You Can Run

by Steve Mosby

  He immediately fell to one side, and one of his legs began shaking violently. I was not sure if I had killed him, but it was clear that I had incapacitated him. I considered striking him again, but the knife had fallen from his hand and he was seriously injured, and the violence had horrified and sickened me. I crouched down by the woman myself and tried to reassure her. After a minute, the man’s leg stopped kicking and I believed that he was dead. I continued to tell the woman that everything was going to be okay. The police arrived several minutes later.

  I have not been informed of the woman’s condition. I wish to note that I would like to know she is all right.

  Forty-Four

  ‘So let’s get this straight,’ Emma said. ‘Blythe talked all night, but Bunting can’t remember any of it. It’s all a blur. Because he was so scared.’

  ‘Natural enough for him to be frightened,’ Ferguson said.

  ‘Except that, conveniently, he can remember certain bits. The necessary parts. Give me strength.’

  She shook her head. The three of us were sitting in DCI Reeves’s office, talking over the first interview with Simon Bunting and his subsequent statement. Or rather, they were talking. I was leaning forward in my chair, staring down at my hands, which I was rubbing together slowly. While I was paying attention to what they were saying, I was also lost in thought, turning Bunting’s account of events around in my head.

  I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him either, come to think of it, and the two facts were certainly connected. Simon Bunting was average height, slightly overweight, plain looks: the kind of man you passed on the street all the time, with nothing to make him stand out. But there was also a fussiness and an arrogance to him – a sense of self-importance. From the way he’d looked at us in the interview, it was clear to me that he thought he was far more intelligent than we were, even if he was trying his best to hide it. I didn’t like the combination of those two things: the superiority he so obviously felt in contrast to how apparently average and undistinguished he was in every conceivable way. In my experience, that was a mixture with a tendency to curdle in people.

  And Emma was right about how convenient Bunting’s story was. He could tell us just enough, but at key moments when we’d have liked more information – the details of the drive; exactly what Blythe had said – his memory became curiously patchy. Ferguson had a point that a normal person might be too preoccupied to pay close attention to everything, but I could tell that even he was only playing devil’s advocate. Bunting’s statement stank, and we all knew it.

  Reeves took a deep breath.

  ‘You think he’s lying, DI Beck?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Emma said.

  ‘DI Ferguson?’

  Ferguson shrugged. ‘Yes. Of course I think he’s lying.’

  ‘DI Turner?’

  ‘I think he’s lying too.’ I didn’t look up for the moment. ‘But the truth is, it doesn’t matter what we think, does it? It matters what we can prove.’

  Because that was the problem we were faced with. Bunting’s story was unlikely and none of us bought it for a second, but could we actually prove he was making it up? At first glance, the details he had given us so far seemed to match the facts on the ground, and the gaps in his story might turn out to be difficult to fill. For one thing, Blythe was dead and therefore not in much of a position to contradict any of it. Melanie West might be able to, but she was currently in hospital and her immediate condition was unclear. There were traces of drugs in her system and she appeared to have been sedated for much of the last couple of days. It remained to be seen what her account of events would turn out to be.

  ‘Yes.’ Reeves nodded. ‘Exactly so. What matters is what we can prove. Where are we at with that? DI Ferguson?’

  ‘We’re nowhere yet,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ve recovered what Bunting claims is Blythe’s laptop and camera from the scene. The camera appears to be the one that was reported missing along with Melanie West. We’ve already traced the laptop: bought second-hand in town years ago. Too long ago for CCTV. Prints are ongoing.’

  ‘Make them go faster.’

  ‘They’ll match Bunting’s story,’ I said.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Ferguson said.

  ‘Because if they didn’t, he’d have told us a different story.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. As for the contents of the laptop, the Red River letters and the short stories allegedly sent to Townsend are all on it. The timestamps look about right. Otherwise, it’s clean. There’s a web browser, but it looks like whoever owned it took serious security measures there, as we’re not getting anything from it.’

  ‘What else?’ Reeves said.

  ‘The whole property is obviously being processed as a crime scene. Car, house, everything. We’ve recovered Bunting’s own laptop and mobile phone, but haven’t found anything incriminating on either of them. Bunting wasn’t half as careful, privacy-wise, and he’s been completely cooperative. Nothing dodgy. He didn’t even look at porn, the sexless little freak.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Also ongoing, sir. But there’s a lot of cameras to check between here and Moorton, especially as Bunting claims he can’t even remember what route they took.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘And Blythe was directing him the whole time. How convenient.’

  ‘Everything will match,’ I said. ‘Everything we can investigate. Everything we can test. It will all fit.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘I see,’ Reeves said finally. ‘So. Let me summarise the situation. We’re all sure the man is lying, but for the moment there’s absolutely no evidence to back that up.’

  ‘Turner’s right, sir.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘His story fits the facts. Whether that will continue to be the case is another matter. But right now, that’s where we’re at.’

  Reeves leaned forward slowly. ‘I’ll tell you where we are right now, DI Ferguson. Right now, I have what appears to be half the world’s media camped out in front of the department, waiting for me to make a statement. The other half is either at the hospital or outside Simon Bunting’s house. He’s already been informally identified in the press. Did you know that? They’re calling him a hero.’

  ‘The man who caught the Red River Killer,’ I said.

  ‘You’d be terrible at writing headlines, Turner.’ I still hadn’t looked up, but I could tell that had earned me a sharp look. ‘I’m sure that will be the general content, though. He’ll be stealing your thunder on that one, won’t he?’

  I didn’t reply.

  The man who caught the Red River Killer.

  Because that was precisely the ending Bunting wanted, wasn’t it? I thought I could piece together what had happened, even if I couldn’t prove it. For the letter-writer, I’d realised earlier that we were looking for someone who had grown up in Moorton, and I was sure that was Simon Bunting. He was a few years younger than Blythe and denied knowing him, but still. It was him.

  Somehow Bunting had known that Blythe had killed Jennifer Johnson all those years ago, and he had followed his career of murder afterwards – a parasite on a much darker host. He knew what Blythe was doing. He had written the letters to entwine himself in the case from a safe distance and enjoy his own small moments in the limelight. To feel part of it. He must have followed Melanie West too, because of her involvement in that initial case, and then become angry when he realised her husband had stolen his pet killer’s crime and written about it. Whereupon he’d taken his revenge by abducting Melanie and tormenting Townsend for years afterwards.

  All of which meant that the laptop had to be Bunting’s, not Blythe’s. He had another one, of course – an innocent one – and like Ferguson had said, I’d no doubt that it had never been used for anything incriminating. But I was also sure there had been extensive communication between the two men over the years, presumably initiated by Bunting, who had wanted to share in the details of the murders. Involving himself even further. All of which had culminated
in a demand from Blythe for help after he’d gone on the run, and Bunting creating this story to get himself out of his predicament. To provide the conclusion he desired.

  The man who caught the Red River Killer.

  ‘Bunting wrote the Red River letters,’ I said. ‘He abducted Melanie West. He wrote the short stories. He’s been in contact with Blythe all this time. He’s been. . . living on the outskirts of the murders since day one. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Illuminate us,’ Reeves said.

  ‘It means that there never was a Red River Killer. Not really. What we had all along was John Blythe, a sick and dangerous man just going quietly about his business. And then we had Simon Bunting, a man greedy for attention, influence and power. He sent all those letters and turned a man into a myth. A monster. A name.’

  There was silence in the room for a moment.

  Then Reeves sighed.

  ‘You’re nominal lead on the case, DI Ferguson,’ he said. ‘What’s your opinion? Are we going to release Bunting to the hero’s welcome he’ll receive outside, or are we going to arrest him?’

  Ferguson folded his arms and was silent for a moment, mulling it over. Considering it. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘Turner,’ he said. ‘What do you think we should do?’

  When I looked up at him, I realised that he wasn’t joking. He was staring at me. Everybody in the room was. I made an effort to sit up straight and bring myself fully into the conversation.

  ‘Arrest him,’ I said. ‘On suspicion of the abduction and false imprisonment of Melanie West. And the murder of John Blythe.’

  ‘Even though we can’t prove it?’ Ferguson said.

  ‘We will, though.’

  ‘You’re confident of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was another moment of silence.

  ‘Yes,’ Emma agreed.

  ‘All right.’ Ferguson took a deep breath, then looked at Reeves. ‘I’m in agreement, sir. We arrest him.’

  I waited – we all did – while Reeves looked at the three of us in turn, quietly considering. We all knew it was a serious decision. As he had said, the media machine was already churning into gear, creating its own narrative from the fragments of events it could glean. To arrest Bunting right now was to thrust a crowbar into the cogs of that machine and bring a temporary halt to it. If we made the wrong call, there was going to be a hell of a scream when we pulled the crowbar out and set it all moving again.

  ‘All right,’ Reeves said finally. He checked his watch. ‘Twenty-four hours. Half past eleven tomorrow night, we formally charge Simon Bunting or else he walks. We need to connect him to Jennifer Johnson. Prove that he’s been holding Melanie West all this time. Show that he’s lying about what happened with Blythe today.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Reeves looked at me.

  ‘Go on then, DI Turner,’ he said. ‘Go and take his story and tear it to pieces.’

  Forty-Five

  Extracts from interviews with Simon Bunting

  Present: DI William Turner; DI Emma Beck

  Thursday 30 June 2016–Friday 1 July 2016.

  Question: Mr Bunting, you understand why we’re here? You have been arrested on suspicion of the abduction on 30 August 2005 and subsequent false imprisonment of Melanie West, and on suspicion of the murder of John Edward Blythe on 30 June of this year. This has been explained to you by the duty officer?

  Answer: Yes.

  Q: And you have made the decision to waive the right to legal counsel for the moment. Is that correct?

  A: Yes. I don’t need a lawyer. This whole thing is

  ridiculous. I’ve already told you exactly what happened, and you should be thanking me for doing what I did.

  I could have just run away, and she’d have been dead now, wouldn’t she? I saved her life.

  Q: I understand you’re upset, Mr Bunting. I would ask you to calm down, so that we can proceed.

  A: I am calm. Let’s just get this over with.

  Q: You were born in Moorton on 14 May 1971 and you grew up there. In your previous interview, you said that you had never heard of John Edward Blythe before recent events. Is that correct?

  A: Yes.

  Q: But Moorton is a small community, Mr Bunting, and Blythe was only two years older than you. I find it hard to imagine that your paths never crossed as children or teenagers.

  A: If they did, I don’t remember. I wasn’t a very sociable child. I’m quite a solitary man now. I’ve always been happiest on my own. I kept to myself as a teenager and didn’t have many friends. But that was fine. I could have done if I wanted – I was popular enough. But I preferred to be on my own. People tend to bore me, I suppose. I used to read a lot. Walk a lot.

  Q: And where did you walk a lot?

  A: Just around Moorton. The countryside there is beautiful. I’ve always liked nature. You can lose yourself a bit. Daydream and think.

  Q: Have you ever walked along the canal in the city here?

  A: Probably, but not for a long time. From what I remember, it never felt particularly safe there. It’s quite isolated, and it seemed to be the kind of place where you’d get groups of kids hanging around. Drug types too. Not that I’m particularly scared of people like that, but it’s best to avoid conflict if you can, and there are nicer places to go.

  Q: Do you recall your whereabouts on 30 August 2005?

  A: Of course not. How could I possibly remember that?

  Q: One reason might be that something specific happened on that day. Something memorable. Were you at the canal on that date?

  A: No, I was not.

  Q: But you just said you couldn’t recall your whereabouts, so how can you be sure?

  A: What I meant before is that it’s such a long time ago. But actually, I can’t have been at the canal that day. Because you’re right. Something memorable did happen that day. It was the day that Melanie West went missing, wasn’t it? If I had been walking there that day, I would remember. I would have come forward to eliminate myself from enquiries at the time. And so I’m quite sure that I can’t have been.

  Q: When you spent time walking in the countryside as a teenager, did you ever visit a place known locally as Frog Pond? It’s close to where you picked up John Blythe the day before yesterday.

  A: I didn’t ‘pick him up’. But yes, I know where you mean. It’s about a mile or so down a footpath? I went there every now and then. Lots of the other kids went. They’d drink and stuff. Sometimes I’d go, but I was never really into that kind of thing, and like I said, I was pretty solitary as a teenager. So I wouldn’t have had much reason to go there. I tended to avoid places like that. I preferred being on my own.

  Q: And why were you there the day before yesterday?

  A: I wasn’t there as such. I already told you. I’d driven through the village and seen how busy everything was. After I’d been to the cemetery, I decided to avoid that and go for a drive. I was taking a longer route home and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Q: So you weren’t there specifically to pick up John Edward Blythe?

  A: Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous.

  Q: So it’s not true that you have been in contact with John Edward Blythe for many years, and that you were concerned that if he was apprehended, that communication might come to light?

  A: That’s not true at all.

  Q: Or that you realised you needed to dispose of the evidence and get rid of him?

  A: No, that’s complete rubbish.

  Q: Why do you have a lock on your cellar door?

  A: Sorry?

  Q: You have a padlock on your cellar door, even though there’s nothing of value and no external entrance to the property down there. Why?

  A: I don’t know. I can’t even remember. I imagine it must have been there when I moved in however long ago. It’s not something I ever think about. The key’s on my key ring. That’s it.

  Q: When did you last clean your cellar?
/>
  A: I’m not sure. A couple of weeks ago, perhaps.

  Q: It still smells of disinfectant, as though it was more recent than that.

  A: Maybe it was. It’s not the kind of thing I mark in my diary, to be honest. There’s often a funny smell down there. Like. . . well, like old meat. I’m not sure where it comes from, but I do my best to keep on top of these things. I like my house to be clean and tidy. Don’t you?

  Q: Are you aware that your cellar has exactly the same layout as John Blythe’s?

  A: Does it?

  Q: Yes. One larger room and a smaller secondary room.

  A: I wasn’t aware of that. But as far as I know, all the houses in that area have the same layout, don’t they? So I’m not particularly surprised.

  Q: Does the name Jennifer Johnson mean anything to you?

  A: Yes, of course it does. She was in the same year as me at school. Actually, we were quite close. I remember what happened to her. It was terribly upsetting.

  Q: You were friends with her?

  A: Yes. We spoke when we saw each other. She liked comics too. She liked reading. She was one of the nicer people I remember. Girls at that age can be. . .

  Q: Mean?

  A: Not mean. Stand-offish, maybe. It’s all about social status at that age, isn’t it? Most people, they care a lot about a pecking order. And obviously I was never really interested in any of that. I was outside it all because I was happy enough by myself. I think Jennifer respected me for that. She thought I was a bit different. A bit more interesting than the other boys.

  Q: Did you want her to be your girlfriend?

  A: No, not all. She was a nice girl, but without being rude, she was quite plain. That sounds horrible, I know, but it’s true. If anything, I’d say it was the other way around. Like I said, I think she was a bit intrigued by me. But I wasn’t remotely interested in her on that level.