The Runner

by P. R. Black

  ‘We’re forgetting about the body. He knew it would be there.’

  ‘That’s going to plague me. Maybe he found the body, and… I’ll have to ask him.’ She sighed.

  ‘You know and I know that he didn’t kill June Caton-Bell. Now we’ve got probably the real Woodcutter, playing games with us, and the press, and most importantly the police. I’ve got a duty here. No matter what we think about my dad, what he got up to in his personal life… He’s in jail for something he didn’t do. They didn’t charge him with the other murders – and they were desperate to. There’s nothing to connect him with those. They got him on circumstantial evidence, then got the only person who could have cleared him taken out of the play. Now I’ve met Bernard Galvin – I was told he was a great policeman and a good bloke, then I watched the same person who praised him getting his face broken by him. I’m prepared to believe that on top of being extremely violent, he’s also corrupt to the core. We’ve got a story here. We’re in the middle of the story. So, let’s finish it, together. But let’s keep it official, if we can. No more corner-cutting. No more blagging, no more changing our stories, like we did near the old mine. We play it as straight as we can.’

  Glenn looked relieved at this. ‘Agreed.’ They shook on it. And continued on towards the main gates. They were buzzed out by a security guard on the high, spiked iron gates.

  ‘How about we grab some lunch?’ Freya asked. ‘Take stock a bit.’

  ‘That’d be awesome.’

  Then they heard an engine revving up. They both stepped back, alarmed, as a car roared towards them. It was a sporty little TVR from another world, with iridescent paintwork that reminded Freya of a fly’s eyeball. It screeched to a halt in front of them, and the driver got out from the low door in a tangle of legs and blonde hair.

  It was Cheryl Levison – Solomon’s lawyer. She was furious, her eyebrows at a ferocious angle like a pair of knitting needles. ‘Hold it right there,’ she growled. ‘Both of you, stop. I want a fucking word.’

  37

  If Cheryl Levison had looked as if she had been on a dirty stop-out when Freya had first met her, here she looked as if she’d dragged herself off the couch after a long weekend spent watching movies and eating crisps – wine included, perhaps.

  She wore no make-up, and while still an undoubtedly striking-looking woman, dark rings circled her eyes, and a patch of dry skin floated on her pale cheek. Compared to how she’d looked before, this Cheryl Levison might have had radiation poisoning.

  ‘Whatever you’re doing here,’ Levison said, ‘or whatever you’re thinking of doing – stop.’

  Glenn was utterly flummoxed. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ he spluttered, turning to Freya. ‘You know who this is?’

  ‘Meet Cheryl Levison,’ Freya said, dryly. ‘Daddy’s lawyer.’

  ‘That’s correct. Now, before we get to the question of how you ended up here, and ended up inside the building, I need to ask you: what did Carol Ramirez tell you?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Glenn said. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, but you’ve no right accosting us on the street and making demands. Get back in your sporty little number and take yourself off to the furthest fuck, love.’

  Levison looked as if she might swing for him. Freya wanted to take a step back at the sight of the lawyer’s hand muscles and tendons bunching. ‘Don’t be cheeky, son,’ Levison said. ‘For your information, I’m representing Carol, as well as Gareth Solomon. And if you publish a word of what she’s told you, whatever it was, you’re going to screw up the appeal. We are days away from the judgment.’

  ‘I thought that was months away?’ Freya asked.

  ‘It’s been accelerated. There’ve been one or two developments in your dad’s case. You two have been up to your necks in two of them.’

  ‘Meaning the bodies?’ Glenn said. ‘Old bodies, or the new one?’

  Cheryl Levison did not answer this. Addressing Freya, she said: ‘I have been working… flat-out. For years. To try and get your dad out of prison. He did not kill June Caton-Bell. This is well-known, but not established. I’ve tried to turn this from being a plaything of wet little conspiracy theorists and basement-dwellers like Mr Red Ink, here, into something I can prove in court. And I am so very, very close to doing so. If you put something out into the public domain, you’ll fuck the case up. Do not mention anything Carol Ramirez has told you. Got it? You want your dad out of prison, those are my instructions to you.’

  ‘We’ll consider it,’ Glenn said.

  ‘You’ll do it,’ Levison answered, glaring at him. ‘Or I’ll let the police know that you were here under false pretences. Impersonating a relative to get access to a high security unit. That’s an offence. Might even get you some jail time. And jail time for an overgrown teenager who still lives with his mum and dad isn’t an attractive prospect, is it, Glenn?’

  This reference gave Glenn pause; he was on the back foot now. ‘This changes nothing,’ he stammered. ‘Don’t lecture us, and you’ve no right…’

  ‘Shut up,’ Levison said, pointing at him. ‘You’ve done some excellent work, credit to you for that. I don’t know how you found the bodies or who tipped you off – that’s one for the police to sort out – but don’t mess up my appeal. Or I’ll end you. Got it?’

  ‘That sounds like a threat,’ Glenn said.

  ‘You’re a clever clogs. I can see why you like him, Freya.’

  ‘How’d you find us?’ Freya said.

  ‘Quite simple – I’m Carol’s lawyer, as well as your dad’s. I asked her to get in touch should anyone try to visit her, while all this is going on – anyone at all. She did it only this morning. I almost missed you. Which would have been a shame.’

  ‘Now you’ve given us the warning – why don’t you do one yourself?’ Glenn asked.

  ‘I want to ask a number of questions, in fact. Mostly about how you managed to blag your way into the secure unit.’

  ‘As a lawyer, you’ll understand if I tell you absolutely nothing about that,’ Freya said.

  Cheryl Levison got back into her car. ‘Remember, kids – I am deadly serious. Do not publish anything about what Carol Ramirez said. I’m not being cute. Keep quiet, and you’ll keep him out of jail. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  Freya said nothing.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around, some time. Keep your eye on the news.’

  The car cleared its throat, turned in the road, then vanished.

  ‘I’m not sure whether things just got better or worse,’ Freya said.

  Glenn ignored her. He had already fished out his mobile phone, fingers scrolling up and down the screen. He looked ashen. ‘God,’ he said.

  ‘What is it now?’ Freya said.

  ‘It’s Jools. She’s got in touch.’

  ‘Jools? Your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry, I have to wrap this up. It’s been too much… This is too much. Today. The past week. I’ve let this take over. I’ve got a life. I’m so sorry, Freya. I need to check out for a bit.’ He began to walk down the road, towards the bus stop.

  ‘Wait up… At least let me come with you on the train.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we can’t see each other for a while.’ He was determined.

  ‘I thought you said it was over?’

  ‘It’s complicated. We’ve got things to sort out.’

  ‘Look, we’re in the middle of something big. This could be your entire career…’

  ‘I said, drop it!’ he roared. ‘This is turning into a joke, it’s out of control. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Please… I need help,’ Freya said. ‘I don’t want to be on my own, with this. There’s someone dangerous out there.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry.’ He strode away.

  38

  Hey, there! I’m still here, don’t you worry. Don’t you worry, lass.

  It’s a strange old road, this. I always knew things would get weird again at some point. How could they not? T
here has to be an end point. Hey, that’s how I planned it. I knew there had to be a full stop. I just never knew where to drop it. I just didn’t know the details. You know this, my darling. You know this is going to happen. A meeting. A reckoning.

  If I draw a hand across your cheek, will you flinch? I’ll do it now. Just a finger, a delicate trace down to where your jaw meets your neck. That’s where I’ll hit you. Not at first, but that’s the killing stroke. I enjoy that one above all. You’ll gush. You won’t believe it’s happening. With luck you’ll get a second or two of awareness, of consciousness, before the curtain comes down. Then I get to go to work on you. Then I get to turn a person into a not-person. An unperson.

  So, you won’t mind if I speak to you a little before I do that. Before I make you run. Before I come after you.

  All you are is pixels at the moment, a face on a screen. But we’re going to get together before too much longer, I think. You might even be my last job. Not a bad way to go, I guess.

  Big job coming up. I’ll need to look lively. And a few loose ends to tie up, no doubt about that. I’ve been bowled a few strange ones of late, and that’s the truth. I’ve got a few bits and pieces I need to find out about.

  Still. Best I get prepared.

  An axe needs taking care of. Like any other blade, it can lose its edge. So I’m going to keep your face up there, on the screen, while I make a few sparks. And you’ll know its edge for real, soon enough. That’s a promise.

  39

  Freya slept far too late. She struggled awake, well into the morning, flapping at her phone handset. The pale blue glow lit up her features. Then she clicked on her newsfeed.

  Still not quite fully awake, Freya gazed at the scrolling text for a second or two. She may have made a sound – squeal more than gasp. Then she got up and stumbled into the lounge, switching on the TV set. She’d fallen asleep too early, the exertions of the past few days catching up with her. The time was about 11.45; this pretty much guaranteed that her body clock would be messed up tomorrow, too.

  She moved on to one of the TV news channels, where the strapline graphic at the bottom of the page was in block capitals – that, plus the whooshing sound that accompanies the BREAKING NEWS script, told her all she needed to know.

  The anchor was the type of person you only saw at this time of night, or on Christmas Day. She looked a little unsure of herself, and read something on a screen just off-camera.

  ‘We are receiving reports that a body has been found in Ethley Sands, a former seaside resort on the Yorkshire coast. Sources have claimed… and we stress, this is not the official line… that this does bear the hallmarks of the Woodcutter case, which has of course seen multiple developments in the past few days.’

  A selfie image appeared on the screen: a girl with a pink gin in her hand, pulling a ridiculous duck face pout for the camera.

  ‘The family of Esme Vuckovic has been informed. The find comes just days after the body of twenty-two-year-old Alannah McCormick was found near Durden Water. We should of course stress that there is no suggestion at present that these cases are connected to that of the so-called Woodcutter killings, which has seen two bodies discovered dating back to the mid-1990s, although police are keen to stress…’

  She texted Glenn. He called her soon after.

  ‘Have you seen the news?’ she said.

  He answered with a sigh. ‘Guess so. Have the police been in contact?’

  ‘No… why would they be?’

  ‘For protection. That’s two new bodies, now, people snatched off the street, or out running. If this is the original Woodcutter, or a copycat, he’ll be after you, next. The first girl they found at the resort was your age, I think. Fitness fanatic.’

  ‘Have you guys heard anything through your usual channels?’

  ‘No details. No one’s sure, but the thinking is that the MO for the original five killings and this one are much the same.’

  ‘It’s the original killer,’ Freya said. ‘I’m sure of it. Maybe he’s got a taste for it again. Who knows?’

  ‘The lawyer knew about this,’ Glenn said. ‘Levison. She was being coy about it, but she knew, all right. Surely your father must be released? Unless it’s a copycat, of course.’

  ‘Copycat? What’re the odds?’

  ‘Slightly better than it being the same man, by my reckoning. I’ll keep an open mind.’ His voice seemed to come through a filter.

  ‘Are you all right, Glenn? You sound… distant. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ he sneered. ‘Why wouldn’t it be? It’s only my life in tatters.’

  ‘Whatever’s going on – don’t go through it alone. I’m here. All right? Don’t hesitate. Get in touch.’

  ‘Quite needy, aren’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. I found something else out. I was thinking about our “Two Ways” conundrum. I think I might have solved it. I know where we’re going.’

  ‘You’re serious? Spit it out.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to get cute with you. I’m going to give you a rendezvous point, and we’ll progress from there.’

  ‘OK… But why not tell me?’

  ‘I can’t be one hundred per cent sure you’re not under surveillance. If I was the police, I’d be watching your house very, very closely.’

  ‘I would guess that. That’s why I can sleep at night. He’d be utterly insane to try and get me here. But then I guess… he is utterly insane. So, where am I meeting you?’

  Glenn told her. ‘Might be an idea to bring a heavier coat. Weather’s expected to turn. And bring some waterproofs and base layers.’

  ‘Not going on an Arctic expedition, are we?’

  ‘No, but we might get soggy. You’re a fitnessy person – you’ll have the stuff.’

  After Freya hung up, she looked up the location she’d been given – a pub called the Winston Churchill, of all things, with the classic morose bulldog painting image on the sign outside. Nothing about it suggested ‘two ways’.

  ‘What’s next?’ Freya whispered. She was no longer sleepy, her thoughts racing. ‘What have you got in store now? What are you trying to do to me?’

  40

  It shouldn’t have been a cause for fear. ‘A boat?’ Freya asked.

  Glenn drew Freya a look that she would not ordinarily have tolerated. ‘We were due to set sail about ten minutes ago. Let’s get started.’

  ‘You know boats? I didn’t know you knew boats.’

  ‘There’s lots of things you don’t know.’

  ‘Is it yours, or did you hire it?’

  ‘Hired it… does it matter?’

  It was called the Bessie Bow, a canal barge. It was tied up at the back of the Winston Churchill, a long green and white craft with pretty floral arrangements along its length. The green-framed portholes were lit up with a cosy glow inside.

  Glenn reached over to help Freya on board; there was no gangway, and the boat lurched as she stepped aboard.

  ‘What’s the significance of the Two Ways, then – you going to tell me or should I guess?’ Freya asked, taking a second or two for her balance to align itself with the shifting horizon.

  ‘No, you’re not supposed to guess.’ That raised his hackles, though. He frowned at her. ‘And what’s your problem?’

  ‘Not a problem, exactly. Just that you keep making these incredible deductions and leaps of logic.’ She folded her arms, defensively. ‘It’s amazing how we keep hitting the target like this, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t lay claim to amazing, just accurate. Would you rather I got it wrong a few times? Few blind alleys, few false turns? Would that be easier for you?’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic. Take me through your bloody thought processes. Treat me as if I’m not stupid, for two minutes!’

  ‘You suspect me, don’t you?’ He said it softly. There was something in that tone that caused a jolt of fear. She had a fleeting notion of jumping over the side. At least it was an
option.

  ‘Talk me through it, is what I’m saying.’

  ‘OK.’ He rubbed at his forehead; she could tell he was suppressing anger, and she chose not to probe further. ‘It took a bit of fuzzy logic – and we could be way off course. There’s a place further down called the One Of Two. It’s a fork in this canal route. Something about it rang a bell – plus, this place is quite remote, considering it’s part of a major canal network. Used to be an industrial zone, donkey’s years ago. They keep trying to clean it up every twenty or thirty years, but it always gets overgrown and underused, apart from people on boats like this.’

  ‘In other words, the perfect spot for the killer?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They were in a dark, forbidding place, even at dusk after a warm day. The back of the pub was choked with refuse, obviously during a re-fit, going by the skips out at the back piled with masonry and wooden panelling. There was a quayside here, and one or two empty boats were tied up there. One of them, a crumbling mess of ancient brown paint the colour of dried blood, was named Zion. It was an actual sailing vessel with a mast, but no sails, registered in 1922. In the window was a penalty notice of some kind, a modern acid-yellow intrusion. There were net curtains in the windows, but, like the other boats aside from the Bessie Bow, clearly nobody home.

  ‘I know what you might be thinking,’ Glenn said, as Freya stared at the Zion. ‘I’ve already checked it. There’s no one on board. No one’s been on board that boat for about a decade, I’d say.’

  Soon they were untied, and Glenn started the engine. The long finger of the boat edged away from the quay, pointing at an angle into the dark water. The strong bluish light from the fore lights cast a milky light on the waters, startling the leaves green again.

  Glenn steered the barge, untying them from the quay, a steady presence at the tiller. Though they were near some fairly large urban developments, close enough to hear the traffic’s snuffle and growl, there was a sense they might have been heading into the jungle.