The Death Collector

by Neil White

  Mary put her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

  ‘Burial seems important somehow,’ Joe continued. ‘Melissa wasn’t killed. She disappeared. The mystery of the body’s location is part of the torture, but he knows, and he can sit and reflect and look out over the ground, knowing what lies beneath. So we need to go to where Rebecca was found. Are you ready?’

  She nodded, determination in her eyes. ‘I’m ready.’

  Declan Farrell looked out through the empty window frame.

  He was stalling. Was he backing out because this was different? His previous visits here had either been to remember or to bury. This was just revenge, one final twist before he disappeared.

  He felt it then, the emotion he had been looking for: anger, the slow bubble, the creeping heat. He was about to lose everything he had. Why shouldn’t others? He was going to lose this – his place, his home. There would be nowhere left to get lost in the memories of his mother, now safe from harm under the soil. And those in the hills outside, too. Their passion, how they had submitted to him completely, and then how they had turned away from him. The moors were their resting place, and his hiding place – they would never be found. The moors were too vast, too open, the landscape too scarred.

  Alice shivered and moaned behind her gag, dirty tears soaking her cheeks, soil staining her legs. He had wanted Sam to see her again – an image that would stay with him and haunt him, so that every day that he spent looking for her he would be reminded of her terror, be tormented by it, always trying to work out the location of the small square of land that would make up her grave.

  He pulled up the collar of his jacket and pressed the power button on her phone. It was time for another picture.

  The screen finally came to life, the software icons appearing at the top. The network signal, faltering to the occasional one bar, the time, the battery life. Then there was another, a small circle that pulsated.

  He clicked on it, curious. He kept his phone use simple, using cheap pay-as-you-go phones so that there was never a trail. No angry husbands to work out his name. No obligation to register a phone. Alice’s phone was modern, sleek and black. His eyes flickered wide when he saw the letters GPS. He knew what that meant: her phone could be located.

  The heat inside him changed, from anger to something hotter than that. It was fear. He scrolled through the icons on the screen until he found the picture folder. He brought up the picture he had sent before and worked out how to get the information about it. The view of the screen blurred as he saw it. There it was, the filename for the picture, and the date and time, along with other things that didn’t mean anything to him, but underneath all of it were digits. GPS coordinates. They would know where to find her.

  He steadied himself against the wall. They would find this place. He would lose even this as a memory. He turned towards Alice. There was the blame.

  He grabbed her by her arm and pulled her up. She shivered as she stood there, her arms still tied behind her back, her clothes sodden and filthy.

  ‘We need to move,’ he said.

  Before they could go, there was something to his right. Lights, a sweeping beam, some of it reflecting along the narrow track that wound down from the road. Someone was coming. He wouldn’t be able to drive away.

  He grabbed Alice’s arm and said, ‘We’ve got to go,’ before walking quickly out of the empty doorway of the cottage.

  The lights were getting closer, the high beam spreading a bright fan that lit up the moorland ahead. There was the slow crunch of tyres on loose stones and the steady rumble of an engine.

  He pulled at Alice, who yanked away from him, seeing rescue in the lights. She fell to the ground and started to scramble towards them, her eyes wide above the gag, the headlights getting brighter all the time.

  He grabbed her hair, making her yelp, and pulled her to her feet before gripping her round her waist and propelling her forwards, down the grassy slope, and towards the slow meander of the stream and the grouse butts lining the valley.

  They both landed in the water, Declan holding Alice down so that her clothes were drenched. The headlights crept around the final bend in the track and lit up the derelict cottage, his own car in front. The engine was turned off and someone stepped out, slowly and deliberately. Then he heard a voice he recognised.

  ‘Farrell!’ It was Hunter, shouting. ‘Where are you?’

  He had to think of a different plan. He grabbed Alice by the arm once more and set off down the valley.

  Sixty-four

  Sam paced, frantic, scared, his hands clasped behind his head, just about keeping everything together, but it was the impotence that was getting to him. Weaver was staring ahead, saying nothing. Sam turned on him.

  ‘How could you do that?’ Sam said.

  Weaver looked up slowly. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said. ‘Hunter killed David Jex, not me.’

  ‘He was alive when you covered him over,’ Sam said, shouting now. ‘Didn’t you see the post mortem result? Or were you too busy trying to protect that murdering bastard? David Jex had soil in his lungs. You could have saved him.’

  Weaver leaned forward and looked at the floor, his arms on his knees, as if he was going to vomit. ‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.’

  ‘But it did, and you were happy for Aidan Molloy to rot away in prison to protect yourself, for David’s wife never to know his fate, and, worst of all, to let Declan Farrell carry on doing what he has done. It all comes down to you, Weaver, and that prick Hunter. All you had to do was admit a mistake and lock away a bad guy, but no, you wanted to play vigilante and cover your own backside. Not only a coward, but a crooked coward, you piece of shit.’

  Evans put her hand on Sam’s arm. He had been getting closer to Weaver, so that he was standing over him, pointing, snarling.

  ‘No, Sam, not now,’ she said. ‘Save this.’

  He shrugged her off and pointed at Weaver. ‘So where has Hunter gone?’

  Weaver didn’t respond.

  ‘Come on, you must know. Hunter isn’t just running. He’s gone somewhere. So come on, where? How much do you know about Declan Farrell?’

  Weaver glanced up and his eyes narrowed. He sat back and folded his arms. There were tears in his eyes, but behind them was the hard glare of defiance.

  ‘What, so you can go after me with something else, as if I’m not in enough trouble.’

  ‘This isn’t about you.’

  Weaver looked past Sam and at Evans, who was just behind him, still holding onto Sam’s arm.

  ‘Think of the Force,’ Weaver said. ‘It will do us a lot of harm. Hunter and I can retire, just fade away. The only winners will be the lawyers, looking to sue the Force for God knows how much. Hundreds of thousands for every dead body, and Aidan Molloy, and all of it taken from our budgets so that the people we try to lock up stay free. Is that what you want? And the public will never trust us again. All you have to do is let Farrell go, or at least let Hunter and me sort him out, our way. Where’s the injustice in that?’

  Sam shrugged off Evans’s arm and gripped Weaver’s throat. He pushed him backwards into his chair. Spittle flew into Weaver’s face as Sam barked, ‘Farrell has got my wife and still all you can think about is yourself?’

  Hands gripped Sam, some uniformed officers running in from the corridor at Evan’s shout. They helped her to pull Sam off Weaver and push him back against the wall.

  Weaver spluttered and coughed. ‘You see, we’re not so different when anger takes over.’

  Sam took deep breaths, barely hearing Evans in front of him as she tried to calm him down, speaking softly, reassuring him.

  Weaver shook his head. ‘If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself. I’m finished, I know that now. You can do the rest. I’m not telling you anything. If you can’t get my confession into court, you’ve got nothing, you know that. And you won’t. It was an interview. You didn’t caution me and you knew I was guilty. So I’ll get sacked. At least I’
ll stay free.’

  Evans pointed at one of the uniforms and then towards Weaver. ‘Lock him up. Cuff him and find him a cell. He’s under arrest for conspiracy to murder.’

  The uniform looked uncertain until Evans shouted, ‘Now!’

  Weaver didn’t say anything as the handcuffs clicked around his wrist, although his stare never left Sam as he was hoisted to his feet.

  He pulled back and stopped by Sam as they drew level. ‘If you’d have left it alone, Alice would be safe now.’

  Evans closed her eyes and groaned as Sam’s arm rushed past her and his fist caught Weaver flush on the jaw, making him crumple to the floor.

  When she opened them she shook her head and said, ‘You shouldn’t have done that, but I’m glad you did.’

  Sam headed for the door. He pointed at the other uniformed constable. ‘Follow me.’

  Evans didn’t try to stop him.

  Sam burst into the room where Gina was with Erin and Amy. She looked round, expectant.

  ‘How’s your driving?’ Sam said.

  ‘Advanced, according to my police certificates.’

  ‘Good,’ Sam said. He went to Erin and Amy and gave them both a hug and a kiss. ‘I’m just going to find Mummy,’ he whispered. ‘This nice policeman will look after you.’ And he pointed to the young officer in uniform.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Gina. ‘Let’s go find Alice.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Evans said, as he ran past her.

  ‘You didn’t authorise my overtime,’ Sam said, as he headed for the exit. ‘I’ve been off duty for hours. I can do what the hell I like.’

  And then he was gone, banging through the door, Gina just behind.

  Joe leaned forward as he drove, getting closer to the side of the road where Rebecca Scarfield had been left. Can you see anything?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘There’s no one here.’

  Joe pulled over, trying to brake gently, so that the crunch of tyres on the gravel wasn’t too loud.

  ‘We’ll get out and walk down,’ he said. ‘If he’s down there, I don’t want to spook him.’

  ‘Do you think he will be?’

  ‘He’ll be somewhere around. This is his place.’

  They both stepped out of the car. He put his fingers to his lips and spoke in a whisper. ‘We need to stay quiet, so we can listen out. Sound will travel, and I’d rather we heard him than the other way around. It might help us get a bearing.’

  They were by an open gate.

  ‘It was down here,’ Mary whispered. ‘This is where he brought me. I remember it now. We parked there,’ and she pointed a few yards along the road, ‘but then we walked down here, past where Rebecca was found. I remember the gate and a curving track.’

  ‘Come on then,’ Joe said, and he headed down the track, Mary following.

  It was dark at the roadside. The moon helped, but the track seemed to swallow everything up. Joe pulled out his phone to illuminate the way, but only as a glow. He didn’t want to announce his arrival. They used the dark outlines of the slopes as a guide to where the track was and the phone to work out the edges and trip hazards. It was a long steady slope down, with open moorland on either side. There were rustles in the grass and Mary reached out for his arm, gripping his sleeves tightly.

  ‘Can you remember where he took you?’ Joe said.

  Mary peered forward, frowning as she tried to piece together memories to compare against the shadows ahead. ‘It was at the end of this road. Keep going. Some kind of crumbling building.’

  They tried to keep their footsteps light, but they were like loud cracks in the darkness. They couldn’t see far ahead. The path curved to the left and downwards, swallowed up by the land with every step.

  Something ran in front of them, making them both jump, but it was just a rabbit, its dart caught in the glow. They laughed nervously, but then kept on going, Joe’s focus returning to finding Alice. They rounded the bend and the moors spread in front of them, vast and brooding, except where stone outcrops made jagged lines of the horizon, blocking out the stars like rips across the sky.

  They kept on walking, just Joe’s phone lighting the way, until Mary pointed. ‘There it is.’

  Joe followed Mary’s indication and saw it. A small stone cottage, but hollowed out, lit up by the moon. The roof had gone and the doorway and windows were empty, just a dark slit in the middle and two black holes on either side. Grass grew up the walls.

  There was something else there too. Two cars.

  ‘Is it him?’ Mary said, her voice filled with bitterness, her lilt acquiring a tougher edge.

  ‘That’s Hunter’s car,’ Joe said, moving more quickly now, the thump of his footsteps drowning out the slow tick of Hunter’s engine as it cooled down, the air heavy with the smell of warm oil.

  ‘Hunter? What’s he doing here?’

  ‘I thought he was escaping. He’s not. He’s after Declan Farrell. He must have known Farrell’s secrets all along. He could have stopped this.’

  As they got closer, Joe recognised the other car. A dark red Ford Focus.

  ‘He’s here,’ Joe said, turning to Mary, gripping her arm, her pale features gleaming against the dark sheen of her hair. ‘Declan Farrell.’ He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Sam. When he answered, Joe whispered urgently, ‘I’m on the moors, a hundred yards from where Rebecca was found, at some kind of derelict cottage. Farrell is here. So is Hunter.’

  ‘What about Alice?’ Sam said.

  ‘I’ve only seen the cars, but Farrell can’t leave. Hunter is blocking him in. They must have headed for open country.’

  Then there was something else, a noise. Joe turned round, trying to work out what it was. Then he heard it again. High-pitched, guttural, like a scream cut off quickly.

  ‘She’s here,’ Joe said quickly. ‘Get people here, now!’

  Joe clicked off his phone and set off at a run towards the sounds. He didn’t think about Mary, although he could hear the fast pat of her feet behind him as she tried to keep up, so that she wasn’t left alone in the dark with Declan Farrell still out there, but it was Alice he was thinking about. He had to get to her, to save her. He had brought this about, his interest, his pursuit. For his brother, for Mary, for Alice, but also for himself, he had to bring it all to an end.

  Sam threw the phone into the central console. ‘Up on the moors,’ he said. ‘Where Rebecca Scarfield was found.’

  Gina pressed hard on the accelerator. They had driven out that way, guessing that it would all end on the moors somewhere.

  Sam had commandeered a patrol car and now he flicked the switch to turn on the flashing lights. The night turned into flickering blue. The houses became more spaced apart and the backdrop got darker. The engine strained as it headed upwards.

  ‘Get on the radio,’ Gina said. ‘See if one of your helicopters is up there. Get it over the moors, looking for the white dots. We won’t do it any other way.’

  Sam reached for it and barked the order. After a few seconds, it was confirmed. It was ten miles away but it was heading over.

  He looked out of the window and tried not to panic, but it was hard. Alice was tough, he knew that, but this was a whole different thing, more than just dealing with the pressures of every day but something wholly new, beyond anything she should have to contemplate. And he tried not to think about what Farrell might have done to her. He mustn’t think about that.

  He closed his eyes. His daughters came into his mind. They couldn’t lose their mother. Just couldn’t. They’d never recover from that. Even though they were young, their lives would be changed for ever by the loss of the woman they would be unable to remember when they got older. The knowledge that there was something missing, some joy they would never experience, of their mother’s love.

  He took a deep breath. He had to push that to one side, deal with it later. For now, it was all about finding Alice.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Gina said. ‘I know where it is. He might be hea
ding for the reservoir. It won’t be as dangerous as going on the tops.’

  Sam nodded. He was ready.

  Declan hooked his arm under Alice’s as they ran through the bed of the stream. He had to tread carefully. The stream was filled with large rocks that threatened to make him fall to the ground. She pulled back from him and slipped from his grasp, then scuttled away, splashing in the water.

  ‘Get up,’ he said, walking quickly to her, standing over her. She shrank back and collapsed. Exhausted, scared.

  He took the tow-rope from his shoulder and made a loop at one end, before threading the rest of it through to make a noose. He dragged her by her T-shirt towards him and threaded the noose over her head. He pulled on one end tightly until it fastened around her neck and she gasped, her eyes wide.