by Rod Glenn
The Forensic Science Service despatched a Scene of Crime Officer (SOCO) to the area to perform a comprehensive grid search of the sections the dogs appeared most interested in, looking for footprints, fragments of clothing, hair samples or traces of blood or other substances. Using a combination of UV lighting and vacuum sweeping and combing, the search revealed little except some recently disturbed ground; no human traces were found.
The SOCO, a hearty woman with a bright red nose, explained to Mitchell and Wright that both the recent rainy weather and the elapse of time stood against them. Various forms of local wildlife had also passed through the area which would make it even more difficult for the dogs. She had, however, managed to collect a number of samples which would be sent off to the lab for analysis and added that the scene, if preserved, could benefit from a more thorough investigation by a full team.
Mitchell, on her advice, argued with Command to pull in additional forensic resources, but his request was denied. Lack of evidence and restricted resources were sited for something that could ultimately amount to a runaway. The samples, in fact, turned out to be rat faeces, a fox hair and a woollen clothing fibre that was too degraded to be linked to the Mandy Foster case.
The sun was setting once more as the volunteers trudged, weary and dejected back to their homes. A second day of searching had again proved fruitless.
Han, too, plodded back with the rest, his t-shirt, with SHUT IT emblazoned across the stern faces of John Thaw and Dennis Waterman, drenched in sweat. His jeans had several muddy marks up the legs and on the knees where he had stumbled more than once.
John Bryce walked alongside him, his broad shoulders rounded and hunched over, his face a mask of gloom. Janet Herring walked just ahead of them in tight shorts that clung to the toned contours of her rounded bum. Her tall, wiry husband, the good doctor Larry, walked with her, occasionally offering a comforting smile to her. He had a fleece tied around his jogging bottoms and his damp short-sleeved polo shirt revealed strong, outdoorsman arms.
He knew without looking that the strutting cock, Steve Belmont, was a few steps behind him. He had caught Janet glancing back towards him several times. Surely poor Larry must have some idea?
So what the hell did Janet see in Steve? Larry was certainly not the old, crusty bookish man that he had imagined him to be – he had an open, intelligent face and appeared fit, confident, and certainly had the good job to go with it. All in all, Larry seemed to have the right packaging to catch the right shopper, so why was his customer buying her meat from a new butcher?
And what about Steve? Han glanced back towards the tanned menace. Everyone else around him was dishevelled and grimy. He, on the other hand, was, in a word, pristine. Blue shorts over muscular legs, fitted (completely unblemished) white t-shirt, gold St Christopher medallion around his neck, sunglasses, tennis shoes.
Their eyes met and Steve exposed his pearly whites in an unconvincing grin. As he turned away, his eyes met the blue eye-shadowed blinkers of Tess Runckle, dressed in a gold two-piece track suit. She was staring – no, glaring at him. There was an accusation in her eyes that was unequivocal.
She had Moe, the maybe not so gay hairdresser, on her arm, patting her hand in a comforting fashion. Whether it was for her benefit or for his, he couldn’t tell, but there was definitely a lover’s touch in the way they moved together so closely. Perhaps only a fraction closer than friends, but Han noticed it.
All in all, it looked like a fucking freak show parade. He smiled at that, but the glare from Tess Runckle lingered on his mind.
Bryce stopped at the Bell Lane junction and arched his aching back. “You take it easy, mate. Probably see you in the Miller’s tomorrow.”
Han nodded, but his downcast eyes and his set jaw caused Bryce to pause before heading off. “You okay, Han?”
He looked up to him, concern marking his tired features. “I’m getting some funny looks from people. I think people are thinking …” His voice trailed off, his point made.
Bryce laid a big hand on his shoulder. “Let us guess? That curtain twitcher, Tess, for one, eh?” Han nodded, dejected. “You divvent want to let the likes of her get to you, man. It’s just ’cause you’re the new guy, that’s all.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t change the fact that people are going to start thinking that I’m some kind of freak or something.” Han chose his words carefully, but the more he spoke about it, the more he genuinely felt a twinge of sadness that people would actually be thinking ill of him. He was still the nice, polite guy he always had been.
“You are a freak, mate,” Bryce said then laughed as heartily as his tired body could muster. His tone sincere once more, he added, “Look, divvent worry – you know that you had nothing to do with any of this and so will most of the normal people round here.”
Han said a washed-out farewell to John Bryce and then crossed over Main Street to the pub. As he entered, he noticed the two plain clothed officers standing by the open door of the incident unit. Wright was smoking and Mitchell was sipping a hot drink out of a Styrofoam cup. Both were watching him.
As he slowly closed the door behind him, he noticed Tess and her camp-as-an-Abba-tribute-night beau make a beeline for the two detectives. For the first time since his arrival in Haydon, Han felt a very real knot of fear twist his stomach.
The smoking gorilla and his bum chum were already a little suspicious, but throw paranoid Bet into the mixing pot and they may start delving under the surface of his flimsy fake identity. What if he had to abort everything? All his planning and preparation would be for nothing. But then, that would be the least of his worries.
His heart was racing as he rushed upstairs to his room.
“Detective Mitchell, dear,” Tess called to the two detectives as she approached, hoisting her breasts up with one arm as a gesture of determination.
Moe squeezed her arm hard and said, with marked consternation, “I really don’t think this is a good idea, Tessie.”
Tess shook his arm off. “Don’t you ‘Tessie’ me, Moe Baxter. That Whitman lad is shifty and I know it.” She made one last adjustment to her plentiful breasts – squeezed to bursting point into the zipped up tracksuit top – and crossed the final few feet to the waiting officers.
“What can I do for you, Ms Runckle?” Mitchell asked in a strained-polite tone as he tossed his empty coffee cup into a nearby bin. Glancing at Wright, he saw his colleague briefly roll his eyes as he stubbed out his cigarette.
“It’s that Mister Whitman – there’s something definitely fishy about him,” Tess told him sternly. She jabbed an accusing finger towards the Miller’s and added, “I see him sniffing around town all day, snooping on folks. I even caught him going into the ladies at the Duck a while back, the pervert.”
Mitchell listened with forced interest, nodding in the right places, as she talked about Haydon’s stranger for several minutes, without seemingly needing to take a breath. Moe would occasionally try to inject a comment, but was always silenced by a harsh ‘Shush, dear’.
He exchanged a look with Wright, who was pretending to write notes, before saying, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, “Ms Runckle, we really appreciate this information. We are already looking into Mister Whitman’s background, as we are a number of other individuals, in the course of our enquiries, and will certainly take this new evidence on board in our continued investigation.” He felt as if the words rolled out like he was reading from a cue card and lacked any real sentiment, but it seemed to be exactly what the landlady wanted to hear.
Tess’s face beamed with pride and she instantly pulled Mitchell to her breasts and gave him a vigorous hug. Before he could object, she then turned to Wright and embraced him too.
“Thank you, dears,” she said with enormous relief and then marched off with Moe scurrying along after her. “See! I told you so!” she could be heard saying to Moe as they disappeared from earshot.
Mitchell stared after her, mouth agape.
; “Bunch of fruitloops, every man jack of ’em,” Wright muttered, lighting up another cigarette.
After several more days of investigation and searches, with Han helping where appropriate, but keeping a low profile for the most part, the search was finally called off. The incident unit was packed up and carted off with the last of the officers. Only posters remained in the shops and pubs, appealing for information. Similar posters had been put up all over the area as far as Morpeth and Hexham and appeals had been broadcast on local radio and television channels.
Mitchell and Wright were the last to leave. They strolled unhurriedly along Main Street back to their parked unmarked saloon, both deep in thought. Wright smoking, Mitchell chewing on a pencil.
Mitchell unlocked the car as they approached, shoving the mauled pencil back into his jacket. Opening the door, he paused to look at his partner. “I know his story checked out and he’s Mister Nobody, but there’s still something about him.”
Wright leaned against the passenger door and took his half-smoked cigarette out of his mouth. While examining it, he said, “He’s shifty, I grant you.” Flicking the smoking butt into the gutter, he turned his attention to Mitchell. “But we got nothing on him whatsoever.”
In the absence of the pencil, Mitchell chewed on his bottom lip. “Yeah, that is rather irritating.”
Wright pulled open his door and, before sliding in, said, “Make you a deal; if the boyfriend turns out to be a dead end, I think we should continue sniffing round our squeaky friend here.”
Mitchell recognised the conviction in his friend’s eyes. He had seen it several times before on some of their tougher cases. “Deal,” he replied.
An orange Datsun Cherry drove by slowly. The driver had bushy grey sideburns, greased back hair and a moustache. A cigarette was hanging out of his mouth and his eyes were fixed on the two detectives.
Wright met his gaze and watched him until the old car disappeared from sight. He glanced around the village and then back to Mitchell. “Can we get out of here now? This place is like the fucking Twilight Zone.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe’s Heroes.
The Miller’s lounge was empty, apart from Han who sat at a corner table, finishing off a portion of pork chops, chips and peas. The room felt uncomfortably stuffy after a particularly hot day, aided by some sort of baking frenzy that Martha had been possessed with. He was deep in thought and glad to be on his own. Apart from his time spent in his room, it was difficult to be completely alone around Haydon. He felt eyes on him all of the time. Some of it was undoubtedly paranoia, but some was justified.
Of late, his mood swung from elated, when with Lisa or when cultivating his blooming friendship with John Bryce, to melancholy when he would catch the eyes of Tess or one of her cronies glaring at him with open suspicion. And, occasionally, Mandy would speak to him at night, in his dreams. Although sometimes he wasn’t sure whether he was asleep or awake.
Big Joe trudged through from the bar with an empty glass in his hand and a tartan tea towel tucked into his belt. He was red-faced, with sweat standing out on his brow. He sounded a little wheezy when he said, “Slow the night, laddie. Grub do yer?”
After swallowing the last couple of chips, Han patted his stomach theatrically and said, “Damn fine, sah. As usual.”
“Glad tae hear it. Hope yer saved room for a wee slice of Martha’s apple crumble; she’s made enough tae feed the Otterburn ranges! And a whole lot better than the slop we used to get in the service.”
“Always room for apple crumble,” Han said with a smile. Sitting back, he took a sip of bourbon and added, “You must’ve seen a fair bit of action in the army, I bet.”
The big landlord’s expression changed. He stood silent, eyes downcast for a time. Han was beginning to regret broaching the subject, but then Big Joe spoke, his normally booming voice quiet and sullen. “I was already a veteran when they shipped us off. The young’uns were full of bravado, but us older blokes knew what was coming …” His voice trailed off and he turned to look at an old black and white photo on its own to one side of the lurid postcards. It was faded and tobacco stained.
It was a group of soldiers in the jungle. Most of them looked too young to buy a pint and they were all emaciated. Sunken distant eyes, fatigues reduced to tattered rags. Some sitting on ammunition crates, some sagging against their Lee Enfield rifles.
Han frowned. The photo was significant, but why? It was clearly circa World War II, possibly Burma. Father maybe?
“Is that—”
Big Joe turned away and headed for the kitchen, muttering, “I’ll get yer pudding.”
Han opened his mouth to comment further, but decided against it. Instead, his mind wandered back to that Saturday evening in the woods with Mandy. He saw her dead face turn towards his with those red, evil eyes.
He knocked back the rest of his drink in an attempt to shake the vision from his mind.
A Nightmare on Miller’s Road.
A thick soup-like fog oozed through the shadowy streets of Haydon, obscuring the moonless sky. Han stood rooted to the spot on the damp grass beneath the Haydon Oak, staring at the Miller’s. The pub was in darkness, as were the surrounding buildings. Glancing about, frowning, he noticed that there was not a single light on in the village, not even shop signs. Had there been a power cut?
As he waited, a solitary howl lifted above the gloom, causing his heart to quicken. There was a lonely desperation in that canine cry.
Distorted by the creeping fog, Han thought he saw shapes moving behind the blackened windows of the Co-op and the Post Office. His pulse quickening further still, he noticed similar figures in other windows. As his mind struggled with this vision, new shapes appeared in the yawning darkness of open doorways.
A big, bloated form appeared in the doorway of the Miller’s. Han’s instinct was to run, to get far away from this foreboding place, but his legs refused to oblige. They seemed set on facing whatever demons awaited him.
The figures stepped out of the shadowy doorways and started to move towards him from all directions, shuffling with a slow awkward determination. They were human and he recognised them, but the way they walked – that stiff shamble – disturbed him. Something wasn’t right about these people.
As they grew closer, he recognised Big Joe, but as his face took shape, he realised that the retired soldier had no eyes, just empty black sockets. His face was drooping, as if melted, with a glistening, waxy sheen.
Tam Wellright was lumbering along beside him, but he, too, had no eyes, along with a gaping bloody tear where his Adam’s apple should have been. A bloated tongue lolled over thin, quivering lips.
Terror rose up into Han’s throat like hot bile, but no sound escaped his lips. His body trembled from more than just the damp, slithering cold that seeped into his pores.
At once, he regained some bodily control. He spun around to see more villagers approaching, mere feet away. John Bryce, his eyeless, severed head held by matted hair in one hand, Carol Belmont, naked with her stomach ripped open, cradling her slimy intestines like a baby. They were grey and most definitely dead. Then the stench struck his nostrils like a head butt to the nose. The reek of death and decay; the stink of all that is rotten was too much. Spasms kicked at his stomach, causing him to retch noisily.
Still spinning, he stopped abruptly with Lisa right in front of him. Like the others, her eyes were hollowed out voids. Her pallid, rotting skin clung to her face like folds of muslin, yet her lips were luscious and ruby red. She held a bundle of bloody, torn rags in her cracked and bleeding fingers.
With a blank, dead expression, she outstretched her arms. A sick, crawling revulsion sent a shiver through him, causing him to gag once more, as he took the package against his will. Holding it in one arm, he peeled away the top layers of sticky, rank material to reveal a maggot-infested rotting foetus, complete with bloodied ginger hair and a shrivelled, blackened penis.
TAP TAP.
“Yours,” Lis
a uttered with a hoarse whisper, without moving her engorged lips.
TAP TAP.
Finally, a scream rose up from the pit of his stomach as the rest of the villagers closed in around him. Lisa’s dead face offered a hint of a smile as she allowed the others to engulf his squealing, flailing form.
TAP TAP.
Han awoke with a scream anchored to his lips, gasping for breath. His face and chest were glistening with sweat and the balled up sheets felt damp to the touch. His chest heaved with a desperate effort to draw gulps of air into his lungs and his whole body trembled uncontrollably.
The room was silent and in darkness. A quick, wild-eyed glance towards the folding travel clock on the bedside table revealed that it was two seventeen AM.
TAP TAP – a light knocking on the door disturbed the stillness.
With considerable effort, Han heaved himself out of bed and padded, barefoot across the rough carpet, to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, you divvie,” Lisa whispered through the door, suppressing a giggle.
With a nauseating, repulsive feeling still stuck to his skin like a feverish sweat, the thought of being in anyone’s company was a welcome relief. He swung the door open and pulled her immediately to him.
Surprised and excited by his immediate response, she embraced him fervently, kissing him hard on the lips and running her hands down his naked body.
Kicking the door closed with a flick of his foot, he lifted her diminutive body off the floor and flung her onto the bed, which offered a creaking protest.
Laughing, she yanked her Grateful Dead t-shirt over her head, revealing her small breasts then quickly unbuttoned her jeans as she kicked off her heels.
Anticipating what was to come, he grew hard as he approached, much to Lisa’s delight. Gripping her jeans at the thighs, he wrenched them off in one fluid motion.