Brindle writes down the name. Neville Hoyle.
They read on. More recollections. More nostalgia for the days of the rain macs and the contact mags. Lots of talk about glory holes and vintage porn when lasses – so one user writes – looked like lasses and had a bit of meat and hair on them. There are some odd digressions about football. Some racist messages. Then he sees another posting.
Hi babes. I remember your dad Neville. He was a pal of mine a good lad. Always wondered about Nev. There was a wifey that went missing round about then an all. Also last seen at the X. Mebbes worked there mebbes a proz. Red hair. Agree wiv u about police being useless tho. Much talk of cover-ups back then cos many of them used to cum to the X for a wank amongst other things so who nose. Backhanders LOL. Parties and pornos. Couldn’t make it up. Worth luckin into. Direct message me for memories of Nev a top lad.
Brindle taps his pen to his pad then writes down a list of keywords. Finishes his tea.
He shows the pad to Mace.
It is late. The office is dark now. It is lit only by the light from Brindle’s monitor. Mace has his elbow on the desk and his head is resting in his hands.
They scan the rest of the thread. They read a few more adverts and look at some pictures of some naked and semi-naked housewives and then Brindle closes the website and leans back.
We still don’t know what Rutter has to do with it all says Mace.
With the balls of his hands Brindle rubs his eyes. He rubs them for a long time and then he opens them wide and lengthens his entire face.
It’s just a process he says. Each step brings us closer.
It’s just a process he says again.
THE DOG IS rooting. It is scratching at the soft soil. The walker calls the dog but the dog is sniffing at the ground. It is a spaniel.
The walker says to his friend: this bloody dog. He just does what he wants.
Probably eating sheep shit says his friend. They do that sometimes. It’s like sweets to them.
The owner calls the dog again but it ignores him so he takes off his backpack and walks over to it. The reservoir is in the distance. It is shimmering like a mirage. He leans over to pull it away by its collar and as he does he sees the metal pencil case. He squats down and picks up. He shakes it. It rattles. He opens it up. Inside are coins and bus tickets and a passport photo of a teenage boy and stickers and a bank card and an ID card and some specks of hash and a lighter and the words MELANIE MUNCY LIVES scratched on the inside with a classroom compass.
Melanie Muncy he says. Isn’t that Ray Muncy’s daughter?
His friend shrugs.
Who’s Ray Muncy?
His garage does my car.
What about him?
Melanie Muncy was the one who disappeared.
Disappeared? Where?
Fucking here by the looks of it.
A SERIAL KILLER. Is that what we’re looking at here?
What?
Brindle is distracted. He is searching the database of open missing-persons cases. Mace is stretched out across two chairs beside him.
That Steven Rutter may conceivably be linked with a number of missing persons cases says Mace. Possibly murders. So he’s a possible serial killer. Is that what you’re saying?
I never said anything about a serial killer.
It is fully dark outside now. Only Brindle’s desk lamp is on. Beside Mace is a pile of box-files that he has been instructed to sift through. Brindle meanwhile is staring intently at his monitor screen. The cool light from it has cast his birthmark in a muted blue hue.
I don’t like the term serial killer says Brindle.
Why not?
It’s too American. Too sensationalist.
What do you mean?
People get excited about multiple murderers says Brindle. They make films about them and they have fan clubs and women want to marry them. They get elevated to higher echelons in the criminal worlds and become almost mythical characters – they become part of the folklore. And that’s wrong. Leave that to the Americans.
It’s probably inevitable though says Mace. Humans like stories. We like demons.
You would say that – you’re a journalist.
Is that what you call them?
Brindle turns to Mace.
What?
Multiple murderers? Is that what you call them?
Yes. If you like.
But it’s the same thing as serial killer.
What says Brindle again. No. Serial killers are the subjects of late-night made-for-TV movies. They are the people who amateur criminologists discuss; they are the people who appear on t-shirts and mugs and album sleeves by Scandinavian heavy-metal bands; serial killers are bogeymen who revel in this newfound status that is afforded them. Multiple murderers meanwhile are pathetic people who do not deserve this attention. Rutter is a pathetic person who needs to be brought to account – delivered to the legal system – and then buried forever.
Buried?
In the system. Where he can do no harm to anyone.
Do you believe in the justice system?
The justice system is a process that’s beyond my control says Brindle. My remit is to investigate. My job is to answer the same stock questions: who when and why. I then pass the answers and suspect on. I build the case and then I hand it over. Beyond that is none of my business. I just serve the system.
You see. That to me seems odd. Do you not think that—?
Brindle interrupts him.
Should I be regretting bringing you here?
Why? says Mace.
I’m trying to work he says. I’m practically handing you a story on a plate here – and when I nail these bastards it will be the crime story of the year – yet I don’t think you even realise how big this will be.
You’re joking aren’t you? says Mace. While you were back here licking your wounds it was me – me – that found out that Roy Pinder is the link between Rutter and Lister. I got us to here. There would be no case – no story – without me. And correct me if I’m wrong detective but without any witnesses to confirm or corroborate our shared suspicions about Rutter is it not evidence that we should be looking for?
Of course says Brindle. Evidence is crucial.
So we need Melanie Muncy says Mace. His most recent probable victim. We need to know where her body is.
Yes. Of course.
And in a way we’ve already answered this question ourselves.
Go on says Brindle.
All we ever see of Rutter is around the hamlet or in town. You said it yourself. Or up on the moors.
Yes.
So this might be significant. Those were the other words you used.
Yes.
Rutter never leaves the valley says Mace. Maybe he’s too scared or too set-in-his-ways. And he certainly wasn’t able to leave the valley the week she disappeared – you and I both know that; the snow kept us all there for Christmas. Snowed in. Plus the hamlet was flooded with police. We know he’s stupid and that he could do with bathing in a gallon of the old Blue Stratos but maybe he’s not a complete idiot. He was going nowhere with that body.
Go on.
Nowhere but up.
Up?
Uphill from his farm. You searched the house and found nothing. Nothing in the outbuildings either. So uphill was the only way.
Brindle rubs one of his eyes again and then the other. He looks at Mace. Considers him. Brindle’s eyes appear red. Sore. They seek sleep.
So Melanie Muncy is still close by Mace continues. Still close to Rutter’s I mean. She has to be. He wouldn’t risk moving her. Melanie Muncy will have been stashed or hidden or buried as far as he could carry or drag her in the snow. No further. Why bother searching all these other cases when her body is – more than likely – still up there. Find the body and then the rest will follow.
Brindle opens a drawer and pulls out the file that Mace gave him. He unfolds a map of the valley.
THE WALKERS THINK about going to the
police station. They think about it for too long a time; so long that they convince themselves that it is not the best plan of action today because that would mean going all the way down to town when they’re right in the middle of a two-day forty-mile walk that they’ve had planned out for months – and it is planned with trig points and OS coordinates and food stops and a visit to the Six Standard Bride stones and even a possible (weather permitting) outdoor swim at a remote tarn – and which is due to culminate in a lot of drinking tomorrow night at a pub that sells the best real ale over in Wensleydale.
After much discussion they reason that going straight to Ray Muncy’s place will only add an extra mile or two to their trip because there is a tight schedule to stick to if they want to make it across the boglands in daylight so they turn and walk down into the top of the valley to Muncy’s house. They know it. They pass the plantation of pines and the rundown farm and follow the track to the incongruous new-build.
The curtains are drawn when they get there so they ring the doorbell but there is no answer. They ring again and wait but again there is no answer. They don’t know what to do. They discuss it for a while and then they decide to post the pencil case through the letter box with a note attached. They take out a pen and paper and explain that they found the pencil on the edge of the moorland past the last farm and that they have the exact coordinates if needed. They leave their names and phone numbers. They post the pencil case and turn around and walk back up the hill. They talk about the missing girl for a while until it starts to rain a little and then the subject changes to something else. The dog runs on ahead.
They don’t want to discuss the implications of their findings. They want to discuss anything but that.
HIS PHONE IS ringing again. His desk phone this time. Brindle answers it. He raises a hand to Mace palm out and then he points at the phone in his hand. He mouths the words: Muncy.
He listens for a moment and then he says Mr Muncy I’m going to put you on speaker phone for one moment. Is that OK?
Mace sits up in his chair. He rubs his face.
Brindle pushes the button and Mace hears the gruff tones of Ray Muncy in mid flow. He sounds like he is outdoors. Out of breath. There is a background noise of movement.
– thinks he can push me about well he can fuck right off.
Slow down Mr Muncy please says Brindle. Now what is it you wanted to tell me?
Rutter.
What about him?
He did our Melanie. I’m sure of it now. What are you going to do about it?
Is there something we should know about?
Are you going to arrest him? Because if you don’t I swear I’ll sort him myself. I heard about Larry Lister on the news as well. Dirty rotten pervert.
Brindle raises an eyebrow at Mace.
Yes he says. I heard all about that.
But do you know about him and Roy Pinder? says Muncy.
I know they were associates – yes.
But do you know everything?
Everything?
Do you know about the porn cinema in the city?
This catches Brindle off guard. He looks at Mace. He looks at the phone.
What do you know about that?
The Odeon X? Plenty says Muncy. More than enough; more than I ever wanted to know.
Like what exactly?
The parties. The parties they threw. Horrible parties.
In their cinema?
Not their cinema.
I’m confused Mr Muncy says Brindle. If not theirs then whose?
Lister and Pinder had their parties in the Odeon X after hours. But it wasn’t their cinema.
Then whose was it?
Some man who struck the fear of God into the lot of them.
Who was he?
Muncy falls silent. Mace and Brindle can hear his breathing. They can hear the wind wrapping itself around his phone. Mace can hear the moors; the great bleak and barren expanse of them.
All I have is a name he finally says.
Go on.
Hood.
Hood? says Brindle.
Hood says Muncy.
First name?
No.
And these parties – how do you know about them?
I was invited to one once says Ray Muncy. A long time ago.
OK.
I thought it would be – you know. A few drinks. A bit of a floorshow.
A floorshow? says Brindle.
Muncy pauses again. When he speaks his voice is thick. It is weighed down by the words.
Strippers and that. Prossies. A bit of tit. You know: harmless stuff.
And it wasn’t?
Brindle looks at Mace.
No. It was so much more. I can’t even begin to tell you.
Try says Brindle. Try and tell me.
Muncy’s voice softens. Drops a tone.
There was a girl there. She was young.
How young?
Young. I didn’t want to be a part of it. She looked out of it. Didn’t know what day it was.
Go on.
There was a boy too. Also young. They could almost have been brother and sister. And there were cameras.
Where were they from?
I don’t know. I mean if I knew that maybe I could have—
Muncy falters.
I think maybe they were from Eastern Europe.
Why do you say that?
Because they looked it. Romanian or something.
Who else was there? asks Brindle.
All of them. They were all there.
Who Mr Muncy? Who?
The lads. All of them. That lot.
Like who?
Like Roy Pinder. Like Johnny Mason. Bull Mason. The Farley brothers. Benny Bennett. Wendell Smith. Others too. Some guy called Skelton. Really creepy. Steve Rutter. And Larry Lister. Lister was there too. They were forcing them.
Forcing who?
The lad and the lass. To do stuff. They were stood round watching as the girl was tied up.
And the cameras?
They were filming it all.
Filming them doing what exactly? says Brindle
Muncy says nothing so Brindle says: then what happened Mr Muncy?
I kept thinking about our Melanie. She was only young. About the same age. I kept thinking about how it was that these kids came to be down there in the basement. In the cellars. What was going through their minds and whether there was anyone out there who would even miss them when they were –
Again he trails off.
Cellars? says Brindle
Beneath the cinema.
Mace mouths the words to Brindle: Cellar Entertainment.
I told them to stop. I told Lister he was a sick bastard and that I wanted no part of it.
Why Larry Lister specifically?
Because he was the one who seemed to be orchestrating it all. And he was the famous one. He was the one using his position. Abusing it.
Then what happened?
I tried to leave.
I sense there’s a but here Mr Muncy?
But this Skelton one. He stopped me. Told me no one left during one of the shows. He grabbed me. He was the one who seemed to keep everyone in line like; he didn’t seem bothered by anything that was going on. He said once you were in you were in and that was that. He said you didn’t turn down their invitations. I told him what they were doing was wrong. Very wrong. Then he made me watch what happened next. Forced me too. I wanted to puke.
And what happened next?
Muncy says nothing.
Watch what Mr Muncy?
When he speaks it is with a whisper that sends a shiver through both the journalist and the detective.
Everything.
Why are you only mentioning this now?
Because of Lister.
What about him?
They said he was in line for a knighthood says Muncy. This was a few months back. I saw him on the telly. There is talk of Her Maj laying her sword on my shoulder he said. Those w
ords. I couldn’t stomach the thought. Not him. No way. It’s a mockery. I couldn’t sleep nights knowing what he’d done. Him in the palace? No way. So I sent a letter.
To who? They all fall silent.
To him of course.
Brindle looks at Mace.
We’d like to come and see you to discuss this further. We’d like to talk to you about what else it is you think you know about Roy Pinder and Larry Lister and Steve Rutter and everything you’ve been witness to. As soon as possible.
There is no reply.
Mr Muncy? says Brindle. Mr Muncy?
But Ray Muncy has hung up.
10
ITS THREE IN the afternoon or it’s eleven in the morning or maybe it’s midnight when there’s a banging. A thumping at the door. Rutter ignores it but then there is more banging and a rattle of a handle then a voice. A raging voice.
Rutter. Rutter.
Muncy. It’s Muncy.
Rutter says nothing.
I know you’re in there. I saw you come back.
Rutter looks for his rifle but he can’t find it so on the way through he grabs a knife from the kitchen and tucks it in the back of his trousers. It runs cold across one buttock and part the way down his sinewy thigh. He opens the door.
Ray Muncy is there in the yard. He has his back to Rutter and is pacing and looking out into the night and when he turns round Rutter sees that Muncy looks wild. He steps into the light. In his neck a vein is pulsing. Rutter thinks of worms.
I’ve been talking to that copper. The detective.
What for?
About our Melanie. Rutter takes in the man on his doorstep. Sees his hair at all angles and mad roving eyes. Imploring eyes desperate eyes. He sees spittle at the corner of Ray Muncy’s mouth and once nice clothes now gone to seed. He sees mud streaks up his expensive chinos. It looks as if something has snapped inside of the man and then been glued back together again but not glued properly.
Might have had a copper up here the other day says Rutter. Asking a few questions.
Was it Brindle?
Don’t know says Rutter. Yeah.
I told him everything says Muncy.
What do you mean?
About that night.
What bloody night?
You know what night. In the cellars. The X. The night they forced me to stay there.
Turning Blue Page 26
