He had listened as she talked about the things she felt she was missing out on, the friends who were hitting the gym every night while she sat here putting on weight.
The man had almost suggested she get the axe from the shed and cut some wood if she wanted to lose weight, but in the end, he had decided not to bother.
When Sam had come along things had calmed down for a while, as if she realised that living here was a safer place to raise a child rather than on some mundane estate.
But over the last twelve months she had started to raise the old complaints, lamenting the fact that ''Sam has no friends to play with'' had been the latest form of attack. His hands closed on the wheel, trying to use his son to get her own way was a…, a… 'Cunt's trick,' the voice inside insinuated.
The man nodded in agreement, he knew people who would love to live here, people who would appreciate how lucky they were to have the room to breathe. To be able to open your front door and not have to worry about cars flying past, driven by desperate individuals, trapped in the rat race, dashing to work so they could hit those deadlines, living in fear of failing and losing their shitty jobs, jobs they no doubt hated. He had spent time on the estates, in fact, he had one or two mates who lived there, and he knew that each and every one of them would swap places with him in a heartbeat. Yet his idiot wife wanted to give all that up. If she had her way, they would sell the house and buy somewhere more expensive, leaving them with a mortgage to pay.
'Not a fucking chance,' the voice spat.
The dog by his side licked its chops and then started to pant again, as if attuned to his burgeoning anger.
Pulling out another cigarette, he lit up and blew the smoke out angrily.
He knew what was coming next, it might take a few weeks or even months, but eventually she would give him the ultimatum, either sell up and move or she was going to take Sam and file for divorce, demanding half of what the house was worth.
The thought made him seethe, this house had been left to him by his father along with the business, and his wife would see all that vanish just so she could drink Prosecco with her bitch friends. She would piss on all the years of backbreaking graft his father had done as he'd made sure his son and future generations were taken care of.
He pictured his father dying in the bedroom he now looked up at. Sixty-five years of age, broken by the endless years of toil, his old man had smiled as he died, his son by the bed gripping his hand tight as he slipped away.
It had been like a runner passing on the baton to the next man – who would take it willingly and run for as long and as far as he could – until it came time to hand the baton over to the next generation.
Sam might only be six but already he was showing an interest in what his father did for a living, the seeds were being sown, yet they needed love and attention to make sure they grew. How would he be able to do that on some estate, trying to teach his son what he needed to carry on with the family business? His mind showed him exactly how it would be, they would be in some breezeblock garage attached to the four-bedroomed house, neighbours hemmed in around them as he tried to teach Sam how to use a lathe, and all the time his son would be looking at his friends pedalling by on their bikes, yearning to be out there with them. His son would grow and then the day would come when he told his father he had no interest in mechanics, he would turn and walk away and that would be the end of things.
His wife looking smug as Sam turned his back on everything his father stood for.
His lips drew back in a snarl as he glared at the bedroom window, he had provided his wife with everything, yet still she wasn't satisfied.
The anger roared, and he slammed the gearbox into reverse and backed around in a tight circle.
'We'll see about that, you fucking bitch,' he spat, planting his foot to the floor.
'Fun and games.'
The wheels spun and then they managed to find grip and he set off, his face smeared with a look of pure hatred as the tyres crunched over the snow, sounding like small bones being crushed beneath the weight of the van.
Twenty minutes later, he parked up on Miry Lane, the street that led onto the industrial estate was devoid of any other vehicles. Leaving the dog in the van, he retrieved the bag from the back, and pulled his hood up before striding under the bridge and into the town centre.
Head bowed, bag in hand, he zeroed in on his destination, a savage smile curling his lips, his eyes still blazing with fury.
29
Lasser was trying his best to shelter around the side of the building, taking the opportunity to grab a crafty smoke, the fields stretching out before him, the ploughed earth now completely covered with snow.
Zipping his puffer jacket to the top, he shivered before taking another hurried pull on the cigarette.
He thought of Dorothy Marsh standing amongst the mouse droppings, watching with disbelieving eyes as the crime scene tent was erected around the remains of her dead husband. Her hands had twisted together, her bottom lip trembling, as if she expected to wake any second to find that it had all been a glorious dream and that she was back in her nightmare reality.
With a sigh, he wondered what would happen to her. After living in the crumbling house for so long would she be able to move on with what little time she had left, could she wipe the slate clean after decades of abuse or would the memory of her husband still haunt her? He pictured the woman, shuffling around the house, tormented by his malevolent spirit, retreating to her safe haven as the walls closed in around her.
'Shitty world,' he mumbled just as Odette walked around the corner.
'First sign of madness is talking to yourself,' she said straight-faced before blowing into cupped hands.
'Yeah, well, who would know the difference?' he asked.
Hunching her shoulders, she turned her back to the bitter north wind. 'Carole's drawing up a list of events around town, she wants officers in attendance in case the killer tries to plant the head.'
'We don't have enough people to keep our eyes on everything, besides, the first head was lodged into the tree less than twenty-four hours after the killing.'
'You're saying he could have already placed it somewhere?'
Lasser nodded as he took another drag on the cigarette. 'Forgive the pun, but he's well ahead of us.'
Odette shook her head at the lame attempt at a joke. 'Don't give up the day job.'
Their eyes met and suddenly she thought of the day before when he had pondered the possibility of sailing away into the sunset with Jackie.
'What does Carole want us to do?' he asked.
'She said we need to have another word with Dorothy Marsh, find out if her husband had any enemies.'
Flicking the cigarette away, he nodded. 'Might be best if we go in separate cars, in case one of us gets bogged down in the snow.'
'Makes sense,' she replied as they walked around the corner into the teeth of the sharp wind.
'Jesus, it's cold,' Lasser complained as they battled over to the cars, the windscreens already coated with snow.
Thankfully, the wipers did their job, after a couple of minutes, Lasser gave the thumbs up through the side window and they headed for the gates, Lasser leading the way.
30
Craig weaved through the throng of shoppers, the bag containing the bottle of perfume and earrings in his right hand, his left adjusting the scarf around his neck as the wind slithered its way through the crowd, taking any vestiges of heat with it.
As he walked, he perused the stalls selling everything from Italian leather handbags to cheeses from around the world.
'Get your pulled pork ciabatta rolls here!' one of the stallholders bellowed in a pure northern accent that sounded harsh to the ear.
Smiling, he passed the stall and eventually breaking free of the crowds he lengthened his stride, his breath streaming out into the cold afternoon air. Most of the shops were open, desperately trying to tempt the people on the street who were already laden d
own with shopping bags.
Reaching Barclays bank, he stopped for a moment to get his bearings before angling left and then right, cutting between two buildings he emerged into the churchyard and stopped to admire the building. Gargoyles peered down at him with sandstone eyes, looking surreal as they sported white afros of snow, he could see cameras strategically placed on the corners of the church, no doubt as a deterrent in case anyone tried stealing the lead from the roof, or spraying graffiti onto the ancient stone walls.
When his phone beeped, he fumbled it from his pocket, checking the text a frown plucked at his brow and he pocketed the phone without replying.
He was in the process of turning when the figure emerged from the ginnel at a run, heading straight for him.
Craig took a step back in surprise, the man looked to be no older than twenty, dressed in tatty-looking tracksuit top and bottoms – typical chavs regalia – he made a grab for the bag in Craig's hand.
'Fucking give it 'ere!' the attacker yelled.
At the last second, Craig whipped the bag away, his feet sliding to the left in the snow as the man grunted and lunged again.
This time Craig went on the offensive, his right hand shot out, making a fist that slammed into the side of the man's head, sending him reeling. He went sprawling in the snow and then whipped his head around, his eyes wide in shocked surprise.
'Bastard!' he snarled, scrambling to his feet, his right hand dipped into his pocket and pulled out the dull-bladed kitchen knife.
Dropping the bag, Craig twisted his boots into the snow.
'Why d'ya fucking hit me?' the young man asked, his acne-scarred face plastered with anger.
Craig blinked in disbelief, then the yob swiped the blade towards him.
'Gut you!' he snarled.
Then he was writhing on the floor as Craig drove his fist out again, this time hitting him fully in the throat.
His legs thrashed, his face turning crimson as he tried to draw air into his lungs, the blade dropping from his grasping hand into the snow.
'Oh my God, are you OK?'
Craig glanced over his shoulder to find a woman hurrying towards him through the snow, mid-thirties, dark haired, dressed in black, white dog collar at her throat.
He nodded as she moved forwards, her eyes widening when she saw that the man on the snow-covered floor was struggling to breath.
Just as he was starting to turn blue, the attacker sucked in a huge gasp of air that set him off coughing.
Mia Cross felt herself relax a little as the man rolled onto his side, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through the numbers before tapping the screen.
'Who are you ringing?' Craig asked.
'You almost killed me, you twat,' the injured man managed to squeeze out the words before coughing again, his cheeks ballooned, spittle dribbling from his stretched mouth.
'I'm ringing a friend of mine, he…'
'A friend?'
Mia glanced at him and nodded. 'Police officer.'
'Is that necessary?'
'Hi, Mia, what can I do for you?' Lasser asked.
'I'm in the churchyard, someone's just been assaulted.'
'Has anyone been injured?'
'Well, the attacker had a knife, but the man he went for has managed to disarm him,' Mia answered as she looked down at the figure who was rubbing his tender throat, his pale eyes streaming with tears.
'OK, hang fire, we're just passing through the town centre, so we can be there in a couple of minutes.'
'Thanks, Lasser,' she said, relief flooding her voice.
The phone beeped, and Mia licked her lips, despite the freezing air she could feel the perspiration on her forehead.
Bending down, Craig picked his bag up, shaking off the loose snow then turning to Mia.
'There was really no need to call the police.'
Mia looked at the man with the thick dark hair, he smiled yet the warmth never reached his eyes.
'He had a knife and as much as I believe in turning the other cheek we can't just let him walk away to mug someone else.'
'Perhaps he's learned his lesson.'
'Yes, well, I don't want to take that risk, it's obvious you can take care of yourself but next time he could target someone who can't.'
Craig looked at her and then shrugged. 'OK, we'll let them take care of it.'
The man on the ground tried to push to his knees but then he slumped down again, face first in the snow.
Mia watched him, her face etched with concern. 'He was after the bag, wasn't he?'
'I guess so.'
She glanced at the Debenhams carrier. 'Christmas present?'
Craig smiled again and this time she noticed a warmth creep into his eyes. 'Perfume. Not the most original of gifts but I'm not very good at shopping.'
'Listen, I need to open the church, I have a carol service to arrange and…'
'You go ahead, I'll keep my eye on our man here.'
Mia moved away, her dark hair and clothing looking stark against the snow-smothered churchyard.
Craig gave the man on the ground a cursory glance then watched as the vicar pulled a bunch of keys from her pocket and stepped beneath the stone archway above the church entrance.
When Mia screamed, Craig heard the visceral horror lance out into the freezing air, even the attacker on the floor managed to lift his head at the sound.
Seeing Mia reel backwards, her feet sliding from beneath her, Craig ran as quickly as he could on the snow. He made it just in time, grabbing her arms in a firm grip as she fell backwards.
'What the…?'
Mia jabbed out her right hand, the index finger quivering.
Craig looked towards the studded church door, the hessian sack had been looped around the handle, the brown cloth slashed open to reveal the head nestled in the bottom. Tufts of grey hair sprouted from the crown of the head, the eyes were screwed shut, the bottom set of false teeth dangled from the mouth at an angle.
Mia lowered her right arm, her shocked eyes fixed on the horrific sight, her lips mumbling a prayer as the gargoyles grinned down at her.
31
Charlie Tanner strode along the tree-lined track, the spaniel sticking close to his side, the snow crisp beneath his booted feet, the double-barrelled shotgun broken open over the crook of his left arm. Fat flakes drifted down silently from the gunmetal sky. A brace of pheasants dangled from his right hand, dripping speckles of blood to the white ground.
When the corner of house came into view, he licked his lips, imagining the taste of the single malt he would soon be drinking in front of the roaring fire.
To his left, a woodpigeon took to the air, causing a smattering of snow to fall from the branch it had been perched on, the snow landed on the dog who stopped to have a shake before following its master. Reaching a gap in the trees, he paused to look out at the magnificent view, Loch Coruisk was still and glass-like, blending with the sky on the distant horizon, before the snow-smothered Cuillin mountains rose like a mirage on the very edge of his vision.
With a contented sigh, he turned from the view and carried on walking, leaving parallel trails in his wake. As he approached the squat stone-built house, he caught the first whiff of woodsmoke on the icy air, but when he saw the Range Rover parked behind the five-bar gate, he stopped, a frown suddenly appearing on his weathered brow.
Dropping the pheasants to the ground, he closed the barrel with a clack, his finger curling around the triggers, narrowed eyes raking back and forth, searching for movement. The dog stopped by his side, well-trained it sat down and waited, tongue lolling as it panted in the freezing air.
Seconds later, Tanner walked forwards, though there was nothing nonchalant now about the way he moved. The shotgun was held across his chest, his stride purposeful as he closed in on the house, his eyes ever observant, left hand tightening on the barrel.
After twenty years in the army, he had learned when things didn't feel right, learned never to ignore that unerring sixth sense.
For your average man, a car turning up at their home would be no big deal. But he had moved here specifically because the place was remote, so remote, in fact, he could go weeks without seeing another human being let alone a Range Rover parked in the snow by the side of the squat snow-smothered house.
He was twenty feet from the front door when it swung open and a man in black smiled out at him, a glass in his left hand.
Tanner stopped and almost brought the gun to bear on the figure in the doorway and then he stopped, realising that he was too far away to use the weapon effectively. He also knew that if he did attempt to raise it then he would be dead before he had time to pull the twin triggers.
'I hope you weren't thinking of using that?' the man inquired, as if reading his thoughts.
With a shake of the head, Tanner cracked the gun open and pulled out the two red cartridges before pocketing them. Taking a deep breath, he walked forwards, despite the freezing conditions he felt his body start to sweat beneath the thick Alpine jacket.
During his time in the army he had come across all kinds of men, cowards and killers, people who relished warfare, who fought because it served a burning need in their psyche. In any other walk of life, they would have been locked up and the key thrown away. Yet in all that time he had never met anyone like the man who now stood before him, a beaming smile on his angular features, his unruly hair as white as the snow that covered the ground, his eyes colder than the ice that lay on the distant Cuillin Mountains.
'Long time no see,' Tanner said as he took the offered glass of whisky and knocked it back in one quick swallow.
'You look nervous,' the man said easily, the smile still locked in place.
'You always make me fucking nervous,' Tanner replied and then blanched when he saw the smile vanish in an instant, replaced by a cold look of disapproval.
'I know it's been a while since we met face-to-face, so I'll allow you that one profanity.'
Desolate Hearts Page 10
