The Runner

by P. R. Black

  ‘We’ll check all this out,’ Tamm said. ‘I think you’d agree that it is extraordinary that you should get two pieces of information on the location of bodies that we’ve been trying to find as long as you’ve been alive.’

  ‘What was the second piece of information?’ Freya asked.

  A slight smile from Tamm. ‘I’m including Glenn Allander finding the first body.’

  ‘Sure.’ He must have found the arrows in the forest, surely. ‘Right after he met me… But not before.’ He must have been blind not to see them. Police notice things – that’s their job.

  Tamm leaned forward and linked his hands together on the desk, ‘I’m going to ask you really nicely, Freya, because I’d hate you to get into any trouble. If you get any tips, any steers at all, from anyone, get in touch. Concealing knowledge of a crime is in itself a crime. I don’t say that to scare you.’ His kind smile came out, for the first time. ‘Or maybe I am.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Freya didn’t like DS Hunter’s answering grin.

  *

  Once they met up again, underneath the painful white light outside the police station, Freya said: ‘Pint?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Glenn said. ‘Pint. For sure.’

  They found a chain pub that seemed absurdly busy, until they saw the two-for-one promo blackboard. Thankfully there was a high table with awkward stools, close to the bar. Freya told herself she’d have one drink, and make it last. Glenn matched her sip for sip, carefully.

  ‘It must look as if we’re up to something,’ Glenn said. ‘They kept coming back to how I got the first tip-off. They know I’m talking nonsense.’

  ‘We are up to something.’ Freya took a quick sip, scanning the faces queued up at the bar over Glenn’s shoulder. A mixed bag of ages; possibly even an office night out, judging by the collar and ties. Maybe even a police department night out. ‘You’re right, though. We’ll need a more convincing cover story than the ones we’ve put together so far.’

  ‘Probably watching us,’ he muttered.

  ‘Possibly watching us. Tamm was keen to tell me how little money and resources they’ve got to follow people. They have to do it on their own time. Imagine that. If they are, they’ll struggle to know what we’re up to. If we are up to anything.’

  On a sudden impulse, she pushed her stool over beside Glenn, then sat down, her hip nudging his. He seemed panicked by this, lurching back alarmingly.

  ‘You’ve got sauce on the side of your mouth,’ Freya said, leaning in close. ‘No… the other side.’

  Glenn surveyed the red smear on his napkin. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and leaned in closer. ‘Can a chicken look startled?’ she asked him.

  ‘Eh? How do you mean?’

  ‘Because if it can, that’s what you look like, right now.’ Her lips were close enough to brush his earlobe.

  ‘What’s this?’ he whispered.

  ‘I don’t want to get any on me.’

  ‘Any what?’

  ‘Ketchup. Look, here’s how it goes. For any witnesses or CCTV cameras who might take an interest – we’re going to look like a couple on a dirty weekend.’

  Freya took his hand. For a second, he froze. Then he drew his thumb across the back of her hand, gently.

  She smiled. ‘That’s it. You’re getting the idea. Incidentally, back at the ghost town… Thanks for stepping in. I mean, for all you know, there was a maniac after me. You thought fast.’

  ‘It might still be a maniac. Face it. Tamm could be the Woodcutter. He’s older than he looks. And you said something about how they reckon it’s a big coincidence that you’ve shown up just as the bodies start appearing. I reckon it’s an even bigger coincidence that Tamm has popped up all of a sudden just as we get these tip-offs.’

  ‘I don’t think Tamm’s got anything to do with it. But I’ll keep an open mind. Thanks, anyway. For shutting me in in the dark, with a corpse. That’s your take-home message. You’re a bit of a hero.’

  ‘All I could think to do,’ he said. ‘He was coming over at some pace. I didn’t think you had a chance to get out in time. He would have caught you.’

  ‘He would have caught me anyway if I hadn’t gotten out of the outside cellar door, but we’ll leave that aside.’

  Glenn was looking at her lips, openly, now. He continued to stroke the back of her hand. Then his fingers interlocked with hers. It tingled. ‘I suppose I came good in the end.’

  ‘Are you actually flirting with me?’ She spluttered laughter.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe we should look like a couple. Throw any watchers off the scent.’

  ‘If we look like a couple, it would look like we were definitely up to something.’ The excitement throbbing in her veins was out of control; she might twitch – her feet might leave the ground. It had been a while since anything like this had happened. Too long.

  ‘Maybe we are up to something.’ His gaze went to her mouth.

  ‘Maybe I should kiss you, then.’

  He swallowed. She noticed his lips quaked as he spoke. ‘Maybe you should.’

  She did kiss him then. Very briefly. He licked his lips when she drew back – a nervous gesture. His leg was quivering under the table; she wanted to burst out laughing at this.

  ‘People have to see us doing this, yeah?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. We should make a real show of it.’ And she took him in her arms.

  28

  They had coffee together at the station café, after taking the train back to the city. They didn’t hold hands, but he rested his shin against hers under the table. They talked about murder, of course.

  ‘This all suggests he’s a trophy hunter,’ Glenn said. ‘I always assumed the bodies had been buried somewhere very remote or very clever, where it’d take a massive fluke to find them.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Freya. ‘For my money, he’s all over the place. The MO is slippery. In the last case, June Caton-Bell, the one they fitted up my dad for – the body was left for people to find. Or, what was left of it, anyway. Keeping a body in a barrel seems a radical change.’ She shivered, squeezing her eyes shut. She remembered the raw reek of the barrel – alcohol, possibly formaldehyde. She had an image of a body suspended in a sunless sea, dark hair streaming out behind it, obscuring the face, arms outstretched.

  A warm hand closed over hers. ‘You going to be all right, Freya?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Why not?’

  ‘Because a lot of things have happened to you in a very short space of time. You’re going to crash, at some point. Take it from me.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She smiled, none too convincingly. ‘You know, when I worked in the care home… I saw death, quite a lot. Sometimes it was dignified, but just as often, it wasn’t. I remember Mrs McAneney. She died on the throne. She had a brilliant sense of humour; I could imagine her laughing about it. But when I heard one of the older hands making a joke about her… I didn’t lose my temper. But I knew I had to leave. That was bad enough. But this kind of death, this guy… It’s a different world.’

  ‘Not your world, Freya. Whatever we see, we have to hold on to that.’

  Freya missed Glenn’s touch, when she withdrew her hand. She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I’ll keep going. You must admit… in a way, it’s exciting, all this. And we have to focus on the goal. It’ll help get my dad in the clear.’

  ‘That something you really want?’

  ‘Course it is,’ Freya said, sharply. ‘Why wouldn’t I? You said it yourself – he’s innocent.’

  ‘I think the person leaving us the clues is probably the Woodcutter – it stands to reason. That’s probably, in italics. I didn’t say your dad was innocent. And as you say – there’s a big difference in the way the bodies were found in June Caton-Bell’s and Max Dilworth’s cases. Out of the three bodies we’ve got so far, Dilworth and this second body were placed there for you to find. Not as gory or shocking as a pile of body parts, but theatrical enough. So,
it could be that your dad killed June Caton-Bell. That’s a well-known theory in the case – that he was guilty of chopping up June Caton-Bell and making it look like the Woodcutter’s work. But he wasn’t the actual Woodcutter, who murdered the rest.’

  ‘I’ve done my research, too,’ Freya said. ‘Plus I’ve read the same reports you have, on the tests they’ve done with Max Dilworth’s remains.’

  Glenn frowned. ‘How did you get those? Your newspaper guy?’

  Freya dismissed the question. ‘My point is, it seems Dilworth and Caton-Bell were chopped by the same person. A lot of similarity in the cuts, in the killing rage. The overkill. Seems the axeman’s stance was exactly the same, in those cases. That’d disprove your theory.’

  ‘They’re only theories. But at the moment, I’d say your mystery man is the top candidate. And he’s getting awfully agitated. Or at least, awfully busy.’

  ‘What’s the point of that, though? To stay quiet all these years, then start getting active again?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon. The Green River Killer, and one you might not know, called BTK – Bind, Torture, Kill. Both had major hiatuses in cases, because they got married. Steady relationships calmed them down, for whatever reason. Maybe it gave them an outlet for their urges that didn’t involve killing. Maybe it gave them love and support they’d never had before. Or maybe it just made them feel normal. But they both came back for a late crack at it. BTK was traced through email metadata, of all things. He tried to taunt the police after he came out of retirement. That’s how they got him. Because he was an email noob.

  ‘So, maybe there’s been a major change in our guy’s life. Or maybe he was just triggered by all the attention of late. It can’t be easy, being someone in that position. If you think about it. He’ll maybe want the acclaim and glamour of being a famous murderer. The fact that he frightens people. The fact that he got away with it. But he’s also a pragmatist. So, along comes a golden chance. Someone to take the blame for him. So, he takes it, and he lies low.

  ‘But then he starts getting annoyed. Part of the juice for being a killer is the idea that you’re getting away with it – that every police officer in this part of the land is looking for you, that people will write books or newspaper features about you. And then up pops your dad – taking the blame, but also taking the credit for your work. Maybe, seeing his daughter so prominently in the papers was the real spur. Maybe he wants the credit, now? Maybe he doesn’t like your dad getting the praise for the work he didn’t do?’

  Freya shrugged. ‘Intriguing stuff, all the same. So – next step?’

  Glenn paused. ‘You mean the Woodcutter, or… us?’

  ‘Stick to the Woodcutter for now. We’ve got plenty of time for an “us”.’

  Glenn beamed. ‘Well. Right. That’s… that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘OK. I’m glad. Now about the Woodcutter… I think we wait to see if there’s an official announcement from the police, saying they’ve found a third body. They’ve got a lot of forensics to get through before any formal announcement is made. Probably we should wait until then. Or, we have a race – I’ll lean on my sources, you lean on yours, and the winner calls up first?’

  ‘Deal.’ They shook on it.

  At that moment, Freya’s phone buzzed; a text message. It seemed to throb on her screen.

  ‘I’ve got him.’

  29

  It was from Mick Harvie.

  Freya waited until she’d said goodbye to Glenn and caught the bus to her flat before answering the text, trying not to show her agitation, or plain excitement. I wonder how many tells I dropped there? she wondered, waving goodbye out the window.

  She texted back: ‘Got who? The Woodcutter?’

  He called her immediately, startling her. Freya made sure that Glenn had disappeared from view before clicking on the blinking screen.

  ‘The Woodcutter?’ Harvie chuckled. ‘No, they’ve got the Woodcutter already. I told you that.’

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense then, Mick. Who have you got?’

  ‘Bernard Galvin. You remember? The ex-copper. The man who was in charge of the Woodcutter inquiry. He’s been in and out of the new headquarters in Leeds more times than some coppers who still actually work there. Very agitated old boy, is Bernie, according to my old snitches. And I find that very interesting.’

  ‘So – what, is he here with you now?’

  ‘Nah, I’ve managed to track him down. He had gone to ground. Seems the old investigation is getting too hot. That body you turned up at the farmer’s field was a little bit awkward for everyone. Especially with your dad’s appeal coming to a close. I got a very polite brush-off from the plod, every time I asked to speak to him. He won’t answer his phone, apparently.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘If you want to know where he is, you’ll have to come along with me to speak to him.’

  ‘What’s that going to turn up? He can slam a door in my face just as easily as yours.’

  ‘I think he’s less likely to close the door on you. You’re interesting, love. To the police, and to people like me. You’ve put yourself out there – and now you’re linked to a body.’

  ‘So, let’s say I speak to him… What’s the point?’

  ‘It’d be an exclusive for you. Anything he says to the Woodcutter’s daughter is going to be news. If I tell you where he is, you can approach him, and we can half in for the fee.’

  ‘How about I find him myself and tell you to get stuffed?’

  ‘You’ll never find him.’ Harvie’s tone was infuriatingly jolly – that of a mid-tier school bully with something to sneer about. ‘Talk sense. I’ve got the goods, and I’ve got the contacts. You, however, are an angle. Mix it all together, and it’s the perfect recipe.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘I’m not part of the dark side, as such, but I know a guy who knows a guy who happened to owe me a little favour. He told me where Bernie’s hiding out. Strange that he should head all the way out there. Not like him. The Bernie Galvin I knew liked to lead from the front. Big face, thick neck, big voice. Hiding isn’t his thing. He’s not under police protection, either.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks the real Woodcutter’s still out there?’ Freya asked. ‘Maybe he thinks the Woodcutter’s going to find him?’

  ‘Nah, I told you – your dad’s the Woodcutter. Believe it. But I’ve heard that there’s a lot of activity in the old case. The kind that might get your dad out of jail. So that’s kind of why I want you to knock on Galvin’s door. I’ll provide the rest of the cover – pictures, and such. All you have to do is try to find out what the score is with the Woodcutter inquiry. Has it been fully reactivated? What’s Bernie’s role? Has he been brought in as a consultant? That kind of thing.’

  ‘It’s tempting.’

  ‘And of course, there’s money in it for you.’

  ‘I’m not doing this for money.’

  ‘Course you aren’t.’ He might as well have hissed this. ‘Nonetheless, I’ll mention a figure. We’ll see if you agree.’

  He told her. She gave an ironic, stage whistle. ‘Is that just half of it, or the full amount?’

  ‘That’s just your half. If we deliver for the paper.’

  ‘What am I supposed to “deliver”, exactly?’

  ‘A few words, that’s all. Ask him about Max Dilworth. Ask him about your dad. Spook him. Or… charm him. Bernie Galvin had an eye for the young ones.’

  ‘I’m not so young,’ Freya said, sullenly.

  She held her ear away from the sudden, rasping laugh. ‘Oh yes you are! So – do the numbers sound good? Are you in?’

  ‘When do you want to do this?’

  ‘Today sound all right? I don’t want him to get restless and move on somewhere without us. If I’ve found out about it, one or two others might have.’

  ‘OK. It’ll take me a while. I’m travelling by train. What’s the nearest station to
where Bernie Galvin is?’

  Harvie tutted. ‘Hmm. That would be telling. Why don’t I come and meet you wherever you are, and drive you?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t. I just don’t trust you. Tell me the nearest train station, and you can meet me there.’

  Harvie sighed. Then there was a long silence. Freya checked her screen to make sure the call was still connected. Finally, he said: ‘All right then. I can tell you where he is. Do you fancy a day at the seaside?’

  *

  She sent Glenn a text. ‘Had to go back. Sorry. Things to go through at Mum’s. Will sort out my half of the hotel bill.’ Then, hurriedly, after she’d sent that one: ‘Enjoyed my night very much. Catch up soon. Pints in a coupla days?’

  While she waited at the bus stop for a connection, Glenn tried to call. This being ignored, he sent her a single text: ‘…Er, also the matter of debrief? We need to talk things through. How about Carol Ramirez?’

  ‘Aw, Glenn,’ she whispered, as the bus pulled up. She didn’t want to involve him this closely in whatever Mick Harvie had to offer. There was a sense of betrayal; but also, she didn’t want to pull Glenn into Harvie’s orbit.

  Or maybe you’re still a little bit competitive over your dad. You don’t want Glenn getting the full story. And you aren’t quite ready to share your dad with him that much. Isn’t that the truth?

  Perhaps this inner voice was like her mother’s. At any rate, maybe it spoke an uncomfortable truth.

  She sent Glenn one last text: ‘Sorry. More soon. Got to go. Don’t mean to seem weird.’

  *

  The run through to the seaside was a tonic for Freya. There was a break in the weather, and the dull clouds that had settled over the mountains gave way to patches of brilliant blue. Despite a long night in more than one manner of speaking and a stressful day, she felt her spirits lift along with the gulls.

  When she was younger, Freya had imagined becoming rich, possibly famous, or maybe simply solvent. Mary had been prudent, but never flashy; she’d had plenty saved, thank God, to allow Freya a degree of comfort for the time being. But Freya had always thought of a day when she might take her mother out for a drive – maybe a bit of shopping, maybe a fancy lunch. The fantasy had grown into a day in a convertible car. The top would be down, and their hair would be flying. Now that was an impossibility, she transferred this to the possibility that she might have a similar day with her father. This was absurd for a lot of reasons, but she didn’t deny herself the sense of comfort, the idea of a day at the seaside, walking down the prom, getting an ice cream or a bag of chips, skimming stones into the sea. The idea of a comforting hand at her back, again.