One of the white-coated forensics officers held up a severed arm with a blood stained chisel clutched in its pale white hand. “Boss, I’ve found the other one.” Then he placed it in a clear plastic bag.
Steven grabbed Matt’s arm and guided him towards the officer and his grisly trophy. “Take a look, Matt. Is it the same as the sheep?”
The old man's face was white with shock. “Yes. Definitely canine, not feline. Same sort of bite diameter. I'd say this boy was killed by the same animal that killed those sheep.”
Steven grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around so that they were face to face. “So, Matt, you tell me. How many fucking dogs do you know of that can climb a forty-foot tree?”
The old man looked unsteady on his feet. He leaned against a tree for support and took several long deep breaths, then he pushed his way past Steven and moved towards the gore-covered oak.
He circled the tree, making deliberate, careful steps as he widened his search radius, eyes fixed on the soft, bloodstained ground. After a few moments, he stopped and crouched to examine something.
“Jesus, oh dear Jesus…” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Steven could see the old man trembling from where he stood. His face had become ashen, and his hands shook as he retrieved a cigarette from his pack and took a long deep drag on it.
“Matt? What’s the matter?”
“Over here. You need to see this.”
Steven cursed and tried to pick his way through the blood-soaked bracken to where the old hunter stood. By the time he reached him, he could feel the cold, sticky wetness soaking through his trousers. He tried not to think about it and focused on Matt instead. “So? What have you found?”
Matt gestured to the ground. Steven saw two large prints, just visible through the foliage. The prints were around two feet apart, and each was a foot long. Steven could make out impressions at the front of the prints, where claws had dug deep into the earth, and a rounded mark from the heels.
“This is where it jumped down from the tree,” said Matt.
“What the hell? Those prints look more like a human footprint than anything else. Do you have any idea what could have made tracks like that?”
The old man shook his head. “I can’t help you, lad. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
“Do you know what kind of animal did this, Matt? I need your help here because I don’t have the slightest idea of what the hell is going on.”
“I can’t, Steven. That’s all there is too it. Consider me off the case and unavailable for any consultation. In fact, I’m taking the wife and the grandkids, and I’m going on holiday. Today.”
“What the fuck, Matt. Don’t leave me hung out to dry like this. I’ve got a fucking puma stalking the area, which may or may not just have killed a child, and I have no-one else I can turn to for help tracking the fucking thing down and put a bullet in it.”
Matt turned and walked away from the tree. Steven grabbed hold of his arm and turned him around. “Don’t you walk away from me, Matt. Don’t you fucking dare.”
The old man fished in his coat pocket and pulled out his packet of cigarettes and a pen. He removed the cardboard insert and wrote down a number, then handed it to Steven.
“I can’t help you, Steven. I’m not sure if anyone can, but this guy might. He’s a yank called Carl Schneider. I met him about fifteen years ago, in Germany. If anyone can help, he can. Assuming he’s still alive.”
Steven took the card and looked at the number.
“Well, that’s something I suppose,” he said, but Matt had already started walking away from the crime scene.
He turned his head and said, “God help you, Steven. God help you.” Then, without so much of a backwards glance, he headed off towards the path and his waiting car.
Chapter 6
24th April 1986. Newcastle Airport. 10:00.
The rain fell in sheets. It drummed against the metal roof of the police car and obscured the view from the windscreen, despite the best efforts of the wipers.
Constable Phillips turned to Steven. “Do you want me to come with you, Sarge?”
“No, take the car and park it up, then go get yourself a coffee or something. I have a feeling this might take a while.”
Steven paused, willing the rain to let up. When the weather responded by raining even harder, he sighed and stepped from the car into a puddle. He cursed, pulled his hat down, and ran to the building. By the time he pushed open the glass doors, the rest of him was as wet as his feet.
He walked to the customs area, leaving wet footprints on the tiled floor in his wake. As he pushed open the door, he was met by a uniformed customs officer.
“Sergeant Wilkinson? I’m PO Michaels. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, Officer Michaels. You said on the telephone that there was a problem with Mr Schneider?”
Officer Michaels raised his eyebrow. “In a manner of speaking. Perhaps it’s better if you see for yourself.”
Steven followed him to a small room at the end of the corridor. The customs official unlocked the door and both men entered, then Officer Michaels locked it behind them. On the table were two large aluminium cases. Steven undid the clasps on one of them and opened the lid.
The case contained a heavy-calibre hunting rifle with a military grade starlight scope. Rows of ammunition nestled in the foam rubber interior. Steven removed one of the bullets and examined it under the fluorescent light. The round was about an inch and a half long with a silvered head. The end of the bullet had a deep cross carved into it.
Officer Michaels picked up the rifle. “What we have here is a Ruger .44, semi-automatic hunting rifle. The bullets are modified magnum rounds. The actual bullet appears to be made out of a silver/lead alloy. The cross on the end is especially nasty. When the round hits its target, it fragments. In essence, it will be like a small grenade going off inside whatever you shoot it at.”
“Well, I knew Mr Schneider was going to be bringing his own weapons. I applied for the visitor’s firearms permit on his behalf. Apart from the modified ammunition, I’m not sure exactly what the problem is here?”
“Take a look in the other case.”
Steven popped the lid on the second case and stood for a moment in silence. “Jesus.”
“Now you see why we called you.”
The second case contained 9mm handguns, a number of knives, and what appeared to be a submachine gun, along with more of the cross-hatched silver ammunition.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“I’m afraid so. An Ingram Mac-10. It gets worse. Look underneath.”
Steven was almost afraid to look. He removed the weapons and ammunition, then pulled back the protective foam. Six hand grenades were nestled beneath.
Steven massaged his temples and turned to the customs officer.
“Look, Officer Michaels, I understand that the automatic weapon and the grenades clearly aren’t going anywhere, but the other items should be covered under the firearms permit. Mr Schneider was asked to come here to assist us with a delicate matter, and I would appreciate your help in resolving this situation as quickly as possible.”
“There’s another problem I’m afraid. The permit hasn’t been approved yet.”
“What? I applied for it almost a month ago. Do you know what the problem is?”
The customs official shrugged. “I called the Met, and as I understand it, the person that was supposed to rubber-stamp the application is on sick leave.”
“Oh, for Christ's sake. Do you mind if I use your telephone?”
Steven spent the next hour being passed from department to department until he ended up back with the person that he spoke to in the first place. This did not improve his mood, and by the time he reached someone who could help, he was on the verge of yelling into the green plastic receiver. Eventually he slammed the telephone down and turned to the customs officer.
“They're going to fa
x through the permit within the next half-hour. In the meantime, would you mind if I saw Mr Schneider?”
PO Michaels led him from the room, through a maze of corridors, until they arrived at another door. The customs officer unlocked the interview room and Steven entered. The door closed, and the lock clicked once he was inside.
He'd not been sure what to expect from Carl Schneider. Their brief telephone conversation had left him with a mental image of an American version of Matt Wilshire. The arsenal locked in the evidence room had forced him to adjust his opinion, and he had been expecting a grizzled, Special Forces type. What he had not been expecting was the small, unassuming man sitting before him in a business suit.
Carl Schneider looked to be in his late fifties. He was almost entirely bald, with only a few tufts of grey hair remaining around his ears, and despite his slight build, the man seemed to have a presence about him, a quiet authority that was evident in his bright blue eyes and in the relaxed manner that he held himself, even while in custody.
Carl got to his feet and extended his hand. “So, you must be Steve. Pleasure to meet you.”
Steven took his hand and winced as the older man crushed his fingers. “Nice to meet you too, Mr Schneider.”
“Please, call me Carl. So, Steve, have you cut through all the bullshit with those idiots outside? Are we ready to get down to business?”
“More or less. We’re still waiting for them to fax the permit through, and a few of your more exotic items won’t be going with us.”
Carl frowned. “Bloody bureaucrats, getting worked up over a few little details.”
“I would hardly call hand grenades and machine guns a few little details.”
“How do they expect a guy to do a job when you take away his tools?”
“What on earth do you need grenades and a bloody Ingram for? I would have thought the Ruger would stop anything short of an elephant.”
“Son, the Ruger is for when we see it first and when it’s at long range. The other toys are the backup plan, in case the rifle doesn’t take it out first go, because if we don’t kill it first time, we are gonna seriously piss it off.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you still have your knives and your handguns. Those should be enough to keep any angry pumas at bay.”
“You think I came with all that crap for a puma? Son, I’d wrestle some mangy mountain lion into submission with my bare hands. We are after something a whole lot meaner than that.”
“Matt said the same thing. He also said that whatever killed that boy was canine, but I don’t know of any dogs that can climb trees, so why not let me in on the secret. What exactly are we dealing with here?”
Carl laughed, and then winked at Steven. “All in good time, all in good time. Now, let’s get my gear, grab a burger and we can get ready for tonight.”
“Why? What happens tonight?”
“What do you think you brought me here for, son? Tonight we go hunting.”
***
24th April 1986. Mill Woods, High Moor. 19:30.
Steven gripped the wet surface of the tree trunk and hauled himself up towards the makeshift platform that he and Carl had spent most of the afternoon constructing.
The American located a clearing in the woods around a quarter of a mile away from where the Williams boy had been found and carried out his site preparation with an air of casual confidence. That should have made Steven feel better about the situation, but for some reason it had the opposite effect.
They built the platform on the intersection of two branches, almost thirty feet from the forest floor. They had trimmed the lower branches of the tree so that there were no obstructions to their field of fire. It had been cold, wet, unpleasant work, and every time Steven looked at the platform, he had visions of a similar structure where a boy had died the previous month. The thought did nothing to settle his nerves.
Steven reached the platform and hauled himself over the edge of the wood, praying that it would support his weight. The rain had stopped around an hour earlier. The only sounds were evening birdsong, and the sporadic patter of droplets of water falling from leaves.
Steven heard a rustling in the undergrowth, and his hand moved towards the flight cases containing Carl’s weapons. A moment later, Carl Schneider emerged from the bracken holding a length of rope. At the other end of the rope was a goat.
Steven was puzzled. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Carl flashed him a knowing grin. “From a farmer on the outskirts of town. Cost me twenty pounds, which of course I’ll be expecting back on top of my fee.”
“Great. So now, Durham Constabulary is the proud owner of a female goat. Have you thought about what exactly we're going to do with it if your plan doesn’t work?”
Carl tied one end of the rope to a metal stake in the centre of the clearing. “You could always keep it as a pet. Or eat it. Some good cuts of meat on a goat.”
“Something tells me that the wife might object to my showing up with a slightly used goat. What makes you so sure that our mystery beast is going to take the bait?”
Carl finished his knot, walked over to the goat, and stroked the animal’s head. Then he drew a knife and sliced the flesh across the goat’s ribs. The animal squealed in pain and pulled at its tether. Carl walked away from the stricken creature and attached his tree climbing harness.
“What the fuck are you doing? I should arrest you right now for animal cruelty.”
The old man looked up at the police officer in the tree. All traces of humour had vanished from his face. “Steve, I do what I have to. Hopefully, this will save some lives. Now, the light is going, and soon the moon will be up. I don’t want another fucking sound out of you until daybreak. No talking, no moaning. Don’t even breathe loud. Both our lives depend on it. Do you think you can do that?”
Steven shrugged and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “Sure, not a sound till morning. I think I can manage that.”
“You can forget about the cancer sticks until daybreak, too. It’ll smell the smoke half a mile away. We want the goat to be the bait, not us.”
Steven sighed and put the cigarettes away just as the rain started to fall once more. This was going to be a long night.
Chapter 7
24th April 1986. St Paul’s Church Hall, High Moor. 20:15.
John and Michael peered through the glass door at the rain-soaked street outside. The water came down in waves, driven by the wind into ice-cold darts that hammered against the thin glass sheet.
John turned to Michael. “I thought your dad was coming to pick us up?”
“He’s meant to do a lot of things, but mostly he just sits and gets pissed. He was always like that, but ever since…” said Michael, wiping his eyes with his Cub Scout neckerchief.
John put his hand on his friend's shoulder. “Sorry, mate, I really am. If you ever need anything…”
Michael moved away from John, glaring at him through red eyes. “If I need anything? I need everyone to stop looking at me like I'm some kind of freak. I need people to stop blaming me for the curfews and the Cub Scout camp being cancelled.” Michael’s voice cracked and the tears flowed. “Most of all, I need for my brother not to be dead. Can you do any of those things, John?”
“Mike, no one’s blaming you for any of that.”
“Really? Did you see everyone in that hall look at me when Mr Wilson cancelled the camping trip?”
“It’s not like that. It’s just that no one knows what to say to you to make it better. I don’t know what to say, and I’ve known you all my life.”
“How can anything make it better? It doesn’t matter how sorry everyone is, John. My brother's still dead, my dad’s still a useless fucking drunk, and everyone in town thinks I’m either some charity case, or that somehow it’s all my fault.”
The two boys stood in silence in the church hall entrance, watching the headlights of vehicles driving past, hoping that one of them was Michael’s father.
The lights of the church hall flickered out as Mr Wilson, the scout leader, closed up for the night.
“Has your lift not arrived yet, boys? Do you need a ride home?”
“My dad will be here in a minute,” said Michael, “He’s just running late.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait outside for him. I’m locking the hall up now. Are you sure you don’t need a lift home? The curfew’s in effect, and I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”
John put on his best smile. “We’re fine, thanks. See you next week, Mr Wilson.”
The two boys stood in the porch while Mr Wilson locked the doors, got into his car, then drove away.
“Do you think your dad’s coming?”
“Is he bollocks. Come on, let’s walk and hope the coppers don’t see us.”
The boys hurried through the darkened streets, keeping close to the walls of the terraced houses in an attempt to avoid the worst of the rain. Within minutes, they were both soaked through, their thin jumpers and scout caps failing to offer any kind of protection from the elements. The boys ran on in silence and misery until they passed the comprehensive school, turning onto the lane that would take them home. As they crossed the road, a shout came from a bus shelter.
“Hey, losers! We want a word with you.”
Michael and John turned to look. Malcolm and his gang were huddled under the metal shelter, passing a joint between them. The two boys exchanged glances, then broke into a sprint.
“The school field,” said John, “cut across it. We can lose them in the dark.”
They ran through the open gates, then took a sharp right turn off the tarmac road and across the wet grass. The main school building rose up to greet them as they cleared a rise; a dark monolith silhouetted against the reflected orange haze of the sky.
Michael risked a look over his shoulder only to find, to his dismay, that the four older boys were gaining on them.
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