by Kit Tinsley
‘So you’re going to frame me for a murder you know I had fuck all to do with? I suppose I did that to your face, too?’ Jason said.
‘I didn’t see who attacked me,’ Pearce said. ‘Given all of the evidence, though, it stands to reason it was you, yes.’
Jason couldn’t believe his ears.
‘You honestly believe that you stupid wanker?’ he said.
Pearce smiled and shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter if I believe it,’ he said. ‘What matters is if I can prove it.’
Jason had to get away. Pearce had finally lost it, there was no way of telling what he was capable of. Jason had to find Linda, that was his priority.
He lunged forward and head butted Pearce. The detective staggered backwards. but as he did his hand reached down to his side and pulled the gun from its holster. Pearce lifted it, aiming it at Jason.
‘You’re going to shoot me now?’ Jason said in utter disbelief.
‘I might, you’re resisting arrest,’ Pearce said calmly.
‘I knew you were a vicious bastard, but I didn’t have you pegged for a murderer, Jon. Maybe I never really knew you at all.’
Something about this made Pearce think about what he was doing. He lowered the gun.
‘You’re coming to the station with me Jason,’ he said, re-holstering the gun. ‘No arguments.’
Jason nodded. He knew that he needed to find Linda, but there was no way of telling what Pearce would do if he made another break for it. It was best to play along.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tim neared the group of trees from which the rooks had scattered. He held the gun up, the stock nestled against his shoulder and his finger hovering over the trigger. He walked slowly, legs bent in a crouched position, trying to keep himself as low to the ground as possible. He hoped that the undergrowth would help to conceal his approach, but knew that in all probability the animal would already be aware of his presence. The big cat would have a far superior sense of smell and hearing and would be able to see more clearly in the dark than he; that was its advantage. Tim was human, therefore capable of much greater logic than the beast would be. This, along with the shotgun, were what leveled the playing field.
The breeze had died down to nothing, and amongst the trees the air seemed perfectly still. The sounds of the woods had ceased as well. It was as though nature knew of this epic confrontation between man and beast and had silenced itself in order to let it play out undisturbed.
Tim was painfully aware of his own breathing. It was always the same; when you are trying to be quiet your body betrays you. He could also hear his own heartbeat racing in his ears. Every nerve and fibre of his being was aware, electrified as his brain pumped adrenaline around his system.
He scanned the tree line for movement, for some hint of the creatures presence. There was nothing, no evidence at all, but he knew it was there. On some base, primal level, Tim knew with certainty that the animal was watching him. The same sixth sense that had protected our species in its historical infancy was still there, hidden beneath centuries of evolution and technological advances, but there. Taken away from our comfort zone, placed into the right situation and it came flooding back.
Tim spun around, gun raised to aim as he heard a rustling sound behind him. He looked into the bushes for movement. There was none. His pulse raced faster as he span around looking for the cause of the sound.
The sound came again, rustling like moving leaves. This time, though, the sound was accompanied by another, a low growl. It was a sound like nothing he had heard before.
Tim felt the fear in the pit of his stomach, as though his insides were dropping away into an endless chasm. Then to his right, he saw it from the corner of his eye. Not the creature, but movement in the brush. It was enough for him to aim at. He turned to face the spot ready to shoot. His finger squeezed the trigger and the hammer clapped down. The end of the barrel erupted in fiery light, and thunderous bang shattered the silence of the wood.
Every tree in the little copse seemed to spew out birds of many species, all fleeing in a cacophony of squawks, hoots and thrashing of wings. It was as deafening as gunshot itself. It hindered Tim’s senses, the beast now had the advantage. Quickly, Tim crossed his finger over to the second trigger.
He never got the chance to fire a second shot. It emerged from the bushes behind him with a roar. Tim saw it as it leapt through the air towards him, mouth open, razor sharp teeth glinting in the moon light. Tim had been so obsessed with finding the creature, what he saw terrified him beyond all reason. He felt his bladder release as his final moment stretched into a near infinite amount of time. The pain as this monster landed on him, its jaws clamping on his throat, and its claws digging into his flesh, was unbearable. The only comfort was that it was short lived. Death came swiftly for Tim Lovecott, and as the last vestige of his mind slipped away he had one final thought. He would soon be with Julie once more.
Malc had lived in Darton his whole life, all sixty-eight years. In that time he had walked, rode a bike, or driven down every road, lane, path and track in a five mile radius of town. When sober you could blindfold him, take him to any point in that area and he would instantly know where he was and how to get home. However, when drunk he could manage to get lost in his own house. So many nights he had found himself wandering some part of town, or some country lane, with absolutely no idea of where he was or how to get where he was going.
That night was no different. He should have turned right when he walked over the level crossing, this would have taken him down Grantham Road, which he could have followed to King Street where he lived. That night, for reasons that only the whiskey knew, Malc had turned left at the level crossing, past the Cray Arms Hotel, and the Aldi store, and found himself wandering aimlessly down Maltham Lane. As the street lights and houses became a distant memory, he kept going without questioning his destination.
It was only when he heard the gunshot that he became aware that he was not where he should be. He watched as endless flocks of birds scattered in all directions.
‘What the bloody hell?’ he said to himself.
Having lived in the country all his years, he knew the difference in sound between a cartridge fired from a bird scarer and one fired from a gun. This sound had definitely been the latter.
‘Bloody poachers,’ he said and started to look around to see where he was. He couldn’t make out any landmarks in front or to the sides of him, he turned around and looked back the way he had come. At first he saw nothing that told him of his location. There were lights a few miles back down the road. He squinted to try and sharpen his whiskey blurred vision and spotted the looming shadow of the old Maltings.
‘Ahh shit!’ he shouted to himself as he realised how far from home he had wandered. He knew it would take him at least another hour to get back to his house from there.
He was about to start walking back in the direction he had come when the screaming started. It was as if someone was being murdered. They were howling in agony. Malc tried to discern from where the sound originated. It was coming from the woods, the same place the birds had scattered from, and the same place someone had fired a gun.
He suddenly thought that perhaps someone had been shot, or maybe they were being murdered. A part of him wanted to rush into the woods and help. Another part, though, was afraid. There was no telling what was happening in those woods. He had lived here long enough to know that sometimes strange things happened in Darton, and it was best not to get involved. Besides, he was a drunk old man who weighed eleven stone soaking wet, what use would he be? He would only wind up getting himself killed.
It would be best if he got home as quickly as possible. Then he could call the police, it might be too late by then, but what else could he do?
The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had begun. It was followed by a silence that seemed far more terrifying to Malc. The screaming had been of someone in terrible pain. The kind of pain that does
n’t just go away in an instant. How abruptly the sound had ended told Malc that whoever had been screaming was now dead.
He felt guilty that he had not tried to help, but there was nothing he could have done. Maybe if he had made a noise he could have stopped whatever was happening.
He looked back at the woods and saw something running towards him. He couldn’t make out what it was. His vision was still blurred, even if his mind had sobered up. It was a large dark shape, low to the ground, a large dog perhaps. It kept disappearing, obscured by the long grass of the field. Each time it reemerged it was closer to him. He stood there watching it, hoping he would be able to make out what it was, until he saw that whatever it was, it was heading straight towards him.
Flynn’s monster. He had made fun of the reporter, just that night, for his belief in some kind of wild animal roaming the countryside around Darton, but he knew now that Flynn was right. Malc was looking at the Darton beast, and it was approaching him rapidly.
‘Oh fuck, no!’ Malc said as he set off running.
Malc was sixty-eight years old, but a lifetime of working the land had left him fit enough to run for some distance still. However, his drunkenness betrayed him. He ran into a pothole. His ankle gave way; he felt the snap of the tendon as it bent the wrong way. A lightning bolt of white hot pain shot up from his foot to his brain. He flew into the air and almost managed a full somersault before his body thudded into the tarmac of the road.
Fit or not, his bones were still sixty-eight years old, and the force of the impact shattered his hip. He howled in pain. The creature, far worse than Flynn had imagined, approached him. It stood over Malc’s crumpled body and looked at him with a mix of intrigue and pity.
He thought it might leave him alone. Perhaps it saw that he was no threat to it? Perhaps it saw he was wounded? Perhaps it would spare his life? Malc promised the God he had not spoken to in forty-nine years that if he let him live he would give up the booze, he would help people, he would go to church every week, every day if that’s what it took. God didn’t answer, the creature did. It darted forward and ripped out Malc’s throat with its jagged teeth. It was quick, but far from painless.
Ben Lindley had left the pub and headed back to the little one bedroom apartment he rented in Glenley, the small village on the outskirts of Darton that was pretty much made up of a vast housing estate.
He packed a few cases of clothes and toiletries and then packed them into his car. He had decided to take a trip down south to visit some old friends from his training days. Perhaps some of them would have some advice on how to deal with Pearce. He had thought about calling Holly Booth, as they had gone to school together. Ben thought she might be able to offer him some help, but then he decided against that. Holly was very close to Pearce, and although he had seen her question him about his actions on occasion, he was not sure exactly where her loyalty would lie.
He drove from Glenley into Darton. He didn’t need to. The bypass that Glenley was situated on would lead to the A15 and take him to Peterborough, where he could take the A1 south, but he needed to get some fuel, some smokes and some cash.
He drove to the Tesco superstore and got everything he needed from the petrol station there. From there the quickest way to Peterbourough would be to follow Maltham Lane, cross the A52 and then through the villages and pick the A15 up near Bourne.
If he had known what was going to happen, he would have chosen to go the longer way around. He would have risked that extra half an hour on the road. He didn’t, though; he drove out of town on Maltham Lane.
He was about halfway to the A52 when his headlights illuminated someone walking down the side of the road, slowly. They were dragging something heavy behind them. As he got closer he saw that the figure was an old woman. The sack she was dragging looked almost double her size.
Ben slowed down and looked at the clock on his dash board. It was nearly midnight. There was something very odd about this. He pulled up at the side of the old woman and her saw it was a face from his childhood, Vera Pritchard.
‘Everything okay, Mrs Pritchard?’ he said as he rolled down the window.
She looked at him and smiled.
‘Oh hello, Ben, dear,’ she said. Mrs Pritchard had volunteered at the primary school that Ben had attended and he had learned a long time ago that she never forgot a face.
‘Yes everything’s fine,’ she continued. ‘Just heading home now.’
Ben thought that perhaps the old girl had finally lost her marbles. She seemed completely unaware of the bizarre nature of what she was doing.
‘Oh right,’ Ben said. ‘What’s in the sack Mrs P?’
Mrs Pritchard sighed loudly and let go of the sack.
‘Alright, Constable, you caught me red handed,’ she held her hands out in front of her. ‘You better get the cuffs.’
Ben was puzzled.
‘What are you talking about?’ he said.
‘In the sack,’ she said. ‘It’s a deer. I found it out on a walk. It had been hit by a car, but it was very fresh. So I thought I would take it home and make some pies out of it.’
Ben laughed, although he was a little disgusted by the idea of eating road kill.
‘Doesn’t that class as poaching?’ Mrs Pritchard asked.
‘Only if it’s your car that hit it,’ Ben replied. ‘If you just happen upon it already dead, it’s fair game.’
‘Oh well, that’s good to know,’ Mrs Pritchard chuckled.
‘It looks heavy, though,’ Ben said. ‘Do you want a lift home with it?’
‘Oh no, it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to be a bother,’ she replied.
Ben got out of the car and opened his boot.
‘It’s no bother, I’ve got room in the boot,’ he said walking over to her. ‘I’d feel better knowing you got home safe.’
‘Well if you’re sure,’ she said.
They lifted the sack into the boot. It was heavy, Ben guessed at least ten stone, how the old girl had managed to drag it around at all amazed him, though he knew from experience that some of these farm women had strength that would put a bodybuilder to shame. It was, after all, a hard life that often required great strength and resolve.
As they drove the short distance to the Pritchard farm Mrs P. wanted to hear all of the latest news about Ben’s life. He told her that work was going well, not wanting to mention his current difficulties, and that he was just taking a little holiday to catch up with some old friends. She seemed less eager to talk about her own life, brushing off his questions with short, vague answers. Ben supposed this was down to her age, he guessed that she no longer did much of anything.
He pulled into the courtyard outside the farmhouse.
‘Thank you so much, Ben dear,’ Mrs Pritchard said as she got out of the car. ‘I’ll just go and unlock the door then I’ll come back for my deer.’
‘I’ll get that for you,’ Ben said.
‘Oh no, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I can manage it from here, you’ve been enough of a help.’
She walked over to the house. There was no way that Ben was going to let her struggle to get it out of the car and drag it up to the house. He got out and opened the boot. He started to lift the sack. It was much heavier lifting it on his own, how the old lady thought she would be able do this on her own he had no idea. He pulled the sack out of the boot with great effort. Something dropped out and fell on the floor at his feet. He looked down and was confused to see a brown, man’s shoe. He set the sack down on the ground and picked up the shoe. At first he thought it could be one of his own that had been in the boot and he had picked it up with the sack. However he had never owned a shoe like that, and it was too small by three sizes.
He looked at the sack, it was the only place the shoe could have come from. He bent over and opened it up. He recoiled in horror at what he saw inside the sack. The mutilated body of Malcolm Morris, town drunk and pain in the arse. His throat had been ripped out and his face clawed, but enough of his features were
visible for Ben to tell who it was. He instinctively reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘Oh, Ben dear,’ Came Mrs Pritchard’s voice from behind him. ‘I really wish you had just left that for me to deal with.’
Turning, he saw the old lady was stood a few meters away from him. She was holding a shotgun pointed at his chest.
‘What?’ Ben couldn’t manage anything else. None of this made any sense.
‘If you’d just left it to me, you could have been on your way to see your friends now,’ the old woman said, with a look of genuine regret on her face. ‘But I have to protect my boy, no matter how naughty he’s been.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ben screamed at her.
The answer didn’t come from her mouth, it came from the barrel of the gun. As the cartridge exploded a shower of shot ripped Ben Lindley’s chest apart, his heart and lungs obliterated in a second.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pearce left Jason with the custody sergeant to process him. He told the officer to get him in a cell and leave him until the morning; Pearce would deal with him then. Jason could tell that the custody sergeant knew there was something irregular about all of this, but he seemed to know better than to argue with Pearce. It never ceased to amaze Jason how much fear Pearce instilled in his subordinates. It was as though the entire Darton Police force lived in constant fear of falling out of his favour.
When Pearce left, the sergeant took Jason’s photograph and prints. All of his property, except the clothes on his back, were taken and locked away safely. They took his belt and shoe laces, just as a precaution, and took him to the cell.
The sergeant explained that if he wanted a drink or anything he should just shout, as they were not busy that night. Jason thanked him and settled down on the narrow cot built into the wall. Though the mattress was only a few inches thick, he was surprised at how comfortable it was.