on his side. Edging crab-like he kept to the line of the trees, only stopping when he came to the end. Then, he craned out his neck and focussed on the path ahead. He could just make out the shadow of someone hiding in the bushes by the entrance – exactly as Dawn had described.

  Quickly adjusting his posture, Michael took in a huge gulp of air and sprang forward, like a sprinter coming out of the blocks. He saw the figure turn – Michael realised he had been spotted, but he knew it would be too late for this adversary. He hit the individual sideways with a rugby tackle – forearm and elbow smashing into the sternum. He heard the breath explode from the shadow’s chest and saw them clatter head-over-heels, only stopping when they banged headlong into a thorny hedge. A squeal of pain issued. Michael lurched forward, grabbing hold of the person’s coat, and dragged them back through the bush a second time. Then, he manhandled the stranger to the ground. Pinning one arm high up the person’s back he heard a man’s voice blurt.

  ‘You’re breaking my fucking arm.’

  Michael reached up and whipped back the hood to reveal his face. As he did so, Dawn appeared by his side.

  She cried, ‘My God – Jack.’

  Michael glanced up and was faced by her shocked look. He said, ‘Jack?’

  ‘Jack’, she repeated again. ‘My husband – Jack.’

  From his prostrate position the man yelled. ‘This is your fucking fault, bitch!’

  In the distance came the sound of police sirens.

  Juggling the painting she was carrying, Linane Brazier finally unlocked the front door and let herself in. Switching on the hall light, she back-heeled the door shut and made her way into the kitchen. Quickly unwrapping the bubble-wrap she spun the picture around and propped it up against a wall cupboard. She stood back and admired it.

  The oil work was the one Elisabeth had purchased. She had finally cleaned it up. For a good couple of minutes she scrutinised the seascape. The Lamorna Cove scene looked as fresh as the day it had been painted. Running herself a glass of water she leaned against the sink and viewed the painting again. She was pleased with it. She only wished Elisabeth could be here to see it. A tear erupted from the corner of an eye. She dabbed it away.

  With a sigh she drained the last of her water and set down her empty glass. Then, with one eye still on her painting she toe-heeled off her shoes, undid her coat, took out her mobile and speed-dialled her boyfriend’s number. Clamping the handset between ear and shoulder she finished removing her coat and dropped it over the back of a chair.

  Tony’s phone went straight to voicemail. She huffed, and then left him a message – telling him she was home early and would be fixing up a meal for when he came home. Ending the call, she set her mobile down on the work surface, went back into the hallway and jogged up the stairs – she was in need of a shower.

  She showered quickly and while drying decided she needed a glass of wine to celebrate. She wrapped her hair in a towel, put on her dressing gown and returned downstairs. As she passed the dining room she caught the gentle whiff of scented flowers. She poked her head in through the half-open doorway. She saw that the table had been laid and that a perfumed candle was burning in the centre.

  She hadn’t heard Tony come in. Puzzled by what she saw, she called out his name.

  Silence.

  She called his name again and stepped into the dining room. And, that was when she got the shock of her life.

  Standing in the middle of the room was the same masked man whom she had seen kill her best friend.

  Her heart leapt into her mouth.

  She knew what she should have done, but her legs wouldn’t let her. Fear enveloped her and froze her to the spot. She couldn’t even scream.

  The murderer was upon her in an instant, grabbing her and pushing her back against the table. Wrapping his hands around her throat, he started to squeeze and a thousand stars flashed before her eyes. Her hands scrambled around as she fought to support herself – it felt as if her spine was going to snap. Suddenly, her fingers found metal – it was a fork. She snatched it up and with a wide arcing swing delivered a blow to his head. The fork pierced the side of the mask and a painful yell went up. He instantly released his grip. It gave her enough time to right herself and kick out. She caught his knee, but her efforts weren’t that strong, and he recovered quickly, pouncing forward and grabbing hold of her dressing gown.

  This time she let out a scream.

  He took her by the throat again and squeezed even harder. Pushing his masked face closer to her face he began counting backwards, starting from ten.

  The count was slow. Deliberate. The voice menacing. At four, it was as if her legs were melting beneath her. She knew that the life was being forced out of her but she couldn’t do anything about it. Her vision became clouded.

  As she began to drift away, in the depths of her semi-consciousness she thought she could hear Tony’s voice and in that same instance she felt a sharp blow to her side and then a searing hot pain invaded her body. She hit the floor with a thump throwing open her eyes. Above her, dark shapes thrashed wildly, and many shouts and cries intermingled with one another. She could still make out Tony’s among them but none of it was making sense.

  And then it all stopped.

  ‘Linane!’

  Tony was calling her name.

  ‘Linane! It’s me. Are you okay?’

  She blinked open her eyes. Tony was leaning above her. He leaned in, said ‘Thank God,’ and then he eased up her head and cradled her face to his chest.

  W
hen she came to for the second time she was in the lounge, lying on the sofa. The room was full with people. Many of them were officers in uniform. She spotted Tony talking to a paramedic.

  She called his name and he came to her.

  ‘Linane,’ he said.

  She tried to get up and a sharp pain shot down her left side. He stopped her rising any further.

  ‘Don’t move. Just lie there.’

  She moved a hand to her side.

  Tony took a hold of it. ‘Try not to move. Don’t touch it.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Vaguely. It was the man who killed Elisabeth.’

  Tony nodded. ‘Yes it was.’

  She felt the pain again in her side. ‘Am I hurt?’

  ‘You’ve been cut, Linane. But, it’s not bad. The paramedics have strapped you up. They’re taking you to hospital in a few minutes. Everything’s going to be okay.’

  Her mouth was dry. ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest.’ He met her eyes. They smiled to her and she knew he was telling her the truth.

  ‘What about Elisabeth’s killer.’

  ‘We got him, Linane! We got him. He’s not going to hurt anyone else.’

  Harlyn Bay, Cornwall.

  As Hunter stepped down onto the beach a spray peppered his face and a strong pungent smell hit him. The odour was a mixture of seaweed and salt that caught the back of his throat. Breaking his stride he roamed his eyes around the bay. A full moon gave everything around him a silky sheen top light and he began to pick out the landmarks he remembered from his visit two days earlier. He stopped his gaze out to sea. As far as his eyesight took him bands of bright light played on the choppy surface of the Atlantic. It was mesmerising. Twenty yards ahead he watched the nearest wave climbing and rising into a wall of translucent blue/green. Then, almost in slow motion, its top edge fractured, and a mass of tumbling water exploded forward, creating a foaming cauldron of white. He watched the action again, trying to store the sequence and colours inside his head for later, when he next got the opportunity to paint, but his thoughts were continually disturbed. All he could think about was that this was where Polly had met her killers.