You Can Run

by Steve Mosby

  So for now, Blythe sits with the laptop open and waits.

  There will be a message soon, he is sure. In the meantime, he watches the river. It’s so long ago now, but out of all his memories, it’s the keenest and clearest of them all. He remembers the way her hair was pulled away towards the village by the currents at the edge of the water. And the blood that trailed from her head, briefly staining thin and insignificant tendrils of that ever-changing river red.

  Twenty-Four

  The main command centre directing the investigation was based in the department back in Moorton. We’d passed it when driving through the village: a small building, currently bursting at the seams with officers struggling to co-ordinate everything. It would be the focus of the search in the village itself, and the central hub to which reports were returned and actions issued. But authority had been delegated to a handful of other local bases of operations. The one directly handling the manhunt itself was basically the three large unmarked vans parked up on the road by the Grief House.

  Warren directed us to the first of the three, where the sliding doors were open across the middle.

  ‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he said.

  The van was very long, and the interior was as complex and carefully designed as the inside of a canal boat. There were banks of computers and monitors, microphones and control panels. Several officers sat hunched over, their faces illuminated by the screens before them.

  ‘This is Detective Turner, Detective Beck,’ Warren called out. ‘They’re up here from down south. Obviously John Blythe is back home with us now, but they’re along for the ride as a courtesy. We’ve got a couple of spare screens, so we might as well make use of them.’

  ‘The more the merrier.’ That came from one of the nearest officers. He had a shaved head and a thick neck, and he didn’t bother to turn around.

  ‘This is Detective Carling,’ Warren told us. ‘If you need anything, give him a shout.’

  Carling just grunted. I glanced at Emma, and she raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing. It was clear enough from both men that we were not expected to bother anyone by needing something any time soon.

  We edged our way towards the back of the van, where two stations were free.

  ‘Friendly,’ Emma whispered as we sat down.

  I didn’t reply. She was more attuned to the territorial issues than I was – or at least she cared more than I did – but we both knew how things worked. If the situation had been reversed, she wouldn’t have been as bad as Ferguson or Warren, but she’d still have wanted to keep a tight hold on things. Instead, I turned my attention to the screen, clicking through until I found details of the search. From a satellite image of the area, it was even more obvious how small and isolated Moorton really was – the village itself just a tiny spread of beige and brown towards the bottom left corner of the monitor, with a few roads spreading out around it. At the top of the screen, above the woods, the mountains began. Between here and there, we were looking at thousands of acres of undergrowth, wilderness and dense woodland.

  Three waypoints had been marked on the map. The first was to the south-west of the village, along one of the few major roads. This was the petrol station where the owner had identified Blythe. The second point was to the north-east, at the campsite where his abandoned vehicle had been discovered. The third was our present location, the farmhouse, which was further north-east still, much closer to the woods. A line drawn through the three locations would run roughly diagonally up the screen.

  From his camping and hunting experience, and from his apparent trajectory so far, it was natural to believe that the woods, and possibly even the mountains, were Blythe’s intended destination.

  I clicked an option on the screen, which overlaid live GPS updates from all the officers out in the field. Small green arrows were moving steadily away from our current location in a fan shape that mirrored Blythe’s most likely path. There was a heavy concentration in the village itself, of course, and a few more spread over the network of roads between here and there. Still not enough for my liking. Regardless, it was clear how constrained Blythe’s options were. If he’d headed west from here, he would begin to meet main roads and heavier traffic. If he’d moved south instead, he’d currently be caught in the fields and woodland between the officers on this road and the ones in Moorton itself, an area that would be searched as additional officers arrived on the scene.

  Assuming he was intent on flight and escape, heading northeast was his best option.

  I watched the green arrows slowly update, and it was difficult to escape the sensation that the officers were corralling him – forcing him onwards. I could imagine a marker for Blythe himself on the screen, only slightly ahead of his hunters, stumbling awkwardly on.

  I hoped that was true.

  But something was bothering me. The feeling remained that we were missing something. Perhaps it was simply because of how much this case meant to me, but I didn’t think so. I thought again of the knife marks that Blythe appeared to have made in the farmhouse behind us, presumably as he stared out of the window, over the fields and woods, in the direction of Moorton.

  I looked at that particular area on the screen now. It was roughly contained by officers, but not presently being searched.

  Blythe wasn’t stupid. You didn’t stay unidentified for so many years without a degree of cunning, and however good he was at surviving outdoors, he would know that with our resources he couldn’t stay ahead of us forever. Despite being caught on the hop with the news, he’d had twenty-four hours to regroup, gather his thoughts and make a plan.

  But what was it?

  My gaze stayed on that area between here and Moorton. There were a handful of small roads – little more than trails by the look of it. Patches of woodland, thicker in some places than others. The river curled through before reaching Moorton. The river, I thought. Even though it was just a word, and there were rivers everywhere, I found myself tracing the course of it. About halfway between here and the village, it turned parallel with the road we were on. At one point, in dense woodland, there seemed to be a separate body of water a short distance away from it, connected to the sparse web of roads by the thinnest of trails. It was too small to be a lake. But it was something.

  ‘What about this area?’ I called over to Carling.

  He didn’t turn around. ‘Which area? I’m not psychic.’

  ‘South of here, back towards Moorton.’

  Carling sighed heavily, then unhooked his earpiece and made his way over, crouching slightly. When he reached us, he leaned on the back of my chair more heavily than he needed to, and peered over my shoulder at where I was pointing.

  ‘Frog Pond,’ he said.

  I felt a tingle: that familiar itch at the back of my head. Words. Words and titles confer power on people and places.

  ‘Frog Pond?’

  ‘It’s always been called that.’ Carling leaned away; my seat rocked slightly. ‘There’s nothing really there. There are the woods, and there’s the pond and the river. Some of the local kids go up there sometimes. Get up to usual kinds of kids’ stuff. Why?’

  ‘We’re not searching there?’

  ‘Not yet, no. We’ve got more feet on the ground than we’re used to, but you’ll have noticed there are still limits to what we can do. We’ll get to it.’

  ‘I’m not criticising you.’

  ‘Aren’t you? All the evidence suggests he’s heading north, north-east, doesn’t it? And besides. . .’

  Carling reached over my shoulder and gestured at the GPS signals around the screen. The implication was clear enough. If Blythe had headed in that direction, he would effectively be trapping himself. He’d be contained in an area that would be searched within a day or two. And he would know that.

  And yet it continued to bother me,

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Emma asked me.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I turned to Carling, who was moving away from us now. ‘But we’re
a spare wheel here, aren’t we? Just getting under your feet a bit.’

  He didn’t deny it. ‘So?’

  ‘So.’ I turned back to the screen. ‘I was thinking maybe Emma and I might as well have a drive down there. Check it out.’

  Twenty-Five

  Bunting drove slowly through the centre of Moorton.

  The village was swarming with reporters and police. Despite his attempts to keep calm, he was having to fight down the panic. He was in the belly of the beast here. Good line, that, he thought. But it was of little consolation right now.

  What was the correct way to act in the middle of all this? He forced himself to analyse the situation rationally. On the one hand, it was impossible simply to ignore the heavy presence of police and media on the streets, and so surely the normal, everyday response was to show some interest in all this unusual activity. On the other, he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He didn’t want to risk staring in case somebody stared back and noticed him. As calm as he was trying to be, he imagined the nerves he was feeling – that anybody would be feeling, to be fair – would be painfully obvious.

  So that was the choice: try to blend in, or try to remain invisible. He’d always been better at the latter, of course. He kept his eyes fixed on the traffic in front of him, driving carefully, trying to give the impression that he was just passing through – aware of what was happening, but not all that interested. Prurient, he thought. That was what all this was. He tried to project that through his body language and behaviour. Let’s just all keep moving, please. I don’t know about you, but I find it most distasteful to gawp.

  There was no need to panic.

  Easier said than done, that – especially given the way the situation had developed overnight. When he’d begun formulating his plan yesterday, there had already been a long and complicated series of obstacles to overcome, and while meeting Blythe was a terrifying prospect in itself, it had actually been a fair way down his list of problems. Out of all the parts of the story he was creating, it had seemed like one of the easiest to orchestrate. The man would be in hiding somewhere, and Bunting would go there. The inherent danger of the encounter aside, that was really all there was to it.

  Except that it hadn’t worked out that way. Blythe had been spotted, his location narrowed down, and the net was closing around him. Bunting felt like he’d just swum quickly in through one of the holes, and now he was part of the haul shifting steadily upwards. Somehow he needed to get them both out before the net reached the surface. The belly of the beast, indeed. The lion’s den. Maybe that was better. Regardless, the point was that he hadn’t envisaged having to meet the bastard directly under the noses of what appeared to be about two hundred police officers, all of them focused intently on finding him. And right now, he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to manage it.

  No choice, though. Blythe and his laptop were out there somewhere, and he couldn’t allow the latter, at least, to fall into the hands of the police. Realistically, it was all or nothing. If he didn’t succeed in what he was doing here, he was likely to fail somewhere down the line anyway.

  The traffic came to a standstill again. Bunting yawned. That was another problem – he was so tired that it was hard to think. It had been a busy evening and night, and sleep had taken up very little of it. There had been the long drive to Moorton itself, stopping at various roadside bins to dispose of the last-minute items he needed rid of. Pitching the tent several miles south of here, and then the two hours spent traipsing through woodland and undergrowth in the dark, at huge personal risk to himself.

  None of it had been an edifying experience, and he could only hope it would end up being worthwhile.

  It had all worked out perfectly so far, but he was suffering for it. He was normally smart and sharp, but his mind was foggy right now, and just at the point when he needed to be confident and in control.

  To concentrate. . .

  The traffic moved forward, but only one car length. Bunting put the handbrake on and wound the window down, peering out and around the cars in front to see what was happening.

  Then tucked his head back in quickly.

  The police were checking cars.

  For a moment, he couldn’t think at all. He stared through the windscreen, hardly seeing anything that was in front of him. His hands were gripping the steering wheel, and his knuckles were white.

  Calm down.

  The car in front edged forward again, and then stopped. Bunting moved his own vehicle to keep up. There were cars behind him, so it was too late to back out now. Looking ahead, he was now two cars away from the checkpoint. An officer with brown hair and a thick moustache was leaning on the driver’s side of the vehicle at the front, chatting to whoever was inside. It seemed an amiable enough conversation, but Bunting felt like his chest had been filled with ice.

  Which they will realise, he thought.

  Because how could they not?

  The conversation finished, and the car at the front set off. Bunting edged forward again, and the officer began talking to the driver directly in front of him. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but again, it looked easy-going enough. And crucially, the policeman didn’t seem to be checking the boots of any of the vehicles.

  If they looked in his, it was all over.

  But they won’t look, he told himself. Not unless he gave them a reason to. So what he needed to do was stay calm. Maintain frame. In fact, for his eventual purposes, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if an officer did remember encountering him here. That might work to his benefit. But it had to be in hindsight. So there was a balance to strike here. Behave in a way so that he’d be remembered, perhaps, but not enough to prompt a full search of his vehicle right now. Because if the latter happened, he would be going to jail for a very long time.

  As the car in front pulled away, and the officer beckoned him forward, Bunting realised that what he actually needed to be right now was himself. Simon Bunting. Small, ordinary, ineffectual. Naturally intimidated by the big man in the uniform. The kind of socially awkward and isolated man, in fact, who seemed a little bit intimidated by everyone.

  He could do that.

  He pulled up at the checkpoint. The officer leaned down on the edge of the window and smiled. Up close, Bunting could smell his aftershave, potent and manly.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I’m very sorry about this hassle.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Bunting forced a smile. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing really. We’re looking for someone we believe might be in the area, and we’re just checking vehicles as a precaution.’ The man glanced briefly into the empty back seat. ‘Can I ask if you’re a local, sir?’

  Bunting was about to say where he was from, but of course, that was the same city that Blythe lived in. Not an ideal answer to give.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I used to be. I grew up here. I’m just here visiting my parents today.’

  ‘Right. And whereabouts are they based?’

  Bunting looked through the windscreen, and did his best to let a little of the anguish he was feeling appear on his face, hoping that the officer would misinterpret it and put it down to something else.

  ‘Marwood Cemetery,’ he said quietly.

  *

  A couple of minutes later, he pulled into the car park, his tyres crackling over the neatly turned gravel. Marwood was a prestigious final resting place. He didn’t give a shit about his dead parents, of course, but it was as good a place to go as anywhere for the moment. The gates were open, and there were two other vehicles parked up, but nobody else was in sight. No police around, either. They seemed to be focused on the village itself, which vaguely cheered him. Perhaps he could do this after all.

  He took out the laptop.

  While he waited for it to acquire a signal from the Wi-Fi device, he peered out of the window at the tall, arched cemetery gates. His parents were buried somewhere in there, but he had no idea where. He hadn’t attended the
funeral, and had never bothered visiting the graves. He’d learned of his father’s death from his mother, and then his mother’s some time later from a council worker, and while there had been letters since, and attempts at phone calls – presumably to sort out the house and belongings – he’d left all of them unopened and unanswered. There was money probably, but it wasn’t enough to balance out revisiting the past. He’d realised long ago that Moorton held nothing but bad memories for him. Let the house gather dust and collapse. Let the pair of them rot in untended patches of ground he wouldn’t be able to find even if he wanted to.

  The laptop came online.

  He hadn’t logged into the account since last night. Before setting off, he’d messaged Blythe and agreed to help him. Blythe had replied telling him to come to Moorton and let him know when he arrived. It was obvious he wasn’t prepared to tell Bunting exactly where he was yet, even though it surely made no difference to his safety whether he did so then or now. That was the point about Blythe’s intelligence. It didn’t always bolt clearly on to the real world. That would be his undoing.

  Bunting typed a message.

  I’m in Moorton. Where are you?

  He waited.

  He was confident Blythe would be online constantly at this point, checking for updates, and it amused him slightly to imagine the man’s impatience and anger. Dangerous, of course, to poke a loose tiger. But it would at least begin to teach him a lesson for the Worm comment. He wondered where Blythe had spent the night, and where he was right now. He had a reasonable idea about the latter. He could see it very clearly in his mind whenever he closed his eyes. The sight of her remained so vivid, even all these years later.

  A young couple came out of the cemetery, heads bowed, walking a short distance apart from each other. The woman glanced at Bunting for a moment, and he put on a sad expression and nodded once at her. That would help too. He could be remembered here.