He had no idea what he was going to do, all the earlier certainty had dissipated as the effects of the pills had worn off. His mentor, tired of his whingeing, had left him to cope on his own and he was clueless. Though he knew, the police would be out there looking for him, dozens of them, maybe hundreds scouring the town moving slowly, inexorably towards him. Robert had no doubt they'd be going from one disused building to the next with huge dogs on leads trying to catch his scent and when they found it… He shivered at the prospect and drew his legs up to his chin before pulling the crumpled newspaper from his pocket. The face of his tormentor peered up at him, the one who had tried to put a stop to his fun and games. Before she became involved, he'd been on a roll, the filth had been clueless and now everything was falling apart. Suddenly he missed the flat, even the stench of spices, and the rubbish stink that would seep through the crack under the door. Though most of all he missed talking with his sister, missed the way she would listen as he unburdened himself. She would sit and look at him with love in her eyes as he told her all about how mother had died, how he'd watched through the gap in the door as the man with the kind eyes had placed a hand over her mouth before opening her throat.
At first Cherry had been furious, she'd wanted to try to find him so they could go to the police. Robert had become hysterical and rampaged around the small flat, until Cherry sat scrunched in the corner with fear in her eyes, watching as her half-brother turned into someone she didn't recognise. The sight of her had almost broken him, the terror on her face cut through him like the scalpel he kept in his pocket. Then they'd clung to one another, sobbed and swapped tales of horror and torment.
He began to rip at the newspaper, the fury rising and breaching his pitiful defences. Breath ragged, Robert wiped the sleeve of his stolen jacket across his eyes, sniffed back the tears, and tried to think. Cherry wouldn't want him like this, she'd want him strong and…
'She'd want you to hand yourself in, Robert.'
Robert jerked as if he'd received a buzz of electricity, his hands shot into the air as the paper fluttered to the ground like dirty confetti. 'You're back!' he cried aloud.
'Then again she was always weak.'
'Shut up,' Robert snarled, half thrilled, half terrified that the voice was back.
'If I hadn't intervened she'd have gone to the police and you'd be sitting in a cell by now, rotting away the rest of your pitiful life.'
'I…'
'Always remember, Robert, that without me you're less than nothing.'
'I want to go home,' he whispered.
'And where is that exactly? You have no home, no family, no friends, in the end there is only me and don't you forget it.'
Robert blinked into the gloom; he could hear the rats scurrying beneath the rubbish, could smell the scent of the canal as it drifted in through the broken window.
The voice sighed inside his head.
91
Lasser checked his watch. 'Christ, look at the time.'
Almost half-three and already the light was beginning to fade, the town centre was heaving with police officers, most of whom Lasser didn't recognise, recruits pulled in from Manchester and Liverpool. Some were walking around aimlessly, others stopping the shoppers and showing them an image of Flynn.
'This is a waste of time,' he sighed.
'You don't think he's around here?' Coyle asked.
'No chance, he'll be holed up somewhere waiting for it to go dark, another hour and he'll be on the move again.'
'Well we've got dog handlers searching any derelict buildings within a half-mile radius.'
Lasser trudged his way to the churchyard, blue crime scene tape strung out between the lychgate though the churchyard itself was empty. Lasser could see where trampling feet had turned the grass into a quagmire.
'I still think he's going to try his luck at Palmer's house,' he whispered.
'But that would be crazy.'
'Yeah well, I think we've already established the state of his mind don't you?'
'So, why don't we go and wait there?'
'Because of the damage he could do in the meantime.'
Coyle pulled off her hat and slid a strand of hair behind her ear. 'OK, let's say he was trying to make his way to her house, which way would he go?'
Lasser dragged out the fake cigarette but the battery had gone flat.
'Here have one of mine,' Susan pulled out a pack of Silk Cut and Lasser gratefully lit up, his eyes locked on the bushes where Tommy Grieves had died.
'If it were me I'd go via the canal. I mean, between here and Hindley it's a labyrinth of pathways and he could stay well-hidden until he decides to make a move.'
'So, why don't we try along there?'
Lasser looked up; the clouds were skittering across the sky pushed by a stiff breeze. 'Right, come on, we can park at the top end of Poolstock Lane and have a nosey.'
Ten minutes later, he bumped the car onto the kerb and parked up. Then they were scrambling over the fence and down onto the towpath. To the left, the canal ran back towards the town centre, past the rear of Mellor's scrapyard and the old mills. The heyday of the cotton mills was long gone and some of the old brick buildings had been transformed into luxury apartments that no one could afford. To the right the canal ran arrow straight, cutting through the fields and dissecting the huge swathes of land, flooded when the mines closed down, the passage of time had turned the land into a haven for wildlife.
'Which way?' Susan asked.
'Well if he had any sense, Flynn would try and get as far away from the town centre as possible, so we might as well head out of town.'
They walked past a lock, the water trapped between the huge wooden gates was littered with empty cans and crisp packets. Overhanging trees dripped water onto their heads, the shale path slowly turning to grey mud. After ten minutes of tiptoeing around huge puddles, Lasser spotted the derelict building on the opposite bank. Twenty feet away a small stone bridge arched over the water.
'What do you reckon, Susan, worth a try?' he asked, pointing at the building.
'Well, I'd imagine he'd be trying to stay as dry as possible so…'
'Right, wait here.'
'Hang on, Bannister told everyone to stick together no heroics remember?'
'Under normal circumstances I'd agree, but if Flynn's asleep in there then you'll hear me shouting from two fields away, giving you plenty of time to call for backup.'
He saw her blush again, as if embarrassed that she hadn't thought things through properly. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be, it show's you're using your head, which in my book makes a change. New recruits tend to spend their first three years terrified to open their gobs in case they say the wrong thing or rub someone up the wrong way.'
She smiled and nodded her thanks, Lasser set off towards the bridge. Coyle watched as he climbed the steep embankment before leaping over a small fence. Then he was making his way across the bridge to the other side of the water. Flicking up the collar of her jacket, she looked left and right but there was no sign of anyone on the towpath. Two ducks floated past, the rain intensified and she shielded her eyes as she watched Lasser approach the old building.
He pushed his way through a patch of nettles, his arms held high in the soggy air, a sour look on his face. Sliding alongside the building, he stuck his head through the gap where a window used to sit, before placing a hand on the ledge and scrambling inside. She saw his head and shoulders framed in the square and then he turned and gave her the thumbs up before vanishing from view.
In the distance, she could hear the traffic on Poolstock Lane, the occasional bleat of a car horn, the heavy rumble of a truck. Coyle chewed a fingernail and then spat it into the water, her eyes fixed on the building opposite. Resting a hand on the handle of her baton, she fought down a sudden feeling of unease. Then a screech filled the air and she gasped and took a step back, the duck came zipping in low before landing on the water, webbed feet splayed, water sprayed up in a narrow arc.
Lasser appeared back at the window, brandishing what looked like the remains of a newspaper.
'I think he's been here!' He jumped back onto the overgrown path and trotted towards the bridge. Susan ran forward, the epitome of two star-crossed lovers dashing to one another like characters in a soppy rom-com.
Halfway down the embankment, Lasser slipped and slid to the bottom on his backside.
'Fucking great, as if I'm not wet enough,' he snarled.
Susan could feel the bubble of laughter rise in her chest.
Lasser grimaced as he felt the water soak through his trousers, when he looked up he could see Coyle desperately trying to hide her grin behind a raised hand. 'Something funny, PC Coyle?'
'No, sir.'
He held the paper out to her; she could make out the date at the top and a section of a woman's face, a sharp slash of blonde hair and one eye.
'Erin Nash,' she said, looking up at Lasser, any residue of laughter had vanished from her eyes.
'The one and only.'
'So you think Flynn's spent some time in there?' she looked across the water and shivered.
'I also found this,' he held up a white oblong box, the label had been pulled from the front. 'I think Flynn's been popping the pills while he's been running amok.'
'What are they?'
'Not a clue.'
'Should we call in backup?'
Lasser slid out his phone. 'I'll ring Bannister see what he wants to do but I don't think he'll be in a hurry to drag the cavalry down here…'
'But this proves he's been here.'
'I know, but it doesn't mean he's heading away from the town, he could just as easily have doubled back.'
'But you don't think so?'
Lasser thought for a moment. 'I still think he intends going to Palmer's house, he has unfinished business with them both.'
'So shouldn't we be heading out there?'
Lasser slid the phone to his ear. 'Let's put the ball in Bannister's court, and let him decide.'
Susan nodded and looked across the water, she could see the hole in the side of the building, a black square that seemed to swallow the fading light.
92
Left to his own devises, Robert would have been hopelessly lost. Paths seemed to branch off in every direction, a myriad of confusion. Every time he came to a junction, the voice would bark out a command. There was no conversation, he would hear the words, left or right and simply follow the instructions.
Before leaving the stinking, rat-infested building he'd popped two pills into his mouth, sliding them beneath his tongue in an effort to extend the effects. Like a man trying to cross the desert with a limited amount of water. Though every time he cut down another path he felt the confusion grow. If the voice deserted him now, he would never find his way back to the hovel in the woods. Never get back to the magical place with the life affirming tablets hidden beneath the blanket of dried-out leaves. The thought was terrifying, he wanted to voice his fear, but was scared the voice would become angry and abandon him again; leaving him wandering in circles until he starved to death or the police tracked him down.
Occasionally, he would see a dog walker in the distance and his fingers would close over the handle of the narrow blade.
'No,' the voice whispered and Flynn would slide the knife back into his pocket. Beneath the trees the cloying heat began to build, horseflies attracted by the scent of sweat began to bombard him, he would hear them droning around his head and flap his hands in distress. This place made him feel weak, the overhanging trees pressing down on him, the sky fragmented by an intricate web of thin branches. Robert felt beyond tired, he'd hardly slept in days, even the tablets suddenly seemed ineffectual against the bone-aching weariness. He tried to think happy thoughts and found it impossible to recollect a time in his life when he had been truly happy, the realisation seemed to slow him down to no more than a shuffle.
'What's the matter, Robert?'
'I can't go on,' he stumbled forward, landing heavily on his knees, Robert felt the jeans rip and the grit slice into his skin. Kneeling on all fours his head suddenly felt beyond heavy, he wanted to lie down here and sleep, close his eyes and rest.
Inside his head, the voice sighed. 'What are you doing?'
'Five minutes, just let me rest for five minutes, please?'
'Get off the path and into the trees, then you can rest.'
'No, I want to stay here.'
'If you don't move, I'll leave you and this time I won't come back.'
Robert didn't care, all he wanted was sleep. 'Five minutes.'
'If I go you'll be lost here, you'll never find your way back to the cottage.'
Robert suddenly realised that's why the voice had insisted he leave the tablets behind, so they could be used as a weapon. Heaving upright, he stood in the middle of the path swaying with exhaustion. 'I hate you,' he said aloud.
'You hate me now but you'll learn to love me later.'
Robert staggered off into the undergrowth. 'Hate you,' he whispered.
Inside his brain, he could hear the distant sound of mocking laughter.
93
They watched as Paul Currie headed over the bridge, the huge dog – – unaffected by the brambles and nettles – dragged the handler along the overgrown path.
'So you think he's heading away from the town centre?' Bannister asked, he was dressed in a black Berghaus jacket with matching waterproof pants. Lasser shivered, his arse cheeks were ice cold, his feet waterlogged. The heavy rain slid off Bannister's top-of-the-range coat onto his top-of-the-range waterproof trousers, bastard.
'Yeah, it looks that way,' he eventually replied.
Coyle stood by his side looking equally drenched, hair like rats' tails hanging down to her shoulders.
'How far is it from here to Palmer's house?' Bannister asked.
Lasser shrugged. 'Well, the canal goes through Platt Bridge and then…'
'I don't need a geography lesson, Lasser, I just want to know how far?
Lasser grimaced and then spat into the canal, Bannister frowned.
'If you follow the water it probably gets you to within half a mile of the house, overall I'd say about six from here to Hindley.'
Bannister rubbed his hands together to generate some heat. 'I remember coming along here with the cycling club, paths everywhere if I remember rightly.'
Lasser tried to imagine Bannister on a pushbike; his chunky legs encased in tight Lycra with one of those stupid helmets perched on his head. When he glanced at Coyle, she raised an eyebrow and flickered a smile as if she were picturing the same image.
'I didn't have you down as a cyclist,' he said.
Bannister narrowed his eyes. 'Ten miles a day, regular as clockwork, at my peak I could have given Wiggins a run for his money.'
Lasser felt like saying if you did a decent day's work you wouldn't have the time or energy to go on a ten-mile bike ride, 'Very impressive.'
Bannister thrust his hands into the fleece-lined pockets. 'Why do I get the impression that you're always taking the piss?'
Lasser kept his face poker straight. 'I don't know at you mean.'
'I bet you don't.'
The dog barked and Currie stuck his head out of the window. 'He's been here all right, sir, Max is going mad.'
'Right come on, we might as well see where he takes us.'
Lasser wiped a hand across his face and peered up at the sky, unsurprisingly the heavens opened yet again.
Bannister grinned before pulling up his hood. 'You should invest in a good set of waterproofs, Lasser; help keep you nice and snug,' he set off walking and Lasser gave him the finger behind his back.
'Come on, Coyle.'
'Permission to shove him in the canal, sir,' she whispered.
Lasser shook his head. 'Don't bother, knowing Bannister he can probably walk on water.'
94
Shaun opened his eyes and stared up at the trees; despite the cold, a thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead. The
image of Gemma holding their dead child still engrained on his brain, the sound of distant gunfire echoing away into oblivion. Sitting up, he immediately reached for the pouch of tobacco, his fingers shaking as he drizzled a pinch of brown flake into the paper. Half a minute later, he let the smoke out on a quaking sigh, he couldn't carry on like this, it was beyond him, too much had happened that couldn't be put right.
Shaun thought of his wife and felt ashamed at the way he'd treated her, ever since he'd come back from Afghanistan he'd changed. Gemma had tried to get him to talk about the experience and he'd pushed her away, he'd wanted to forget, not trawl through the whole ugly mess. However, things hadn't worked out that way, the more he refused to talk, the worse things became. Shaun had known he was hurting her, yet he'd been unable to find a way around the issues, unable to see a way free of the pain. Therefore, he'd sat in the garden in the pissing rain, day after day, week after week, trying desperately to hold onto the here and now while his brain was still thousands of miles away in a foreign land full of desert-dry heat and death.
The irony that Gemma had died while he was having one of his good days wasn't lost on him. It was as if some God with a twisted sense of humour had tossed him a fragile lifeline, and waited until he took a hold before yanking it away.
Shaun flicked the cigarette into the wet leaves and pushed himself to his feet before checking his watch. The shadows beneath the trees were lengthening; it reminded him of being on manoeuvres, waiting in some nameless ancient forest for the night to come. Everything seemed familiar, the silence, the sharp smell of wet earth and rotting vegetation, the only thing missing was the company of friends and colleagues. He knew those days of feeling at one with another group of people were gone, never to return. For one mind-shattering moment Shaun thought he was going to cry, clamping his teeth together he drew air in through his nose and held it. If he let emotion swamp him now, if he broke, then he knew it would all be over. There would be nothing left to do but take the knife from the bag and open the vein along his forearm and down to his wrist.
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