You Can Run

by Steve Mosby

  ‘Mr Bunting.’ As usual, Turner just stared down at the notes in front of him, slightly pathetically, as though he found it hard to meet people’s eyes. ‘Earlier on today, we spoke to Melanie West.’

  Despite himself, Bunting’s heart beat a little harder at that. He forced himself to calm down. Of course they would have done, but he’d been very careful. He doubted she’d been able to tell them anything that would contradict his version of events.

  Maintain frame.

  ‘How is she?’ he said. ‘Because once again, nobody’s told me, and after everything that’s happened – everything I did – I think I have a right to know. Is she okay?’

  Turner nodded slowly, still looking down. Beside him, Beck bit her bottom lip and folded her arms.

  ‘She is going to be okay,’ Turner said. ‘Did you know she suffers from hallucinations?’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  That was his go-to answer for those sort of questions. They’d tried to trip him up a few times in that way, with questions that assumed he knew more than his story allowed, but he hadn’t fallen for it once. And any details outside his story that didn’t make sense, that was their problem to solve, not his. He was just telling them what had happened to him.

  Even so. . . it bothered him slightly, and he suppressed the slight irritation he felt. Hallucinations? He hadn’t known that. It felt like he should have done.

  ‘Melanie sees the woods where it happened,’ Turner said. ‘Frog Pond. The river. The trees. I admit that when I first heard that, it seemed very horrible to me. Because everything started in those woods. Melanie spent years trying to come to terms with what happened, dealing with the trauma of it through her poetry and photography. And then, all because of you, she spent years in a pitch-black cell with that whole landscape literally coming out of the walls in front of her.’

  ‘Not because of me,’ Bunting said.

  ‘Because of you, she was imprisoned in her own past.’

  Turner looked up now, staring right at him.

  ‘That may even be the worst part of what you did to her.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything to her.’

  But as Turner continued to stare at him, Bunting felt something begin to unravel inside him. When the pair of them had come in, he’d thought they looked so serious and defeated because they had nothing on him. Now he wondered if the reverse was actually true, and it was the enormity of what he’d done that was weighing them down. Turner looked quietly judgemental, as though Bunting was a child who had let him down. Now that it had come to it, he didn’t seem to have any problem meeting Bunting’s eye at all.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Bunting repeated.

  After another moment, Turner looked down at his notes again.

  ‘Mr Bunting,’ he said, ‘according to the account you have already given us, on Wednesday 29 June, shortly before encountering John Blythe and Melanie West at the roadside, you went to Marwood Cemetery to visit your parents’ grave.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you tell me where in the cemetery your parents are buried?’

  Bunting stopped thinking for a moment.

  The silence in the interview room began to swell, until it was ringing in his ears. Turner didn’t look up at him; the man didn’t seem to be moving at all. He was just waiting patiently for Bunting’s answer, as though he already knew exactly what it would be.

  Bunting took a sip of water.

  ‘It’s hard to describe,’ he said.

  ‘Is it? That’s strange, because I got DI Warren, from the Moorton police department, to visit the site in person. He gave me a decent enough description.’

  ‘I don’t really think about it.’

  ‘You said you went there often.’

  ‘It must be an autopilot thing.’ Bunting shook his head. Jesus Christ! His parents had undermined him all his life. It wasn’t right that even in death they should be his undoing. It wasn’t fair. ‘It’s quite emotional for me. I just. . . I go in. Walk around for a bit. I don’t always take a direct route. My head just kind of takes me there.’

  Turner remained silent, still waiting. Bunting glanced at Beck instead; she had her arms folded but was looking directly at him. He glanced away quickly, then reached out and took another sip of water, trying to keep his hand steady for the camera. Not long to go now. This didn’t matter at all. This was nothing.

  ‘What does it matter anyway?’ he said.

  ‘If we took you to Marwood Cemetery, do you think you could take us to your parents’ graves?’

  ‘Yes, probably.’ There wouldn’t be time for that tonight, of course, and he was sure there would be ways around it in future. ‘If you don’t mind wandering around, like I said.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind wandering around,’ Turner said. ‘But perhaps we can talk about that another time. Let’s move on. In an earlier interview, you told us that you had never heard of Melanie West’s husband, Jeremy Townsend, and were not familiar with the book he’d written, titled What Happened in the Woods’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Bunting was on safer ground here. There was no way to disprove that, was there? He’d owned a copy, of course, but that had been removed from his house two days ago, along with the rest of the incriminating material. The audio cassettes he’d played to Melanie West, similarly, were long gone. Both had been bought for cash years earlier. How could you prove someone had read a book when they said they hadn’t?

  ‘Allow me to read something to you.’

  Turner picked up one of the sheets in front of him.

  ‘Anyone remember What Happened in the Woods by Jeremy Townsend? This just came back to me. I remember reading this book a few years ago, but then there’s been nothing since? No new releases available on pre-order or anything. The guy’s got no website either. Anybody know What Happened to Him?’

  At first Bunting didn’t recognise any of what Turner was saying, but as the man went on, he remembered. While he’d allowed Jeremy Townsend to get away with the slightly amended name attached to the short stories, he’d become frustrated at the lack of interest they were attracting and so he’d logged on to that stupid fucking website and started that thread, attempting to draw some attention to them. Except it hadn’t really worked. From what he could recall, only one other person had responded.

  But that was years back now. On a laptop that was long gone. And he’d been careful, only ever using his portable Wi-Fi. There was no way Turner could prove that was him.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Did you write those words? Along with the other entries under the username writer_at_heart?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s true that we can’t find any reference to that site on your personal laptop, or indeed on the laptop you allege belonged to John Blythe. The posts are from too long ago. So we contacted the administrator responsible for the forum and had him look up the details of the individual making those posts.’

  Keep calm.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘The majority were made from an IP address we can’t trace: a mobile Wi-Fi device, presumably, with a throwaway SIM card. But one post wasn’t. Hmmm. I don’t know about that. They’re certainly different, though!’

  Turner looked up at him.

  ‘That one – and that one alone – came from the IP address that’s registered to your home wireless network.’

  Bunting closed his eyes.

  Yes. He remembered that now.

  It was all because that other user had said the stories, his stories, were terrible. Badly written. They weren’t, of course; he knew that deep down. But the insult had stung regardless. He should have left it, but he’d been at home and drinking that night, and he’d stared at that comment – that insult – and been unable to let it go. He’d needed to reply. It had been impossible to leave it there without defending his work, however obliquely.

  He opened his eyes again and saw that Turner was looking at him. The expression of dis
dain on his face now was infuriating. As though Bunting was nothing to him.

  ‘Hubris, Simon,’ Turner said. ‘Do you know what that word means?’

  I hate you, Bunting thought.

  ‘It’s pride, basically. Misplaced pride. It’s what happens when you think you’re better than you are.’

  I hate you.

  Turner reached down and picked a box file off the floor.

  I hate you, I hate you, I hate—

  ‘And we’re only just getting started,’ Turner said.

  Forty-Nine

  After so many hours of composure, it was a pleasure to see Simon Bunting’s mask beginning to slip.

  When we’d first entered the room, it had been obvious how much smarter than us he thought he was, and that he was expecting us to have found nothing. Over the last few minutes, I’d watched his smug expression fade as the reality of the situation dawned on him. My impression of him had been correct. He was fine when he believed he was in control, but the scared little boy inside was rising to the surface now. His face was pale, but the skin on his neck started to redden as I put the box file on the desk between us. He recognised it.

  But his reaction provided mixed feelings. As we’d worked through the evidence during the last couple of hours, it had become clear exactly what Bunting had done, and why, and there was no real pleasure to be taken in any of it. Even though we’d suspected it all along, finding the proof hadn’t brought the surge of adrenalin it normally might. We were going to get him for what he’d done, yes, but that wouldn’t change the fact that he had done it. It couldn’t give Melanie West the last decade of her life back.

  And all for. . .

  So little, really.

  Bunting was staring at me as I opened the box file, his eyes locked on me. The anger he was feeling was obvious; his hands were actually trembling. I didn’t think I’d ever seen that level of tension in a man before – such rage, but with the desire to act on it constrained by a complete inability to do so.

  I smiled at him.

  ‘There was dust on top of this when I found it,’ I said. ‘It was obvious that it had been there for a long time. I’m guessing you believed it deserved to have its place amongst all those other inferior books, but then forgot you’d put it there.’

  Bunting just kept staring at me.

  ‘Or was it more hubris?’ I frowned. ‘You were so careful with most of your story. I imagine you must have had some kind of list to make sense of it all. To get your house just so. So maybe you didn’t forget about this, and it was just arrogance – you thought either we wouldn’t find it, or we wouldn’t make the connection if we did. And your ego just couldn’t bear to get rid of it.’

  I didn’t expect an answer. Once again, I didn’t get one.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Here’s your masterpiece.’

  I took out the manuscript that Bunting had kept in the box file and placed it on the table. It was a thick bundle of paper, the pages loose and misaligned, held roughly together by an old rubber band. Many of the sheets were weathered, but a few at the top, separated by a second rubber band, were far more dog-eared and stained, the paper curling up at the corners. The first page was blank except for two lines of text in the centre:

  The Day in the Woods

  Simon Bunting

  ‘I’m guessing this top section is the three chapters you kept submitting to agents.’ I gestured at the pile of paper. I’d read parts of it, so it wasn’t difficult to convey the contempt I felt. ‘With an emphasis on the kept submitting. The rest of it is in slightly better shape, isn’t it? Because none of the agents ever wanted to see the whole book, did they? Assuming we can even call this piece of rubbish a book.’

  The crimson was rising into Bunting’s face now. He was still looking at me; he hadn’t so much as glanced at the manuscript on the table between us. I wondered if he might even lose control completely and attack me. I hoped so.

  ‘I admit I haven’t read it all. I tried a bit and what I saw was very bad. Although to be honest, I’ve never been much of a fan of this kind of thing. DI Beck read much more of it than I did.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Emma said. ‘Just awful.’

  Bunting glanced at her, then back to me. Just with his eyes. His head didn’t move at all.

  ‘DI Beck is a big reader,’ I said. ‘But to be scrupulously fair, neither of us are literary critics. So perhaps our assessment is wrong. Fortunately there are more expert opinions available, which we were very grateful to see you’d kept for our amusement.’

  I reached into the box file and took out the pile of loose papers that remained inside. They had been stored below the manuscript itself. Each of them had a different letterhead at the top, but although the design varied, the content was generally the same. Rejection letters from numerous literary agents.

  ‘I’m actually interested in why you didn’t throw these away,’ I said. ‘Keeping the book. . . I suppose I can understand that. It’s worthless dross, but I’m sure you worked incredibly hard on it. These rejection letters, though? I’d have thought they’d have been an affront to you. Maybe you thought that one day you’d prove them all wrong.’

  I laughed at the idea.

  ‘Anyway. Let’s read a few of them, shall we?’

  ‘No.’

  Bunting’s voice was small and tight, and although the rest of his face had reddened, his lips looked pale.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think so.’

  ‘They’re private.’

  ‘Not any more. And they’re very funny. Let’s start with this one. Regardless of the dubious merits of your story, your command of English is not strong enough to compel me to read further. That’s not very encouraging, is it?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Then we have a few that are just form rejection letters. Thank you for submitting your work. We regret to inform you. . . blah blah.’ I put each letter to the side as I worked through the collection. ‘I like this one, though. I’m afraid the characters are flat and I found the writing utterly underwhelming. I bet that stung.’

  ‘I said stop it.’

  ‘You’re not in charge here, Simon. Here’s my second favourite. Many rejected submissions show promise, but I believe in being honest, and I see absolutely nothing of value here. This work is badly written and—’

  ‘STOP IT!’

  The explosion finally came: Bunting screamed the words at me, pushing forward in his chair, gripping the edge of the table. His face was puce now. I just stared back at him, and that was as far as it went: he held himself in that position for a few seconds, the interview room silent, and then leaned slowly back again. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers around his forehead as he stared down. His shoulders were trembling.

  ‘One more, I think,’ I said quietly. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Just stop.’

  ‘No. I’m going to read this one out in full.’

  I looked down at the sheet in front of me.

  Dear Mr Bunting

  I would normally say thank you for a submission, whatever my personal reaction to it, but in this case I will refrain from doing so. It is not simply a matter of the writing being inept, although it is. Your characters are confusing; your spelling and grammar is appalling; and your general flair for language is laughably non-existent. However, this is also a matter of professional ethics.

  A modicum of research would have revealed to you that I currently represent the writer Jeremy Townsend, who earlier this year published the novel What Happened in the Woods. Your story appears to all intents and purposes to be identical. Mr Townsend is a superb writer, and it would be ludicrous to suggest you had plagiarised your execrable prose from his work, but the similarities in the stories are simply too great to allow for coincidence.

  You state in your covering letter that you have spent years writing this story. From the quality of the writing, I cannot believe that. Rather, I believe it to be an attempt to distract from your whole-cloth
theft of another writer’s work. If you intend to persist in this foolhardy endeavour then I suggest you choose who you submit to far more carefully in the future.

  I put the page down slowly on top of the others, and looked across the desk at Bunting. He had sunk further forward while I was reading. His fingers were now stretched through his hair, and his face was close to the table itself. But he was no longer shaking.

  ‘I did work on it for years,’ he said softly. ‘He stole it. It was my story. Mine.’

  For a moment, I said nothing. I was thinking about Anna. From the beginning, I’d imagined that being involved in ending the Red River spree would bring me some sense of closure -some relief from the guilt I felt – but it wasn’t the case. I just felt immensely sad about all of it. But then it wasn’t about me, was it? It was about all those dead women. And so as I looked at Simon Bunting, sitting defeated in front of me, I thought about them instead. And about Melanie West, the girl who had found the body of her best friend and been haunted by the discovery, and who over time had attempted to make sense of that horror through her words, her poetry, her photography. A woman who now would still be able to see those woods vividly every time she closed her eyes – a moment from the past overlaid on the present – and whose tale had been told by far too many others.

  It was my story.

  Mine.

  ‘No,’ I told Bunting. ‘It wasn’t.’

  Fifty

  It wasn’t my story either.

  As Emma had told me angrily after we’d nearly been taken off the investigation, it wasn’t about me. But there was something I still needed to do, though I also realised that it had to be done before. It couldn’t be the ending itself. And so the day before the funeral, I drove fifty miles out of the city, along quiet country lanes, arriving just after midday in the small village where I’d grown up.