She vaguely realised she’d heard the sound before, somewhere in her memory, it lurked, waiting to come back to her. For now, all of her effort – all of her mind and body – were pushing through the water, her arms stretching out further than ever before. Just then a lightning flash, enough to pick out the land around her, showing Eleanor where she needed to go next.
Across the bank, she saw her. She was just a figure, crouched in the gorse, she hadn’t spotted Eleanor, but she was waiting for her, to take her to safety. She cried, and laughed and somehow, she was free, the tangle of branches had released her. Calm descended on her, wafted towards her, she could smell lavender, bluebells, daisies and freshly cut grass. The smells of childhood, of walking across neglected fields, often barefoot, all of it meshed into one hope, one memory.
Eleanor floated to the top of the water, turned onto her stomach and crossed to the side of the bank. She pulled herself out, grabbing the undergrowth of tree roots she’d eyed enviously only seconds earlier. She tugged herself to the relative safety and seclusion of a thickly growing mass of rhododendron. Once inside she lay on her back, feeling safe, away from the possible prying eyes of Susan. She’d rest here for a second, her breath was loud and ragged in her chest, God, she couldn’t have a seizure now, not now.
Then the pounding footsteps of her stepmother on the ground above her ears knocked her quickly from her rest. She was almost here. Overhead, the thunder began to crank itself into a groaning frenzy once more and Eleanor knew she stood no chance against Susan in this state. She’d have to keep on running, run towards the foliage where she’d seen the woman hunching earlier.
Thirty-Five
Slattery lay back against what he presumed was a tree stump – he didn’t have much of a choice, the pain in his leg was searing through him in lancing stabs. When it happened, he’d felt hot salty tears leave his eyes – and he was not a crier, far from it, but the physical reaction to the blow had been so enormous that it seemed to rattle him to his very core. Well, he thought to himself now as he heard the low rumble of thunder overhead, there’d be no more of that carry-on.
He had watched as Iris ran out of sight – to be honest, he’d have given anything to trade places with her, the last thing that girl needed was more emotional baggage after their last case. He cursed. You never get to choose, wasn’t that half the problem? He shifted awkwardly, hoping that the fresh darts of pain up his leg and into his stomach would be worth it for a cigarette; he wasn’t sure. He felt a wave of nausea surge over him and then it was too late, he’d thrown up all over himself. He cursed again, lit the damned cigarette and regretted that he no longer carried a small bottle of Jimmy in the inside pocket of his jacket. At a time like this, whiskey could be the saving of a man.
He shook his head, stopped, suddenly his senses on high alert. Something had moved, not far away, in the undergrowth. It had been a rustle, more than a hedgehog – didn’t they hibernate? Could be a fox? That was no harm. Slattery had always liked foxes, if anything he felt a bit of a kinship to them. Why on earth would anyone want to badmouth a fox, or worse send a pack of dogs to pull it apart? Another rustle and this time he decided to ignore the sounds. He was trespassing, perhaps sitting right in the centre of some forager’s route to feed a family.
He smoked his cigarette, but it was still there and no matter how he tried to shake it off, there was no getting away from the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck had risen to a point of high alert. There was something close by and it or they were dangerous. Slattery thought for a moment about Susan Marshall – she’d have no reason to attack him here. A policeman she had little respect for, someone who she thought she was so superior to, if anything she’d walk around him and hope the elements took care of him.
He reached into his jacket, slid his hand along his chest, pulling out the standard-issue Sig Sauer. God, he hoped he could keep at least this perfect record. He’d never killed anyone – it was something to stand over, for Slattery it might be the best they could say about him. It slipped easily from the holster, its metal warm from lying against his body. He took the cigarette from his mouth, threw it down towards the drain beneath him. He didn’t dare breathe, as he could feel the thing coming closer, inching towards him, a living, breathing animosity – he wasn’t sure if he should call out. Perhaps if he remained silent whoever was there would pass by, unaware that they’d almost crossed paths? Then he thought of Iris and he felt the blood drain from his head, he couldn’t let this horror follow her into that no man’s land.
Without saying a word, he reached towards the ground beside him, pulled up his Maglite and switched on the beam at full light. Out of the pitch black, it pulled trees first and then it halted on the most remarkable sight Slattery had ever seen: a full-grown male grey wolf. The creature stood for what seemed like an eternity, considering what his best option was – fight or flight, presumably. Slattery tried to think of all those pub quizzes, but he couldn’t figure out if this majestic animal was considering him for dinner or if he preferred more vegetable-based produce.
The wolf watched him with the curiosity one might expect a seven-year-old to display at the zoo, their silent communication only broken by a loud volleying in the clouds – thunder, long and low – it surprised him, making him jump, as if he’d reacted to something deep within his nature, and then he was gone, racing back into the woods and towards the emergency services Slattery could hear on the trail behind him.
‘Christ.’ It was as much as he could manage before he lit another fag and prayed to whoever Maureen had on call that Iris Locke would come out of there in one piece.
Thirty-Six
Iris narrowed her eyes, hoped for another roll of thunder, another flash of lightning to bring into focus what she needed. She had two choices: she could hunker down here, where there was some coverage from briars and gorse, or she could begin to make her way to them. She had a feeling that if the lightning should pick her out, Eleanor would probably turn and run back into Susan’s path.
There wasn’t time to think. Iris felt her pulse thump in her veins. It was pushing a viral beat up to her brain, as if the pressure of what might happen next could somehow force an explosion inside her head. Then, she heard it, a soft rumble, low and steady – a long way off, or perhaps just warming up for the main curtain call. She dropped, as if pulled down by some invisible weight into the thorny wild shrubs that she’d so often admired from the roadside. Not so bloody lovely now that she’d be picking thorns from every inch of her at the end of this. Maybe, she thought, for one cynical moment, just maybe, a broken ankle would be easier.
She crouched down, her whole body on high alert, her eyes trained on the vista ahead. Come on. Come on, she willed Eleanor forward, just come on, let’s get this over with. She wanted to call her, put her hand across her own mouth to stop shouting out. The one thing she had, apart from the Glock pistol in her holster, was the element of surprise. That was the only thing she hoped to use with a wild card like Eleanor to fight for – she had a feeling it could go either way.
And then, before she had time to think another thought, the thunder erupted like a symphony above her head. The sky had opened to let a massive groan out onto the land below and Iris shook with the ferocity of it, bent down further within the scrub, her eyes the only part of her venturing above the level of the bushes. It yawned out incessantly, so Iris forgot to breathe for what seemed like too long, then there was the most abrupt and total silence that she’d ever experienced and a second later, as if to punctuate the noiselessness, the sound of breathing, hard and fast, and boots squelching through the mud.
Iris still couldn’t make out a shape; she couldn’t be sure who was running towards her first. She stared, trying hard to see through the pitch black, counting the seconds off in her head. It seemed that each one was taking an eternity, then the pounding steps again. It felt as if her heart was hammering with each depression in the sodden earth. And then, on five – as if this place couldn’t
take it any longer, as much as Iris couldn’t – a long narrow sheet of silver raced across the sky. At first it dazzled so bright, it almost knocked Iris back into the mud, but she steadied herself and searched out the land ahead and there, only feet from her was Eleanor, running alone, no sign of Susan.
Iris didn’t dare move for a second, she wished she knew what to do – would calling out frighten her or would she now be happy to be led back to some kind of safety.
‘Eleanor.’ She felt the name drop in a whisper from her lips, she hardly heard it herself, but the girl spun around, as if she’d been called on a loudhailer. Iris found herself rising slowly, showing herself, hoping that having fallen in mud and run through the woods in the pelting rain she didn’t look like the one to run from. ‘It’s okay, I’m Iris, I’m a policewoman, and I’m here to help you to safety.’ It was too many words, she knew that, but it was nerves and exhaustion and, yes, she could admit it out here on her own, it was fear too.
And then it happened, a huge blinding blow from behind. Iris hardly registered it happening. It struck her low on her back.
Perhaps, if Susan had struck earlier, she might not have missed her footing. She might have hit her target instead of falling as she aimed the mighty blow. It still winded Iris, having Susan fall in on top of her didn’t help either. Iris did her best to wriggle out as quickly as she could, but it was not easy, it was hard to catch her breath, never mind gain purchase on the slippery ground below. They were bordering on swamp here and she knew that if Susan didn’t manage to finish her off one way, she’d surely try another. Then she felt those strong hands about her neck, pushing her forward into the mud, Susan holding her down as much with the full weight of her body as the strength of her hands. She was shouting, screaming, beside herself with rage, but Iris couldn’t make out a word of it. Instead, she focussed on keeping her mouth and nose off to the side, avoiding the water, gasping. Susan was weighing her down and then she felt her face submerge into the mucky water.
Panic overtook her, she flailed and thrashed about, but the other woman was on her back, she had pinned her down, there was no getting away, the mud in her shoes from earlier was just another leverage keeping her low. Still, the ranting over her head, she could hear it, loud and angry – Susan was screaming at Eleanor. She was screaming that she hated her, that she should never have been born. She wanted nothing to do with Kit Marshall’s daughter.
And then it felt as if the lights went out – not that it had grown darker, it couldn’t possibly, but rather, Iris had the sensation that for the first time in her life she was alone. Really alone. Slattery was too far away and too injured anyway to help. June and Westmont were in the Ship’s Inn at this point, probably wondering where she and Slattery had disappeared to now. Her mother, well, if that was what she wanted to be called these days, was tucked up in a convalescence home on the far side of Limerick – and everyone who really belonged to her was dead. The darkness was swallowing her now, but perhaps… she stopped fighting, stopped flailing, perhaps the darkness might not be such a bad thing.
And then, everything stopped.
Silence.
Until a low howl began to rumble just above Iris’s head. She felt the force of Susan’s weight suddenly shift; the hands behind her head relax. Then she was pushed heavily forward as the other woman jumped away from her. Iris didn’t need to look up, wasn’t sure she had the energy to manage it anyway.
It was a huge grey wolf standing over them, baring long teeth from behind his dark muzzle. His presence was a stirring, stupefying thing. It halted everything around them to a full stop. In her haste to pull away from him, Susan managed to fall backwards, into the water, stunned for one precious moment, before the wolf took off into the blackness of the mountain ahead.
The swoop when it came was frightening and delicious all at once. It felt at first as if Iris had been lifted high by an angel, but of course, she didn’t believe in angels anymore, how could she? It had landed her on her back, against the soft turf that lay just feet above another gushing drain. Someone was wiping the hair back from her face, looking with concern into her half-open eyes. Iris realised it was Eleanor. Eleanor had pulled Susan off her, just as the wolf had appeared. She must have pulled her out of the water and dragged her away from the thorns and swamp.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured softly, raising her filthy hands up to her eyes. She could feel the mud everywhere. Her face and clothes had become drenched in it, so it was drying uncomfortably into her eyes – if she didn’t get it out now, they would close up and there would be no way she could fight off another attack if Susan rallied. ‘Where’s Susan?’ she whispered, then looked at Eleanor – but the girl just returned her stare before pointing at the bank below where a sodden, miserable heap of a woman was gasping for breath in the freezing waters.
Far down the mountain, Iris could see that the emergency services had arrived. She fished in her pocket for her phone and rang Slattery.
‘You all right, partner?’ she asked.
‘Never better,’ he groaned.
‘Don’t take up too much of their time, will you, we have a few more passengers looking for lifts up here too,’ she said softly, and then she switched on her Maglite and aimed it high in the air. ‘Not long now,’ she said softly to Eleanor. ‘Not long now.’
She watched the figure opposite, who was trying her best to get up and probably would have if Eleanor hadn’t run at her with such ferocity that Susan hunkered down into a shuddering ball. This was how the emergency services found them ten minutes later.
Thirty-Seven
They kept Slattery in for a night. Somehow, even with the trolley crisis and a lack of X-ray services, they managed to volley him through, patch him up and dispatch him the following day. Iris had a feeling it had as much to do with wanting to get rid of him as it did with any kind of attention to bed blocking numbers. A broken ankle had done little to lighten his mood and when Iris went to collect him, he barked at her for parking in the disabled bay when there was plenty of space available on the double yellows.
‘Watch yourself or I’ll leave you here – I’ll tell them I think you must have got concussion,’ she threatened as she heaved his unstable wheelchair out the door.
Her own recovery had been swift – mostly she was thorn-free now, there was bruising where Susan had tried to finish her off but a hot shower had taken care of the mud that had settled hard and thick on her skin. Of course, she knew a shower wouldn’t sort out everything, but she’d managed to sleep well after the ordeal – not surprising when she’d only had roughly three to four hours sleep a night for the past week. They wanted her to go see a shrink after it all; she didn’t like to mention that after what happened with Jack Locke, really, Susan Marshall would have to stand in line if she was planning to keep her awake at night.
The case conference earlier that morning had been jubilant. They’d managed to save Eleanor and she was resting in hospital now with Kit at her side. Susan, thanks to one of the best solicitors in the country, was being surprisingly helpful.
‘Diminished responsibility?’ Slattery repeated gruffly. He stood for a moment, lit a cigarette beneath the NO SMOKING sign while he waited for her to move the passenger seat back and open the boot for the wheelchair the ward sister insisted he bring home with him. ‘Who’s going to find her capable of anything that takes reason?’ he asked, plopping into the chair again so she could wheel him next to the car. ‘She’s as mad as a bag of weasels. He’ll have told her to help us all the way. Later, they’ll run a couple of psychiatric tests on her. Let’s face it, Marshall’s going to know the judge and prosecutor well enough to know how to swing things her way.’
‘Well, he’s seen through her, at least,’ Iris said. She was disappointed. After all they’d seen, she knew that Susan Marshall had set out to murder Rachel McDermott. She had created an unforgivable wedge between Kit and Eleanor and if she’d had a chance, she’d probably have murdered her too. She was motivated not by
the kind of madness she’d have a judge believe, rather she was driven by blind greed because she believed Rachel might mean trouble to her marriage to a wealthy man. They could talk all they wanted about the years of self-harm and the fact that she’d suffered several breakdowns, but at the end of the day, there’s a big difference between being unwell and being a murderer.
‘And you know that might hurt her most, when she’s locked up in the central mental hospital, than any kind of therapy they offer her. Probably be an even bigger blow than being locked up.’
‘How does a woman turn out like that?’ Iris said as she pulled the car out onto the main road.
‘Hasn’t it dawned on you yet?’ Slattery shook his head, smiling that wry, infuriating smile that just made her want to shake him. ‘Eleanor’s not her daughter. She was bloody screaming it up on that mountain for us all to hear. Eleanor is Marshall’s daughter, not Susan’s. She’s spent most of her marriage jealous of the relationship he had with his daughters, tried to get between them at every turn. I’d bet my lunch money that she was responsible for most of what Eleanor’s been blamed for over the years.’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Poor Eleanor, she had no chance, no matter which way she turned.’ Iris wanted to stop the car to take it in. The injustice of it was almost too much to take.
‘Yep. I asked Susan about it, before they took her away. They gave her a quick examination in the ambulance before taking her to the hospital. The way she was screaming you’d have heard her over in Boston.’
‘I heard her screaming, she’d done that earlier too, but… she had my head under water, I couldn’t hear anything.’
‘Yeah, well, she probably didn’t think anyone else could either. It seems that Susan couldn’t have children, but that wasn’t the case with Kit, he had two children, both before he’d married Susan. In the beginning, he’d employed her to take care of them before his first wife died.’ Slattery tossed the fag aside thoughtfully. ‘You’d know straight off, even with all the fancy elocution, that she came from nowhere and nothing. Being married to Kit Marshall was her ticket to the kind of life she could only have dreamed of, she wasn’t letting anything come between them, not even his daughters.’
Why She Ran Page 25