The Chemistry of Death dh-1

by Simon Beckett

  Normally they held a twinkle of good humour, but there was no humour in them now. He propped an elbow on the bar. 'Bad business.'

  'Lousy.'

  'I saw Lyn a couple of days ago. Not a care in the world. And then Sally Palmer, as well. It's like being struck by lightning twice.'

  'I know.'

  'I hope to Christ she's just buggered off somewhere. But it's not looking good, is it?'

  'Not very, no.'

  'God, poor Marcus. Doesn't bear thinking about what the poor bastard must be going through.' He pitched his voice lower so it wouldn't carry. 'There's a rumour going around that Sally Palmer was cut up pretty bad. If it's the same man who took Lyn… Jesus, makes you want to break the fucker's neck, doesn't it?'

  I looked down into my glass. Obviously word hadn't got out that I'd helped the police. I was glad, but it made me feel awkward now, as if keeping quiet about my involvement were making me a liar.

  Ben slowly shook his massive head. 'You think there's any chance for her?'

  'I don't know.'

  It was as honest an answer as I could give. I remembered what Mackenzie had said earlier. If I was right, then Sally Palmer hadn't been killed until around three days after she'd disappeared. I wasn't a psychological profiler but I knew that serial killers followed a pattern. Which meant, if this was the same man, there was a chance that Lyn might still be alive.

  Still alive. God, could she be? And if she was, for how long? I told myself I'd done what I could, given the police as much as could reasonably be expected of me. But it felt like a cheap rationalization.

  I realized Ben was looking at me. 'Sorry?'

  'I said are you OK? You look pretty bushed.'

  'It's just been a long day.'

  'You can say that again.' His expression soured as he looked towards the doorway. 'And just when you think it can't get any worse…'

  I turned to see the dark figure of Reverend Scarsdale blocking out the light as he entered. Conversations died away as he advanced stern-faced to the bar.

  'Don't suppose he'll be getting them in,' Ben muttered.

  Scarsdale cleared his throat. 'Gentlemen.' His eyes drifted disapprovingly over the few women in the pub, but he didn't bother to acknowledge them. 'I thought you should know that I will be holding a prayer service tomorrow evening for Lyn Metcalf and Sally Palmer.'

  His voice was a dry baritone that carried effortlessly.

  'I'm sure all of you' – he let his gaze run around the pub – 'all of you will be there tomorrow evening to show your respect for the dead and support for the living.' He paused before stiffly inclining his head. 'Thank you.'

  As he headed for the door he stopped in front of me. Even in summer there seemed an odour of mildew about him. I could see the white dusting of dandruff on the black wool of his jacket, smell the mothball taint of his breath.

  'I trust I'll see you as well, Dr Hunter.'

  'Patients allowing.'

  'I'm sure no-one will be selfish enough to keep you from your duty.' I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that. He favoured me with a humourless smile. 'Besides, I think you'll find most of them will be at the church. Tragedies draw communities like this together. Coming from the city you'll probably find that strange. But we know where our priorities lie here.'

  With a final terse nod, he left. 'There goes a real Christian,' Ben said. He raised his empty glass, more like a half-pint in his big hand. 'Ah, well, you ready for another?'

  I declined. Scarsdale's appearance hadn't improved my mood. I was about to finish my drink and go home when someone spoke behind me.

  'Dr Hunter?'

  It was the young teacher I'd met at the school the day before. Her smile faltered at my expression. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude…'

  'No, that's OK. I mean, no, you aren't.'

  'I'm Sam's teacher. We met yesterday?' she said, uncertainly.

  Normally I'm bad at remembering names, but I recalled hers straight away. Jenny. Jenny Hammond.

  'Sure. How is he?'

  'OK, I think. I mean, he didn't come to school today. But he seemed better by the time his mother collected him yesterday afternoon.'

  I'd meant to check on him, but other things had intervened. 'I'm sure he'll be fine. There's no problem with him being off, is there?'

  'Oh, no, not at all. I just thought I'd… you know, say hello, that's all.'

  She looked embarrassed. I'd assumed she'd come over to ask something about Sam. Belatedly, it occurred to me she might just be being friendly.

  'So, are you with some of the other teachers?' I asked.

  'No, I'm by myself. I went on the search and then… well, my housemate's out, and it just didn't feel like a night for sitting in alone, you know?'

  I knew. There was a silence for a while.

  'Can I get you a drink?' I asked, just as she said, 'Well, I'll see you later.' We laughed, self-consciously. 'What would you like?'

  'No, it's all right, really.'

  'I was just going to get myself another.' I realized as I said it that my glass was still half-full. I hoped she wouldn't notice.

  'A bottle of Becks, then. Thanks.'

  Ben had just finished getting served as I leaned on the bar. 'Changed your mind? Here, let me.' He started putting his hand in his pocket.

  'No, it's all right. I'm getting someone else's.'

  He glanced behind me. His mouth twisted in a smile. 'Fair enough. See you later.'

  I nodded, conscious of my face burning. By the time I was served I'd finished the rest of my beer. I ordered myself another and took the drinks over to where Jenny was standing.

  'Cheers.' She raised the bottle in a little toast and took a drink. 'I know the landlord doesn't like you doing it, but it just doesn't taste the same from a glass.'

  'And it's less to wash up, so you're actually doing him a favour.'

  'I'll remember that next time he tells me off.' She grew more serious. 'I just can't believe what's happened. It's so awful, isn't it? I mean, two of them, from here? I thought places like this were supposed to be safe.'

  'Was that why you came?'

  I didn't mean it to sound as intrusive as it did. She looked down at the bottle she was holding. 'Let's just say I was tired of living in a city.'

  'Where was that?'

  'Norwich.'

  She had started to peel the label from the bottle. As if realizing what she was doing she suddenly stopped. Her expression cleared as she smiled at me.

  'Anyway, how about you? We've already established you're not a local either.'

  'Nope. London, originally.'

  'So what made you come to Manham? The bright lights and scintillating night-life?'

  'Something like that.' I saw that she was expecting more. 'Same as you, I suppose. I wanted a change.'

  'Yeah, well, it's that all right.' She smiled. 'Still, I quite like it. I'm getting used to living out in the middle of nowhere. You know, the quiet and everything. No crowds or cars.'

  'Or cinema.'

  'Or bars.'

  'Or shops.'

  We grinned at each other. 'So how long have you been here?' she asked.

  'Three years.'

  'And how long did it take you to be accepted?'

  'I'm still working on it. Another decade and I might be thought of as a permanent visitor. By the more progressive elements, obviously.'

  'Don't say that. I've only been here six months.'

  'Still a tourist, then.'

  She laughed, but before she could say anything there was a commotion in the doorway.

  'Where's the doctor?' a voice demanded. 'Is he here?'

  I pushed my way forward as a man was half-supported, half-carried into the pub. His face was contorted in pain. I recognized him as Scott Brenner, one of a large family who lived in a ramshackle house just outside Manham. A boot and the bottom of one trouser leg were soaked in blood.

  'Sit him down. Gently,' I said, as he was lowered into a seat. 'What happened?'
/>   'He stepped in a snare. We were going up to the surgery but we saw your Land Rover outside.'

  It was his brother Carl who'd spoken. The Brenners were a clannish lot, ostensibly farm workers but not averse to poaching as well. Carl was the eldest, a wiry, truculent individual, and as I eased back the blood-soaked denim from Scott's leg I entertained the uncharitable thought that this had happened to the wrong brother. Then I saw the damage that had been done.

  'Do you have a car?' I asked his brother.

  'Don't think we walked here, do you?'

  'Good, because he needs to go to hospital.'

  Carl swore. 'Can't you just patch him up?'

  'I can put a temporary dressing on, but that's all. This needs more than I can do.'

  'Am I going to lose my foot?' Scott gasped.

  'No, but you're not going to be doing much running for a while.' I wasn't as confident as I sounded. I considered taking him up to the surgery, but by the look of him he'd been manhandled enough. 'There's a first-aid kit under a blanket in the back of my Land Rover. Can somebody fetch it?'

  'I will,' Ben said. I gave him the car keys. As he went out I asked for water and clean towels and began mopping the blood from around the wound.

  'What type of snare was it?'

  'Wire noose,' Carl said. 'Tightens once anything's got its foot in it. Cut through to the bone, it will.'

  It had done that all right.

  'Whereabouts were you?'

  Scott answered, face averted from what I was doing. 'Over on the far side of the marsh, near the old windmill-'

  'We were looking for Lyn,' Carl cut in, giving him a look.

  I doubted that. I knew where they meant. Like most windmills in the Broads, the one outside Manham was actually a wind-powered pump, built to drain the marshes. Abandoned decades before, it was now an empty shell that lacked sails or life. The area was desolate even by Manham's standards, but it was ideal for anyone wanting to hunt or trap animals away from prying eyes. Given the Brenners' reputation, I thought that was a more likely reason for them to be out there at this time of night than any sense of public duty. As I wiped the blood from the wound I wondered if they'd managed to blunder into one of their own snares.

  'Wasn't one of ours,' said Scott, as though he'd read my mind.

  'Scott!' his brother snapped.

  'It wasn't! It was hidden under grass on the path. And it was too big for rabbit or deer.'

  The announcement was met by a silence. Although the police hadn't yet confirmed it, everyone had heard about the remains of the tripwire that had been found in the woods where Lyn had disappeared.

  Ben returned with the first-aid box. I cleaned and dressed the wound as best I could. 'Keep the foot elevated and get him to casualty as soon as you can,' I told Carl.

  Roughly, he hauled his brother to his feet and half-supported, half-hauled him out. I washed my hands and then went back to where Jenny stood with my drink.

  'Will he be all right?' she asked.

  'Depends how much damage has been done to the tendon. If he's lucky, he'll just end up with a limp.'

  She shook her head. 'God, what a day!'

  Ben came over and handed me my car keys. 'You'll be needing these.'

  'Thanks.'

  'So what do you think? Reckon that's anything to do with what's happened to Lyn?'

  'I don't know.' But, like everyone else, I had a bad feeling about it.

  'Why should it have?' Jenny asked.

  He seemed unsure how to answer. I realized they didn't know each other.

  'Ben, this is Jenny. She teaches at the school,' I told him.

  He took it as approval to continue. 'Because it seems like too much of a coincidence. Not that I've any sympathy with any of the Brenners, bunch of poaching bast-' He broke off with a glance at Jenny. 'Anyway, I hope to God that's all it is. A coincidence.'

  'I don't follow.'

  Ben looked at me, but I wasn't going to say it. 'Because if not it means it's somebody from around here. From the village.'

  'You don't know that for sure,' Jenny objected.

  His face said otherwise, but he was too polite to argue. 'Well, we'll see. And on that note, I think I'll say good night.'

  He drained his glass and started for the door. As if as an afterthought, he turned to Jenny. 'I know it's none of my business, but did you come in a car?'

  'No, why?'

  'Just that it might be a good idea not to walk home alone, that's all.'

  With a last look at me to make sure I'd got the message, he went out. Jenny gave an uncertain smile. 'Do you think it's that bad?'

  'I hope not. But I suppose he's right.'

  She shook her head, incredulously. 'I don't believe this. Two days ago this was the quietest place on the planet!'

  Two days ago Sally Palmer had still been dead, and the animal responsible was probably already turning his gaze towards Lyn Metcalf. But I didn't say that.

  'Is there anyone here you can go with?' I asked.

  'Not really. But I'll be fine. I can look after myself.'

  I didn't doubt it. But beneath the defiance I could see she'd been unnerved.

  'I'll give you a lift,' I said.

  When I got home I sat outside at the table in the back garden. The night was warm, without a breath of wind. I put my head back and stared up at the stars. The moon was approaching full, an asymmetrical, haloed white disc. I tried to appreciate its dappled contours, but my eyes were drawn lower until I was looking at the shadowed wood across the field. Normally it was a view I enjoyed, even at night. But now I felt uneasy as I looked at the impenetrable mass of trees.

  I went into the house, poured myself a small whisky, and took it back outside. It was after midnight and I knew I'd be up early. But I grasped any excuse to put off sleep. Besides, for once I had too much to think about to be tired. I'd walked with Jenny to the small cottage she rented with another young woman. We hadn't bothered with my car after all. It was a warm, clear night, and she only lived a few hundred yards away. As we walked she'd told me a little about her job, and the children she taught. Only once had she spoken about her past life, mentioning working at a school in Norwich. But she'd quickly brushed past it, burying the lapse in a flurry of words. I'd pretended not to notice. Whatever it was she was avoiding, it was none of my business.

  As we walked up the narrow lane towards her house a fox suddenly cried out nearby. Jenny grabbed my arm.

  'Sorry,' she said, quickly letting go as if burned. She gave an embarrassed laugh. 'You'd think I'd be used to living out here by now.'

  There'd been an awkwardness between us after that. When we reached her house she stopped by the gate.

  'Well. Thanks.'

  'No problem.'

  With a last smile she'd hurried inside. I'd waited until I heard the snick of the lock before turning away. All the way back through the dark village I could feel the pressure of her hand on my bare arm.

  I could still feel it now. I sipped my drink, wincing at the memory of how flustered I'd become just because a young woman had accidentally touched me. No wonder she'd gone quiet.

  I finished the whisky and went inside. There was something else pricking my subconscious, a nagging sense of something I had to do. I thought for a moment before I remembered. Scott Brenner. I wasn't confident his brother would let him tell the police about the wire snare. It might be nothing, but Mackenzie needed to know about it. I found his card and dialled his mobile. It was almost one o'clock, but I could leave a voicemail message for him to get first thing.

  He answered straight away. 'Yeah?'

  'It's David Hunter,' I said, caught off-guard. 'Sorry, I know it's late. I just wanted to make sure Scott Brenner had got in touch.'

  I could hear his irritation and fatigue in the pause. 'Scott who?'

  I told him what had happened. When he spoke, the tiredness had gone. 'Where was this?'

  'Near an old windmill a mile or so south of the village. You think it might be con
nected?'

  There was a sound it took me a moment to identify – the rasp of his whiskers as he rubbed his face.

  'Ah, what the hell. We're going to have to go public with this tomorrow anyway,' he said. 'Two of my officers were injured tonight. One got caught by a wire snare, the other stepped in a hole someone had stuck a sharpened stick in.'

  There was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

  'So I think we've got to assume that whoever took Lyn Metcalf expected us to come looking for him.'

  There was no shock of transition from the dream that night. I simply found myself awake, eyes open and staring at the spill of moonlight falling through the window. For once I was still in bed, my nocturnal wandering this time confined to the dream. But the memory of it remained with me, as vivid as if I'd just walked from one room into another.

  It was always in the same setting. A house I'd never seen in my waking life, a place I knew didn't exist but that nevertheless felt like home. Kara and Alice were there, vibrant and real. We would talk about my day, about nothing in particular, just as we had when they were alive.

  And then I would wake, and confront again the stark fact that they were dead.

  I thought again about what Linda Yates had said. You have dreams for a reason. I wondered what she would make of mine. I could imagine what a psychiatrist would say, or even an amateur psychologist like Henry. But the dreams defied any neat rationalization. There was a logic and reality to them that was far from dreamlike. And, although I could barely acknowledge it even to myself, a part of me didn't want to believe that's all they were.

  If I let myself believe that, though, it would be the first step on a road I was scared to take. Because there was only one way I could ever be with my family again, and I knew taking it would be an act of despair, not love.

  What scared me even more was that sometimes I didn't care.

  9

  Next morning two more people were injured in traps. They were separate incidents, neither of them anywhere near those of the previous night. I knew because our surgery lacked a permanent nurse, so I treated them both. One, a policewoman, had impaled her calf on a stick embedded point up in a concealed hole. As with Scott Brenner, I did what I could and sent her to hospital for stitches. The other injury, to Dan Marsden, a local farmhand, was more superficial, the wire noose having only partially cut through his tough leather boot.