Norman shook his head, still holding the piece of skin under his chin as he spoke. ‘You wouldn’t see the pool this time of year, no,’ he said, ‘’specially not in this weather, but come the spring floods it’s there.’
‘Barney was saying the ditch runs pretty much past it,’ Lockyer said, taking a sip of his pint. It was warm but it still tasted good. He had made a mental note of the brewery.
‘The big fella’s barely out of shorts,’ Harry said, ‘yet he knows as much about these ’ere hills as the rest of us. His daddy brought him up on ’em – used to take him up to Seven Sisters and leave him with a map and a compass and make him find his way home.’
‘Jesus,’ Lockyer said. ‘How old was he?’
‘About six foot,’ Norman said with a laugh. ‘We don’t know Barney by his age, we know him by how tall he’d got.’
‘So how old would six foot have made him?’
‘Ooh,’ Norman said, looking at Harry. ‘He was six foot by the time he was what, fourteen, fifteen?’
‘’Bout that, yeah, I’d say,’ Harry said. ‘His father knew he was safe from the kiddie-fiddlers and what-have-you. It’s not like they could bundle a kid that size into their car, was it?’ Both men laughed and took a drink.
‘You were telling me about the ditch,’ Lockyer said, leading them back onto the subject. As much as he was loath to indulge the legend conversation, he was beginning to think Barney was right. He would be foolish to dismiss out of hand something that drew this much focus. Goodland had been adamant that the land was somehow cursed, and of the six people Lockyer had spoken to so far, every single one had brought up Dead Woman’s Ditch without him saying a word. They did appear, as Barney had said, unnerved, but Lockyer knew better than to take that at face value. He was thinking about Townsend and Hamilton. Both had said the legends had proved a distraction on the Evans case; Townsend had said it was deliberate. Hamilton blamed Townsend for allowing himself to be diverted by extraneous information. Lockyer had to admit, whether by design or by accident, the tactic was working on him too.
He turned at the sound of a loud bang. He half rose out of his seat as some kind of scuffle broke out at the bar. All he could hear was someone effing and blinding, and all he could see was Barney’s back and someone’s arms and fists flailing about just out of view. Barney appeared to have hold of whoever was kicking off. The rest of the people at the bar, Jane included, seemed to have taken a step back in a ‘leave them to it’ attitude. Of course Barney would intervene. Someone his size must like to throw his weight around. Lockyer stood up. ‘Back in a sec, gentlemen,’ he said, cracking his neck.
As he approached, he saw the punch land square on Barney’s jaw. The walking wall didn’t seem to register the impact, but to his credit he didn’t return the blow. Instead he grabbed the other bloke by the collar and lifted him clean off his feet. Lockyer stepped in, took one of the guy’s arms and shoved it up his back. ‘I’ve got this,’ he said to Barney, who obliged by setting the struggling piss-head back onto his unsteady feet.
Lockyer turned the guy where he stood until his arm was halfway up his back. There was the usual squeal he would expect from such a manoeuvre. That’s because it hurt. It was meant to. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Calm it down, now.’ Barney was already at the door, holding it open. ‘Come on,’ Lockyer said as he released the guy’s arm for a second, regretting it just as quick. The kid spun round and threw a punch. The flying fist darted past Lockyer’s face as he dodged out of the way. ‘You don’t want to be doing that,’ he said, holding his hand out as the boy stepped back, his face puce. Lockyer stopped when he realized who it was, but the recognition was not mutual. His opponent was way too pumped up to see or care who he was hitting. The next punch found its mark on Lockyer’s chin. He stumbled backwards, his hand to his mouth. ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ he said, spitting blood in his hand. ‘You have got a death wish.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
13th December – Sunday
Aaron blinked once, then again. He was looking at Lockyer. Of all people – Lockyer. He couldn’t seem to escape him. ‘Boss,’ he said as the grip on his arm tightened. ‘I didn’t realize . . .’
‘Clearly,’ Lockyer said, almost taking him off his feet as he frog-marched him out of the pub. Aaron tried to find his feet, to break free of his boss’s grip, but he couldn’t. ‘Pack it in. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Aaron heard the words, but the meaning sounded very different. It sounded like Lockyer did want to hurt him – a lot. And who could blame him? He had just punched the guy in the face. He had punched his boss. He had punched his girlfriend’s father. Not his best day.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ His sister sounded angry, but then, she was always pissed off about something. She had thrown a wobbly when Claudette asked her to tidy up after herself. Cass was staying in a hotel, but half her stuff seemed to be dumped all over his poor aunt’s ever-shrinking house.
‘Miss Jones, I’d appreciate it if you would keep your distance,’ Lockyer said as Aaron felt himself being manhandled into a sitting position, the edge of a picnic bench banging into the back of his legs. ‘Sit.’ Aaron did as he was told. He wasn’t sure he could have stood unaided even if he wanted to. The bottle of whisky at his aunt’s house was beginning to feel like a bad idea; the half-empty bottle in his car, an even worse idea.
‘Don’t patronize me, detective,’ Cassie said.
‘Look, I need to have a word with your brother here. I’m guessing . . . hoping you drove him up here, so please, go inside for now. You’ll be able to take him home shortly – where he should have stayed.’
‘I—’
‘I wasn’t talking to you, Aaron,’ Lockyer shouted.
‘What’s going on?’
Aaron looked up. What was DS Bennett doing here?
‘Nothing much,’ Lockyer said. ‘PC Jones is out of his head, and just assaulted Barney for some reason . . . and me.’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘No one’s talking to you, Aaron,’ Lockyer said. ‘Jane, can you do me a favour and take Miss Jones inside, please?’
‘It’s Cassie,’ she said, ‘or did you forget?’
‘Fine, Cassie,’ Lockyer said. ‘Please . . . go with Sergeant Bennett.’
Aaron tipped his head back and looked up at the night sky. There was a hole in the clouds right above him, revealing three bright stars. ‘Orion’s Belt,’ he said.
‘Do shut up,’ Lockyer said. Aaron blew out a breath, his lips as they vibrated making a sound like a horse. He started to laugh. ‘Barney, you too. Off you go.’ Aaron felt his fists clench at his sides as he heard his voice. He was up and pushing towards him. He wanted to kill him. His legs felt like they were moving, but he wasn’t getting anywhere.
‘Piece of shit,’ Cassie said.
‘Everyone inside . . . now,’ Lockyer barked.
Aaron decided it might be best to sit down again. He looked around for his sister, but she was gone. All he could see was gravel and cars changing from green to red and back again. Lockyer pushed him back down on the bench with a thump. He looked up at his boss’s face, Lockyer’s eyes and mouth moving like a Picasso. His mouth felt dry. He needed a drink. He pictured the half-empty bottle of whisky he had left in the car. ‘I just need my keys,’ he said, trying to push himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.
‘Aaron?’
He turned and looked up again at Lockyer’s moving face. ‘Evening, sir,’ he said. ‘How’s things?’
‘Good, Aaron,’ Lockyer said. ‘I’m having a splendid evening. How about yourself?’
‘It’s still early,’ he said. ‘Who knows what can happen. Cass and me are doing a . . . doing a pub crawl.’
‘The crawl part I can see,’ Lockyer said, ‘but can I ask what made you physically assault a guy who is easily twice your size?’
Aaron frowned, his head thumping as his flesh crinkled on his brow. ‘You’
re not twice my size, boss.’
‘Christ,’ Lockyer said, hanging his head. ‘Not me, Aaron. Barney. What’s the issue with Barney?’
‘He’s a piece of shit,’ Aaron said.
‘So I hear,’ Lockyer said, ‘but why?’
Aaron closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his stomach flipping over, making him shiver. ‘He’d been messing around with my Pip. He dumped her. He dumped my sister. Can you believe it?’
‘Actually, I can,’ Lockyer said, lowering himself onto the bench beside Aaron. It bowed under their combined weight.
‘You’re heavy,’ Aaron said. ‘He’s an arsehole.’
‘Right,’ Lockyer said. ‘And who told you this?’
‘Some bloke up at the Hood Arms told Cass,’ Aaron said, resting his hands on his knees as the red and green lights flashed, making the ground in front of him appear to move. ‘He said Dickster-von-arsehole took Pip out and then dumped her after they’d . . . after they’d . . .’ He didn’t want to say ‘fuck’ in front of his boss – or about his sister, now that he thought about it. ‘After he got what he wanted.’
‘I see,’ Lockyer said. ‘Wasn’t he a friend of yours?’
‘Fuck, no,’ Aaron said. ‘Did you get a whiff of his breath?’
‘Barney’s?’
‘Yes, Barney’s,’ Aaron said, nodding his head and then regretting it when the bench started to move beneath him. ‘His breath was rancid.’
‘I’m not sure you’re one to talk right now, Aaron,’ Lockyer said, shifting on the bench next to him.
‘Maybe not, but at least I’m not fuck ugly.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
‘Your daughter thinks I’m hot,’ Aaron said, swaying forward, only to be righted by Lockyer’s palm against his chest.
‘I would quit while you’re ahead, Aaron.’
Aaron felt all the air leave his lungs in a great rush, emptying him out. He could feel the tears burning the backs of his eyes. When would it stop? He couldn’t stand thinking about her any more. It was too much. It was all too much. ‘Who did this, sir?’ he asked as his last reserves of energy drained out of him.
‘I don’t know, Aaron, but trust me, I will find out . . . But will you do me a favour?’
‘Anything, sir,’ he said, turning and trying to focus on Lockyer’s face. ‘I’ll do anything.’
‘One,’ Lockyer said, holding up a finger. Aaron tried to follow it as it moved in and out of his vision. ‘Stop drinking. And two: for Christ’s sake, stop hitting people. Me especially.’
‘I just wanted to . . .’ He searched for the words.
‘Hurt someone,’ Lockyer said, finishing his thought for him as he dragged him to his feet. Aaron nodded, but he couldn’t speak; standing was taking all his energy right now. ‘I’d probably feel the same way if it was my sister.’
Aaron locked his knees. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister, sir.’
‘I don’t, Aaron.’ Lockyer pulled him forward, and out into the car park. ‘I was empathizing, for God’s sake.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, as much as I’m enjoying listening to you try and string a sentence together, Aaron, I think it’s about time we got you home, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I wanna see Megs,’ he said, trying to hold his head steady. ‘I love her soooo much.’
‘Great,’ Lockyer said. ‘This evening just keeps on getting better and better.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
13th December – Sunday
Her mother had texted twice, asking Steph when she would be home. She was driving through Williton when her phone beeped again. She braked and looked down at the screen as the traffic lights changed to red, then picked up her mobile and tapped out a message:
I’ll be home in half an hour x
She read and re-read her message. She deleted the kiss and added ‘I love you’, but then she deleted that and replaced the kiss. She turned and looked out at the snow floating down and landing on her windscreen. It was a light flurry, the snowflakes dancing in the night air. They seemed to be melting before they reached the ground.
The road was wet, a shiny black lake rippling beneath her. She picked up her phone again. She was about to delete the kiss as the lights changed – the green light shining down on the bonnet of her car. Her last drink – or three – was making it hard to focus. A horn blared from behind her, making her jump. She looked in her rear-view mirror, feeling the beads of sweat in the curve of her back, her mouth dry. The street lights illuminated a woman in a Land Rover gesticulating for Steph to move. She pressed send on her message with her thumb, raised her hand in apology and put her car into gear, her breathing easing as she joined a line of traffic. She looked at the lights strung above the high street. She used to love Christmas, but when she had realized it wasn’t Santa at the end of her bed come to fill her stocking but her parents, the magic had disappeared overnight.
She blinked as a few cars left the snake of traffic to head out of town, the lights disappearing behind her. She heard a horn blare again, but when she looked in her rear-view mirror there was no one there. It was just her. She was at the back of the snake now – the tail. She put her foot down and crept closer to the car in front. She wouldn’t lose them. The tail couldn’t survive without the body.
When she had found the courage to leave the salon last night, she had driven home sandwiched between two cars for the entire journey back to her parents’ house. She wasn’t foolish enough to think it was over, but for one night at least, she had a reprieve. She had even slept after her mother insisted they watch a scary movie and Steph had fallen asleep on the sofa. The film hadn’t frightened her, and even now, despite her determination to stay with her snake chaperone, she didn’t feel fear. Something had changed. She had changed.
When Ash had texted to say they were all out in Dunster drinking, she had not even hesitated. What was the point? Even if it didn’t happen tonight, it would happen another night. She couldn’t outrun her fate. She sighed, turned on her stereo and set it to CD mode. There was a mechanical whirring from the boot as her CD changer selected and loaded her chosen album. It was Prince’s Purple Rain. She skipped forward to track six, ‘When Doves Cry’. The sound of the electric guitar filled the car. She increased the volume to twenty, then to thirty as the drums kicked in and he started to sing, his voice rough and deep.
She felt a sense of calm and hazy euphoria as she was pulled along by the line of cars in front of her. There must be six, no, seven cars including hers, their brake lights shining out behind them, guiding her. The snow was heavier, but Steph didn’t care. She looked to her left at the black expanse that was the Bristol Channel. For the first time in days her breathing was slow and rhythmic. The inevitability of her situation had steadied her pulse. Two cars turned off at the Hood Arms: the snake’s forked tongue and fang-filled mouth. But the mechanical reptile didn’t stop. It continued forward despite not being able to smell or taste. She tapped the fingers of her right hand on the steering wheel as the song reached its crescendo. Her left hand was hovering near the stereo, waiting to skip back so she could listen to the track again. Three more cars left the line at Kilve: the throat, the lungs and the belly. As she watched them leave, three beats were added to her pulse. The snake could no longer swallow, breathe or digest its prey, and yet it kept going; but its pace was slowing, its strength fading. She knew how it felt. How much fight did she really have in her? Her eyes were drawn to a pair of shining lights in her rear-view mirror.
Her stomach clenched and she swallowed, forcing back a tide of whisky and coke. The road narrowed as her wounded animal limped its way down the hill. She felt the tears come when the final car, the bowels, abandoned her at Holford. She was alone. A tail being chased by gaping jaws. They would eat her whole. She gripped the steering wheel as if in anticipation but there was no impact, no squeal of metal on metal. She looked at the shining white lights behind her. They seemed to blink at her.
; ‘Come on, then,’ she said, her voice low and quiet. ‘If you want me, you’re gonna have to catch me.’ She started to accelerate, watching the speedo as it went past forty, fifty, fifty-five, sixty, until she was doing seventy-five miles an hour. Her car seemed to fly over the bends and humps in the road. She raced down the hill, her full beams cutting a path through the darkness. Her engine was screaming. She realized she was still in third gear. She saw a turning up ahead, a road off to the right. She took her foot off the accelerator, hovered over the brake and pulled her steering wheel to the right. As she shot down the lane at a speed that would, on any other night, have terrified her, she realized she wasn’t ready to give in – not yet. The hedges whipped by in her peripheral vision. Her car seemed to lift off the road as she crested the brow of a hill and then she was going down, trees crowding in around her – to shelter her – to protect her. She braked, allowing her engine some respite. Her hands felt glued to the wheel. Her car rolled to a stop, a bare oak above her, snow everywhere around her. She looked back. No lights. She rested her head back and concentrated on her breathing. She felt light-headed, delirious; neither happy nor sad but numb, her head void of all thoughts.
She peeled her hands away from the leather of the steering wheel. How long had she been here? Five, ten minutes maybe? She could see the glow of street lights ahead of her. She tried to locate herself, but the map in her head was jumbled. She must be on one of the back roads to Nether Stowey or Doddington.
She took a deep breath, drawing comfort from the darkness around her. Her phone beeped as the screen lit up beside her. It was a text from her mother.
The Night Stalker (Detective Jane Bennett and Mike Lockyer series Book 4) Page 21
