Each Man Kills

by David Barry

  ***

  With Wallace driving, the car hurtled round a bend on the outskirts of Swansea. Ellis was sitting next to him, and Lambert could see the muscles in the back of his neck, wire-taut with tension. He knew what Ellis was going through, the silent suffering.

  ‘OK, Kevin,’ said Lambert as he pulled himself upright in the back seat. ‘I’m impressed. You’ve proved you can drive Hollywood style. Now for Christ’s sake slow down long enough for me to dial my mobile.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Wallace, easing his foot off the throttle.

  Ellis stared silently ahead at his vaguely disconcerting reflection in the windscreen. He was aware Lambert had cautioned Wallace for his benefit, and he felt exposed. He wanted to conquer this gut-wrenching fear of speed once and for all. Although he was grateful whenever Lambert came to his rescue, and appreciated the understanding nature of his boss, there was another part of him that found the intervention irritating.

  Lambert’s voice boomed from the back as he spoke into his mobile. ‘I want a watch put on the port at Fishguard. Hello? Did you get that? Shit. I’m breaking up. Fishguard. The port at Fishguard. We think that’s where he may be heading. No! Not tomorrow. Now! I know he’s on foot, but he could always hot-wire a car. Did that thought never occur to you? Yeah. And the same to you.’ Lambert switched his mobile off. His voice dropped to a calm, dismissive level. ‘Bloody moron.’

  Grinning, Ellis exchanged a look with Wallace. As the car joined the M4, heading towards Carmarthen, Lambert peered out of the window.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘It’s cleared up. Full moon and not a cloud in the sky.’

  Ellis chuckled. ‘That’s what you call perfect planning.’

  ‘He couldn’t have planned the bloody weather. He’s just one hell of a lucky bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, but...’ Wallace began.

  ‘But what?’ Lambert said.

  ‘Hot wiring cars these days. Not so easy.’

  Lambert didn’t bother to hide his irritation as he snapped, ‘He disabled the bloody alarm in that shop with no trouble. He shouldn’t find a car too difficult to start.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Wallace mumbled disconsolately.

  ***

  Smelling of damp clay, and pushing to one side the bracken and wood he had used to conceal himself, Evans crawled out from his hiding place. Having been confined in a cramped space for over twelve hours, his muscles ached and it took him a while to adjust to the freedom of being able to stand and move around. He was desperately thirsty and needed to find a mountain stream. But first he needed to lay a false trail. Nothing too obvious.

  He looked up at the sky, seeing a moon so big it looked as if it might collide with the earth. And thousands of stars, cold and bright, reminding him of the night he and his mother had stayed late at Porthcawl, shivering in a shelter on the sea front, gazing at the mystery of the clear night sky, trying to identify the constellations, although neither of them knew enough to tell the Bull from the Great Bear. He stared up now with the same sense of wonder he had felt as a child.

  A dog barked in the distance, reminding him that the police were getting close. He ran swiftly across the moonlit field, his legs brushing the long grass with a rhythmical swishing sound. At the end of the field was a gate with a strip of barbed wire entwined along the top bar. He climbed over it carefully, then turned and deliberately snagged his sleeve on the barbed wire, checking to see if any fibres remained attached to the barb. Just to make certain, he felt inside his jacket and tore one of the buttons off his shirt, letting it drop to the ground by the gate. Then he continued running, crossing the field, treading heavily in the mud where the meadow dipped in the middle. If they came this way, they would be almost certain to see his footprints going straight across, leading them south-west along this ley line to an Iron Age fort about two miles away.

  When he reached a stile on the other side of the field, he took the chocolate wrapper he had saved from his pocket, screwed it into a ball and let it drop to the ground. Another bark, closer this time. He had to hurry. He undressed quickly, taking off all his clothes, including his underwear, and stuffed them into his backpack. Then, carrying his boots, he ran around the northern edge of the field back towards the gate. He avoided crossing it and scrambled over the dry-stone wall instead. He could hear them now, getting closer, probably entering the wood on the other side, less than a quarter of a mile away. That morning, as he dug himself an earth in which to hide, he had noticed cows grazing in the field near the trees. Now, as he ran towards the wood, he searched desperately for the dark patches of their droppings. As soon as he found one, he crushed it with his foot, breaking the crisp exterior, squelching the liquid manure inside. He knelt down, scooped handfuls of it, and rubbed it all over his body. A survival trick he’d learnt for outfoxing tracker dogs, but had yet to put to the test.

  He thought he could detect voices now. Shouts. He hadn’t much time. He raced for the trees and the path that led through the middle of the wood. He ignored the stinging pain in the soles of his feet as he charged barefoot into the blackness of the wood, barging into trees and crashing through the dense thickness of shrubs and bushes. He realised the noise he was making would soon be picked up by the dogs so he stopped beneath a large oak, tied his boots together and slung them around his neck on top of the back-pack. He took a deep breath then leapt for the nearest branch and pulled himself up, clambering quickly through the leafy thickness. Because it was so dark, he shut his eyes against the branches that pricked and scratched, climbing blind. Then he froze as he heard voices close by, and he prayed that the noise of his assent had gone undetected.

  ‘Just think of the overtime, John.’

  ‘Yeah. It’ll all go to the bloody tax man.’

  The voices came from immediately below him, and judging from their conversation he was in the clear. Suddenly, the beams from their torches shone upwards all around him, dancing off the leaves. He tucked himself into a tight ball, hoping that his bulk was hidden by the thick lower branches of the oak. His breathing was loud and tremulous and he was scared the dogs might hear him. The dog handlers were just below his tree now. He could hear the dogs panting and sniffing. His hands gripped the branch tightly, his body embracing it, naked and vulnerable, but at the same time exhilarated by his instinct for survival.

  A sudden thunderous roar startled him and he almost lost his grip on the branch. For some strange reason he hadn’t heard the chopper approach. It hovered over the tree like a stuttering monster and the draught from the blade stirred the leaves. He thought the game must be up now. Their forward-looking infra red would pick up the heat from his body and it would soon be over. There was no way out. He was trapped. He looked up and through the branches he saw the dark underbelly of the chopper, its great beam arcing over the countryside like a giant eye.

  He waited, knowing that contact would be made with the police below and in just a few moments he would be back in custody. But in an instant the chopper tilted sharply and zoomed away towards the meadow. And below him the sounds began to fade into the distance.

  He waited, wondering why the thermal imaging had missed him. Then it came back to him, another of his lessons in survival. He’d been saved by the leaves of the oak. The last couple of weeks, just before the heavy rain came, the country had been sweltering in an Indian summer, so the leaves had soaked up and retained the heat of the sun, which was all that the infra red imaging could pick up. And any images picked up from between the trees would be those of the search party.

  He waited until he heard shouts coming from the distant fields before climbing down from his hiding place. He patted the trunk of the oak before moving off in the opposite direction to his searchers.

  ***

  On the outskirts of Carmarthen, Lambert sighed long-sufferingly. ‘I shouldn’t have drunk all that coffee.’

&nbs
p; ‘Yeah, I wanna go an’ all,’ said Wallace.

  ‘What about you, Sergeant?’ Lambert asked.

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly bursting but...’

  Lambert interrupted him. ‘Fair enough.’ He tapped Wallace on the shoulder. ‘Head for Carmarthen and stop at the nearest pub. We could all do with a short break.’

  It was an excuse to stop and have a pint and they all knew it. But there was a tacit understanding that no one would mention it.

  The first pub they found had one small bar. It was like walking into someone’s front room. The few Sunday night regulars stopped talking when the three of them entered and mumbled a curious good evening. As soon as Lambert had bought three pints, his mobile rang. The regulars fell silent as he took it out of his pocket and stared at him with bovine interest. Wallace grinned, exchanged a look with Ellis, and whispered in his ear, ‘This’ll give the natives something to gossip about after we’ve gone.’

  But Lambert exited hurriedly to take the call outside, clearly leaving the natives disappointed. Ellis carried Lambert’s pint, and he and Wallace squeezed into a quiet corner in the L-shaped bar, away from the other drinkers.

  Outside, Lambert pressed the mobile close to his ear. The line crackled and a voice surfaced like a gush of air.

  ‘Inspector Lambert? Hello? Inspector Lambert?’

  ‘Who wants him?’

  ‘Sergeant Thomas here.’

  A pause.

  ‘Well, go ahead, Sergeant. This is Harry Lambert.’

  ‘We’ve found some fabric snagged on some barbed wire on top of a gate. And his footprints leading across a field. We also found a chocolate wrapper near the fence on the other side. Looks as if you were right, sir. He seems to be heading south-west.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Lambert mumbled doubtfully after a pause.

  ‘Hello? You still there. Sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. What are the chances, Sergeant, of him crossing your line and heading back east or north?’

  He heard the sergeant guffaw. ‘No way. We’ve got dogs, helicopter, and we’ve called in...’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Lambert broke in impatiently. ‘But this is Superman in khaki. I just want to know if there’s the slightest possibility...’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I hope you’re right about these lines thingummies. Cos if he don’t follow them then we’re wasting our bloody time.’

  ‘How can I predict what he’ll do?’ Lambert snapped. ‘I’m not telepathic.’

  It was on the tip of the sergeant’s tongue to say, ‘No, but you’re the bloody detective.’ Instead, he reiterated forcefully, ‘There’s no way he can get through our lines. No way. Course, he could always nick a car and be anywhere in Britain by now.’

  ‘But going by your findings, Sergeant, you might not be far behind him by now.’

  ‘Well, the chopper will soon spot him then. But I’ll tell you one thing...’

  There was a loud gushing noise then the line went dead. ‘Bloody mobiles,’ said Lambert and returned to the pub. He joined Ellis and Wallace at their tucked-away corner of the bar and they sat huddled over the table, voices lowered. Lambert told them about the sergeant’s evidence. Ellis was dubious.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I know Sergeant Thomas is confident he couldn’t head north and evade his men, but it’s not impossible. Highly unlikely but not impossible.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Ellis glanced at Wallace before speaking. ‘Well, sir, Kevin was telling me about the methods of the SAS. Tricks to stay alive. Avoiding the enemy and all that. He’s got stacks of survival and combat magazines at home.’

  Wallace looked embarrassed. He mumbled, ‘It’s only an interest, like.’

  Lambert grinned. ‘I’ve got serious doubts about you, Kevin. You’ll be telling me you collect Nazi war memorabilia next.’

  Chapter 20

  Going directly north, Evans walked four miles before he found a mountain stream where he immersed himself in the freezing water and washed away the nauseating smell of cow manure. Then, having quenched his thirst, he dressed hurriedly and continued his trek north at a steady pace. His feet, lacerated by thorns and brambles, rubbed painfully against the new leather of the boots. He walked another six miles before he decided to rest. He was exhausted and hungry. He was tempted to look for a farm to steal some poultry but thought better of it. He didn’t want to risk alerting a vigilant farm dog. He would have to hunt for his food the hard way. Then he remembered his opportunist intruder at the camping shop. The fox had chosen an easier lifestyle, living off human waste. It gave him an idea.

  He knew from memory that he was close to an A road, and guessed that by now it must be nearly midnight, so he could easily risk walking several miles along the road, and if he heard a car approaching, or saw distant headlights, he’d have time to hide. Spurred on by the thought of food, he walked at a brisker pace now. The night was still. He could smell the clean crisp frost in the air, and heard the gurgling of a fast-flowing stream, falling and splashing over rocks. The effort of walking so quickly made him sweat and his back soon became soaked in perspiration. After walking for another twenty minutes, he came to a car park with picnic benches and litter bins. He thought of rummaging among the bins for scraps of food, then changed his mind. It was doubtful if anyone had picnicked here for months, so any left-over food would be rotten. At the end of the car park he crossed a cattle grid onto the main road and listened carefully for approaching cars but, apart from the sound of running water, it was quiet. He kept his eyes on the road and had gone no more than half a mile when he found what he was looking for: a rabbit, its head squashed by the wheels of a vehicle, but most of the body still intact. He peeled the carcass off the road and headed back onto the mountain, moving parallel with the road. He continued walking until he came to a dense forest of conifers. Skirting the perimeter, he came to a gate and a track leading into the interior. He climbed over it and walked along the path into the pitch black of the forest, knowing that if he lit a fire it would be obscured by the density of the trees.

  ***

  Following the news of Evans’s escape, inevitably the police received dozens of calls claiming he’d been seen. The most recent report came from a British Telecoms engineer who spotted a youngish man with short hair getting into the back of a BMW parked in a deserted beauty spot in the Mynydd Preseli National Park, not far from Fishguard. But when the three detectives got there, hoping to surprise their man as he snatched some sleep before catching the early morning ferry for Rosslare, it turned out to be a false alarm. Having crept slowly across the picnic area, they threw open the rear doors of the BMW to find a man with red hair, and not particularly young, lying on top of a woman who screamed loudly. Ellis flipped open his ID, while Lambert mumbled an apology and slammed the door shut. Wallace, at the door on the opposite side, stared at the lovers a bit longer, grinned and said, ‘Carry on, sir.’

  This had been around 4 a.m. Following this incident, Lambert told Wallace to drive to the next picnic area and to pull in and wait. The car heater was turned up to high with the engine idling. Lambert stretched himself out on the back seat and muttered sleepily,

  ‘Waste of bloody time.’

  ‘At least it gave Kevin a chance to exercise his driving skills,’ said Ellis jokingly, though there was a slight tremor in his voice as he recalled the recent hair-raising race to catch their potential quarry.

  After a while all three of them fell into a light sleep. Wallace stirred after ten minutes and switched the engine off. As Lambert dozed, he had one of those dreams where he knew he was dreaming, and surrendered to the surreal images which bombarded him. A woman hanging from Stonehenge; a jellyfish floating near the seashore; his father kissing him with beery breath; a girl on a cloud, dressed like a Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz, waving at him as she floated away; his m
other lying in hospital having a blood transfusion; maps of Wales, with fiery dragons burning through the parchment.

  Wallace coughed and Lambert started. He woke, and spent some time thinking about his relationship with Helen. He realised he had behaved exactly like his own father had towards his mother. No, not exactly. His father, a misogynist, never spared his mother’s feelings, bullied her unmercifully and never ever tried to hide the fact that he screwed around. A real gold medal bastard. It was no wonder Angela and he became so close to their mother. And after Angela went to Australia, he became even closer to his mother and always tried to protect her. Perhaps it would go some way to explaining why he loved women so much. He wanted to love them all, to make up for his father’s shortcomings. Or was that just an excuse? And did the reasons matter if the end result was the same? Helen had been hurt, just like his mother. History repeating itself. The arguments went round and round in his head until they gradually disappeared, tapering into a long black tunnel of sleep.

  He woke again, this time with an icy stab of pain slicing into his face. His cheek was pressed against the cold of the window. He shivered, yawned loudly and rubbed the sleep from his eyelids.

  Ellis, sounding as if he’d been awake for some time, said, ‘I feel like an old dishcloth that’s been used to clean out the bog.’

  ‘That good, eh?’

  Wallace, awakened by their voices, jerked his head into an upright position. ‘Christ! What time is it?’ he said.

  ‘Dawn,’ Ellis replied. ‘Look at that.’

  The sun came up over the craggy, purple mountains like a golden apple, juxtaposed to the rice-paper moon which was slowly fading, and the sky was streaked with delicate brushstrokes of pink.

  ‘Just going to stretch my legs,’ said Lambert.