The Tide of Terror

by Stuart G. Yates

  “Mrs Strickland?”

  “Yes. The schoolteacher? He'd been thrown into a pit up by the dump. Mark found him and brought him back.”

  “Mark? Didn't take you long to get friendly.”

  Jenny's eyes narrowed. “You said you wanted to speak to me, Sergeant.”

  “Yes.” He pulled out a copy of the newspaper, with Jenny's face dominating the front page. “It's about this.”

  “The report? Why, what have I done? Broken some ancient hedgehog law?”

  He ignored her sarcasm, for the second time that morning. “No, miss. It's more to do with the reporter.”

  “Josh Stewart? What about him?”

  “You met him, obviously. What was he like?”

  “Quite nice, really. Very…what's this all about?”

  “Did he mention anything about going to see Mrs Charles?”

  “Mrs Charles? Why would he go and visit her?”

  “I don't know, that's why I'm asking.”

  “No. He didn't say anything about visiting anyone. He was just interested in my story about the hedgehog.”

  “Asked you lots of questions about that, did he?”

  “Well, of course – hence the story.”

  “Why was he so interested? I mean,” he slapped the paper with Jenny's photograph beaming out at him, “what's so important about a hedgehog?”

  “They're a protected species, Sergeant. They're only found in one place in the entire world. Here.”

  “Protected? So, if you hurt one you could get into trouble?”

  “If we decided to prosecute, yes. A small fine, probably. But the publicity wouldn't be very nice, for the offender.”

  “Offender?” Holding chewed his lip for a moment. “So…Stewart just asked you questions about the hedgehog?”

  “He wanted some background information about me, what I've done in the past, where I qualified, what I do with my day, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes. I know. I've read the article. Quite interesting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But mainly about the hedgehog? How you nursed it back to health?”

  “Yes. So, are you going to tell me what all of this is about?”

  “He's dead.”

  “What?” Jenny could barely breathe.

  “You heard correctly. Sorry to say, but we found his body…in Mrs Charles' shed. His throat was cut.”

  “You mean…?”

  “That's right, miss. He'd been murdered.”

  Chapter Nine

  No matter how hard she tried, her heart just wasn't in her work that day. As she swept out the kennels, handed over the dogs to their owners, and generally checked through the shop, her mind kept wandering back to Josh Stewart. Their meeting on the beach, how he had spoken to her about his plans. He seemed so normal, so genuine. Then there was the article itself; so full of praise for her work, so truthful. She sat down in her little office and tried to hold back the tears. Why was it, that in life, bad things always seemed to happen to nice people? Jenny had planned on writing to him, to thank him for what he had written. And now, it was too late. He was gone. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to stop herself from succumbing to the overwhelming sadness she felt. But it was no good. They came in great floods, soon reducing her to a sobbing wreck.

  The telephone rang. It was an old-fashioned instrument, black and very heavy. The governors of the rescue-centre were a conservative lot, suspicious of change. Besides, they probably didn't want to fork out money for a new, digital model. But now, she found its bulk strangely comforting, a link to an older, much more simpler life. As she held the receiver, it felt solid, dependable. Unlike her life at the moment.

  “Is that the vet?” came the voice rasping down the earpiece.

  “No. The vet won't be here until tomorrow.” How many times did she have to repeat that line in any given day? She took in a breath, trying to control herself. “Anything I can do?”

  “I hope so. It's my garden – can't move. You need to get over here right away. Do you hear me – right away!”

  “Well, I would, if I knew what the problem was and ―”

  “You'll see when you get here. Now stop blithering and―”

  It was Jenny's turn to interrupt. It made her feel quite superior. “And to whom am I speaking?”

  “What? Oh, yes, it's Morrison here. Mr Bernard Morrison.”

  When he tore open his front door, Bernie Morrison looked like some sort of wild man. His eyes were wide and bulging, his lips drained of colour, and what was left of his hair was in total disarray. He appeared as if he had just woken from the most fearful nightmare imaginable. Jenny hesitated.

  “Come on in, for pity's sake,” he urged as he staggered down the hallway towards his back kitchen, shouting back at her, “They're here, just sitting around.”

  Jenny moved into the house. She had to squeeze past three very large and heavy looking suitcases that were standing against the wall. A dog was barking from some way off, possibly upstairs. Jenny paid it no mind and followed Mr Morrison. When she went into the kitchen, he had his back to her, standing quite still, in the doorway, looking out into his garden, shaking his head very slowly as if he were in a kind of daze or trance. She came up beside him. “Mr Morrison, what seems to be the problem?”

  He pointed a shaky finger towards his well-kept garden. “They were all there. About twenty of them. Just standing there. In my cabbage patch.”

  “What were, Mr Morrison?”

  He turned his wild face towards her. “Hedgehogs – blond hedgehogs.”

  Jenny went along to the cabbage patch and looked down amongst the vegetables. “Can't see anything here now, Mr Morrison.”

  “Well, they were there I tell you. I wasn't imagining things.”

  “I'm sure you weren't,” she said gently, even though she believed the opposite to be the case. She did see something though. A recently dug patch of ground. She prodded it with her toe.

  Suddenly Morrison was beside her, anxiously tugging at her arm, “That's nothing. Probably where they dug a hole. Come away now if you can't find anything.”

  But Jenny stooped down and looked at the disturbed earth more closely, “Hedgehogs don't burrow. This has been made…” she looked up at Morrison then got to her feet, dusting off the soil from her jeans. “Mr Morrison, why exactly did you call me?”

  “I told you – don't you ever listen?”

  “I listen perfectly well, thank you. Hedgehogs. In your garden. What were they doing?”

  “Just sitting there, all around the cabbages. I thought they were eating them, like those other two. But when I went to chase them off, they all just…well, they all went for me.”

  “Went for you? Mr Morrison, I have to say, hedgehogs don't attack people. They're simply too small and―”

  “Why do you disregard everything I say? Is this how you treat all of your customers? It isn't any wonder your pathetic rescue-centre is falling down around you.”

  Jenny bristled. “Mr Morrison, I know what I'm talking about. Hedgehogs do not attack people!”

  “Well this lot did. They all gathered together in a group and charged me. I had to run back inside. They wouldn't let me out of the door.”

  Jenny raised one quizzical eyebrow. It was a ridiculous story, but quite obviously something had scared the man out of his wits. And there was something else. “You said two.”

  “What?”

  “You said you had seen two hedgehogs in your cabbages, before this big group. But I only took in one, the one you stabbed.”

  “Yes, well there was another one. Sniffing about it was, rooting up my veg. I was mowing the lawn when I saw it, so when it came out, I gave it what for.”

  “You did…what?”

  From somewhere ahead of them came a very stern, very controlled voice. “He ran it over with his mower, dear.”

  Jenny span round. There, with her elbows propped up on her side of the fence, was Mrs Strickland, the teacher. Sh
e had that superior look on her face, with that infuriating, mocking smile of hers. For a moment, Jenny was lost for words. “He…ran it over with his mower?”

  “That's right,” spat Morrison. “Damned things, I'll put down poison next.”

  Jenny was furious, her face burning. She glowered at the weedy little man, “You deliberately ran over a protected species with your lawn mower?”

  “Well what did you want him to do, give it a bowl of milk?” Mrs Strickland was laughing, but not at her joke, at Jenny's obvious fury.

  “I keep telling you, it was eating my veg. I'll not have it, I tell you.”

  “They do not eat vegetables,” Jenny said very evenly, biting back her anger. She was chewing her bottom lip furiously. “I'm going to report this, you horrible little man. Prosecute you!”

  “You can't prove it,” said Mrs Strickland. “It's only his word against yours.”

  “But you yourself have just told me—”

  “Told you what…dear?”

  Jenny gaped at the teacher. “You mean…you wouldn't testify…you wouldn't tell the authorities what you've just told me?”

  “I can't remember telling you anything at all.” She smiled wryly, “Must have been your imagination.”

  Moving as if to go, Morrison suddenly stepped in front of her, barring her way. “You go stirring up any trouble, and you'll regret it. Do you understand?”

  Looking at the man from head to toe, Jenny had no doubts that the little man was capable of anything in order to protect himself and his precious vegetables. “Are you threatening me?” she asked slowly.

  He smiled, but it was Mrs Strickland who spoke, “Let's just say I think you should heed the advice.” Then suddenly, her tone changed, and her voice became harsh and biting, “Just keep your nose out.”

  “You seem to forget,” returned Jenny, holding Mrs Strickland's hard stare with one of her own, “It was he who called me.”

  “Well, whatever our spiky friends wanted, they've gone now – so you can go too.”

  Looking from Morrison and back towards the teacher, Jenny blew out her breath in a deep sigh and stomped off towards the house. She didn't look back, but she felt sure that both of them were watching her. As she stepped over the suitcases and went out into the front garden, she stopped, breathing hard. She didn't think she had ever felt so angry. She felt like going back and slapping Morrison hard across the face, but that would probably have cost her the job she loved so much. She couldn't win. Morrison, with Mrs Strickland's help, was invulnerable. Without independent witnesses, Jenny didn't have a hope of making a prosecution stick. It was infuriating that someone could do such a dreadful thing and not have to face any form of justice.

  She got in behind the wheel of the van and sat there, fuming. There had to be something she could do, someone who must have seen or heard something, someone who was willing to come forward and speak up. Jenny could always make some inquiries, talk to the neighbours. Then she recalled Morrison's threat, 'you go stirring up trouble and you'll regret it'. What did he mean by that, exactly? What could he do? Perhaps he had friends on the committee, friends who could move to have her sacked. But Mr McGregor wouldn't stand for that, surely.

  No, she sighed deeply, realizing the truth of the situation, even Mr McGregor would have to do as he was told - after all, the committee employed him as well.

  Then she had a thought. She could go and talk to the governor of the committee, Mr Tenchard. She knew for certain he didn't associate himself with Morrison. Perhaps he could offer some advice. It was worth a try. She glanced up to the house. A dog had its face pressed against an upstairs bedroom window. Its large eyes were almost pleading with her, but to do what she had no idea. As she turned the ignition and drove the little van away up the hill towards the far side of town and Mr Tenchard's sprawling bungalow, the dog took up a sorrowful moaning.

  From his front room window, Morrison watched Jenny leave. He breathed hard.

  “Do you think she suspects anything?”

  “No,” said Mrs Strickland, sipping at the cup of tea she had just made. She was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, relaxed and contented. “She's nothing but a slip of a girl who thinks she knows everything. What she actually does know, is nothing at all.”

  “She saw the cases.”

  “So what? You're going on holiday. What's so wrong in that? She didn't see mine so she couldn't possible have made any connection. You've got to stop worrying, Bernie, you'll be giving yourself a heart attack with all the stress.”

  He wasn't convinced. “I'm sure she's up to something.” He squeezed his right fist hard. “This damn, blasted place. I'll be glad to see the back of it – and those horrible creatures.” He looked up at the ceiling. The dog was continuing with its dreadful baying. “Shut up will you.”

  “You really must try and calm down, Bernie. You let too much get to you. As to those hedgehogs, they're completely harmless.”

  “You didn't see them, the look on their faces. It was…murderous.”

  Mrs Strickland tensed at the word. “Please, Bernie.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled as he came away from the window and settled himself down next to her. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “Everything will be all right, won't it?”

  She smiled across at him. “Of course it will. We've got the flights booked. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  Mrs Strickland shot him a glance. There was something in his tone that caused her to feel unsettled. She frowned. She did so hope that he wasn't beginning to fall apart on her. If he did, there really was only one solution.

  Chapter Ten

  “The thing is, whatever he says and despite everything I know to the contrary, there seems to be something very strange going on. Hedgehogs don't eat cabbages, so why are they there? Why so many of them? And there was hole. Big. Recently dug out, as if something had been buried there.”

  “Or taken out.” Mr Tenchard handed over the cup of tea that his wife had made. Then he settled down opposite Jenny and watched her keenly. “I've known Bernie Morrison for years, Jenny. He's a vile little man. Always has been. But he went particularly nasty when his wife left him. That must have been…ooh, twelve, maybe fifteen years ago? He's been embittered ever since. Always alone, always angry, shouting, being abusive.”

  “But he seems to have struck up a close friendship with Mrs Strickland. Why would she tell me what had happened and then deny it to my face?”

  He shrugged. “No idea. She's another funny one. This place has its fair share, I'm sorry to say.” He settled his finished teacup onto the table. “This hedgehog business…not too sure how we should proceed. I think the first thing I'll do is write him a stern note, telling him we have information that he has maliciously and wilfully injured a protected species, that any further incidents will have to be thoroughly investigated.”

  “Won't he just ignore it – or worst still, make a complaint to the committee?”

  “I shouldn't worry about that. If he does ignore it, we'll just have to remain vigilant. If he complains, I'll simply tell the committee the facts – no one will support Bernie Morrison, believe you me. He has a bit of a history in this community, Jenny. So rest easy.”

  Jenny, having also finished her tea, now stood up. “Thanks for the reassurance. I'll let you know if anything else happens.”

  Tenchard showed her to the door. As she waved back at him, she felt a little more relaxed than she had been. But not completely. Morrison's words had unsettled her. And his story about the hedgehogs. What if it really was true?

  When she got back to the rescue-centre there were a number of messages on her answering machine. But the one that made her freeze was the one from the School. “Hello. this is Mr Richards, Head teacher at St. Mary's. I was wondering if you could give my secretary a call and arrange a meeting. Thank you so much.”

  Jenny stared at the machine for a long time. Perhaps Mrs Strickland
had already lodged her complaint, to her boss. Perhaps Richards wanted to confront Jenny about the visit to Morrison's? Nervously, she re-played the message, but there was nothing in Richards' voice to give any clue to his mood, so she was left still feeling puzzled and anxious. She carefully dialled the number. The secretary answered almost at once, “St Mary's School, how may I help you?”

  “Yes. Hello. It's the Island Animal-Rescue Centre here. I had a call from Mr Richards―”

  “Just one moment, putting you through…”

  There were a couple of clicks and Mr Richards' gruff voice came down the line. “Yes, hello. Glad you got back to me. Listen, I was wondering if you could come in to the school?”

  “Mr Richards, I'm not at all sure if―”

  “We'll pay you, of course.”

  “Pay me?” Jenny frowned to herself.

  “Well, contribute then – to your charity. It is a charity isn't it, the rescue-centre?”

  “Er-yes. But I don't understand…what is it you want me to do?”

  “Children have been talking about this hedgehog you rescued, and the papers reported it quite widely. You're a bit of a celebrity. It's made the nationals, I understand.”

  “It has?”

  “Yes, didn't you know? Goodness me, you'd better get down to town and buy yourself a copy of one of the popular dailies, then.”

  “I…yes, yes I will. But…” This had come as a complete shock to Jenny. Her story, in the national press? What would Mr McGregor say?

  “So, when can you come in? I thought if you had a chat with the Year Threes, possibly Fours as well? Bring in some posters, work sheets, information, handouts…and the little beastie itself of course – if it's well enough that is.”

  “I…Yes, I could do that. We have another one, you know.”

  “What? Injured? Oh dear, not the same thing I hope?”

  “No, much worse – but he's fine. Not well enough to be brought into your school though. The other one probably will be. I'll get some things together.”

  “Excellent – the children will be so pleased. And Mrs Strickland too; she's been talking about you in the staff room. You've made a bit of an impression.”