by Scott Hunter
“Leave it. Pull it out and you’ll bleed to death.” Moran inspected Celine’s handiwork from a safe distance. The spear had penetrated deep into the muscle. Rufus bared his teeth and half-sat up. The scarf had fallen from his face so that Moran could see the full extent of his facial injuries. An image of a church gargoyle came to Moran’s mind. The shattered, twisted jawline, the protruding forehead…
“Brendan.” Celine had released the spear and was leaning on a tree trunk for support. Her shoulder was bloody and torn, her face the colour of goats’ milk. She collapsed to her knees and slid to the ground with a gasp of pain. There was a lot of blood. Moran was at her side, gently probing the wound. “Let me see.”
“Be careful. The ground – it’s not safe…”
“I know. Don’t talk. I need to get you back to the cottage, have a proper look at that shoulder–”
She was drifting in and out of consciousness. He felt her pulse. Not good. The wound looked superficial but he was no medical expert. Celine’s eyes flickered, widened…
“Watch him – he’s–”
Moran spun around to see that Rufus had dragged himself to the low dip in the path, leaving a red trail from his injured leg behind him. He let him go. “I’m going to lift you. It might hurt. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
“Rufus–“
“We’ll pick him up later. He won’t get far – if he gets anywhere at all.”
Moran felt a momentary sensation of nausea as he swung Celine up into the classic fireman’s lift. Hardly surprising – the combined effects of the de Courcys’ narcotic, lack of sleep, food and water were all beginning to take their toll.
As he stumbled away from the bog he looked over his shoulder. Rufus had managed to crawl out of sight, leaving just a solitary blood-flecked gauntlet on the crust of moss as a sign of his passing.
By the time Moran reached the road he was close to exhaustion. He briefly considered knocking on doors until he found a house with a landline so that he could make the necessary calls for assistance – until he remembered where he was; it was quite likely that any unvetted resident would shop him to the manor.
Nothing about this place would surprise me any more…
At last the village centre came into view. No one rushed to his assistance. The pub was locked and the lights were off. The Post Office as he passed it was the same. His car was still parked outside the cottage and he wondered if he would be able to get it started or if de Courcy had crippled the machine for good.
One thing at a time, Brendan…
His knees were threatening to give way as he reached the front door and turned his key in the lock.
The door swung open and he found himself looking into the twin barrels of Richard de Courcy’s shotgun.
“Took your time in the end,” de Courcy said in a conversational tone. “But I am impressed that you’re still alive. Lie her down on the sofa, would you?”
Too tired to object, Moran complied. “She needs help.”
“Oh yes. Always has done,” de Courcy said wistfully. “And she’ll get plenty, believe you me.”
“This is finished,” Moran said wearily. “It’s over, de Courcy.”
“Says who?” de Courcy was examining the wound on Celine’s neck, with interest rather than out of any concern he might have had for her wellbeing.
Moran sat in the armchair. “I’ve sent a message to my team in Berkshire. They’ll be in touch with Exeter by now.” Moran consulted his watch. “I reckon you’ve got until lunchtime.”
De Courcy laughed. “You’re bluffing. What did you do? Send a homing pigeon?”
Moran shook his head. “No. I sent a letter. I told them that if they hadn’t heard from me by Friday morning they were to send in the marines.”
And why the hell didn’t you think of that before, Brendan?
“You wrote a letter? What a resourceful chap you are.” De Courcy grinned and Moran saw the madness in his eyes. “I’d better push on, then. Thanks for looking after her.” He nodded to where Celine was groaning softly as she regained consciousness. “What happened, by the way? How did you get the better of Rufus? You’re the first, you know.”
Moran’s pulse quickened as he realised that de Courcy intended to take Celine with him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“No? But I have the gun.” De Courcy jabbed the shotgun into Moran’s chest then stepped back out of range of Moran’s legs.
“You’re leaving your mother to face the music?” Moran said. “Hardly honourable behaviour.”
“Honourable?” The shotgun was back, this time pointing between Moran’s eyes. “I’ve honoured this estate all my life, looked after things. My brother, my mother. The bastard, Harrison.”
“Your half-brother, you mean. He’s still a de Courcy, whatever name he chose to adopt.”
“He is nothing. And he’ll never be a de Courcy…”
Moran watched de Courcy carefully. The man’s face was reddening, forefinger tapping on the trigger guard. Behind him Celine was stirring again, but this time her eyes were open and he could see that she was casting about for something to use as a weapon while de Courcy’s back was towards her.
“Blood is blood.” Moran shrugged. “And you’re leaving him as well? And Rufus?”
“Rufus is alive?” De Courcy blanched. “You didn’t kill him?”
“I don’t make a habit of killing people,” Moran said, keeping his tone even and reasonable. “Unlike your family.” Moran let de Courcy wrestle with what was left of his conscience and took the opportunity to signal a negative to Celine. She relaxed but her eyes were wary.
“The killing. It was not my doing.” De Courcy had lowered the shotgun, was speaking now almost to himself. “All started with that girl, that summer…”
“Give me the gun, Richard.” Moran held out his hand. “This must stop now.”
“No, no.” The wild look was back in his eyes. “I always have a plan, you see. Always.”
Before Moran could think of a counter argument de Courcy had seized Celine’s arm and dragged her to her feet. “We’re going. Get in the car.”
Celine stumbled and almost fell. Moran leaned forward but de Courcy warned him off with the gun. “Stay where you are.”
De Courcy ushered Celine out of the cottage. Moran heard his car door open and close, the bonnet likewise and a moment or two later the engine sprang into life.
He went to the window. Now what, Brendan?
De Courcy drove hard and fast. The car hurtled along the narrow lane like a bullet. He glanced at the fuel gauge and cursed. Have to stop at the garage. No problem. Take two minutes, that’s all.
He pulled into the tiny forecourt. As usual, no other cars were about. The woman was semi-conscious. He could risk filling up without dragging her into the shop with him. Just to be safe he took the cartridges out of the shotgun and put them in his pocket.
As the petrol sloshed into the tank de Courcy felt a surge of elation. I’m leaving at last. Finally … to hell with the money. To hell with all of them…
He walked quickly to the shop and reached into his jacket for his wallet. The forecourt assistant smiled as he approached. Someone new. A girl. De Courcy wondered what had happened to Manjit. Always here, in all weathers, all times of the day. No matter what…
“Hello,” the girl said. She was quite pretty, Chinese by the look of her. Not many Asians in these parts, apart from Manjit.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the girl said. She reached under the counter and de Courcy found himself looking at a squat, unwavering hand gun. He frowned. “I don’t under–”
“You don’t have to, Mr Moran,” the girl said, and blew de Courcy’s brains all over the shop floor.
Celine heard the shot and ducked down as a girl emerged from the shop and walked quickly past the rusting water and tyre pressure gauges to the rear of the building. Celine poked her head up again and heard the motorbike before she saw it swing around the corner and exit th
e forecourt in a cloud of exhaust.
What the heck?
Her neck throbbed as she got out of the car and for a moment she thought she might faint, but a quick bend to the knees cleared her head. When she straightened up another car was turning into the forecourt. The driver got out, a big black fellow, and wandered over to her.
“You OK there, miss?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Celine said truthfully. Her head was throbbing again with dull, drum-like beats.
“Woah. What’ve you done to your neck? Hey! All right, lean on me, that’s the way.” He caught her as she swayed and fell into his arms. Just before she lost consciousness she heard the big guy call out to his fellow passengers. “Toby?! Boss! Over here, quick!”
Chapter 36
“Want to take your own car, guv?” Charlie raised her eyebrows, knowing what the answer was likely to be.
Moran scowled. “Funnily enough I’ve kind of gone off driving for the time being. Once our buddies from Exeter turn up I may be in the market for a lift – if it’s not too much trouble?”
Charlie grinned. “No probs.”
They were sipping tea in Moran’s cottage. De Courcy’s body had been taken away half an hour previously, Celine had been rushed to hospital, and a forensics team were apparently on their way from Exeter, along with a five-man team led by one DS Wilmot.
Charlie had sent Bola Odunsi and Brit to keep an eye on Lady Cernham pending the arrival of Wilmot’s team. As for the rest of it, she had trouble even beginning to get to grips with the events of Moran’s last few days in Cernham.
“This Rufus.” She finished her tea and rinsed the mug in the sink. “You don’t think he’ll be any trouble?”
“He’ll have gone to ground. He’s badly hurt. Trust me – I saw the damage.”
“And how many bodies do you reckon we’re dealing with?”
Moran sighed. “Two in the maze. At least four in the bog. Somewhere. There’s Terl, of course, poor fellow. Lady Cernham will have to confirm the exact tally.”
“God, I can’t believe it.” Charlie shook her head. “Here in picture-postcard land?”
“I know. Straw Dogs revisited, to be sure.” Moran went to the sink and ran himself another glass of water. Now that he was half-way to rehydration his headache was slowly receding.
“Straw what?”
Moran laughed. “Nothing. An old film, before your time.” He drained his glass, trying not to make his concern at Charlie’s appearance too obvious. She looked terrible – pale-faced, with dark smudges beneath her eyes and a harsh, jerky timbre to her voice. And no wonder. It said something for her resilience and determination that she was here at all and not resting up, as the police quack had no doubt recommended. He was irrationally angry with himself. What a time to take leave! But how could anyone have predicted what had happened in his absence? Stupid question, Brendan.
Anyway, it wasn’t over yet, not by a long chalk. He squirted a jet of washing-up liquid into the glass and ran the hot water tap. “Anything from traffic?”
“Nope, not yet. Whoever she is, she’s damn good.”
“We’ll find her. And this other guy – what was his name?”
“Andreas.”
“Andreas.” Moran put his rinsed glass onto the draining board. As if in response the door knocker sounded and Moran grunted as he saw who it was through the window.
“Ah, DS Wilmot. Come in.” Moran gestured graciously.
“Thank you, sir. I understand there’s been an incident.”
“There has indeed, DS Wilmot. And this time I can show you a body or two. I haven’t been able to arrange them all neatly for you, but I can point you in the right direction if you’d find that helpful?”
“I would, sir,” Wilmot said, avoiding eye contact. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
Moran patted the young officer lightly on the back. “No trouble. Have you ever visited Hampton Court, Sergeant?”
“Left,” Moran directed.
Charlie glanced at him, brow furrowing. “Wrong way, guv. Civilisation’s over there.” She jerked her head to the right.
“Maybe, but I have a feeling.”
They waited, engine purring, at the T junction. The small garage was alive with police officers and forensic teams.
“No CCTV, I suppose.” Charlie watched the activity which had transformed the sleepy forecourt into a major crime scene investigation.
Moran grunted a laugh. “You’re kidding. They’re lucky to have electricity, let alone something as sophisticated as cameras.”
Charlie shivered. “It could have been you, guv. So easily.”
Moran acknowledged Charlie’s concern with a grim smile. “Just a bit of luck, Charlie, that’s all. Now then, left it is.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the seaside.” Moran settled back and closed his eyes.
The shrill beep of Charlie’s mobile woke him. For a second he was completely disoriented until he felt Charlie’s hand lightly touch his shoulder. He sat up bolt upright.
“It’s OK,” she whispered, before returning to her call.
“DI Pepper.”
Moran stretched and blinked as the sun slanted into the car’s interior. It was warm. A seagull cruised gently past the windscreen, intent on some titbit dropped from a passing sightseer’s sandwich.
The seaside. A hunch.
Charlie was talking, issuing instructions.
“Have you got that, George? OK. Get to it. Toby and Bola will be with you in a couple of hours. Keep me posted.”
She clunked the phone down in the plastic pocket by the gearbox.
“News?” Moran’s voice sounded thick to him, the occluded tones banging darkly in the centre of his skull. The headache was back and his mouth was dry and metallic.
“George. He’s following up the Domasovec info. Higginson’s roped him in to interview Wilder.”
“Has he, by God?” Moran fumbled for the window button. “That’ll teach him to go out on the tiles during the working week.”
“I think he was set up, guv. That creep, Maggs, duped him into some sleazy drinking club session.”
“No excuses. George should know better.” Moran felt himself coming round as the sea breeze wafted into the car. “I’ll have a wee word when we get back.”
Charlie checked herself in the mirror and grimaced. “Death warmed up and left to cool off.”
“You look a hell of a lot better than I feel,” Moran lied. “Come on. Let’s have a wander.”
As they walked the short distance from the car park to the tiny lane Moran remembered from his visit with Celine, Charlie slowed her pace and hung back.
He turned. “What’s up?”
“You think she’s here.” Charlie’s face had lost the little colour it had had. “Don’t you?”
“Where would you go? All major routes will be on the lookout for her. She knows that. If I were her I’d stay local for a while until things have cooled off a bit. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. I suppose.”
Charlie looked as though she might be about to faint and Moran saw the fear in her eyes. “Are you OK?”
“I just keep seeing Banner’s room. Imagining her touching me, taking my prints. She could have killed me in my bed, like Banner, like–”
Moran put his arm around her shoulder and she turned into him, buried her head in his chest and let the sobs come. “It’s all right. You’re all right, Charlie.” He heard himself muttering reassurances. The close physical contact reminded him of his need for emotional caution. He felt attracted to her in her vulnerability, more so than he would have expected. Maybe it was a reaction to the past twenty-four hours? Or maybe…
Maybe you’re just an old fella with an eye for the ladies, Brendan…
He pulled away with an effort. “Come on. Let’s get ourselves a coffee.”
Charlie sniffed, wiped her eyes and nodded. “Sorry, guv. Very unprofessional.”
“Don’t be
daft. You’ve had a hell of a time of it.”
They came out of the alley into the lane, which was lined with souvenir, bric-à-brac and coffee shops. It was busy, but not overly so. Moran wondered how much money they made over a typical season. Enough to eke out some kind of existence, he supposed. Could he see himself in a place like this? A shopkeeper? B and B owner? Maybe. One day…
“Guv. There.” Charlie pointed.
He snapped back to the present. A motorcycle was parked against the wall on the opposite side of the lane, blocking the narrow pavement. Tourists tutted and shook their heads as they negotiated the obstruction. Moran assessed the machine. It was just a bike. Could be anyone’s. But his senses were tingling nevertheless. It was a racy kind of bike – not that he knew much about biking, but it looked like the sort of machine a young person might use to get around in style and with a fair bit of speed.
He assessed the layout of the lane. Behind them it sloped gently down to the sea front. At the last shop the lane widened. A car could block the lane at that end if necessary. Up ahead, past the bike, the lane narrowed. They would need something else to prevent a bike getting through. Unless he took measures to make sure it didn’t get started at all…
The other issue, of course, was the question of safety. The girl was armed and neither he nor Charlie had anything more dangerous than a folded newspaper to use in self-defence. What they did have ,though, was the policeman’s old friend – the element of surprise.
First things first, Brendan – establish identity.
Charlie’s hand was on his arm. “If it’s her, she knows what you look like.”
“Does she? Maybe she needs to visit Specsavers, then. If Richard de Courcy was in a position to agree with me I’m sure he would. She only had my car registration and, I’d guess, the description of a middle-aged man, medium build with greying temples. Anyway,” Moran adopted what he hoped was a confident and optimistic expression, “she killed me earlier on, so she won’t be looking for me here, will she?”
