by Scott Hunter
Gravel crunched, getting closer. Moran found a set of stone steps and descended into the wilderness of the gardens. He headed for a tall elevation of hawthorn and waited to see if he could catch a glimpse of his pursuer. A figure appeared on the terrace; moving cautiously but with a measure of athletic grace it went swiftly to the steps, paused as if scanning the darkness, and descended into the garden.
Moran followed the contours of the hedge and came presently to a ninety-degree dead end. No, wait, there was a gap to the right. He followed it and came to another abrupt turn. With a jolt of panic he realised what he had done.
It’s a maze, Brendan, you Irish tosser. You’ve blundered into the maze…
He limped quickly to the next right angle, trying to remember everything he’d read about mazes. There was a formula; every maze was designed with one. Absurdly the Hampton Court maze anecdote from ‘Three Men in a Boat’ came to mind. In this story, the unfortunate subject had confidently gathered a selection of lost individuals within the maze and promised to deliver them safely back to the entrance. The theory was that you just had to keep turning right and eventually you’d find yourself at the beginning. Moran couldn’t remember how it had turned out but had a strong suspicion that the theory had failed. He took the next right anyway, trying to suppress the unnerving thought that whoever was following him might know their way around the maze with their eyes closed. Someone, for instance, who had lived here all their lives.
Someone like Rufus de Courcy.
Moran froze as furtive footsteps approached. Grasping his makeshift club he waited at the next right angle. The footsteps came closer until, as they were almost upon him, Moran realised that his pursuer was negotiating a parallel path on the other side of the hedge. He held his breath as the footfalls came to a halt and the feral sound of something sniffing the air made the hairs on his neck stand to attention. Moran felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck as he was scented and prayed that the light coastal breeze continued to blow towards him, in his favour…
The maze grew thicker, untended, so that it became harder to pass quietly through the barriers of foliage without giving his position away. Moran’s plan was simple: find the centre and wait for his shadow to join him. He turned right.
And right again.
Stopped, listened.
Silence.
He crept on, bent low. The maze turned left and Moran went with it. A long straight section, one more right turn and he found himself at the edge of a broad, roughly circular open space. But he wasn’t the first to get here. Directly in the centre and seated at a long trestle table two figures rested at ease, heads bowed towards each other as if engaged in deep and companionable conversation.
Moran waited to see if the couple had noticed his arrival but they seemed so intent on each other that it he judged it unlikely. As he walked towards the table a sick anticipatory dread in the pit of his stomach told him that the two seated figures had long lost the ability to converse with each other – or anybody else, for that matter.
His assessment was soon confirmed. One of the skeletons, the incongruously fedora-wearing tweed-jacketed male, rested its bony fingers on the female’s wrist. She, in turn, was arranged in such a way that she seemed to be gazing rapturously into her partner’s empty eye sockets. In one hand she was holding a strip of lacy cloth – a handkerchief, perhaps? Another detail struck Moran immediately: the dental layout of both skulls featured a single gold tooth on the upper set. Whoever they were, they obviously belonged together.
He was jolted from his examination by the sound of foliage impatiently thrust aside. Moran thought quickly; after making a careful note of the posture it took him only a few seconds to move the male skeleton to a new location under an overgrown section of hedge and take its former place at the table. Moran slipped on the damp jacket, placed the fedora gingerly on his head and let his hand rest lightly on his attentive partner’s wrist.
He sensed another presence nearby. It took all Moran’s willpower to remain still, not turn his head. He had positioned his woodpile club within easy reach alongside him on the bench. His peripheral vision caught a movement; someone was slowly quartering the circle. Moran prayed that he had sufficiently camouflaged the male skeleton and that the borrowed hat would hide his face for the precious few seconds he needed.
The newcomer backed towards the table with a relaxed and confident ease. Moran’s spirits lifted. His hunch had been correct; to the de Courcy family the seated couple were a familiar feature, so familiar that they would hardly be given a second glance. Moran held his breath. He was sure that his pursuer meant to sit quietly and wait for Moran to stumble into the centre, and that being the case, the plan might work. The table creaked as it took the additional weight. Moran’s partner jiggled at the movement, her jaw flapping loosely like some ghastly Halloween boogieman. Even now Moran hesitated; he wasn’t one of nature’s naturally violent men, but then he caught sight of the axe dangling loosely in Matt Harrison’s grip and all doubts were quashed. He’d created the advantage, now he had to act on it.
His free hand closed around the club. He saw Harrison stiffen as he sensed something, but by then Moran had brought the club around in a wide, swinging arc and smashed it into the side of Harrison’s unprotected head. He collapsed like a felled tree and the axe slipped from his grip, dropping onto the turf with a wet thud.
Moran shed his disguise with a shudder and got straight to work anchoring his pursuer’s hands and feet to the table using the flex which had held his skeletal alter ego in place. The cord was tough and Moran doubted that, even if he came round over the next half hour, the youngest de Courcy would be able to free himself without assistance. A quick examination satisfied Moran that his victim was breathing normally. He’d have a cracking headache when he woke up but that would be all.
Moran took a deep breath. Now all he had to do was find his way out.
He caught sight of the axe beneath the table and retrieved it. Hoping he wouldn’t be called upon to use it Moran set off once again into the maze. It took him longer to find his way out but eventually he took a final, cautious left turn and found himself a free man.
As he pondered his next move the recheat of a hunting horn rang out, a rapid, repetitive burst of triplets which, Moran recalled from his scanty knowledge of hunting, signified a find.
Somewhere in or near the woods the quarry was at bay, and as it wasn’t him, that left just one other possibility.
Celine.
Chapter 30
The woods surrounding Cernham Manor pre-dated the eleventh century Domesday survey in which the family de Courcy, closely associated as they were with the Conqueror King and his Norman aristocracy, were noted as wealthy landowners. Before the conquest such woodland would have covered much of the island: oak, hornbeam, ash and then, as areas were gradually cleared for farmland, secondary forests of willow, birch, alder and spruce. With the introduction of feudalism the de Courcys thrived, and due primarily to the fearsome reputation of Guillaume de Courcy and his close relationship with the new king, their land was left untouched and unmolested. The woodland remained as it had done for centuries, as dense and mysterious as the Mirkwood of Tolkien’s imagination.
It was into this tangle of antiquity that Moran’s feet reluctantly carried him. Although a rational man, his Irish upbringing had been informed by deep superstition and – for his mother, if not his father – the forest had always been a place of magic and haunted spirits. Moran tried to put such thoughts aside but couldn’t help but recall his recent dream of the fidnemed, the forest shrine. As if in response a sudden rattling gust of wind prompted him to find cover until he was sure it was safe to rejoin the path.
He was painfully aware of the odds against him; Rufus de Courcy was not only a skilled and deadly hunter but also a long-term serial killer. Whether you took his mental instability into account or not made no material difference; Rufus had the advantage. This was his patch, his neck of the woods, his hunting gr
ound. But what were the alternatives? As he crept on his rational mind obligingly provided a solution.
Back to the car. Get to Exeter. Request reinforcements. Bring the gun boys in.
But the car had been immobilised, and even if he could get it started, by the time he returned with the cavalry in tow Celine would have become the latest statistic in Rufus de Courcy’s long record of female homicide. And that, Moran promised himself, wasn’t going to happen. But strangely, now that he knew the circumstances which had tipped the boy over the edge he found himself in two minds. Sure, Rufus was a killer, but how culpable? Surely the responsibility rested with the two people Moran considered to be the real villains: Richard de Courcy and his mother. Or should that be villeins? No, that title belonged to the cowed Cernham villagers, locked as they were in some archaic bond of servitude with the manor’s controlling family. Blame could be levelled there, too. If only someone had had the courage to speak up years ago…
He came to a halt at the edge of a clearing. Moonlight played over the remains of an ancient, storm-damaged beech, roots pointing heavenwards like pale, beckoning fingers. Moran hesitated. He felt as though he had been transported back to his childhood to find himself lost and alone in a fairytale world of ghosts and monsters. The shiver of fear which ran down his spine was caused not by Rufus and the threat of physical harm but rather by the unseen world of runes, three-way-meets and flitting spirits which the forest seemed so graphically to invoke.
Keep moving, Brendan, old son. Keep moving…
He distanced himself from the beech, skirting the clearing’s perimeter and soon he was swallowed up once more in the density of Cernham’s ancient forest.
The darkness was thick and tangible . He slowed to a snail’s pace, hands outstretched. He knew from conversations with Terl that the ground was treacherous in many outlying areas of the woodland where the forest gave way to peat bog. Moran had no desire to end his days entombed in peat.
He had just remembered the torch built into his mobile phone and was reaching into his jacket to retrieve it when he realised that, minute by minute, the quality of light was improving. He looked up through the lattice of leaves and branches and grinned with relief. He’d lost all track of time and couldn’t for the life of him remember when he’d been so delighted to welcome the beginning of a new day.
Dawn was breaking over Cernham.
DC Bola Odunsi had had better mornings. He’d woken with a terrible sense of guilt at around five and no matter what he’d tried, sleep had slipped right out of reach. He kept telling himself that he’d done the right thing; what choice had he had?
Always keep the senior officer in the picture. Especially someone with Wilder’s reputation. But the nagging doubt buzzing away in his brain would not be suppressed. What if Brit was right? What if Wilder was bent? But how? From what he’d heard she was on course for Superintendent short term, and maybe even ACC medium term. A high flyer. A model copper. Surely she was on the level?
Like Sheldrake? The buzzing voice tormented him. Like sister, like brother…
He’d got up at that point and made himself a lemon tea. Now it was quarter to seven and they were outside Tess’ maisonette in Lower Earley. Nice area. He’d thought about buying here himself once. Why hadn’t he? Bit too quiet, maybe. Too suburban. He wondered whether to voice his thoughts to Brit: what was all the fuss about? Why the panic? Everyone overslept now and again, even rank-climbers like Tess Martin. Everything was cool. False alarms all round.
Bola glanced at his partner. Brit was pale, tense-looking as he parked up and unclipped his seat belt.
He turned to Bola. “Well? Are you up for this?” Toby sounded like he looked. Bola shrugged it off.
“Sure. Stop stressing. You’re freaking me out.”
Toby approached the maisonette obliquely, keeping out of sight of the front window. Bola watched as his colleague edged closer, masked his eyes against the reflection, peered in and stepped back. He made an impatient motion with his hand, a get your backside over here gesture.
Bola obliged and stood behind Toby as he rang the bell.
Toby was examining the lock. It wasn’t hard to see the deep scratches on and around the keyhole, the signs of attempted forced entry. Bola watched as his buddy went to the front window again and rapped on it.
“Tess?”
Across the road curtains twitched as the neighbours woke to the sound of Toby’s voice echoing around the quiet close.
“Tess? Open up. Shout if you can hear me.”
Bola felt sick in his stomach, regretting the egg on toast he’d made himself eat before shift.
Toby came back to the door, sized it up and looked at Bola. “OK. No choice.”
“Seriously? She might be on her way to the station. You don’t want to bust her lock. She’ll kill you.”
“Bola, she’s not responding to calls, texts, emails, door knocking. What do you suggest we try next? Semaphore?”
Bola shrugged. “OK Brit. If you think–”
Toby’s boot hit the flimsy woodwork just to the right of the lock and the door caved in.
Bola followed Toby into the maisonette, shaking his head and whistling softly under his breath. Brit was fired up all right, like big time.
The front room was in order. The kitchen the same. No sign of a struggle. They went into the bedroom, Toby first, then Bola.
Neither spoke.
The bedclothes were ruffled, as if somebody had been carelessly flung down. The pillow was in a normal position beneath the headboard, but it was the pillow both men were concentrating on; it was saturated in blood, some of which had stained the topmost part of the duvet and splashed onto the headboard. There was no sign of Tess.
“Oh God,” Toby said quietly.
He turned around but Bola had gone. Toby found him outside emptying his stomach into the flower bed.
“Where is George McConnell? Anyone?” Toby Glascock had reached screaming point. Everything was going to hell: Charlie banged up, Tess missing, George awol, the DCS unavailable, Moran still away – and the really weird thing was, no one else seemed to get it. The station was simply continuing as if it were a normal day, everyone going about their business as usual, sat at their usual desks, drinking their usual coffee, talking their usual bollocks.
He wanted to stand on his desk and shout at them. Yes, they were aware that Tess had, in all probability, been abducted by persons unknown. A break in. A kidnap. A robbery. God forbid, a rape. Every explanation or theory which could be bandied about was being bandied about. Except the one which mattered: the one which said Wilder was up to her neck in it. Maggs too, probably. But how could he say that? All Ts were being crossed, all Is dotted. And guess who was co-ordinating the search for Tess? Yep, in one: DCI Wilder, as senior officer on site, having dispatched Charlie into custody, was now free to take on the responsibility – or so the DCS had apparently told her in a brief moment of availability before he had been whisked into yet another press conference.
And to cap it all they were now surrounded by paparazzi as well as every prominent national correspondent Toby could think of, milling about with fluffy microphones at the ready, poised to pounce as unwary officers made their way in and out of the car park, slavering for any titbits of news or, better still, rumours and gossip.
It was a shambles. And who was going to fix it? Bottom line: it was down to him.
“You OK, Brit?”
Toby looked up to see Bola’s anxious face.
“No, frankly.”
“What can we do, man? It’s out of our hands.”
“Is it?” Toby gave Bola a hard look. “Tess was going to check out Barry’s Bikes this morning with George. I think we should go.”
“I don’t know. Wilder–”
“Screw Wilder.”
“But–”
“Look, Bola,” Toby said, “Wilder’s up to speed with pretty much everything now. The helmet, the hair sample, the match with the lacquer above Banner’s be
d. Right?”
“Right,” Bola said, studying his fingernails. “I guess she had to know all the details if she’s invest–”
Toby waved Bola quiet. “Whatever. But I don’t think she’s exactly earmarked the bike shop as a priority.”
“You what?”
“She won’t follow it up. But we will.”
“Fine by me.”
As they walked to the lift Toby debated whether or not to share his more urgent thoughts with Bola – those thoughts which rested upon Charlie’s divulgence of Brendan Moran’s whereabouts to DCI Wilder. Wilder appeared to be very well informed about the team’s recent covert investigations. Had she been briefed before Tess’ disappearance? And if so, by whom? One thing was certain: if Wilder hadn’t been busy this morning she’d have been all over them like a runaway express train. Sniffing around without her approval was, Toby reckoned, a bollocking offence at the very least. She knew everything, or that’s the way it looked to Toby. He glanced at Bola as they waited for the creaking lift to arrive but the big man’s face was giving nothing away.
Tread carefully, Toby. Very carefully.
Chapter 31
Now he could see where he was going Moran continued at a brisker pace. He was alert for the sound of the horn but since the maze it had been frustratingly – and ominously – silent. Neither had he much confidence that he was even headed in the right direction. He was sure of one thing, though: if he didn’t find Rufus first, Rufus would certainly find him.
The newly-risen sun slanted through the treetops in a smoky kaleidoscope, highlighting a fallen trunk here, an exposure of rotting roots there. Moran picked his way through a constantly changing topography. In a small glade he caught a fleeting and heart-stopping glimpse of a nervous muntjac and followed it into a plantation of willow, which in turn gave way to denser clusters of oak and hornbeam. Nevertheless he felt exposed, the wooden club he still carried worryingly inadequate. As the wood deepened he found himself beneath the spreading umbrella of an ash, its trunk marked by a network of shallow ridges, almost like a map. Moran reached up and pulled at a loose branch. It came away easily and as he examined it he recalled from childhood days of forest lore that the ash was particularly suited for making arrows or spear shafts. He hefted the slim bough. It felt balanced and strong. Five minutes work with his penknife had sharpened the tip to a satisfactory point. He discarded the club and continued along the track, senses tingling for the slightest unexplained noise or movement.
