High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  Connie folded her arms. “Does it not make more sense for Daniel to help shift the dead bitch’s body? Ah’ll take care of the evidence. It’s not like ah haven’t done it before.”

  Gregorz sighed. “Okay, Connie. If you are adverse to a little heavy lifting, then Daniel and I will deal with Marie, while you take care of the evidence. But please, no killing. We need to be in and out of this hospital without arousing any kind of suspicion. Can you do that for me?”

  Connie took a sip from her coffee and gave Gregorz her sweetest smile. “Why of course. Didn’t you know? Subtle is ma middle name.”

  ***

  15th November 2008. High Moor Police Station. 13.00.

  John wished that he were dead. White hot lances of agony burned into his nerve endings, despite the painkillers. Worse than this though, was the realisation of what he’d lost, and what was going to happen next.

  He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands, seeing the same image play across his mind, over and over again. Marie, lying dead on the cold concrete paving slabs, riddled with silver bullets from Steven’s Mac−10. A wave of grief surged up from his stomach, and he fought to hold back the tears.

  Oh God, Marie, you stupid cow. If you’d just told me, then we could have avoided all this. You’d still be alive. Malcolm and the others, too. Deep down, John knew that wasn’t true. He realised it as soon as the thought flashed through his mind. Marie might have tried to draw him out, but he was the one that took the bait, infected Malcolm and killed Billy, Simon and Lawrence. He deserved everything that was coming.

  John opened his eyes again, unable to bear the memories, and looked around the room. Its floor, ceiling and walls were solid concrete, walls painted a dull olive green and the floor covered with threadbare green carpet tiles. A table was bolted to the floor, as were the chairs, and the only way in or out of the room was through a heavy steel door. The thick floral stench of cheap disinfectant hung in the air like a cloud.

  The door opened, and two people, a slightly overweight man in his mid forties, and a younger blonde woman with a severe expression on her face, stepped inside. The man placed an ancient tape recorder on the end of the desk and pressed the record button.

  “Interview with John Simpson, tape 1. 15th November 2008. 13.10hrs. DI Fletcher and DC Garner are present in the room, along with the suspect.”

  They both sat down, and the man leaned back in the chair. “Good afternoon, John. I’m Detective Inspector Phil Fletcher, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Olivia Garner. Can I get you anything before we start? Tea? Coffee?”

  John shook his head.

  “No? Alright, then I suppose we should get down to it. My colleague and I were wondering if you’d like to tell us about what happened last night?”

  John raised his head and looked into the other man’s eyes. “Phil, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. How’s Steven? Is he alright?”

  DC Garner scribbled something down on a notepad and showed it to her colleague. He nodded and turned back to John.

  “Mr Wilkinson is alive, but as I understand it, is critically injured.”

  John leaned forward in the chair. He had to ask, even though he knew the answer. “And Marie? Is she…”

  DI Fletcher shook his head. “If you’re referring to the young woman that was found at the scene, then I’m sorry but she was pronounced dead on arrival. You say her name was Marie? Marie what?”

  John sucked in a breath. Hearing her name was like sandpaper on his soul. His voice cracked when he spoke”…Williams. Her name was Marie Williams.”

  DI Fletcher sat back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “I have to say, John, it’s not looking too good for you. There were several unregistered firearms found at the scene, including the one that killed Miss Williams, and they have your fingerprints all over them. Not only that, but you were found with half of Mr Harrison’s throat in your mouth, lying naked over his corpse.

  “Even possession of a weapon like that Ingram will get you five years, and that’s before we take the deaths into account. So come on, John, why don’t you tell me what happened, so we can sort this mess out?”

  John sat back and exhaled a deep breath. “You want to know what happened? Really?”

  “No, John. We’re just sitting in here because we like the decor. Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

  John managed a lopsided grin, despite the stitches in his face. “Be careful what you wish for, Phil. You might just get it. You want the truth? OK, I’ll give you the truth.”

  ***

  15th November 2008. University Hospital of Durham. 13.00

  Doctor Henry Pearce pushed the pieces of grey meat around his plate without any enthusiasm. The food in the hospital cafeteria was barely edible at the best of times, and judging from the thin gruel on his plate, masquerading as Lancashire Hotpot, today was not one of the good days. Of course, given what he’d witnessed during the autopsy of Malcolm Harrison that morning, he doubted that even a meal in a five star restaurant would have done much for his appetite right now.

  The injuries to the corpse had been horrific. In twenty years as a pathologist, he’d never seen anything like it. The police report that accompanied the body stated that the injuries were caused by another man, but everything about the corpse indicated that the terrible wounds were the work of a large animal. Henry honestly could not imagine how another human being would be able to inflict that amount of damage.

  The mental image of the eviscerated cadaver caused his stomach to churn, and his mouth filled with the aftertaste of the hotpot. It wasn’t any more appetising coming up than it had going down. He pushed his plate away in disgust, cleared the table and poured the remains of the meal into the waste bin. From the notes he’d been given that morning, this afternoon was not going to be any better either. Gunshot wounds never were. He left the cafeteria, and moved along the cheerfully painted corridors to the elevator that would take him to the basement pathology lab.

  The doors slid open, and he stepped out. Here, the bright decoration adorning the public areas was conspicuous by its absence. Instead, cold white ceramic tiles covered the lower part of the walls, while the old beige paintwork above them blistered with age and salt residue from the brickwork. The air smelled thickly of disinfectant and formaldehyde. Harsh fluorescent lighting ran the length of the corridor, buzzing and flickering. He’d reported the fault to the maintenance department numerous times and so far no one had bothered to come down here to fix it. He’d speak to them again about it, once he’d performed the next autopsy, and his mood was sufficiently foul.

  A door swung open, and his assistant, Susan Turnbull, stepped into the corridor. She already wore her hospital scrubs, ready for the afternoon’s procedure.

  “How was lunch, Henry? Did they manage to come up with something edible today?”

  He shook his head. “Not even close. It was the hotpot again, but I have no idea what meat they put in it. If it was lamb like they claim, the poor thing must have had something very wrong with it. Are we set for this afternoon?”

  Susan nodded. “Jenkins brought the body down from the morgue about ten minutes ago. It’s still bagged up, so I’ve not had a chance to see how bad it is yet,” she winked at him, “I thought I’d save the honours for you.”

  He groaned. “You’re too kind. I’ll go scrub up, and meet you in the lab. Don’t start without me.”

  Susan smiled sweetly at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Henry. I don’t want to deprive you of all the fun.”

  Five minutes later, Henry entered the pathology lab. The black body bag rested on the metal table in the centre of the room. He sighed, put on a pair of rubber gloves, and waited while Susan turned on the light above the autopsy slab. Steeling himself, he unzipped the bag.

  The corpse was in remarkably good condition. He noted several bites and scratches, but it was nowhere near the horror show that he’d been expecting.

  “So, we have
a female. Mid−thirties. Hmm, the police report says the cause of death appeared to be multiple gunshot wounds, but I can’t see any evidence of that, just several contusions that seem to be from an animal attack,”

  Susan pursed her lips in annoyance. “It’ll be that idiot, Jenkins. He’s fucked the paperwork up again. I’m going to put my foot up his arse when we get done here.”

  “Well, never mind that now. Let’s see if we can establish exactly how Miss Williams, if that is her name, really did die. Susan, can you pass me the scalpel?”

  Henry took the blade and pressed it against the dead woman’s stomach. The scalpel sliced through the flesh easily as he opened her up. Blood welled up from the cut.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Susan looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Look, she’s bleeding! Dead bodies don’t bleed. This is a living person. Get a crash team down here now, and tell intensive care to get ready to receive a patient, while I sew this incision closed. Then tell that cretin Jenkins that I’d like a word with him in my office.”

  ***

  15th November 2008. High Moor Police Station. 16.25.

  The door to the interview room swung open, disgorging the two police officers into the corridor.

  Olivia turned to her boss. “Well, that was quite a story, wasn’t it? Do you believe any of it?”

  Phil laughed. “What? That he’s a werewolf? Don’t be daft. Mr Simpson should really check his facts. Last night wasn’t even a full moon. He’s taking the piss out of us, and angling for an insanity plea, that’s all.”

  “So what do you think really happened?”

  Phil shook his head. “Damned if I know. Given that most of the casualties were naked, I’d guess that it was some sort of sick, drug−fuelled sex act gone wrong.”

  Olivia grinned. “You think they were dogging?”

  “That’s not funny, Olivia.” He smiled in spite of himself. “OK, maybe a little. I don’t want a word of what he said repeated. There’d be hell to pay if the press got hold of the werewolf angle. Franks would nail both our arses to the wall.”

  “Fair enough. So, what do you think we should do next?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? I want you to go to the magistrates and get a search warrant authorised for John Simpson’s house in High Moor and, while you’re at it, get one for the Wilkinson place as well. I want to have forensics teams in both properties by the end of the day.”

  “We might struggle for resources. Do you want to pull one of the teams out of the Harrison house?”

  Phil considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, but send some uniforms round to Simpson and Wilkinson’s first. See if there’s anything obvious lying around, but tell them to look and not touch, and not to enter the properties unless there’s a clear means of entry. I don’t want to risk invalidating evidence because we didn’t follow procedure.”

  “Okay, boss. What are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’m going to get a psychiatrist to do an assessment of Mr Simpson, so we can head off the insanity plea that he’s working up to. We’ll get a blood sample and have them check for drugs. After that I’ll go to the hospital to see if the pathologist can tell me anymore about the casualties and, while I’m there, get an update on Mr Wilkinson’s condition. Apart from Simpson, he’s the only other witness. Maybe, if he survives, we’ll get more sense out of him.”

  Olivia nodded. “What about Simpson? We’ve not charged him with anything yet.”

  “Speak to the CPS before you go to the magistrates, and see if they think we have enough to get him on something. We’ll need to get him booked into the court for Monday morning so we can get him remanded into custody. In the meantime, ask a couple of the uniforms to stick him back in his cell. Maybe he’ll feel like changing his story after he’s had some time to think about it.”

  Olivia nodded. “Okay, but you’ll have to attend the hearing. I’ve got a scan booked at the hospital.”

  Phil smiled. “You’re still hardly showing. How far along are you now?”

  Olivia put her hand against her stomach. “Almost seven months. I’m hoping she doesn’t take after her father. Matt’s mam says that he was tiny until the eighth month, then piled the weight and size on. Apparently she needed stitches. Not the sort of mental image you want of your mother−in−law. Ever.”

  Phil winced. “Thanks for sharing. I’ve met Matt’s mother, remember. Come on, let’s get on with it. I’ve got a meeting with the pathologist in an hour, and the old bugger doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  ***

  15th November 2008. University Hospital of Durham. 17.10

  Susan rubbed her eyes and leant back against cold concrete. The sound of Henry’s voice echoed off the unyielding ceramic tiles. The walls muffled the sound so that the details of his conversation with Jenkins were lost, but she could make out enough to tell her she wouldn’t have changed places with him for anything. Henry’s voice went up another few decibels, meaning she was able to make out some of the words. Idiot seemed to be cropping up on a regular basis, as well as prosecution, criminal negligence and fuckwit.

  She massaged her temples. The last few hours had been a blur. No one was certain of the woman’s identity, what was wrong with her, or how she’d ended up on the pathologist’s table when she was clearly still alive. She’d called an emergency medical team and rushed the woman to intensive care. Henry had ordered a battery of tests to try and determine exactly what was wrong, but they would take time that Susan wasn’t sure the woman had. Her vitals were weak, and even in intensive care, they were struggling to keep her stable.

  What she needed was a coffee. A real one, not the acrid sludge served up by the vending machine. She turned and began walking to the elevator, when the doors slid open, and three people, two men and a red haired woman, stepped out.

  She hurried along the corridor to intercept the strangers. “Excuse me, but you’re not supposed to be down here. This area is off limits to the public.”

  One of them, a heavy set man in his forties, smiled and flashed an ID card at her. When he spoke, it was with a thick eastern European accent. “I’m Detective Sergeant Pawlac, and this is my colleague, DC Braun from Durham Constabulary. We’re here with Marie William’s cousin, to formally identify the body. Were you not told that we were coming?”

  Susan smiled. “Miss Williams, I’m afraid there’s been something of a mix up. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but there’s a chance that we have some good news for you.”

  The woman looked at Susan and wiped a tear from her eye. “What do you mean?”

  “The person brought in last night isn’t dead. She’s in intensive care at the moment, but we aren’t completely certain who she is because her injuries don’t match the police report. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to her and you can tell us whether she really is your cousin.”

  The woman looked at Sergeant Pawlac and raised an eyebrow, then turned back to Susan. “That’s wonderful news. Please, I need to see her. I have to be sure that she’s alright before I call the rest of the family.”

  Susan frowned. The cousin had almost sounded sarcastic. She shook the doubt away. People dealt with things in their own way and anyway, she was Scottish. They always sounded sarcastic. She smiled her best smile and motioned back along the corridor. “Of course, please follow me.”

  She walked to the elevator and hit call. The two police officers and the woman followed her into the lift, and she pressed the button for the second floor.

  It was large enough to hold a stretcher and a team of medics, and she used it every day, but for some reason a wave of claustrophobia washed over her. Her heart raced and her legs turned to rubber as adrenaline coursed through her system.

  Sergeant Pawlac put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

  Susan flinched at his touch. Waves of gooseflesh surged across her back. “I’m fine, just a little tired.” Standing this close, her nostrils twitche
d at the smell of the man. Not body odour exactly. An earthy, musk−laden scent that was reminiscent of wet dog. She jumped as her back hit the elevator door. She hadn’t realised that she’d been backing away. She opened her mouth, intending to make a joke of it, when the door slid open and she stumbled out into the corridor. The claustrophobia faded, although her heart still pounded. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she straightened her smock and attempted a smile. “Please, follow me. She’s just down here on the right.”

  She walked along the corridor as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. For goodness’ sake, Susan, get a bloody hold of yourself. The urge to walk faster surged up from within on another tidal wave of adrenaline, but she crushed the rising panic and forced herself to take steady, measured steps until they reached Marie William’s room. She opened the door, letting it swing open. She put out her hand and motioned for the others to go inside. Her heart fluttered again. For fuck’s sake, what the hell is wrong with me? Susan moved to follow the others, but found herself just standing in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold into the dark room.

  Marie Williams, or the woman they thought was Marie Williams, lay on the bed with a saline drip attached to her arm. A thick plastic tube ran from the unconscious woman’s mouth to a ventilator by her bedside, while a monitor above her head displayed her blood pressure and heart rate.

  Susan reached out and put her hand on the red haired woman’s arm, then recoiled in shock. Her skin was hot. Not warm, actually hot. “Miss Williams? Is this your cousin?”