The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories

by Stephen Jones

  “What do you make of the woman?”

  “I think she’s a bit out of it, sir. Probably the sedatives. She doesn’t seem to have much idea about what’s going on. She wasn’t that close to her husband.”

  Craig grunted. “No, so I gather. Anyway, I’m off to interview one of the dead man’s colleagues. Get hold of Phillips, will you. See what’s he’s found out about any local dogs.”

  He followed her out into an annex and reached for his overcoat. Something dark and musty hung next to it. He drew back. What the hell? It looked like a mangy pelt, maybe a bearskin. Unaccountably he felt his own skin crawling, as if he’d reached into a dark place and almost touched something revolting.

  Anders saw his expression. “Sorry, sir. That’s mine. It’s part of my costume.”

  “Christ, you’re going to wear that?”

  “It needs cleaning. It’s for Halloween. Friday.” She looked at him as if to say, everyone knows that.

  He’d forgotten. There’d be a Festival, and no doubt Maud would want to be involved. “Halloween. That’s the last bloody thing we need.” He grabbed his coat and left before she had a chance to call him a miserable old sod.

  Terrance Moore took Craig into his living room, an expansive area with a dramatic view of the countryside that seemed to go on forever into the distance, fields broken by small stands of trees and low hedges.

  “When did you last see Roger Poulter-Evans?” asked Craig, once they’d dispensed with the pleasantries.

  Moore appeared relaxed, though tired. He was in his fifties and uncomfortably overweight, his shirt bulging, his face sagging, his eyes darkly rimmed. Craig imagined he lived well—too well—and he noticed the nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand. Maybe the death of his friend had come as a shock. That or something else.

  “Four days ago, at the factory,” Moore replied.

  “You didn’t arrange to meet him, off the beaten track?”

  Moore snorted. “You mean in that field? No. He liked to walk, burn up a bit of energy. He told me to do the same often enough, but I’m a slob, Inspector. I like my home comforts.”

  Craig went through the process of extracting information almost mechanically. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Instinct implied Moore had nothing to do with his colleague’s death. No motive suggested itself. The detective scribbled a few notes.

  “How about enemies?” he said, watching for a reaction.

  “Roger? He was pretty well liked. Those who didn’t like him steered clear of him. Good God, you don’t think his death was more than an accident? I thought it was a pack of dogs?”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Phoebe? What, as an enemy? No, she was comfortable. They may not have been a happy couple, but they lived life pretty much as they chose to.”

  “Yes, I got that impression. Is there anything about him I ought to know?” Craig looked directly at Moore, who appeared to be turning something over in his mind, something slightly unsavory.

  “Well, it’s nothing, really, inspector. Roger was having an affair. It was a minor thing, a passing fancy. Rita’s a bit loose, to be honest. She’s had a few flings since her old man died. Roger was just another. It wouldn’t have lasted.”

  “Did Mrs. Poulter-Evans know about it?”

  “Almost certainly. It wasn’t the first time he’d played away. Nothing serious.” He said it as though it was a normal part of working lives.

  “How do you think she felt about it?”

  Moore was starting to look uneasy. “Well, it’s ironic, really. Roger told me he thought she was having an affair. I mean, he wasn’t bothered. It kind of evened things out. You’re probably wondering why they stayed together.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Convenience, especially given Phoebe’s situation.” He gave a little, odd laugh. “Wanted to keep things quiet, I daresay.”

  “Things?”

  “Phoebe’s partner was another woman. So Roger believed. He had no idea who she was. It could have been embarrassing.”

  Craig’s expression never changed. He pictured Phoebe Poulter-Evans when he’d told her about her husband’s brutal death. She’d been horrified, but she’d handled it remarkably coolly. Maybe it had been a mixture of shock and relief.

  “I don’t know who it was, Inspector,” Moore was saying. “As I said, it was not something Phoebe wanted to advertise. Not in a small town like this.”

  Craig sat in the car and punched his cell’s keypad, cursing as his fingers botched the numbers. Why did they always make these things too small?

  “Anders? It’s me. Anything on the dogs?”

  “Phillips got back, sir. There’ve been no reports anywhere in the region about escaped dogs or related incidents. One of the farmers said there’d been sheep-worrying back in the summer, but it had to do with holidaymakers. They’d let their dog off its lead. Other than that, nothing.”

  “How about the farms? That one near the stream.”

  “Phillips went there, sir. They’ve got dogs, but they’re not allowed to roam. Phillips saw them and said they weren’t hostile. He didn’t think they were likely to have attacked the victim. Seems as if our dogs were from away.”

  “Which brings us back to a possible van.”

  “I had that road checked, sir. It’s a bit muddy, but no tire tracks of any significance.”

  “So where the hell did they go?”

  “We’re still searching the surrounding fields. Nothing yet.”

  “Okay, keep at it, will you?”

  Craig checked his cell phone and saw he had a message waiting. It was from Hawkins, the pathologist. Craig rang him back.

  “Hello, David.” Hawkins’s voice was flat, unexcitable. “Something rather odd has cropped up. I’ve started a preliminary postmortem on Poulter-Evans. Phillips was right. Dogs killed him. No other signs of attack. They would have been very large dogs, something like wolf-hounds, so they’d stand out in an area like this.”

  “Unless they were brought here and removed in a van.”

  “Right. What baffles me, though, is what I found in the blood around the wounds. There’s a lot of saliva mixed in with the blood. You’d expect that in this sort of killing. There’s dog slaver, but also something else. Saliva, but I can’t isolate it. It’s mingled in, almost inseparable. I’m not sure what it is.”

  “Wouldn’t you expect the victim’s saliva in the throat area?”

  “I don’t mean the victim’s.”

  Craig stared out at the fields. A small flock of crows argued noisily in a solitary tree. “Other saliva? What exactly does that mean?”

  “I don’t have the specialized equipment here to test the stuff. In fact, I’ve had to send it away for examination. There are experts who can make better-informed decisions than I can. Frankly, David, I’m baffled.”

  “Okay. Look, get back to me when you know more, okay?”

  Craig switched off the phone and sat back. The more he thought about it, the more he felt this was no simple dog attack. Saliva? Not dog saliva. What the hell did that mean?

  Phoebe poured the sparkling wine into four glasses on the draining board. Her hand shook slightly. She looked out of the kitchen window at the early evening shadows on the lawn. The shrubs on either side of it looked like distorted figures, about to move every time she took her eyes off them. She felt the soft touch on her waist and jumped.

  “Sorry,” said Clara, her lips close to Phoebe’s neck. “You’re a bit edgy. You okay?”

  “The last couple of days have been a bit harrowing.”

  Clara slid her arm tighter and gave Phoebe a soft hug. “That bloody man from the local rag was a pain. Hoping to make a name for himself.”

  “I’ll be fine. Let’s take the wine through.” She gently disentangled herself. The others knew about her and Clara, but it was too soon to be this public. Phoebe knew she was old-fashioned. The world was a different place these days, but even so, she wasn’t ready to be so ope
n. “I want to enjoy tonight.”

  “Good.” Clara stood back and let Phoebe carry the tray carefully into the living room. Maud and Mavis were sitting on the sofa, chattering animatedly. Phoebe admired Maud’s calmness—nothing ever seemed to faze her. Maybe it was something to do with being married to the taciturn, stoic detective, David. And Mavis always seemed to be in control of her life, even if she lived it breathlessly. You couldn’t get two more opposite people, Phoebe thought, and yet they were in perfect sync.

  “Lovely,” said Maud, taking a glass. She was dressed smartly but not in a showy way, nothing out of place. For her age she was very attractive, a natural thing. Mavis on the other hand was about as showy as you got, with her amazing explosion of strawberry ginger hair, very Pre-Raphaelite, and her painted nails and crazy bling. She’d been a beauty when she was younger, and although she’d aged well, there was no disguising its signs. At times Phoebe found her a little too exuberant.

  Phoebe finished delivering the wine and sat down with her own glass. She glanced at Clara. Like the others, she was in her early fifties. I got the best deal, Phoebe told herself. Clara is the one who thinks more of others than herself. Me, especially. She’d rather sit in the background and watch, or encourage.

  “Here’s to the Festival!” said Maud, raising her glass and the others chimed in, clinking their glasses.

  “The vicar wanted to scrap the whole thing,” said Mavis, screwing her face up with disapproval.

  “Out of respect for Roger, I suppose,” said Clara.

  Phoebe put her glass down. “Roger never went to church. He wasn’t a practicing Christian.”

  “Quite the reverse,” said Clara and they all knew what she meant. If anyone else had said it, Phoebe might have been offended.

  “The vicar,” said Maud, with a mirthless smile, “can go and screw himself tonight. It’s time to let the pagans loose!”

  They all laughed, although Phoebe felt uneasy. As the newest member of the circle, she wasn’t quite used to its independence, its assertiveness. She was determined to master it, though.

  Maud appeared to have read her thoughts. “Roger doesn’t control you any more, Phoebe. You’ll get used to making your own choices.”

  Phoebe blanched. She knew what Maud meant.

  “Enjoy tonight. Let your hair down. After that, it’ll be a new start,” said Maud.

  “Yes, I tell myself that every Halloween,” said Mavis. “A new year starts! Maybe a new romance!”

  “Mavis, don’t be ridiculous,” said Maud, but she was laughing again. They all were.

  The television was on, but Craig wasn’t paying attention. He sat back in the armchair, contemplating having a stiff glass or two of whiskey. Earlier he thought Maud was going to insist he join her at the Halloween festivities. If she’d insisted, he’d have given in and gone with her to the center of the town, where there’d be the usual furor, but mercifully she hadn’t pressed him. She’d known he was preoccupied and had left him to it.

  He couldn’t free his mind of Roger Poulter-Evans’s killing. The twisted, bloodied body kept materializing before his eyes, a mangled version of Banquo’s ghost. Frustration gnawed at him. So far they had nothing. His men had scoured the land, widening their net. The dogs responsible had not been traced, only to the stream. No spoor, no hint of the animals. Craig kept coming back to the idea of a van. Yet if it was murder—why? He’d talked to everyone he could think of locally who knew or worked with Poulter-Evans. He was generally either well liked or avoided. Craig had even spoken to the woman he was fooling around with. She was clearly distraught. There was no reason for her to have wanted him dead, and besides, she’d not have organized the setting on of the dogs.

  He was about to get himself that whiskey when his cell beeped.

  “Craig.”

  “Darling, it’s me.” Maud, sounding anxious. “I’m at Clara’s. You know? Willowfield Close.”

  “Yes. Readying the troops for tonight’s festivities. Everything okay?”

  “Well, I don’t know. We were getting ready to leave, when Clara said something about a dog howling. This afternoon. I know you’ve been hunting high and low—”

  Craig cut her short. “Where was this?”

  “There’s a barn beyond the fields at the end of her garden. Almost derelict. Clara thought she heard a dog. I went outside with her just now and we heard it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Actually there could have been more than one. It’s getting very windy.”

  “Listen, Maud, I don’t want to spoil your evening, but for Christ’s sake, don’t leave the house. Not yet. I need to have this checked out. You and the other women, stay in the house. Lock yourselves in.”

  “David, that’s a bit over the top, isn’t it? We’re about to dress up for the Festival.”

  “If it’s the dog or dogs that killed Poulter-Evans, you must keep inside. Do it now. Lock yourselves in. I’ll ring you when it’s clear.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll have the barn checked out.”

  “Not on your own. David, you mustn’t—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll bring in as many of my people as I can. Just stay put. Right?”

  “Well, okay. Ring me as soon as you can.”

  He rang off and checked his watch. 9:45 p.m. Anders was on duty until ten, when she’d be off to join the Halloween festivities herself. He remembered she had a boyfriend in the town, so she’d likely get away promptly. He rang her phone and she answered at once.

  “Before you go, get the word around,” he told her. “I want as many people as we’ve got out at Willowfield Close. There’s an old barn at the back of the fields there. I’ll be waiting. Have the men armed.”

  “Is it the dogs, sir?”

  “I think so. Make it fast. Ring-fence the place.” He’d have gone in to the station and issued the instructions himself, but he knew the young policewoman was dependable.

  She rang off and Craig grabbed his coat. Outside the wind was cold, the atmosphere freshening. The threat of sleet or snow of earlier remained in the air. That’s all I need, he thought, yanking the car door open and ducking inside. Moments later he was heading along the streets, night’s shadows crowding in as if they, too, were eager to get on with the business.

  Willowfield Close was no more than a couple of miles away, on the outskirts of the town. He knew the roads and took a turning that would bring him around the fields. He pulled up halfway down the lane and went to a gate. Standing on its bottom bar, he craned his neck and looked out into the gathering night. He could see the lights of the bungalows to his right. To his left, a hundred yards away, there were a few trees and the gray smudges of what could have been the barn. If he wanted to get closer, it would have to be on foot.

  He waited impatiently for a few minutes, time dragging. The wind had dropped and he listened out for any sounds from the barn area, but the place was silent. Finally he clambered awkwardly over the gate, cursing his age, and dropped down into the thick grass. The field was overgrown, uncultivated for a long time, its vegetation almost waist high. Craig pushed through it, keeping low down. It was wet and clung to him, but he was glad of its cover.

  Near the edge of the field, under the shelter of the trees along its border, he crouched down, again listening. The night was silent, the sky clear. The air was cold and his breath clouded in front of him. Where the hell was his support team? He looked back toward the road, but there was no sign of life. Beyond the gate the sky glowed faintly yellow with the lights of the town and there was a hum, traffic in the distance, but not yet coming this way.

  Ahead of him, the grasses parted, startling him, but it was a cat, darker than the shadows. It saw him and, obviously used to people, approached to where he was squatting. He reached down and ruffled its fur. He could feel it purring. It fussed about him for a while, then wandered back the way it had come. Suddenly it froze, its relaxed attitude changing into one of defense. It
rose up on all fours, its back arched, its tail bushing.

  Craig couldn’t see what had frightened it. It crouched down, teeth bared, and gave a strangled cry, a challenge to something beyond the hedge. Craig edged forward, but as he did so, the cat leapt up and spun around, racing away into the field, ears flattened to its head, body low. Whatever had terrified it was in or very near the barn. A dog?

  There was still no sound of approaching vehicles. Craig moved to a break in the hedgerow. He could see a wall of the barn beyond. It was not as derelict as he’d thought, and was much larger.

  He looked at his watch. It was gone 9:00 p.m. His support should be here by now.

  He moved quietly through the gap and stood by the wall of the barn. The trees thickened further along the wall, a copse obscured by darkness. Somewhere beyond them he heard the sound of a horn. A hunting horn. It wouldn’t be a fox hunt, but maybe the revelers were using it as part of their festivities, which would be well under way in the town by now.

  The sound repeated itself. It was an odd, mournful note, and Craig felt himself stiffen. What had Maud said to him? She’d been enthusing about Halloween and its rituals, and he’d been listening with one ear. Something about a Wild Hunt. Among her daft curios and oddments relating to the past was a painting. Hecate, Queen of the Witches and leader of the Wild Hunt. It was a dramatic affair, vaguely Germanic, he thought, although he knew these traditions were often as much European as home grown. Personally he’d never been one for Wagner and the like.

  As he listened for the horn again, he heard a less familiar sound beyond the trees. A rumbling, as though from underground. It was muffled by the surrounding foliage and then the barn itself. Horses? Yes, that was it. So the revelers were riding tonight. He heard the procession pass, voices and shouts mingling with the growing thunder of hooves. Abruptly it all stopped, muffled by the mass of the building next to him.

  Moving quickly, Craig came to an open doorway in the wall, the wooden door long since rotted away. He’d brought a small flashlight and flicked it on. Inside, the barn appeared to be immense, a series of rooms, or stables.