by Scott Hunter
The horn blast was so close that it stopped Moran in his tracks. As quickly as it had sounded the note fell away, leaving just the sound of the slow drip of moisture falling from leaf to leaf as a light drizzle began its pattering journey to the woodland floor.
“Rufus?” He cupped his hands over his mouth but his voice sounded puny as it was absorbed by the wood. “I want to talk. I mean you no harm. Is Celine with you?”
The response, a long throaty chuckle, told Moran two things: first, Rufus was very near, and second, a rational approach was unlikely to succeed. Somehow he had to get under Rufus’ skin, work on the history, the reason this had all begun. The chuckle morphed into a low growling, like a restless tiger waiting for feeding time.
Best get emotional, Brendan, and be quick about it…
“Let’s talk, Rufus. Speak to me. I want to hear about the girl. The first girl. What was her name? Rachel?” Moran remembered being struck by Lady Cernham and Richard de Courcy’s inability to mention her by name. Always ‘the girl’, never ‘Rachel’.
Ahead, from behind the wide trunk of an oak, a figure slid into view. Moran stood his ground as Rufus de Courcy, the embodiment of Cernunnos, Lord of the Hunt, approached. Moran planted his spear in the earth behind him and raised his empty hands. “I don’t want anyone hurt, Rufus.”
Rufus de Courcy was perhaps six and a half feet tall, powerfully built, black-cloaked, lithe and sure in his movements. Although his features were partially covered by a scarf, Moran could make out deep-socketed eyes below a misshapen and bulbous forehead from which rose two bony projections like the horns of a deer. The encounter with his brother’s shotgun had clearly caused extensive cranial damage and disfigurement, and Moran guessed that his mother had played a central role in nursing him back to health – if health was an appropriate description of his present condition. However, in doing so she had denied her son the medical and psychiatric treatment he so desperately needed. A miracle, then, that Rufus had survived at all.
“Say her name again.” Rufus had come to a halt a few paces away. “Say it and I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“No point in denying what happened, Rufus.” Moran spread his hands. “You weren’t to blame for her choices.”
Rufus’ eyes smouldered.
“Celine has no part in this.”
“The sister.” Rufus said. It was a statement.
“Yes. She wasn’t here at the time. She was a child.”
“She bleeds,” Rufus said. “For her sister’s sins. And for her own role as seductress.”
“She didn’t seduce anyone. She only spent time with your brother to find out what had happened.”
“No.” Rufus took a step towards him and Moran dropped his hand to the spear as Rufus pointed an accusing finger. “She is a seductress like her sister before her. And you too have welcomed her approaches.”
“We talked. Had a drink together. That was it.” And it was, pretty much, Moran thought with a pang of regret.
“The act of seduction is not permitted.”
“Where is she, Rufus? I–”
Rufus’ cloak parted and in one quick movement Moran was looking at a drawn longbow with an arrow nocked and ready. It was an impressive display of expertise.
Rufus made a small movement with his head. “Run.”
Moran held up both hands but dropped them as he realised what a pathetic defence they would be against a steel-tipped arrowhead. “Look, there’s no need to–”
“Run, fornicator, run.”
Moran briefly considered retrieving his spear but rejected the idea; any act of aggression on his part and Rufus would loose. He backed slowly; when death came winging towards him he at least wanted to be able to see it coming. A few metres further and he stumbled against a tree trunk. Cover. Moran put the tree between him and the longbow and ran for his life, dodging and weaving to spoil Rufus’ aim. Something whacked his leg from under him and pitched him forward in a sprawling heap. He rolled and sat up, dazed. The arrow had buried itself in the hard rubber of his heel. No point wondering if it was a deliberate miss or a clever warning shot; Rufus’ confident swagger as he closed the distance between them told him all he needed to know. Moran tugged at the shaft but it was stuck fast in his shoe; it would be impossible to run. He scrambled to his feet and faced his enemy.
Looks like time’s up, Brendan…
He felt light-headed, almost relieved. No more decisions to make. No more fretting over law and justice. No more relationship problems. No more grief. No more dreams…
As Rufus raised the longbow Moran braced himself.
Chapter 32
Barry was a walking tattoo. At least, that’s how he appeared to Toby at first glance. A thick, knotted beard obscured most of the lower part of the shop owner’s face and those remaining parts of his body exposed to the air were a tracery of fantastical Lord of the Rings-style orcs and elves amalgamated skilfully with a generous smattering of metal and rock chick imagery. The letters of his Christian name were stencilled across the fingers of his left hand and Toby wondered why the right hand had escaped the tattooist’s pen. Maybe he had plans for it.
“Help you?”
Given his alarming appearance, Barry’s voice was surprisingly cultured.
Toby flashed his ID.
“Thought so.” Barry grinned. “Just like the Mormons. Always travel in pairs.”
“Do you sell this type of helmet?” Toby showed Barry an image from his iPhone.
“Special order. Had a few in but don’t stock ’em anymore. Low end lid, some cool high end features. People want ’em for the artwork, mainly.”
“And when did you sell the last one?”
Barry scratched his beard. Toby wondered how many varieties of insect had made their home in its warm and comfortable micro-environment. “Now you’re asking.” The shop owner slid open a counter drawer and began to delve into the contents. “I keep a couple of month’s worth of sales records in here. In case there’s any comeback,” he explained. “Let’s have another butcher’s.”
Toby showed the image again.
“Oh… yeah, I think I remember this one. It was the last one of the first lot I bought in.”
“You do? It was?” Toby felt his heart jump.
Barry was back ferreting in the drawer. Toby felt his hopes sink. With this standard of record-keeping the long shot was getting longer by the minute. Bola was wandering around the shop admiring the machines. The big DC stopped next to a massive Harley with gleaming metalwork and a dragon motif emblazoned on the tank and ran his finger lovingly over the paintwork.
“Nice, Brit, eh?”
“If you say so.” Toby drummed his fingers on the worn counter.
“Got it,” Barry said, flourishing a receipt in his oil-stained hand.
“You have?” Toby almost reached over and seized the crumpled piece of paper before he remembered himself and swapped his impatience for a question. “Name? Address?”
“Yep.” Barry found and donned a pair of incongruously normal horn-rimmed glasses and peered at the invoice. “Yeah, yeah. She was a hot one.”
Toby’s heartbeat had gone into overdrive. “She?”
“Yeah. Chinese chick. Had it all going on. Ten years younger and I’d have–”
“Name, Barry, please. Contact details.”
“Sure.” He held out the receipt. “It’s all there. Serial number too – it’s a certified helmet. Keep it.”
“Thanks.” Toby was at the door. “Bola?”
“With you, Brit.”
On their way to the car Bola took out his mobile.
“Calling home?” Toby asked, blocking Bola’s path to the passenger door.
“Texting the little woman. Why? Problem?”
“Save the social stuff for later, Bola.”
“Man, what is it with you?”
“Put the phone away. Get in.”
For a moment the two men faced each other in silence. Toby felt the atmosphere c
rackle between them, but he held his ground. After what seemed an age, Bola gave a short, humourless shake of his head and pocketed his iPhone. “Can I get in now?”
Toby nodded.
When they were moving Bola turned to him. “And may I ask where we’re going?”
“Orts Road,” Toby said. “I might have known.”
It was an infamous name – the location of one of the biggest drug busts ever, an appropriate address for the calibre of villain Toby now believed they were dealing with: an expert motorcyclist in top physical condition who was also a highly trained assassin and kidnapper. Female, Chinese.
“Back up?” Bola asked.
Toby shook his head. “No time.”
There never was.
The mid-terraced house was just like any other terrace in the road, or in Reading for that matter. Anonymous, nondescript. Perfect.
Toby’s mobile buzzed. George.
“Are you sure you should take that?” Bola raised an eyebrow.
Toby answered it with a cold glance at his colleague. “Where the hell are you, George?”
George McConnell’s voice sounded slurred, abnormal.
“Are you pissed, George?”
“No. Not right, though. Can’t get Tess.”
“Look, George, get into the station asap, would you? We’re at this address – can you make a note?”
“Minute…”
George took an age to return.
“112 Orts Road. Got that?” Toby was half out of the car. “I’ll update you later. If we’re not back in an hour, send the troops in.”
“OK.”
The house was hot. Toby could feel it. Hand on baton, he rapped the rusted knocker. When there was no reply he motioned to Bola. “Your turn.”
Bola’s boot sprang the door in seconds. They were confronted by a narrow, uncarpeted hallway, front room to the right. It was empty, as was the dining room and kitchen. “I’ll do the garden,” Bola said.
Toby went upstairs. Bathroom empty. He heard Bola’s call of “Clear!” from downstairs. First bedroom: empty. Main bedroom…
Tess was lying unconscious on a tatty double mattress, half-covered by a thin sheet. A congealed pool of vomit had congealed on the bare boards beside her. Toby yelled for Bola and went for Tess’ pulse. It was faint, but there.
The ambulance took under five minutes; Toby muttered a silent prayer of thanks that they were only a stone’s throw from the Royal Berkshire Hospital. He and Bola watched the paramedics attend to Tess. The head wound looked ghastly but Toby knew that a bleed from the head often looked much worse than it was. Come on, Tess, come on…
A minute or so later she responded to the paramedics’ chatter. “All right, love, can you hear me? Do you remember what happened? No? Not to worry. Your mates are here. You’re OK now. Just need to get you up the road so the A&E team can have a look at you. Easy, easy…”
They looked away as Tess was sick again.
“Still not sure whose side you’re on?” Toby asked.
Bola avoided eye contact. “Point taken.”
“Toby?”
Tess was sitting up, pale as the paramedics’ white trainers.
Toby bent down. “Steady, boss. Don’t push it. You’ll be fine.”
“Ha.” Tess tried to laugh. “Oh God, bad idea.” She fell back onto the mattress. Then “Ow,” as a paramedic gave her a shot. Her expression changed as her memory began to kick back in and she tried to moisten her cracked lips. “There were two of them. Chinese girl –and a guy. Didn’t see him, heard them in car. Talked about the ‘last one’. It’s the guv, Toby, they know where…”
As the medication began to take effect Tess was slipping into a half-dozing, half awake state. “She’s going to do it. He’s going to leave with the woman. God, what’s her name, I can’t think. Can’t think…”
The female paramedic quietened her and turned to Toby and Bola. “That’ll have to be enough for now, I’m afraid.”
“Will she be all right?” Bola’s anxiety was all over his face.
Maybe, thought Toby to himself, maybe this is what the big guy needed, to clue him into what was going on.
“It’s a nasty head wound,” the paramedic was saying, “but it doesn’t look life-threatening. Nevertheless–”
“Sure. She’s all yours.” Toby bent again. “We’ll see you later, boss. Take it easy.”
But Tess had slipped away, out for the count.
Back in the car Toby was onto the station. “Get me DC McConnell, please. No, wait, make that DCS Higginson. I don’t care if he’s busy. No, I don’t care who he’s with at the moment. No, I don’t want DCI Wilder. We have a situation here. Are you listening?”
Bola was nodding with approval. “Stick it to ’em, Brit. Stick it to ’em.”
Chapter 33
Moran’s eyes were open. He still drew breath and nothing hurt or bled. He looked down. Rufus’ second arrow had found the spot precisely between his feet. With a sick feeling he understood; Rufus wanted the end game to last as long as possible, to prolong the challenge. A wave of anger swept through him. As Rufus drew again Moran bent and snapped the shaft embedded in his shoe, turned and abruptly changed direction. He felt rather than heard the third arrow whistle past to his right.
There was cover – of a sort – ten metres or so straight ahead, a thick growth of tangled bush and briar. Moran pelted for it. As he dived, steeling himself for the tearing of thorns on his exposed skin, another arrow thudded into the ground to his right. A wild shot, or a further warning? No, he’d been warned already, and Rufus didn’t do wild shots. Moran turned awkwardly, hindered by the tug of the briar’s grip on his clothing, and saw that Rufus had company. The shot had been wild, but only because the hunter had been distracted. One word, a command, resonated flatly across the clearing.
“Enough.”
Terl, red-faced, arm raised and forefinger pointing accusingly, was walking deliberately towards Rufus.
Moran ripped the brambles aside and lurched out of the bushes. Terl up held a warning hand.
“Leave this to me, Inspector Moran.”
Rufus’ cloak ruffled in the light breeze; Terl’s unexpected arrival seemed not to have fazed him.
“It’s got to end, Rufus. This all has to end. It should have ended years ago.”
“Why?” Rufus’ voice was quiet and measured. “We have a pact of blood. You and me. Together.”
“No more, Rufus. I can’t bear it, the guilt.” Terl opened his big hands in supplication. “Enough blood. Enough killing.”
When his words were met with silence, Terl turned his attention briefly to Moran. “Quarter of a mile that way,” he pointed over Moran’s head, “the bog begins. He’ll have taken her there. That’s where they all end.”
Moran nodded. If they both rushed Rufus, maybe…
But Terl had other ideas. The publican’s hand dipped to his belt and Moran saw the knife, a long, serrated hunting weapon, gripped firmly in the landlord’s brawny fist.
“I’ve fought you before when we were kids, Rufus de Courcy, and God help me, I’ll do it again if you don’t give this up.”
Rufus laughed. “And you’ll kill me? With that?”
“If I have to.”
“This is my land.” Rufus’ bow appeared like a conjuring trick and its nocked arrow pointed at Terl’s heart. “I have the right to protect these woodlands from strangers and vagabonds.”
Terl was shaking his head. “You’re ill, Rufus. And I’ve been asleep all these years, bullied into silence by your family. But you made a mistake. You should have left Celine alone.”
Helplessly, Moran watched the scene play out. He felt like a spectator in some Greek tragedy, impotent and sidelined.
“What is that harlot to you?” Rufus’ voice was ice cold.
“She’s a decent woman, Rufus. She only wants justice for her sister. Her murdered sister.”
Moran could see that Terl was making surreptitious progress towards Ruf
us, slowly closing the distance between them. Moran understood. If Terl could get close enough the longbow would be difficult to deploy. But Rufus was no fool.
“Stop. Any closer and you die.”
“You wouldn’t kill me, Rufus.” Terl’s slow advance continued.
Moran heard the creak of the bowstring as it was drawn to full capacity. He had to intervene. Somehow. A stone, a rock, anything…
Terl hurled himself at Rufus.
It was over in one shocking instant. Moran watched, horrified, as Terl sank to the ground, clutching at the feathered shaft protruding from his chest. The knife fell to the ground.
Moran had only taken his eyes off Rufus briefly but the madman had melted into the undergrowth. He rushed to Terl’s side. The landlord was alive, but fading fast. Small bubbles of blood foamed on his lips as he tried to speak.
“Go the way I said. Towards the bog.” He wheezed, coughed more blood. “You get to a fork in the path. Take the left.”
Moran had torn the man’s shirt open, ripped the cloth away from the wound only to let his hands fall helplessly. There was nothing to be done.
“Two trees … meet over the path. Between them the bog begins. Be … careful. There’s a bog hole, solid for a few paces, then only … only the bog. He may not know…”
“Terl. Thank you.”
“He’ll come for you. Drive you to the bog. That’s his way. Use your brain.” Terl grunted and coughed up more blood. “You’re a bloody policeman. Clever sod. You’ll stop it, I know.”
