by Shaun Hutson
There was nothing.
A loud crackle ripped through the silence and Charlton almost shouted aloud in fear, his mind taking precious seconds to adjust to the fact that it was the two-way. He snatched it from his belt angrily.
“Found anything?” Reed wanted to know
“For fuck’s sake don’t do that again,” rasped Charlton, his hand shaking.
“What’s wrong?” his companion wanted to know.
The other constable recovered his breath, angry with himself too for letting the situation get a hold of him.
“I’m down in the cellar of the house,” he said. “We didn’t check it out last time we were here.”
“And?”
“Someone’s been here. Whether it’s Harvey or not I can’t say but, by the look of the place whoever it was was holed up here for quite a time. The cellar’s been wrecked.” He described the scene of devastation and filth before him. “Call the station,” he added as a postscript. “You’d better get them to send another car out here.” He flicked off the two-way. Charlton shone the torch beam around the reeking confines of the cellar one last time then he turned back towards the stairs.
The massive bulk of Paul Harvey loomed before him, silhouetted in the dim light which filtered in from the kitchen and, in that half-light, Charlton caught sight of the sickle as it swept down.
Paralysed, momentarily, by the sight of the figure before him, Charlton was unable to move as quickly as he would usually have done. He tried to avoid the vicious blade but it caught him on the left arm, tearing through the fabric of his uniform and slicing open skin and muscle from the shoulder to the elbow. Blood burst from the ragged wound and, with a shriek, Charlton fell backwards, the two-way skidding from his grasp. He tried to scramble to his feet, blood pumping thickly from the hideous rent in his arm.
Harvey advanced quickly, swinging the curved blade down once more. This time the policeman managed to roll clear and the wicked point embedded itself in a broken shelf. Harvey grunted and tore it free, noticing that Charlton was making for the stairs.
“Ray, are you all right?”
Reed’s disembodied voice floated up from the discarded walkie-talkie.
Charlton reached the bottom step and, clutching his torn arm, raced up the slippery steps but Harvey moved with surprising agility for a man of his size. He swiped wildly at the fleeing policeman, the sickle blade slicing through the man’s thigh, hamstringing him. Charlton crashed down onto the stone steps, white hot pain gnawing at his leg.
“Ray. Come in. What’s happening?”
Dazed by his fall and weak from loss of blood, Charlton rolled onto his back to see Harvey towering over him. The sickle swept down once again, this time to its appointed mark. It pierced the policeman’s chest just below the sternum, then, using his enormous stength, Harvey ripped it downwards, gutting Charlton with one stroke. A tangled mess of intestines spilled from the riven torso and the policeman’s scream was lost as his mouth filled with blood. His head sagged forward as he plunged both hands into the steaming maze of his own entrails, trying to push them back in.
“Ray, for Christ’s sake.”
Harvey looked around for the source of the voice but realized that it was the two-way. He headed up the stairs towards the kitchen, stepping over the eviscerated body of the dead policeman.
Reed actually heard the sirens in the distance as he looked up towards the farmhouse and, as he opened the door to clamber out, he heard a familiar voice rasping over the two way in the car.
“Alpha one come in,” said Randall.
“Reed here,” he answered. “I think we’ve found Harvey.”
“Stop the bastard,” Randall ordered. “I don’t care if you have to kill him. Just stop him.”
The sirens were growing louder as the other two Pandas drew closer but, when Reed looked up he saw Harvey emerge into the daylight, his clothes splashed with blood. The young PC shouted to him to stop but the desperate convict merely slowed his pace, as if waiting for Reed to come closer and, as he drew nearer, the policeman saw the sickle. Blood was dripping from its curved blade.
Reed ran across the muddy yard, tripping on something as he did so. He scrambled to his feet to see that it was a rake. He picked it up, hefting the rusty metal head before him like some kind of ancient quarter-staff.
Harvey remained motionless, even when the first of the Pandas skidded to a halt in the yard. Randall leapt out and moved towards the big man.
It was at that moment Harvey chose to strike.
He lunged towards Reed who managed to bring the rake up to shield himself. The sickle struck the wooden shaft and cut through it easily. Reed fell backwards, trying to crawl away through the mud as the big man came for him.
Randall, who had moved closer by this time, picked up a handful of mud and hurled it into the man’s face, momentarily blinding him. Harvey raised a hand to wipe the oozing muck away and Randall took his chance. He launched himself at his opponent, smashing into him just above the, pelvis. Both of them went sprawling, the sickle flying from Harvey’s grasp. Randall reacted first and, with a vicious grunt, drove two fingers into the big man’s left eye. Harvey shrieked in pain and rage and scrambled to his feet as Randall backed off, looking for something to defend himself with. Harvey roared and charged at him, catching the Inspector by the shoulder, pulling him down. Randall gasped as he felt strong hands encircle his throat. White light flashed before his eyes. His face began to turn the colour of dark grapes and it was as if his head were going to burst. Then, through a haze of pain, he saw Reed retrieve the metal topped end of the rake.
With a blow combining demonic force and terrified desperation, the young PC brought the rusty metal down on the back of Harvey’s head. There was a dull clang, combined with the strident snapping of bone and Randall suddenly felt the pressure on his throat ease.
The big man tottered, then tumbled forward into the mud, groaning. Randall rolled clear, helped to his feet by PC Higgins. Both of them watched, almost in awe, as Harvey raised himself up on one elbow and tried to get up. Randall stepped forward and, with all the power he could muster, drove his foot into the big man’s face. The impact shattered his nose, blood and small fragments of bone flying into the air.
“Bastard,” muttered Randall, massaging his throat. He prodded the prone body with his foot then turned to Higgins.
“Get an ambulance for him,” snapped the Inspector. “But put the cuffs on the bastard first.”
Higgins scuttled off to call an emergency vehicle while Fowler cuffed the unconscious convict.
“He killed PC Charlton,” said Reed, motioning towards the house. Randall walked slowly towards the deserted dwelling. He did, indeed, find Charlton in the house, his stomach somersaulting as he gazed at the mutilated corpse. He lingered in the reeking cellar for a moment then walked back out into the yard sucking in huge lungfuls of clean air.
An ambulance was approaching, its blue light spinning frenziedly and Randall watched as Harvey was lifted into the back of it by the dark uniformed men. The vehicle turned full circle and sped off in the direction of Fairvale, its siren gradually dying on the wind as it got further away.
“Thank Christ we found him, guv,” said Higgins.
Randall nodded.
“Yeah,” he said acidly. ‘But we were three months too late, weren’t we?
Forty
Randall lit up another cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke which diffused in the warm air. It drifted lazily in the lounge bar of “The Gamekeeper”. The pub was quieter than usual but, nevertheless, Ralph the landlord busied himself behind the bar, serving and chatting, dispensing booze and gossip in equal proportions. He was a big man, about four years older than Randall and he carried a bad limp (beneath his trousers he wore callipers). He’d been landlord of the pub for the past eight years, prior to which he’d been in the Scots Guards. The limp was a legacy from one of his spells in Northern Ireland.
Every so often he would look ac
ross and nod agreeably at the Inspector who was sitting on the other side of the room beside the blazing log fire which roared in the grate. The hiss and pop of burning wood seemed unnaturally loud in the relative calm of the lounge. From the public bar, the far off sound of a juke-box cut through the subdued nattering. The pub was old but the juke-box was its concession to a livelier, more hectic age, one which was lived out in the public bar, frequented mostly by youngsters. The older regulars were content to down their pints and to play dominoes in the snug. Cocooned within that cosy environment, they were oblivious to all around them.
“Penny for them,” said Maggie, studying Randall’s expression.
He looked up and smiled.
“Sorry, Maggie,” he said. “I was miles away.”
“I noticed. What’s wrong, Lou? You’ve been quiet ever since we got here.”
“Be thankful for small mercies,” he grinned.
“Is there something on your mind?” she persisted.
He reached for his pint and took a hefty swallow.
“I was thinking about Harvey,” he confessed. “I rang my superior, Frank Allen, to tell him we’d got Harvey. Do you know what he said? ‘About time’.” He paused. “Bastard.”
“What happens to him now?” Maggie wanted to know.
“They’ll stick him in Rampton or Broadmoor I suppose. He’ll be taken back to Cornford prison in the meantime. Though to be honest, I couldn’t give a toss where they put him as long as he’s out of the way. I just wish I could have got hold of him sooner than I did. Four people are dead now who might still be alive if I had.”
“Come on, Lou, you can’t carry the blame for those deaths too.” There was a note of irritation in her voice. “Stop shouldering the responsibilities for everything that goes wrong. You did your job. What more could you do?”
He raised his glass to her and smiled.
“Point taken.” He wiped some froth from his top lip. “What sort of day have you had?”
She considered telling him about Judith Myers but decided against it.
“Routine,” she lied. “You wouldn’t want to hear about it.” She sipped her drink, changing the subject swiftly. “It’s my day off tomorrow, can you get away a little earlier?”
Randall smiled.
“Well, with Harvey out of the way, there’s just the paperwork to be written up.” He reached out and touched her hand. “I should think I can sneak out around five.”
Maggie smiled.
“What do you usually do on your day off?” he asked.
“Lie in bed,” she began.
He cut her short.
“Now that sounds like a perfect way of spending a day.”
They both laughed.
“I clean the flat, watch TV, read. Go shopping.” She raised an eyebrow. “Really exciting isn’t it?”
He smiled thinly, gazing into the bottom of his glass for a moment.
“Maggie, I hope you don’t mind me asking but, well, these other men that you had relationships with –“
It was her turn to interrupt.
“I’d hardly call them relationships.”
“Well, you know what I mean. Haven’t you ever felt anything for any of them?”
“Why does it matter, Lou?” she wanted to know.
He shrugged.
“I’m a copper aren’t I? Asking questions is second nature. I’m curious that’s all.”
She took another sip of her drink.
“No, there hasn’t been anyone serious before. As I said to you the other night, I envy you your memories. All I’ve got is notches on the headboard.” She smiled, bitterly. “And I’m sure that to most of the men I’ve slept with that’s all I’ve been. Just another name in the little black book.” She paused. “There was one man who wanted to marry me.”
“What happened?” he asked.
She smiled.
“He worked for an oil company. They wanted him to move out to Bahrain for six months, he asked me to go with him. I said no. It was as simple as that. I’d just got the job at Fairvale and I didn’t intend letting it go. He said that I wouldn’t need to work, that we’d have plenty of money anyway but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t understand how important it was for me to feel needed. I enjoy the responsibilities I’ve got at the hospital. It makes me feel. . .” She struggled to find the word. “Accepted.” She looked at him. “Anyway, I didn’t love him.” She drained what was left in her glass and put it down.
Ralph appeared at the table, collecting empty glasses.
“Hello, Lou,” he said. “You’d better make sure one of your boys doesn’t catch you boozing, you might get breathalized.” The Scotsman laughed. He looked at Maggie and smiled.
“Mrs Randall,” he said. “How are you?”
Maggie swallowed hard and looked at the policeman, then at the landlord. She smiled thinly in response, colouring slightly as the Scotsman made his way back to the bar.
“I’m sorry, Lou,” she said, softly.
“For what?” he asked, smiling.
‘The barman . . . he thought I was your wife.”
“Nothing to worry about. It’s not your fault and Ralph doesn’t know about Fiona anyway.” He took a hefty swallow from his glass. “Perhaps we look married,” he said.
“Who does know about your wife?” asked Maggie. “About what happened to her?”
“I think most of the men on the Exham force know,” he said. “Word travels fast. Coppers like to rabbit as much as anyone else. But, other than them and you,” he glanced up at her, “no one here knows I was ever married or that I had a child.” He lit up a cigarette. “That was one of the reasons I came to Exham. After it happened, I put in for a transfer. I thought if I got away from London and the places that reminded me of the accident, then it might help me to forget it. So, they shunted me around for a couple of years until I ended up here.”
She touched his hand.
“You still miss them?” she asked.
“Naturally.” He touched her hand with his own. “But not as much as I used to.”
He squeezed her hand, as if afraid that she was going to somehow disappear and she felt the urgency in his touch.
Forty-One
Sergeant Norman Willis checked that Paul Harvey was securely strapped down in the back of the ambulance before making his way back to the waiting Panda close by. He slid into the passenger seat, watching as the rear doors of the emergency vehicle were pulled shut. The blue light was spinning but the siren was turned off. Willis looked at his watch and saw that it was approaching 10.08 p.m. The ambulance pulled away, behind it PC Fowler started the engine of the police car and both vehicles pulled out into traffic.
Willis and Fowler had both been ordered by Randall to remain at Fairvale while Harvey was treated for his injuries (a hair-line fracture of the skull and a broken nose) and then to ensure that the captured prisoner reached Cornford prison.
Willis yawned and rubbed his eyes, blowing out his cheeks.
“It’s bloody hot in here, isn’t it?” he said.
“The heater’s up the creek, Sarge,” Fowler told him, without taking his eyes off the ambulance which was travelling at a steady thirty about forty yards ahead of them.
“I think you’d’ better wake me up when we get to Cornford,” said the sergeant, smiling.
Inside the ambulance itself a uniformed attendant sat on the seat opposite the stretcher where Harvey lay. He was reading an old copy of “Reader’s Digest”, alternately looking up to see if Harvey was OK. The big man moved occasionally, once even moaning softly and the attendant got to his feet and looked down at the patient. Harvey’s head was heavily bandaged and a large dressing covered his nose and most of his cheeks. His mouth, however, was open and there was a dribble of thick saliva coming from one corner. The attendant, identified as Peter Smart by the small blue badge on his jacket, looked at the restraining straps and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Harvey was making even louder gurgling sounds now and Smart
was worried in case the big man should choke on his own spittle. He hesitated a second longer then began to undo the first of the straps, intending to roll Harvey over onto his side.
The first strap came loose and Smart set to work on the second, the one which secured Harvey’s feet.
With his back to the prisoner, Smart didn’t see Harvey’s eyes flicker open.
For long moments he tried to reorientate himself with his surroundings, with what was going on. There was a dull ache in his head and it felt as if someone were standing on his face but, as he saw the uniformed man undoing the strap on his legs, Harvey realized what was happening.
As the strap came free, he lashed out with his large foot, catching Smart in the solar plexus. The impact of the blow sent the ambulanceman flying backward and he thumped his head hard against the far wall of the vehicle.
Harvey, meantime, was sitting up, tugging wildly at the third and final strap which was across his midsection.
Smart reached for the small box close by, trying to get to the syringe, desperate to inject the prisoner with the 25mg of Promazine before it was too late. He scrambled towards Harvey who, by this time, had managed to free himself and was in the process of getting to his feet.
Smart brought the needle down in a stabbing action, aiming for the big man’s chest but Harvey was too fast for him and he clamped one huge hand around Smart’s wrist, squeezing it like a vice until the appendage went white. With a despairing groan, Smart dropped the syringe. Harvey drove a powerful fist into the uniformed man’s face, feeling bone splinter under the impact. He held his victim by the wrist for a second longer then, using both hands, hurled him against the other wall of the ambulance.
The driver felt the thump and slowed down.
Fowler, following close behind, saw the ambulance brake lights flare and nudged Willis.
“Sarge,” he said, anxiously. “They’re stopping.”
Willis yawned.