by Jennie Finch
‘I promised Newt,’ he said. ‘Saw him just before I left and he said to go see his Mam. There’s nothing to it, Derek, honest – I was just payin’ my respects.’
Derek turned away slightly and looked through the window to the hide.
‘I heard you was looking after Billy, keeping an eye out for him and helping him find a place inside.’
Big Bill seized on the chance. ‘Course I did,’ he said. ‘Only right, watching out for the lad. Helping him along a bit …’
‘Don’t get up,’ said Derek, without moving his head. ‘You just stay down there for a while longer.’
Bill slumped back onto the floor. Now he knew it was hopeless – Derek was going to hurt him, probably really, really badly.
‘Why, Derek?’ he asked abandoning all pretence. ‘I did my best by Newt, I’ve always been loyal – you know that. What’ve I done wrong?’
Derek glanced at the figure sitting at his feet.
‘Twas Frank Mallory that told the screws about my boys and the post office. Lots of detail he gave, enough so they was waiting for them. Now Frank, he was banged up too, all on his own inside and no visitors so I hear, so how’s he know so much, eh? Unless someone’s been blabbing, been buying their own status using me and my boys to make themselves look like a big man. Word gets around, see. People talk and even the little runt at the bottom of the pile gets to hear and then – well, we both know what happened then, don’t we?’
Big Bill struggled to his feet but Derek punched him behind his ear and knocked him face-down in the dirt.
‘No, you stay there,’ he said dispassionately. ‘I’ll say if you can get up.’
Bill lifted his head just clear of the mud and took a deep breath. His head was spinning from the force of the blow and he had black spots dancing in front of his eyes. After a moment he realized Derek was still talking.
‘I reckon that person’s just as responsible for my lad’s death as the lazy copper that never looked in on him and the bastard that grassed him up in the first place. What do you think then? You reckon they should get off easy?’
He waited but Bill had no answer. His head ringing and his mouth full of dust, he lay slumped on the floor of the hide. His last thought as Derek pulled his head back and drew the curved blade of the fishing knife across his throat was of Iris, a young, beautiful laughing Iris – the only woman he had ever loved.
Derek stepped back and bounced off the rough walls of the hide as he tried to avoid the gush of blood. Damn it, he’d sliced too far across and now Bill was bleeding all over the floor. He’d meant to slit his throat neatly, leave him gasping and choking for a minute until he drowned. Derek looked at the mess all over the hide in disgust. Now he’d need to clean it up a bit and getting the body away to chuck it in the river meant he’d likely be covered too. He was definitely losing his touch and the messier things were the more chance there was of getting caught. He grabbed Bill’s feet and began to pull him towards the door but his eye caught a flicker of movement in the distance.
Peering out of the window he gave a low growl compounded of fury and despair. A group of cagoule-clad adults bearing rucksacks and binoculars was weaving its way towards the hide. Bloody nature loving freaks! They were about half a mile away but he needed to get out at once or they’d spot him. He let go of Bill’s legs, grabbed his own pack and dropping to his knees crawled from the hide and into the surrounding reeds. Keeping low he wriggled as fast as he could, heading away from the cottage and the route he’d taken to the hide. He ducked down between two low humps in the land, the only areas above sea level in the entire area and bent over, trying to catch his breath. Then he sat facing the Rhyne and looked himself over, searching for tell-tale splashes of blood. His hands were grazed from crawling over the rough earth but apart from that he seemed unharmed. His jeans were a mess of course and his boots were badly marked but overall he reckoned he didn’t look too bad.
From the distance came a scream and the sounds of panic as the birdwatchers reached the hide and made their grim discovery. Derek waited for a few minutes knowing they would run around a bit and stare out over the Levels, frantically searching for the perpetrator. When the noise died down again he risked a quick look and spotted them beating a hasty retreat along the footpath. He tried to count heads but they were too far away to be sure they’d not left someone behind. He decided it was too risky trying to get back the way he’d come. They’d stop at the first building they got to and ring for the police, so it was time to get as far away as possible. He rose to his feet and began to lope over the land, careful to keep the mounds between him and the hide. The Shapwick Rhyne was between him and the other footpath but it wasn’t far to the footbridge and on to the main road. He reckoned he’d be halfway back to his cottage to change his clothes before the coppers got there.
The first policemen to arrive peered round the door and recoiled in horror at the scene. Two of the birdwatchers had stayed behind and they were taken off to one side to be questioned as witnesses. The police worked quickly to preserve the scene and waited for the crime techs to arrive with the police doctor but they were hampered by the remoteness of the hide. They’d left their car on the drove, unable to get beyond the tiny bridge except on foot and they had been in a hurry to get to the scene, leaving even the minimum amount of equipment they carried back in the patrol car. Standing outside the hide they tried in vain to get a clear signal on their radios, the occasional squawks and clicks only increasing their frustration.
‘Looks like it’s clouding over,’ remarked the senior officer, eying the sky. ‘Better get the plastic sheet out of the car before it starts to rain.’
The junior PC opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it and set off at a jog across the water meadows.
‘Put some effort in! Go on, you can do better’n that,’ shouted the senior after him, before turning his attention to the two birdwatchers who were hunched together miserably a few yards away.
The main party arrived along the Moorlinch road and were able to get their flotilla of vehicles within a few hundred yards of the crime scene. The doctor entered the hide, pronounced the victim dead and left very quickly, looking a lot more pale than when he’d arrived. The cause of death was obvious and the time wasn’t in much doubt – as the pathologist pointed out, the body was still slightly warm and the pool of blood surrounding the corpse hadn’t even congealed.
‘Single knife slash across the throat, from behind I’d say. Almost certainly right-handed from the angle. It looks as if the victim was kneeling at the time. No bindings on the wrists or ankles but there are signs of a blow to the side of the head – here, see – delivered a few minutes before death. There’s more bruising on the forehead at the front, possibly from falling.’
The dry, analytical tones of the pathologist painted a chilling picture of Big Bill’s last few minutes and the officers from the newly formed Special Action Group from Taunton stood in a semi-circle outside the hide, glancing at one another and occasionally out over the Levels in case the perpetrator of this horror still lurked amongst the witheys.
‘Any idea who he is?’ the pathologist asked.
‘I know him,’ said an older PC standing on the fringes. The Taunton officers turned to look at him. ‘It’s William Boyd. Big Bill he’s called.’
This information was greeted by silence.
‘Go on,’ prompted the Special Action Group Sergeant.
‘He’s Derek Johns’ right-hand man. Just released from Dartmoor – on Friday I think. There’s going to be hell on about this, if someone’s going after the Johns gang.’
‘We don’t know that yet,’ said the Sergeant,’ so let’s just do it by the book. Right, whoever did this arrived and left on foot – no-one heard a motor vehicle so he must have been close by when they arrived.’ He jerked his thumb at the birdwatchers.
‘Lucky they weren’t five minutes earlier then,’ said the young PC who’d returned from the car with his now-redundant pie
ce of sheeting.
‘Lucky for who, lad?’ asked the Sergeant. ‘Not lucky for Mr Boyd here, that’s for sure. Five minutes might have saved his life.’
The junior PC ducked his head, wishing the ground would suck him down into it, away from the stares of his colleagues.
As the clouds closed in, the specialists moved quickly to photograph and record as much of the scene as they could. An Inspector arrived to take charge and the PCs were dispatched in pairs to scour the immediate vicinity, looking for anything that might show where the killer had made his escape. Meanwhile, the birdwatchers were finally allowed to leave, having given their initial statements. Just as a fine drizzle began to fall there was a shout from the team out by the two humps.
‘What have you got?’ demanded the Sergeant, peering at the ground.
One PC was hunched over a patch of mud and crushed grass trying to shelter it from the rain.
‘Looks like a footprint sir,’ his companion said.
‘Well, go and get a photographer will you? We can’t cast it in this and it’ll be gone it in a minute. And you … ‘He pointed to the hovering PC. ‘Don’t you dare move an inch.’
‘Right Sarge,’ came the muffled reply.
Back at the hide the junior PC shuffled around the outside of the structure trying to keep out of everyone’s way. His partner spotted him and, taking pity on him, called him over to the door.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘look around here, see if there’s anything useful.’
The junior scanned the ground but there was nothing to be seen. Besides, he thought, there’s been a whole party of birdwatchers and a load of specialists, police and doctors, not to mention the staff from the mortuary waiting off to one side with their gurney. The area around the hut was hopelessly compromised and he was just wasting time, especially as the drizzle continued to fall. Still, at least he could hear what was being said inside. Eager to learn, he looked round the entrance.
‘Smooth, single edged blade, extremely sharp from the look of the wound. Possibly a curved blade, at least five inches long I’d say,’ said the pathologist.
‘Like a fishing knife,’ said the PC. The group around the body turned to stare at him.
‘A filleting knife,’ he went on, ‘and I think it was a Normark.’
‘How the bloody hell do you come to that conclusion,’ snapped the Inspector. The young PC swallowed nervously and pointed to a scrap of leather shaped like a fish tail caught on the rough wall near the door.
‘That’s off the sheath to a Normark knife,’ he said.
‘Could have been dropped by anyone,’ said the Inspector gruffly.
‘With respect sir, it’s got no blood on it but the wall behind has so it got here after the murder. Of course, we can check but I can’t see any birdwatcher carrying that sort of fishing knife.’
The ensuing silence was broken by the pathologist.
‘Well done, I think you may be right. The wound certainly seems to fit.’ He nodded at the PC as the Inspector ordered a member of the team to photograph and bag the little emblem.
‘Yes, well spotted, Constable …’
‘Constable Brown, sir.’
‘Constable Brown – well, good work. I think we’re almost ready to get Mr Boyd out of here. Tell the chaps from the mortuary to come in will you?’
Brown stepped out of the hide, grateful to be away from the glare of unwanted attention and the thick, metallic stink of the body. His hands were shaking and he was desperate for a cigarette. It was his first murder, for serious violent crime was rare out on the Levels and he was relieved to have survived this far without throwing up or disgracing himself. He jumped as his partner appeared from round the side of the hut.
‘Reckon we should be going now,’ he said. ‘We’re not needed and there’s so many coppers here the villains’ll think it’s Christmas in town.’
Together they made their way back across the fields, now sticky with mud as the rain began to fall in earnest.
‘What do you think then?’ Brown asked. ‘Some sort of vendetta against the Johns gang?’
‘Who knows. Maybe they’ll all kill each other, make our lives a bit easier. Come on, I’ll buy you a sandwich when we get back to town.’
The search began to wind down as the rain persisted and even the most optimistic of officers acknowledged their quarry was miles away. The hut was scoured one last time for trace evidence before it was cordoned off in an attempt to keep the idly curious and the vicarious thrill-seeker away. The mortal remains of Big Bill Boyd made the journey back to the mortuary at Taunton as the Special Action Group headed off to their new headquarters to draw diagrams and flow-charts and type up their notes on their new computer terminals. Out on the Levels, Derek Johns stripped off his dirty clothes, cut them into pieces and fed them into the fire one bit at a time. When he’d finished he boiled a tub full of scalding water and scrubbed himself to remove any trace of Big Bill or the bird hide. When he’d done he sat brooding in front of the dying embers of the fire, a glass in his hand as he tried to erase the memory of Bill’s face as he pitched forward in a fountain of blood. Finally, half way down the bottle, the glass fell from his hand and rolled away into a corner and Derek slept.
Chapter Eight
Alex opened her eyes on Wednesday morning and lay for a moment in her warm bed, puzzling over the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. For several blissful moments she searched her memory in vain before she realized it was that Wednesday, the day she had been dreading for a month.
She struggled out of bed trying not to groan as she looked around her room and realized she was not ready. Despite all her intentions, she’d managed to avoid packing her overnight bag and from the look of the laundry bin that overflowed onto the floor in the corner she was probably going in shorts and T-shirt. There was a knock on the door and Sue peered in, up uncharacteristically early and bearing a cup of coffee.
‘Here you go. I thought you might need this.’
‘You’re a life-saver.’ Alex took the beaker and sank back onto the bed sipping the caffeine-laced drink with gratitude.
‘You’re not packed, are you?’ said Sue. Alex shook her head, her attention on the hot coffee.
Sue sighed heavily. ‘Avoidance is not a coping strategy you know.’ Alex glared at her but did not reply.
‘Do you want me to sort out your papers and stuff while you’re in the shower?’ she said.
Alex put down her empty mug and groaned. ‘What I want is not to have to go,’ she snapped.
An hour or so later and they were on their way. Sue had elected to drive, partly as Alex was ‘not really a morning person’, as she so delicately put it, and partly as her car was both more comfortable and more reliable. It was a beautiful day as they bowled through the Somerset countryside. Alex, though, appeared a picture of misery as she stared out at the fields and trees.
‘Come on, it might not be that bad,’ said Sue. ‘We may just have a couple of days of crashing boredom interspersed with someone else’s cooking.’
‘I like cooking,’ Alex grumbled. ‘And if we’re unlucky we’ll have two days of crashing boredom interspersed with Garry ranting about team players and the need for objective professionalism. Or blatant indifference as I call it.’
‘You really are a miserable cow in the morning,’ said Sue. ‘It’s an away-day not a public execution.’
Alex returned to looking moodily out of the window, wishing she could get out of the car and walk on the grass or sit quietly beside the stream she could see running away into the distance. She was working too hard, she knew.
‘Well yes, we all know that,’ said Sue.
‘Did I say that aloud?’ Alex said anxiously.
Sue laughed. ‘Better now than half-way through the meeting,’ she said as she turned the car off on to a gravel drive and they jolted across the forecourt to park at the Hall.
Inside it was chaotic as people milled around with overnight bags, briefcases and various item
s of what Alex mentally termed ‘comfort luggage’. Her own comfort luggage consisted of her Walkman, six tapes of operas and three novels, just in case she got enough time and privacy to enjoy them. Sue’s, she knew, contained two bottles of red wine, a corkscrew and a short-wave radio. Gordon was leaning on the reception desk smiling calmly at the mob as it swirled around the space. He raised a hand in greeting as the two women ploughed across towards him.
‘Morning,’ he said, ‘Glad to see you. I wondered if you’d make it or manage to be mysteriously ill.’ He looked at Alex as he said this and she felt herself flush. She hadn’t realized how obvious her dislike of the whole idea had been.
‘Actually,’ she countered, ‘I woke up about six and decided I wasn’t coming. I was going to get Sue to tell Garry I’d broken my ankle but when I woke up a bit later I realized that probably wasn’t the best of plans.’
Gordon burst out laughing. ‘Well, if you’d actually broken an ankle just to get out of this then I guess we would have to take your reservations seriously,’ he said. ‘Oh, hold on, stand to attention everyone.’
The door swung open once more and Garry swept into the lobby dragging a set of matching luggage on wheels – large case, round sports bag and matching shoulder bag, all neatly clipped together with a tartan luggage strap.
‘Guess who didn’t have to pack his own bags,’ Alex murmured to Sue.
‘Neither did you,’ she retorted.
Garry pulled up at the desk and looked around, holding up his hand for silence. The cheery hubbub died away and the group waited to see what he would say. Somehow everyone knew this little speech would set the tone for the rest of the stay.
‘Right, welcome to you all,’ he began, almost as if he owned the Hall. ‘Now we’ve a lot to get through so perhaps you could collect your room keys and we could all meet down here in, oh say, 20 minutes? Please remember your Priorities files – I hope no-one has forgotten to bring them.’ Here he glanced at Alex. ‘And we will begin with coffee and introductions in the Seymour Room – over there on the right.’ He pointed to an imposing doorway on the far side of the lobby.