by Chris Simms
Craig’s fingers flexed at his sides.
Jon raised the case up a few inches. ‘Do you understand?’ Craig nodded.
‘Good. Why don’t you climb back into that sleeping bag and sit down where you were.’
Reluctantly, Craig obeyed.
Once he was leaning against the bricks, Jon spoke over his shoulder. ‘Stuart, keep to the other side of me.’ They walked over to the small building and out of the buffeting air. Jon surveyed the coils of rope and line of carabiners neatly arranged on the ground. In the top of the holdall he could see a pair of night-vision goggles, the head straps unbuckled. Crazy bastard, Jon thought, you really were going to try for the nest.
‘Craig.’ Jon dropped to one knee, the case tucked behind his ankle. He realised the muscles in his legs were shaking slightly. This is it, he thought, taking a quick breath in. This person could well have seen who murdered my brother. ‘You were in the Peak District a few nights ago. You were up the tree the ospreys’ nest is in.’
Craig looked towards the satellite dishes, hands resting on the lump of his raised knees.
‘Something happened on top of the next hill,’ Jon continued.
‘You saw it, didn’t you?’
Craig blinked, and his eyes remained closed for the tiniest moment.
Jon had to resist grabbing the man by his throat and shaking the information out of him. ‘Craig, I know you saw what happened.’
He flipped a hand over and studied his blackened nails. Jon waited.
Finally, Craig turned his head. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know what you saw.’
‘And then what?’
‘I’m out of here.’
‘You’re not going to arrest me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You are the least of my concerns. I’m trying to solve a murder.’
‘So, I’ll be free to go?’
‘You can do what the hell you want. Take that flight back to
Amsterdam, whatever.’
‘You’ve got my plane ticket?’
‘No, it’s still in your room at the hostel.’
‘And the eggs?’
‘They’re of no use to me.’
‘You’ll let me have them?’
‘They’re of no use to me.’
‘Is that a yes, or a no?’
‘You can have them.’
Craig sat up straighter, eyes still on Jon. ‘You’re bullshitting me.’
Jon felt his fingers curling into a fist. Calm, keep calm. ‘Want to run through the other choices you have here?’
Craig went to pick at the cuticle of a nail. Family bloody habit, Jon thought. ‘And keep your hands where they were.’
Craig returned them to his knees.
Stuart’s voice sounded over Jon’s shoulder. ‘How were you going to do it?’
Craig glanced down at the perfect coils of climbing rope.
‘Low tide’s in about ninety minutes. Down to the cliff base near the lighthouse, horizontal traverse of three hundred metres, ascending directly below the nest, cut the wire, grab the eggs, abseil back down. Two and a half, maybe three hours up, hour or so back.’
‘My God.’
There was a note of admiration in Stuart’s voice and Jon flicked him a quick look. The trace of a smile disappeared from his lips. Jon turned back to the younger brother. ‘What happened, Craig?’
Craig leaned the back of his skull against the bricks. ‘One guy at first. Appeared past midnight. I heard him before I saw him, tools clanking on his back, torch giving him away completely.’
‘What did he look like? Age, height, build?’
‘Thin, around thirty, I should think. Seemed quite tall.’
‘Hair long or short?’
‘Shaved.’
My brother, thought Jon, his eyes glued to Craig. You were the last person to see my brother alive. ‘How did he seem?’
‘You what?’
‘His movements, the way he moved. Did he seem agitated, scared, what?’
Craig frowned. ‘I don’t know. He was ferreting around, testing the ground with his spade. Come to think of it, he was whistling at one point.’
Whistling, Jon thought, finding some solace in the fact Dave had seemed happy. ‘Then what?’
‘The bike appeared.’
‘From which direction?’
‘Haverdale. It came along the edge of the pine trees, then went up the far side of the hill. The guy parked it up just below the crest, then wandered over to the other man.’
‘And?’
‘They were discussing something, looking at a piece of paper the first man had.’
Oh, God. We’re getting closer to when my brother died.
‘Like a map?’
‘Yeah. After a bit, they seemed to agree on a spot.’ The words stopped as Craig took a moment, his lower lip pushing out in disbelief. ‘He just whacked him over the head. No warning, nothing. Just whacked him with this hammer.’
Jon wanted to bow his head and close his eyes. ‘Describe to me what happened.’
With a little shake of his head, Craig continued. ‘The first guy to arrive had started digging. The bike rider took off his rucksack and produced this big hammer. He just stepped up behind the one who was digging and clocked him over the head with it. Like it was a job, some sort of chore. He treated the whole thing like it was a chore.’
‘How do you mean?’ Jon whispered.
As Craig cleared his throat, Jon caught the sound of voices on the wind.
‘The guy went down like a sack of spuds.’ He slapped a hand on his knee. ‘Boof. Out of it. The other one then gets a saw – no kidding – he gets a fucking saw out of the bag.’ Craig squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I could hear the rasping noise when he got to bone. I couldn’t stand it. So I tried to grab the eggs and get away from there fast as I could.’
‘You see a man murdered and you just continue on your egg-stealing mission like nothing happened?’ Jon knew his lips were curled with disgust.
‘No! Not like nothing happened. It’s been doing my head in ever since. I just didn’t know what to do.’
‘You forgot that the number for the police in this country is nine, nine, nine?’
Craig licked his lips, trying to find an answer. His mouth closed. The voices were getting louder and Jon could now hear the sound of footsteps as well. Craig heard it too and his shoulders tensed. ‘Who’s that?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll sort it out,’ Jon replied, placing a hand on Craig’s shoulder to stop him from jumping up. ‘Tell me what he looked like.’
‘Who?’
The voices were now really close. ‘The man! The one with the hammer. What did he look like?’
Behind him, Jon heard Stuart get up and step to the corner of the building. ‘Oh,’ the older man said.
‘There’s one!’ a voice shouted.
‘They’re by the shed!’ someone else yelled.
Craig tried struggling to his feet and Jon, grabbing the case with one hand, placed his other against Craig’s chest, pinning him to the wall. ‘What did he look like!’
‘I don’t know!’ Craig shouted back. ‘He wore a crash helmet the whole time. Skull and crossbones on it. Let me up!’
The crunch of footsteps got louder and several figures came round the corner, Stuart backing away before them. Jon saw fluorescent RSPB bibs and a policeman’s uniform before several torch beams blinded him. ‘Get those things out of my face!’ he snarled.
‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded, Welsh accent making it lift.
Taking his hand off Craig, Jon pulled his warrant card out and thrust it towards the light. ‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester
Police. Now stop shining those fucking things in my eyes.’
The torches were lowered and Jon stood. ‘This is a witness in a murder investigation and he’s coming with me.’
‘On whose authority?’ the police officer demanded.
&nbs
p; Jon looked at the man’s jacket. Sergeant. Shit, I could have done with a clueless constable, just started out in the job. ‘The Major Incident Team, Greater Manchester Police.’
‘I don’t think so, not without the say-so of my boss. Nothing’s been mentioned to me about any operation involving Manchester police on this island.’
Fuck, I don’t have time for this, Jon thought. Flynn might just be stupid enough to have stayed in Haverdale, but he won’t be there for much longer. ‘Let’s square this up later, shall we?’
The officer started reaching for his radio and Jon stepped closer. ‘Hang on. Just listen to me a minute. It hasn’t been cleared officially. Things were moving too fast.’
‘Really, boyo?’ The sergeant was grinning. ‘That man is going nowhere, there’s a warrant out for his arrest.’
‘Craig!’ Stuart suddenly stepped forward and Jon’s head whipped round.
‘I’m not going back inside, Stu. I’m not.’ Craig was backing away, his head shaking violently from side to side.
Jon was about to open his mouth when a voice rang out.
‘Grab him!’
Craig span on his heel and started sprinting along the path away from the group. A couple of RSPB volunteers started after him.
‘Craig!’ Stuart bellowed. ‘Craig!’
Jon’s eyes widened in horror as Craig raced towards the cliff. Oh no. Don’t do it, Craig, don’t . . . He couldn’t tear his eyes away as the other man reached the edge, then just carried on, legs taking a last stride in midair before he vanished.
Stuart sank to his knees and began to groan. The two volunteers reached the point where Craig had leapt, peered over the edge then turned round. Their faces were white in the dusk and one lifted a pale hand to waist height. Palm facing downwards, he swept it backwards and forwards across his body.
Feeling sick to the stomach, Jon turned to the sergeant. ‘Nice work, boyo.’ He crouched down and squeezed Stuart’s shoulders. ‘Stuart?’ he whispered. ‘Stuart?’ No response. Jon rubbed his hand across the other man’s shoulders. ‘Stuart, do you want to come with me?’
The sergeant spoke out above him. ‘Detective, there are issues—’
‘Shut up! Stuart, I have to get back to Haverdale. Do you want to come with me? You don’t have to stay here.’
Stuart shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving Craig.’
‘You’re sure?’
A nod in reply. Jon stood up and addressed the sergeant directly. ‘That was his brother. I want you to take care of this man, do you understand?’
The sergeant’s face reddened and he started to fiddle with his radio.
‘Do you hear me?’ Jon demanded. ‘If one of these idiots,’ he gestured at the watching group, ‘lays a finger on him, I’ll come back here and break it.’ He turned to the cluster of men. ‘You lot got that?’
None of them would meet his eyes.
Jon started walking back the way he and Stuart had come. After ten metres, he realised he was still carrying the case in his hand. He stopped, regarded it for a second, then placed it on the ground and continued on his way.
Twenty Nine
Michael Lumm let himself in through the back door of their bungalow, took his shoes off while still standing on the doormat, then paused to examine his hands. It had been a busy day at work, not helped by a flock of over eighty sheep escaping from their field onto the A6187. Grime emphasised the creases in his fingers and the edges of his nails. Knowing her eyesight was now too poor to notice such details, he stooped at the kitchen sink and took a nail brush to his hands, anyway. Mother did so dislike dirt.
A squirt of washing-up liquid soon created a thick lather, and as his slippery fingers writhed over each other, globules of foam dripped down like spawn from two amphibious creatures mating.
He dried his hands on a tea towel and walked through to a short corridor. Family photos lined the walls. Colour ones of him as a baby, and then a child. Black and white ones of his father, dead now almost thirty years. Lumm’s eyes settled on the man’s face. A person he had barely known, more alien to him than the hikers he gave directions to out on the moors.
As usual, he sought out the photo of his father seated on a rock, a stretch of Scottish shoreline behind him. Being beaten on that holiday by him was about the last memory Michael had of his father. He’d risen early, his father’s penknife in his pocket, and headed down to the secluded beach where they’d spotted the dead seal the day before. He could still remember recoiling at the smell of putrefying fish. The sight of the sand fleas massed on the creature’s underside. He’d just finished carving out his initials in the dead animal’s blubber when his father’s shadow had fallen across him.
Bending closer to the photo, Michael examined the man’s bare chest, picturing the heart inside. Defective, weak, faulty. Ready to abruptly stop working just days after the photo had been taken, leaving his mum on her own with a young child. The years of struggle and hardship she had faced.
He walked in to the telly room where she sat, feet encased in thick sheepskin slippers, fan heater positioned inches from her ankles. She looked up from the large-print book on her lap, took off her glasses and smiled.
‘Hi there, Mum. Everything OK? Would you like a drink?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Have you been tinkering in that garage again?’
He nodding. ‘Putting the quad bike right. She’s running smoothly, now.’
‘You. So good with your hands. Maurice would be proud to see you now.’
He crouched at the side of her armchair. ‘Did you look at the brochures? Any seem especially nice?’
She frowned, head turning to the glossy publications on the footstool. ‘I still don’t understand. How can I pick and choose like that?’
‘Because they haven’t been built, yet. You choose the type you want, and they put it up. How about the Greenwich? Two bedrooms, lovely kitchen with the latest features. A conservatory where you can sit and read.’
‘But I like it here.’
‘Mum, this place is on its last legs. The roof needs redoing, we’ve got damp coming in through the bathroom walls, rats running around in the kitchen.’
‘I haven’t spotted any rats for days.’
‘Maybe not,’ Michael replied. ‘But this place will have a specially adapted bath. All the electricity points will be at waist height. Imagine that: no bending down to plug anything in.’
‘But the price. How can you ever afford that for me?’
He patted the back of her hand. ‘I’ve said. The investments
I made.’
‘You’re not thinking of one of those loans, are you?’
‘No, Mum. I have the money already; I don’t need to borrow a thing.’
‘Well.’ She put her glasses back on. ‘Pass them to me, would you?’
He placed the brochures on her lap. ‘You have a good read through. Now, I’ve got to pop out. I’ll be about an hour. Sure you don’t want me to bring you a cup of tea?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘OK.’
Outside, he wheeled the quad bike round to the front of the garage, the pile of black packages now secured firmly to its rear platform by a tightly-stretched elastic mesh. After re-checking the garage was securely locked, he gunned the machine into life and set off for the south side of town.
Barely eight at night and most people were in their houses, brains on stand-by as they stared blankly at TV screens. Many, he knew, would have his pills and powders coursing through their systems. A little something to spice up their miserable existences. He joined the high street just before the level crossing, continued over the little bridge then turned into the deserted parking area for Sharston Edge. He drove on to the track, dropping the revs so he could negotiate the steep climb. Coming to a halt at the top, he killed the engine, climbed off the bike and unhooked the elastic mesh. Then he picked up a package in each hand, walked to the edge of the cliff, placed them to the side of one of the od
dly shaped rock formations and returned to the bike for two more.
As he worked, he cursed himself for overlooking this option in the first place. What had he been thinking of when he’d come up with the poached deer plan? Mind you, it had so nearly worked. If it hadn’t been for that bloody mobile phone going off, the sacks would have been incinerated, just like the dozens of others containing deer which they’d burned over the years. He threw two more packages to the ground. How he’d hoped against hope that Wood couldn’t hear the little chorus of notes. He’d even tried patting his own pockets, as if it was his mobile making the noise. But the bloody thing had continued to ring and eventually his fellow ranger had pointed to the second bin liner.
Now with all the packages in a neat pile, he shone his heavy-duty torch over the edge. Forty feet below, the beam picked out the motionless cascade of boulders. Before them was the opening in the ground. A narrow passage discounted as impossible to negotiate by the local potholing club. Wood had been right in the visitor centre: these spots were a far, far better place for disposing of a body.
He picked out the patch of grass forming a triangle between two boulders and the cliff’s base, then started dropping the packages down, keeping count as he did so. In the silence of the night they thudded against each other. Once all twenty had gone over the edge, he set off for the trail that would lead him down and then round to where they lay. After that, he thought, there was only Flynn’s bike to dismantle. That posed no major problem – the parts could vanish below ground with the body.
As he negotiated the twisting path, he planned his reaction if anyone asked him about Flynn’s disappearance. Yes, that’s right. I saw him on the evening of Wednesday the twentieth. He was on his bike, a rucksack on his back. Where was he heading? North, towards the A57. Manchester or Sheffield. Maybe further. After all, once he got to the M6 I suppose he could have continued all the way up to Scotland, if he wanted.
If it was any of the town police, the story would do fine. But, he reflected, Flynn went and talked to that officer from Manchester. Lumm thought about the hulking great bastard, the way he’d perked up at the realisation there might have been a witness to his brother’s death. He fiddled with the torch. Thank God I was wearing Flynn’s crash helmet. Now that imbecile won’t be saying another word, the trail can’t lead back to me. Can it? He thought about Spicer and found himself picking nervously at the torch once again. There was something relentless about the bloke.