Jack nodded.
“Right,” he said. “All possible.”
Then, a few minutes of silence.
Jack wondered about all the pieces of this. Thinking: how do they — could they — fit together?
Sarah — quiet as well.
Then …
An intersection, and Tracy turned sharply to the left.
“Jack — we’re heading back to Cherringham.”
“Why, so we are.”
And he had to wonder? What — or who — is in Cherringham?
The warm summer air gently flowed into the car as they sped along, past dark fields lit by a low moon.
A gorgeous summer night.
But he knew bad things can happen on any night, even one like this.
*
Sarah felt Jack slow — this lane, crazily narrow — and she guessed he instinctively pulled back.
They’d driven in a big circle around Cherringham and now were in the maze of tiny lanes that criss-crossed the valley to the south.
They could easily lose her if they pulled too far back, she thought.
But best not to be spotted.
Then — they’d really lose her.
Ahead, the car took another turn.
And Sarah now realised where this narrow lane led.
The old ironworks.
Why here?
But then, to the other side, on abandoned land, the ramshackle caravan park.
Such a creepy place, she thought. Hard to believe it was even in Cherringham.
Jack slowed. Then stopped.
“Can’t follow?”
“We can see her car lights from here. Best we stay dark. Just watch.”
Sarah leaned forward as they both kept their eyes locked on the Fiesta winding its way down a dirt track past caravans and the people sitting outside; bonfires making the encampment look spectral.
As Tracy’s car crept to the back, to a dark area well away from the other caravans.
A place to be totally on your own.
Not sharing the beers and fire of the balmy evening.
The car stopped by a small van tucked away towards the rear of the abandoned ironworks.
“We go now?”
Jack nodded. But then … “Not driving. Anything happening down there, think Tracy would see us.” He took a breath. “Can’t take the car …”
“So on foot?”
Jack nodded. “You okay with that? Looks like there are cut-throughs. Footpaths.”
“Sure. Least we don’t have to trudge through a foot of snow.”
And Jack laughed as he popped open his car door. “We do get around, now, don’t we?”
And despite the eeriness of the setting, Sarah had to laugh at that.
Jack had a way of making the craziest of things — like this — seem okay.
*
They wandered down a slope, using what appeared to be a well-worn footpath, probably used on nights when driving back to the caravan park was not — for alcoholic reasons — an option.
Jack turned to Sarah, stopping.
They were close, bypassing the summer revellers huddled near their fires, sending glowing cinders flying into the night sky.
“To be honest, Sarah. Situation like this, I wish I had my gun. Back home, I’d never walk into something like this without my Colt.”
She looked at him.
“We don’t know what’s down there,” he said. “What Tracy is doing. Could be harmless, nothing …”
But you don't think so, Sarah thought.
“The shotgun that was thrown into the river might not be the only weapon in play. So, careful, yes? And if it looks,” he took a breath, “dangerous, I’ll try to back off.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got used to reading your hidden messages.”
He gave a smile, despite the grim warning, “I know you have.” Warning issued, then a breath. “Okay … let’s go.”
And they continued down the path, cutting left towards the hulking shadow of the ironworks, and the lone caravan, pale, yellow light in its windows. Isolated, as if others in this park didn’t want anything to do with it.
16. The Falling Out
Sarah kept close to Jack as he moved slowly, edging ever closer to the caravan.
The door to the caravan was open, someone standing in the open doorway, with Tracy standing just below.
No way to discern what they were saying.
Jack turned to Sarah. “Got to go closer. Could be,” his voice barely audible, “they’ll be so absorbed in whatever they’re taking about they won’t notice.”
She nodded. The guy in the doorway was turned to the side, his face a shadow. It was easy to identify Tracy.
But the man could be anyone.
They took a few steps closer, the cover of the bush dropping away, now nearly exposed.
And Sarah could hear.
And the words immediately made her heart race. Goosebumps sprouted on her arms.
The words … chilling.
*
The man first …
“No, just gotta lay low, Tracy. Th–that’s all we gotta do. Let it blow over.”
But then Sarah saw Tracy take a step closer to the man. Her voice shrill, piercing, powerful — even at a distance.
“Lay low? Bloody hell! Are you serious? Got people coming round. Asking questions about Nick when he should be good and put away.”
The man shook his head.
“They don’t know anything. Can’t—”
“They do. They know I was round Nick’s. That night.”
Sarah looked at Jack.
These two — had to be responsible for what happened with Nick. Then, the sickening thought, maybe one of them killed Lee Taylor.
Shotgun, point blank range.
She suddenly felt that pressing need shared by Jack only minutes ago.
To have a gun.
“We got to get the hell out of here,” said Tracy. “Disappear before there are more questions. You, your way, me mine. But first—”
“People might come looking for us,” he said. “What if—”
Then with a sound that sent a sharp crack into the night air, Tracy swiped the man with the back of her hand. Once, then again.
And after the second blow, she reached up and grabbed him by his shirt, yanking him down to the ground.
And the man’s face caught the yellow light from the tiny caravan window.
No one Sarah knew.
But she turned to Jack, face set. Eyes locked.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, voice a whisper. “Robin, from Hardwick’s.”
Nick’s co-worker, she thought.
But though Jack had said the words so quietly, as if by some instinct, as if sensing people close, the woman stopped.
Released the man.
Turned to the darkness.
“What the hell?” she said.
Her eyes making them out in the dark.
Jack gave her a smile, then slowly — oh so slowly — stood up.
*
Jack kept his eyes on both Tracy and Robin.
Robin. Someone who — when questioned — had been all too eager to put a nail in Nick’s coffin, a last bit of evidence to make it all fit.
Angry, violent Nick.
Jack turned — checking that Sarah was standing beside him, then he took a cautious step.
So important to go slowly.
You just never know. Anything could happen.
Taking steps towards Tracy and the man she had been hectoring, then pummelling.
Tough cookie indeed.
And since this show had to start somewhere …
“Evening again, Tracy — and Robin. Surprised to see you here. With her.”
It took only seconds for Robin — with Tracy’s hand released from his shirt — to lose it.
“Look, I can explain. Not my doing. Was all her idea, her bloody plan and—”
At that, Tracy spun towards him.
“Shut up. Before I make you shut up.”
Then Tracy — with Robin briefly silenced — came up quickly to Jack, but saving her most withering look for Sarah.
Eyes boring into her.
“You little bitch, playing amateur detective. You got nothing.”
Sarah didn’t flinch. “Oh, I think … once we know more about what drugged Nick, what concoction allowed you to steal his gun, take his car …”
“Oh, God,” moaned Robin. “They do know. I told you.”
“… kill Lee Taylor.”
And that was about all Tracy could take.
She charged at Sarah, looking ready to rip her to pieces.
*
Having seen Tracy assault Robin, Sarah wasn’t surprised that this woman — all buttons pushed, murder charge hanging in the summer air — was attacking her.
So — having been a good student, having practised over and over, often drafting Daniel to play the role of “attacker” — she used what Jack had taught her.
“Remember, use an attacker’s offense against them. Their weight. Their speed. Let all that do the work.”
With Tracy nearly upon her, Sarah feinted left, then a quick right, sticking out her leg just in time to catch the too-late, course-correcting Tracy’s charging feet.
And the woman went down.
Hard. Face smacking into the dirt.
Again, from her partner: “Oh, God.”
Off to the side, Sarah saw Robin trying to make a break for it — and Jack grabbing him, pulling him down …
But now Tracy, quickly getting to her knees, turned her hands into claws, and, like a feral creature, sprung to her feet, and sent her fists flying towards Sarah’s face.
Or more likely my throat, thought Sarah.
So fast. Sarah could easily see how this woman could have attacked Nick.
But Sarah moved fast as well. This was going to be very different from responding to Daniel’s playful moves.
Her hands flew to Tracy’s wrists as the woman tore at the air, locked on quickly, then instead of doing the obvious — trying to deflect them — she pulled those arms with their claw-like fingers towards her, then to the left, pulling harder, until the momentum sent Tracy flying once again to the ground, stumbling.
But this time — when she hit the ground — Tracy’s head brushed the side of a rock with an audible thunk.
Even in the dim light, when Tracy turned, Sarah could see the glistening red gash on her forehead.
“If you even think of getting up,” Sarah said, “guess what? You’re only going down again.”
As she looked at Tracy, the woman seemed to be weighing the odds.
“Nasty cut on your head there. Best get some help.”
Sarah looked at Jack, a smile on his face. Behind him, Robin, leaning against the caravan.
I’m not such a bad student, hmm? Sarah thought, sliding her phone out to call Alan.
But the moment vanished … as Robin started looking like he might tumble down as well, but then—
He bolted.
“Damn,” Jack said, as the crazed, panicked man ran to the other side of the caravan.
Jack looked at Sarah.
“He’s got to be going to his car. Gotta—”
“Go,” she said. “I'm fine. I’ll get Alan here. Don’t let that bastard get away.”
Jack nodded.
Sarah heard the car start from the other side of the caravan.
A throaty roar. Lights on.
And Jack turned. He’d have to race back up the hill to get to his car … precious minutes escaping.
Time working against him.
Jack ran up the footpath even as Robin’s pickup backed up, dirt flying, then jerked forward before turning to race out of the caravan encampment.
He jumped into the Sprite, turned the key and …
She fired first time.
“Attagirl!” said Jack, slamming the engine into gear.
Then — tail sliding right then left on the gravel — he hurled the little car down the tiny lane in pursuit of the pickup.
17. Hardwick’s
Jack tore away from the old iron factory, and thought: This is madness.
Robin had a big lead, knew the roads, and Jack — even after all these years — was not at all secure on the winding lanes, especially in the dark.
But Robin’s erratic driving, weaving, racing, slowing, stopping — all gave evidence to his state. Paranoia, confusion, sheer panic …
Jack used this to gain on him.
And soon Jack was on his tail.
Did Robin even know he was being followed?
Or where he was headed?
But when they came to the main road, and Robin took a hairpin turn right, Jack immediately knew …
This road — the road to Hardwick’s.
Something important there.
Hidden.
And Jack could guess what.
*
The crazed Robin screamed around the side of the giant store, then to a door, bringing his pickup to a jerky, screeching stop.
But Jack didn’t bother hanging back now. And when Robin stood there, probably entering his passcode — something Jack guessed all workers had who pulled nightshifts in the place — Jack skidded to a halt, rubber burning, as Robin disappeared inside.
He got out just in time to catch and stop the slowly closing door.
The things adrenaline will do for you.
And he entered the dark, into a warehouse area that opened up to the store itself.
The guy who helped frame Nick was somewhere inside here.
Caution, Jack reminded himself.
Fear can make a man very dangerous.
*
Jack walked past towering shelves of building supplies, everything required for the DIY crowd that filled the place on Saturdays.
But it was quiet.
Maybe no workers here tonight? No night shift stacking the shelves?
Just Jack.
And his prey.
He reminded himself: the predator can all too quickly turn into prey.
And then — a noise. A clank. Not too far away, a few aisles from where Jack stood.
Another clank, echoing in the gloomy half-light.
Jack started walking towards the sound, his eyes looking straight, then around, up and down.
Robin could be anywhere.
He turned down an aisle, towering shelves filled with metal sheets on one side, and matching poles and framing items, all stacked to reach the 30-foot ceiling.
And midway down the aisle — a ladder that stretched to the very top of the shelves.
Noise coming from there.
Grunts, banging.
Robin — there?
And Jack kept walking straight towards the ladder.
*
When close to the ladder, Jack looked up.
Like an oversized rat burrowing amidst the massive chunks of metal, Jack saw someone. Legs near the top step. Then a grunting noise as the figure reached deep into the shelf, pushing and shifting the great metal plates.
No easy task, moving the sheet metal.
Then Jack saw Robin — so focused, not looking down — yank something hard, and a canvas backpack popped free from the slivers of metal.
Jack nodded.
“That the money, Robin? Clever — hiding it here.”
Only now did the terrified man turn.
“And do you really think you’re going to get away with it?”
Even in the dim light, Jack could see the man shake his head.
“Was all her idea, her plan. Bitch wanted revenge on her bloke. I–I just wanted money. No one,” Robin hesitated, the hopelessness of his next words maybe hitting him, “was supposed to get hurt.”
Hurt?
Lee Taylor with a bowling-ball-sized hole in his mid-section?
“You can explain it all, Robin. Your story. But we’re done now, you know. Just toss down that bag, and we’ll
get everything settled.”
The man seemed frozen, like a climber stuck on a cliff face — can’t go up, can’t go down …
Robin looked away. Jack, ready to catch the bag, saw something else move.
Robin grabbed a metal sheet, and — like a giant blade — sent it flying down, straight at Jack.
Jack flung himself out of its way — and when he looked back, Robin had slid down the ladder, like a crazed fireman.
Backpack in hand, Robin raced towards the warehouse entrance.
Jack gave chase.
Thinking … When this is over, I really better start running again.
This is … tough.
*
And when Jack closed the distance, he yelled.
“Give it up, Robin. You’re not getting away.”
Jack noticed that Robin did stop, maybe the hopelessness of the situation finally dawning.
Least that’s what Jack hoped.
But then he saw where Robin had stopped …
The stack of chainsaws, all lined up, each one looking toothier and more powerful then the next.
Robin dropped his bag and reached over the line of saws to pick up one near the back.
A gas model.
It can’t possibly be gassed up and ready to go.
Unless … they do a demo … right here …
Which is when Robin clicked a switch, and then pulled a cord.
And the chainsaw belched out a puff of bluish smoke, and it was, indeed, running.
*
And now Robin started walking deliberately towards Jack.
“People like you, jus’ can’t leave things alone, can you? Bastid. Could have let stupid Nick go down, but you and that interfering bitch had to—”
And at that, Jack, who had been stepping backwards, stopped.
Those words? About Sarah?
Did the trick.
The teeth of the saw circled the blade of the chainsaw, chewing up nothing.
“You are done, Robin. But guess stupid people are the last to realise when that happens, hmm?”
And those words made Robin charge at Jack, chainsaw extended.
While Jack reached to the side.
Hoping that the pile of two-by-fours to his left weren’t bundled together, immovable.
And they weren’t.
One chunk of heavy wood slid free.
And Jack, using both hands, brought it back and then sent the chunk of lumber sliding towards Robin, as if in a bowling match and he was the last pin.
Cherringham--Death on a Moonlit Night Page 9
