by Paul Finch
BLOOD FEAST
Heck flicked through, stopping several pages in to read.
‘Listen to this … Valentine’s Day. Two lovers are caught shagging in a car. Their hearts are cut out and pinned to a tree with an arrow.’
‘Not quite the same,’ Quinnell said.
‘Close though. How about this … Good Friday? A priest gets nailed to a cross made from pews in his own church. Two local toe-rags who were trying to pinch lead from the church roof get crucified alongside him.’
Quinnell regarded him with amazement. No words were needed.
Tubbs watched, baffled, as they came clumping down the narrow stair.
‘You said you’ve been sitting here, crapping yourself, Dan,’ Heck said, slapping one of the booklets against the prisoner’s chest. ‘You’ve bloody good reason to.’
‘Who are you, the fucking fiction police? It’s just a story. No one even wanted it. I only sent it to one editor, and she rejected it … said it was totally unrealistic.’
‘We know,’ Quinnell said. ‘But didn’t you then threaten to “show her otherwise”?’
‘Hang on … hang on a mo’!’ An expression of dull horror was dawning on Tubbs’s brutish face. ‘You’re not talking about these Desecrator murders? Jesus H. Christ, you’ve got to be kidding!’
‘Did you or did you not write a threatening letter to Tabby Touchstone?’
‘Yeah, yeah!’ Tubbs nodded frantically. ‘But it was bullshit. You’ve seen what I’m like. I lose my rag and do all sorts of stuff I don’t mean.’
Even though a heated denial was only to be expected, Heck couldn’t ignore a wearisome gut feeling that this wasn’t their man. A cursory look around the place revealed dishes so unwashed there were cultures growing on them, carpets impacted with the crumbs of decades, a mantelpiece in the living room chocka with pills. On top of that, Tubbs was a total buffoon – big enough and crazy enough to hammer someone senseless on the spur of the moment, but lacking the organisational skills to run his own life effectively, let alone arrange a series of clever, preplanned murders.
‘When the Desecrator crimes actually began,’ Heck said, ‘you never once thought “Hold on, there’s a connection here? Has someone taken my ideas on board?”’
Tubbs groaned aloud. ‘I told you … no one ever bought the story. I only sent it to one editor, and never again after she told me what a pile of fucking dogshit it was!’ Slowly, convulsively, he began struggling, and it took Quinnell and a couple of uniforms to restrain him again, though this time there was no kicking out, no shouting or screaming. He slumped in their grasp, breathing heavily. Tears, possibly born more of sorrow than rage, seeped onto his cheeks.
‘So Tabby Touchstone is the only other person who’s seen this story?’ Heck asked.
‘Yeah. She said it was so daft I didn’t dare send it anywhere else.’
‘And what did you mean when you told her you were going to prove otherwise?’
‘For Christ’s sake, I meant I was going to rewrite it, then publish it myself. Make a mint out of it without having to pay some useless middle-man. And as you saw upstairs, I never sold a fucking one. It’s cost me more than I’ve earned from it.’
‘You’re absolutely sure nobody else has ever seen this story?’
‘Not a single person wanted to buy it … oh!’ Tubbs’s expression rapidly changed. ‘Oh … fuck!’
‘What?’ Heck asked.
‘Six years ago … the British Horror Convention in Bristol. I took it down there. Oh shit, any fucker could have picked it up.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I couldn’t sell it, so I thought I’d give it away … you know, use it as a marketing gimmick to get me better known. So I left it on tables around the hotel. Only about twenty copies though.’
‘How many were picked up?’
‘Dunno… . I never went round to see.’
Heck pinched the bridge of his nose to check that he was still alive, before turning to the uniformed sergeant. ‘If your lads can take him down to Preston Central, that’d be great. He’s arrested on suspicion of stealing a credit card, obtaining property by deception, causing grievous bodily harm to a police officer and anything else I can think of regarding that dog. I’ll be down to sort it in ten.’
Tubbs was wheeled away, still protesting, and placed in the caged section at the rear of the prisoner transport. It disappeared in a swirl of exhaust.
Quinnell leaned against the splintered door-jamb. ‘What do you think?’
‘It isn’t him.’ Heck rubbed at his mauled thigh, which throbbed horribly as the damaged flesh tightened. ‘I wish it was, but it isn’t.’
‘What about this Tabby Touchstone? Sounds … I dunno, a bit witchy.’
‘So she should. She edits a horror magazine. Probably only a pen-name anyway. We’ll see what Brighton think of her … but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.’
Chapter 37
It seemed ridiculous for a woman of her age, but Claire had never attempted to drive such a distance late at night before; not on her own.
At first, a midnight departure had seemed a sensible idea. The roads would be deserted; she’d be home in under three hours. And what if she was being tortured by worry and uncertainty at having suddenly run away? Maybe a few hours at the wheel, eyes glued on the spooled-out ribbon of empty blacktop, would help put things into perspective. She hadn’t expected the roads to be quite this empty, though.
The surrounding woods and fields were an unlit void. Cars occasionally flipped by in the opposite direction, but she’d seen only one other vehicle on her side of the carriageway since joining the M62 – and that in itself had been a little unnerving. Because it was still there, behind her by a distance of about sixty yards; indistinguishable of course, nothing more than a pair of unblinking luminous eyes, but travelling at a steady seventy mph – as she was. At first she’d fancied that it might have come down the slip road from the motel in pursuit of her; had wondered if maybe it was one of the officers on the team who’d twigged what she was up to and was now tailing her. But it wasn’t long before she’d dismissed that notion as guilt-fuelled paranoia.
Okay, it wasn’t the done thing to sneak off in the middle of an investigation, even if you were a civvie; it could well be deemed an abrogation of duty. But she didn’t see how anyone could have suspected that this was what she’d been planning – mainly because she hadn’t been. It had been a spur of the moment decision, even if it hadn’t been an easy one (despite yet another terrible tongue-lashing from DCI Garrickson). She didn’t like what she was doing; she hated herself for it – but she genuinely didn’t see what purpose would be served by hanging around at Manor Hill. She’d let everyone down, including herself. She patently couldn’t do the job and was nothing more than a laughing stock.
Not that she’d put these exact thoughts in the resignation letter she’d emailed to Superintendent Piper. She’d said no more to Gemma than she had to Heck the night before: that she wasn’t right for this post, and the sooner she was out of it the better for all of them. She’d had no response as yet.
She glanced again into her rear-view mirror. The other car had drifted further behind; it wasn’t far off vanishing altogether – which was a bit of a relief, she supposed. Its failure to overtake her on an empty road, when she was only doing seventy, had perhaps seemed a little suspicious – but it really made no sense to assume that someone else on the team was watching her. At present they had vastly bigger fish to fry. She glanced at the mirror again; the car was now at the extreme end of her rear-view vision, and still receding.
But Christ … sneaking off at midnight looked a desperate ploy.
Again, Claire was torn by doubt. How would this appear? Even those of a charitable disposition would say that she was fleeing her responsibilities, and there’d be no way to deny that. She genuinely believed that she’d messed things up for everyone else and didn’t know how she could face them, and if, as Garrickson ha
d aggressively told her, the second kidnapped prostitute died ‘because of her fucking inefficiency’, she couldn’t possibly stick around and be forced to gaze upon the crime scene glossies that would prove it. But there was no point pretending she wasn’t deeply ashamed by what felt like rank cowardice. Claire had always prided herself on loyalty and stoicism. True, she’d never come up against a horror of this magnitude, but by nature she wasn’t a quitter, and the more she thought about this, the more it hurt her.
She checked the mirror again – the other car had drawn a little nearer, but was still a good hundred yards behind. Then something else distracted her: a warning light next to the steering column.
It was the fuel gauge.
Claire’s first reaction was shock; she’d filled up with petrol only a couple of days earlier, and had barely used her vehicle since. Her second reaction was further self-denigration; Christ, how ludicrous was it to have got so wrapped in other things that she hadn’t noticed this before now? Her third reaction was panic, because the needle on the gauge was actually below the red, and according to her sat-nav, the next services were at Burtonwood, which was a good ten miles away. She shifted over into the slow lane, trying to calculate her chances of making it, but suspecting the worst. According to the fuel gauge, she was already running on fumes.
A turn-off appeared ahead, connecting with ‘Clock Face’ and ‘Bold Heath’, two localities she’d never even heard of before. That hardly mattered of course, if there was a petrol station nearby. She veered onto the exit road. Just getting off the M62 was probably a good thing if she was about to run out of fuel.
The slip road ended a hundred yards later at a T-junction. Claire slowed as she approached, but didn’t dare stop in case she wasn’t able to start again. She swung left, cruising onto what looked like a deserted B-road. There was no sign of a petrol station yet, but it surely couldn’t be long. Merseyside was a more rural county than outsiders might imagine, but it wasn’t a wilderness – there were dollops of conurbation everywhere, even if at present only more moonlit fields and darkened woodland skimmed past her windows. She checked her gauge again; the needle was so low that it was beyond her understanding how she was still in motion. Even if she passed a pub or restaurant, it would be closed at this late hour … though its car park might still be accessible. She could at least exit the road.
And then what?
Could she call the AA? She didn’t know if they’d turn out for someone who’d been dozy enough to run out of petrol. There had to be a local breakdown service, but the same question applied. The obvious thing to do was ring the MIR. That was manned round-the-clock. Someone would respond, though she’d feel like the biggest fool on Earth.
She peered ahead intently, doing her best to keep her foot off the pedal, trying to freewheel as much as she could to minimise fuel-use. She swerved around a hair-pin bend, the zigzag black and white flashes flickering through her headlights. Beyond that there was more woodland – dense and leafy, enclosing the road from either side.
And then salvation – she rounded a second bend and saw what looked like a petrol station about thirty yards ahead on the left, complete with canopy and shop. No lights were visible, but that was hardly a surprise; nor did it really matter – at least she’d be in the right place to get refuelled in the morning. She made it over the final few yards without a hitch, the engine only conking out as she pulled up on the concrete forecourt alongside the pumps.
She slumped down with relief.
It was about a minute later when she finally glanced up again – and saw padlocked grilles on the shop’s windows and doors, all eaten by rust. Some of the glass behind them was broken. When she looked across the forecourt, it was strewn with leaves and litter. The petrol pumps were thickly furred with dust.
Claire closed her eyes with disbelief. Her head sagged down, her chin hitting her chest. She now had no option but to call the AA. Well, that wasn’t too bad. If nothing else, they could at least advise her. She groped in the handbag on the front passenger seat, rummaging for her mobile, but initially was unable to locate it. Frustrated, she switched the interior light on and peered into the bag, searching with both hands, but there was no sign of the phone among her toiletries and make-up. Puzzled, she climbed out and walked around the car, intending to search the passenger side foot-well – and was shocked to see that the hinged flap covering the petrol-cap was open.
The cap itself was unscrewed, and hung by its plastic tag. At least the mystery of why she’d run out of fuel was solved. She obviously hadn’t replaced the cap after filling up the day before yesterday, and had been driving around with the tank open. But no … that didn’t ring true. Wasn’t there a valve inside the average modern petrol tank, to prevent the liquid sloshing out?
Someone else had opened it, she realised with a chill.
There was no sign of damage around the cap, so it couldn’t have been forced. Which meant only one thing; that someone had been inside her car and had used the lever under the steering column.
Slowly, the little hairs on her neck stiffened.
Had they forced the vehicle open? Again no – she could see no damage. Which meant they’d come upon it while it was unlocked, and the only possibility of that was back at the motel, when she’d brought her car around to the front and had gone inside the building to return her room-key. She hadn’t initially been able to find the night-porter, so it had taken her a good twenty minutes at least. But would that be long enough? She supposed it was conceivable, but how likely was it that an opportunist petrol thief, out there in the middle of nowhere …
Good Lord, had they taken her mobile at the same time?
She yanked open the passenger door and checked the foot-well and the space underneath the seat. There was no sign of it. She rooted through her bag again. It was definitely not there. But more worrying still, her purse was – containing at least fifty pounds in notes and change, and all her credit cards.
So an everyday thief had been into her car, searched her bag – and had taken her phone, but not her purse?
Yeah, sure.
Now tingling with fear, Claire glanced at the silent undergrowth encroaching from all sides of the derelict station. She tried to tell herself that this was nothing but supposition. All that had happened was that she’d run out of petrol … but no, her petrol had been stolen. And so had her phone. Was it possible that whoever it was had been watching the motel, waiting to pounce in this way?
She already knew the answer of course. Something she’d overheard Sergeant Fisher say sounded in her ears again: ‘Whatever these nutters’ motivations, they are bloody well organised. The way they’re selecting victims, luring them into traps … It wouldn’t surprise me if they aren’t following the investigation in order to improvise …’ She wondered again about the car on the motorway that had followed her – and as she did, she heard an approaching engine. She spun around. Headlights speared along the road in the direction she’d come from.
Whoever it was, they were advancing slowly – as if looking for something.
Claire retreated across the forecourt. Even if she could find somewhere to hide, her Micra was out in the open. They’d know she was here.
It’s insane, she tried to tell herself. It can’t be the same people. But good God alive! Images of the victims – warped and mangled relics, human beings reduced to pulp and gristle – swam before her eyes. And how many times were they likely to have seen her on the television? Good God, Jesus Christ, surely not this … not me!
She turned and ran blindly. Aware of the engine volume increasing, the light intensifying, she threw herself against the shop door, tears of terror filling her eyes. She rammed both hands against the rotted metalwork – and to her disbelief, it swung inward.
Claire stood blinking on the threshold, gazing into a dark, musty interior.
She blundered forward, kicking through wads of grimy junk mail. The belly of the shop was crammed with obscure shapes only vaguely discernib
le in the blackness: racks of shelving, all now empty and skeletal and knocked askew. She stumbled among them, tripping, barking her shins. Pluming dust made her sneeze. Then bright light flooded through the grilled window. Twisting shadows travelled across the rear wall as headlamp beams spilled across the station forecourt. Claire twirled helplessly, unsure where she could go – and in the same instant the lights were gone again.
She hardly dared believe it. Had the vehicle driven past?
She held her ground, heart hammering her chest wall. The rumbling engine was audible, but slowly fading as the vehicle drew away. It was still several seconds before she let out a breath, and several minutes before she risked moving back to the door and peeking out at the forecourt.
The Micra sat alone at the derelict pumps.
She listened again. Silence.
She ventured outside, wandering warily towards her car.
She didn’t even know for sure that she’d been robbed. Perhaps she had just been lax when she was last filling up? Perhaps she’d dropped her mobile phone? She leaned against the bodywork as her pulse slowly settled, before walking around it to the low wall separating the forecourt from the road. The spring night was so quiet – and, for the first time this year, so warm. There was a scent of blossom in the air, and chopped grass. The English countryside, she realised, cursing herself for a fool – where bad things tended not to happen. She glanced left along the narrow lane in the direction the trawling vehicle had just taken.
But it was still there.
Parked up about forty yards away.
Facing her.
Its headlights snapped on at full-beam.
It took everything Claire had to yank herself away and stumble back towards the station shop. Behind her, an engine came to life. Moaning, she blundered back inside, slamming the door closed. Her eyes had already attuned, so she was able to grab what looked like an old mop leaning nearby, bracing one end of it against the door’s inner face and jamming the other against the nearest skirting board. She pivoted around, looking for somewhere to hide. As she did, searing light poured in behind her again. This time the shadows fled in different directions.
