"Like when among friends?" Tom asked. Tamara nodded. "Stands to reason. Eric, any joy with the school?"
"I went to Greg Beaty's website and checked his About page to find a starting point of where he grew up," Eric said without moving his eyes from the screen in front of him. "I've cross referenced that with electoral roll and census data with Empson, Fysh and the Haversons. I think there are only four schools that all of them could have attended at the same time, one secondary and three primaries."
"Stick to the secondary," Tom said. "Ciaran was fifteen when he died."
"I'm just in the Local Education Authority database now," Eric said, his fingers a blur on the keyboard. "Yes, here we are." Tom and Tamara came to stand at his shoulder, scanning a list of names. Eric glanced up at both of them in turn. "All four went to the same high school, in the same year group."
"Damn. I don't see James Cook in this, do you?" Tom asked.
"No, I don't either," Tamara said. "But we've linked them to Haverson. They'd have known him and Gavin Felgate recreated the scene of Ciaran's death. It's all revolving around that. Maybe he was in a different year group? Eric, can you go one year either side?"
"No need," Cassie called. They looked at her. "You won't find James Cook listed at their school. Or any other for that matter."
Something in her tone made Tom think it wasn't quite the dead end that it first sounded.
Chapter Thirty-One
He woke with a start. This was normal and happened frequently. For once though, it wasn't a shooting pain or an immediate sense that he was about to throw up which made a change. Greg Beaty remained where he was, lying on top of the covers on his bed, still fully clothed. He looked at his clock-radio on the bedside table but the display was blank. He had no idea what time it was, not that it mattered. The wind was strong, buffeting the windows of his bedroom and every now and again the force caused the exterior cladding to vibrate, reverberating as if it was about to be torn from the battens holding it to the wall. It wouldn't. At least, it hadn't done so before and the sound was nothing new. In the past he would've been able to secure the fixings, tighten the boards but not now. Now all he could do was lie there and listen to it.
A car passed by outside followed shortly by another, their headlights flashing the interior as they rounded the bend in the road. It couldn't be very late. This end of town was almost silent after eleven o'clock, earlier in winter like now. The brief respite he felt was passing, that familiar gnawing pain rising in his leg. Soon it would progress further and he wouldn't get any more sleep tonight unless he acted. Gritting his teeth, and with a lot of effort, he hauled his legs to one side of the bed and levered himself up into a sitting position ignoring the nausea that followed. Reaching for the blister packs of pills lying next to the alarm clock, he rifled through them discarding one and popping two tablets from one strip along with one from another before lifting the beer can from the bedside table and finding it empty. He cursed softly. His throat was dry, his teeth felt furry.
An orange glow from the streetlights streamed through the slats of the window shutters illuminating the bedroom. He flicked the switch on the bedside lamp but it didn't come on. That was odd. Something must have tripped. Two of the tablets had a smooth coating and he put them in his mouth, endeavouring to swallow them with whatever saliva he could generate. The other he put into his pocket and reached for his crutches, wedged between the bedside table and the mattress. He grasped them, braced himself, and stood up, releasing a whimper as he put his weight on to his right leg. Closing his eyes, he steadied himself and hobbled into the nearby ensuite shower room. Pulling the cord, he confirmed what he'd already guessed, the power was out.
Holding the rim of the basin for stability, he slipped the remaining pill into his mouth before leaning over and taking a mouthful of cold water from the tap. Righting himself, he almost stumbled as he swallowed the painkiller, water running from his chin and onto his shirt but he didn't care. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, he stopped to stare at himself seeing the haunted ghost that he'd become.
Turning away, he went back into the bedroom and out onto the landing. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, as he always did, he realised the futility in his obstinance. The reason he slept most nights in his armchair was because of his difficulty in managing the stairs but somehow having to make that effort, something most people took for granted – the trek upstairs to bed – made him feel normal, like a regular person.
Casting the thought aside, he started down the stairs. Around halfway he heard something or thought he did. He stopped, listening intently. Had he left something outside on the veranda? With the strength of the wind coming in off the sea, along with the elevated position of his home on Cliff Parade, anything not securely fastened down was prone to be lifted and often carried some distance if the conditions were right; but he had, he was sure. And the sound wasn't familiar, a repetitive dull thudding. He continued on, reaching the foot of the stairs and turning to his left. The consumer unit was in the pantry off the kitchen, rehoused from the cupboard beneath the stairs when the house was renovated. That seemed sensible at the time but Greg dreaded having to check the switches. He couldn't reach them without first climbing onto the worktop below or by using a chair to stand on. Hunching to access a half-height cupboard would be preferable these days. If he was lucky, he could flick a single switch with the end of his crutch, otherwise he'd have to wait until his carers came around in the morning.
There was that noise again… only louder.
Greg froze in the hallway, the instincts that he'd honed, in conflict zones around the world, screamed at him silently in his mind. The exterior door to the kitchen burst open and a figure staggered into view. Greg reacted, made to turn and head back the way he'd come, only his mind was too fast for his body and he stumbled losing his grip on the crutch in his right hand and his momentum carried him into the living room. He bounced off the open door just as he heard an excited shout from behind him, two voices coming almost on top of one another.
Eyeing his mobile on the arm of his chair across the room, he hurried towards it, feeling the strain in every muscle of his arms and legs. He heard them approach, turning in the room. Two dark figures, dressed in hoodies with masks covering their faces, rounded on him from the hallway almost scrabbling to get past one another to reach him first. Greg stooped and reached into the crate of beers he'd left on the chair earlier, hurling the first unopened can at his would-be assailants, and not stopping to see if it registered before grasping the next but he heard a shout of protest so assumed it had landed. How many he threw he didn't know but their advance slowed, punctuated with obscenities, but advance they did.
Turning his one remaining crutch, Greg held it at the base and swung it like a club. The first pass didn't connect, but the second, a reverse sweep, caught one man on the side of the head and he howled in pain, raising a gloved hand to the side of his face and stumbling to his left and obstructing the other man's approach. Greg felt a surge of hope, a belief that he might win out and swung his crutch again with all the strength he could muster. This time he struck the other man but instead of falling or backing off, he merely uttered a guttural growl of intent and lunged forward, brushing the makeshift weapon aside with consummate ease. Greg yelped in panic, off balance and with nowhere to go he let out a scream in frustration and denial before throwing himself forward at his assailant.
The two men came together and despite the obvious mismatch, the attacker being taller and more agile, they locked into a physical embrace. Greg was forced back and they quickly gathered pace before he was slammed into the wall, air rapidly escaping his lungs. Pinned to the wall, his opponent with the upper hand, Greg felt a rush of panic. The man's head was pressed into Greg's chest, his entire bodyweight ensuring there was no way out. Managing to drag his arms free, Greg clasped his hands against the sides of the man's head, levering his head back to reveal the masked face, no features visible aside from his eyes.
With his palms on the side of the face, Greg drove his thumbs into the man's eyes and pressed as hard as he could with all his remaining energy, his own screams of exertion almost drowning out those of his attacker as he bellowed in pain and rage.
The pressure on him eased and Greg released his right hand, closed his fist and drove his elbow down onto his attacker's head. The blow sent a shot of pain through Greg's arm but the hold on him ceased as the man slumped to the floor. Greg was free. Out of breath, he reached for his mobile phone but, in the struggle, it had fallen from the chair and in the dark he couldn't see where it lay. Rummaging around amongst the cushions, he desperately sought to find it, turning his attention to the carpet and falling to his knees.
A hand reached out behind him, grabbing his collar at the base of his neck but Greg lashed out with his arm, making a strong connection. The strangely satisfying thud of fist on flesh and an accompanying groan buoyed him. The urge to flee took over and he gave up on the search, scrabbling across the floor on his hands and knees brushing aside beer cans and the upturned side table and lamp that he couldn't remember being struck. He had to get out as fast as possible.
Murmurs of anger sounded behind him as he reached the door to the hall. The muscles of his right leg burned, his body ached but survival instinct overcame all else and he gripped the door jamb, gritting his teeth and attempting to stand. Leaning against the frame he righted himself, blinking the sweat from his eyes and started into the hall. Someone grasped his ankle with a vice-like grip and yanked at his leg as he tried to shuffle forward using the wall for support. He tried desperately to shake the hand loose but his actions seemed only to have the opposite effect. He screamed both in fear and desperation. His legs gave out beneath him and he fell face first to the floor barely managing to put a hand out to break his fall.
He felt the presence of a second person stepping past the first who held onto Greg's ankle as if their life depended on it. A crushing weight landed on the base of his spine and he yelped, a sound that appeared somehow disembodied despite knowing he'd uttered it. Something smooth brushed past his face and then he felt pain across his throat, a sensation that grew in intensity a second later. He wanted to cry out, to scream louder for someone, anyone to help him but he couldn't, the pressure around his throat grew ever tighter. Greg could feel and smell the breath of his attacker on his face, whiskey and cigarettes, feel the straining of the man's body as he strangled the life from him. He wanted to plead, to beg for his life but couldn't forge a sound.
"No more places to run to, Greg!" The man whispered through gritted teeth. "Nowhere left to hide."
Just as the darkness faded to near blackout, the pressure eased and Greg felt his head drop. He didn't feel the blow as it struck the wooden floor unopposed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. All fight had left him. His fate was now out of his hands.
"Get the car."
The voice was distant, some way off he thought, and commanding. He sensed someone step over him and walk to the front door. He heard the key turn and unlock the door and felt a rush of cold air sweep in over him, smelling the sea air and hearing the wind gusting over the nearby cliff tops.
Greg closed his eyes, all pain forgotten. It was time.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The door opened catching Cassie by surprise as she reached for the doorbell. There was a moment of hesitation as she eyed the figure standing in front of her, an imposing figure dressed in black with only eyes visible above the scarf tied across his face as a makeshift mask. They stared at each other for what could only have been a second or two, sharing their mutual indecision, before Cassie's eyes drifted to the stricken figure of Greg Beaty lying prostrate on the floor beyond. The man made to slam the door in her face and she reacted, leaning into the door and trying to wedge her foot in the space to stop it. The door was heavy and came at her with force. The pain erupted in both shoulder and foot as they came together and she let out a scream.
"Tom!" she shouted, stumbling back. She need not elaborate further because Tom Janssen was already aware and cannoned past her, throwing himself at the door. The barrier burst inward and Tom and the black-clad figure collided, the latter almost knocked off his feet by Tom's momentum. The two men stumbled against the wall, grappling with one another for advantage. Cassie held back. The hallway was too narrow for her to get past Tom and help to subdue the man. She pulled her radio from her coat pocket and called for urgent assistance, barking the address over the airwaves.
The man wrestling with Tom was smaller in stature but able to hold his own, each man seeking to overpower the other with move and counter move. She thought she saw Beaty try to get up or to at least try to move himself out of harm's way, but he barely moved at all, seemingly giving up. From the adjoining room another figure appeared but didn't look in her direction or seek to come to the aid of the other, turning right and running towards the kitchen.
"Hey! Stop, police!" she called in vain as the man, similarly dressed to the first, took off. At this point, Tom had grasped his opponent's right wrist, pinning his arm against the wall and had his right hand around the man's throat, forcing him down and into submission.
"There's another!" she said.
"GO!" he shouted and Cassie shoved her way past both men carefully sidestepping Beaty, now unconscious on the floor, and hurried after the second man.
Broken glass crunched underfoot as she entered the kitchen, hesitating just in case the man lay in wait for her around the corner, but she realised he'd fled through the back door out into the rear. Ducking her head out, she quickly looked to the left and the right. The side access gate from the driveway was closed, the bolt still locked in place, and the path continued to her right into the garden. It was almost pitch black here, the orange hue in the sky from the town's streetlights barely penetrated the mature trees and shrubbery ringing the garden.
Inching along the path, Cassie drew her extendable ASP from its holster beneath her coat, something she'd decided to carry ever since Eric's stabbing, and flicked it out to full length as she made her way along the side of the house. The garden opened up in front of her just as the clouds parted for the briefest moment to allow a sliver of silver light from the moon to illuminate the area. She couldn't see anyone. Her radio crackled with confirmation of support units coming their way but she instinctively turned the volume down so as not to give herself away. A sound off to her right drew her attention, unmistakably someone attempting to clamber over a fence.
Without hesitation she ran in that direction, bursting through the foliage to see a body almost disappearing over the fence into the garden of the house next door.
"Stop!" she yelled, swinging her ASP at the trailing leg but missing as it disappeared from sight. She backed up and took a run at the fence, easily six feet high, and leaped up, grasping the top and hauling herself over sideways and coming down on her feet setting herself to defend an attack. It didn't come. A silhouette of a tall man was sprinting away from her. She set off. A dog in the house was barking and hurling itself at the patio doors as she passed, lights coming on in the interior but she ignored the occupants, collapsing her ASP, slipping it into its holster, and pulling out her radio and raising it to her lips as she ran.
"DS Knight in pursuit of a male suspect fleeing south-west through the rear of gardens…" she paused to negotiate assailing another fence and dropped to the other side "…on Cliff Parade."
She was gaining ground on her quarry which gave her confidence as he might not be in as good a shape as she was, a plus as she was well aware of her vulnerability being alone in the chase. The garden of each property was a similar width and every obstacle the suspect had to clear slowed him down and brought her that little bit closer. She was already making plans for the inevitable confrontation as he launched himself at the next fence, using a water butt to assist him in getting over. He dropped from sight and was accompanied by a clatter as he hit whatever had been hidden from view on the other side. Cassie drew her ASP again
, confident this was the moment. She took a different path over the fence this time, moving to her left and using an outdoor patio table as a step to enable her to leap the fence well clear of where her suspect crossed the boundary.
Cassie landed and brought her ASP to bear. She was vindicated. Her suspect hadn't run. He'd landed on a covered steel barbecue set, toppling it and the associated paraphernalia to the ground around him. He was waiting for her to follow him over, also seemingly resigned to their confrontation, but he seemed surprised she'd chosen a different path. He turned on her, his chest heaving. She slowly advanced, her left hand outstretched in front of her, her right clutching the handle of her ASP and resting it on her shoulder, primed and ready to bring it down if necessary.
"Police! Get on your knees, now!"
He remained where he was, arms at his side as she advanced cautiously.
"I said—"
He leaned to his left, grabbing a steel serving platter and threw it at her as if it was a frisbee followed quickly by several more. Cassie batted them aside but it slowed her advance. Gritting her teeth, she moved forward ready to deploy the ASP only for him to back away from her, reveal a bottle of something from behind his back and squeeze it, sending a stream of liquid at Cassie, who raised her arm to shield her face. The odour was sweet, pungent and unmistakable. It was lighter fuel.
Cassie hesitated, holding her position for a fraction of a second which was when she should have struck. Now she felt a surge of panic seeing her suspect snap open a Zippo lighter and strike the wheel. He stood there holding the lighter in his hand, the flame dancing before her but he didn't speak. She backed away looking around her for somewhere to retreat only to see nothing but open space. He matched her step for step, her eye following the naked flame at every movement.
A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8 Page 22