Judy and Clough run wildly, falling over branches, slipping on wet leaves. Judy has no idea where they are heading. She fixes her eyes on Clough’s black jacket with its reassuring reflective stripe. She falls and twists her ankle but Clough doesn’t look round. ‘Come on!’ he shouts. She hobbles after him. How big can the grounds be? Surely they should have reached a road or a track by now? Somewhere nearby there is a splintering crack like a tree falling. It’s crazy to be in the woods in the middle of the storm. But then the whole thing’s crazy, and somewhere, not far away, there’s a man with a gun. She stumbles on, a stitch burning in her side. She’s not sure if she can go on much longer.
Then, suddenly, the black jacket disappears. Where the hell is Clough? She stops, hearing her gasping breath even above the noise of the wind. She takes a few steps forward and then she’s falling, going head-over-heels in a chaos of loose stones and broken branches.
‘Come on Johnson,’ yells a familiar voice. ‘Get up.’ Judy lies on the ground, panting. She knows Clough saved her life and she’ll be forever grateful but, right now, she almost hates him. ‘Where are we?’ she says.
‘I think we’re on the racing track,’ says Clough. Judy realises that she’s lying on something soft. The all-weather track. And, very far off, she can see some lights.
‘Come on,’ says Clough again and, like two exhausted horses, they set off along the all-weather track. Behind them, the wind roars through the trees.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Nelson again.
‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad again. He hums quietly to himself. Everything remains the same: sky, sea, beach. Is this a dream? wonders Nelson. But he can feel the stones beneath his feet, smell the sea, even the faint herbal scent emanating from Cathbad.
‘The flow,’ Cathbad is saying. ‘You have to trust to the flow.’
But Nelson has never been one to trust what he can’t see. He trudges along the beach, looking for a way out.
Bob is walking round the bonfire, occasionally raising his stick to the skies. What is he doing? Is he ill-wishing Cathbad? Is he pointing the bone? Or is he trying to save him? What about Nelson? Is Bob too trying to enter the Dreaming? Will he fight with Cathbad over Nelson’s lifeless body? It’s all nonsense, Ruth knows, but, somehow, here in the darkness with the wind roaring around the house, it doesn’t seem like nonsense.
Bob stops and looks up at the house. Ruth doesn’t know how visible she is, standing in the dark bedroom. She shrinks back against the wall. Bob continues his pacing, moving in and out of the light. Then he stops and is looking at something on the ground. What is it? Ruth presses her face against the window again. Oh God, it’s Flint. The ginger cat has appeared from nowhere and is rubbing around Bob’s ankles. Get away from him, Flint! She sends up a prayer to Mother Julian and her cat. Protect Flint. Don’t let him become one of Bob’s sinister Dreamtime creatures.
Cathbad stirs in his sleep. This is all your fault, Ruth wants to tell him. I should be sleeping peacefully with my baby in her cot and my cat on my feet. Instead she has entered some ghastly dream world where snakes and sacred animals prowl in the darkness and two of Ruth’s best friends lie between life and death. She crosses the landing to check on Kate. As she does so, she hears a noise downstairs. What is it? Has Bob broken in? Did Cathbad even lock the door? She stands frozen, prepared to defend her baby with her life. Cathbad will have to fend for himself. Then thunderous paws sound on the stairs and a reproachful meow greets her. Thank God. It was only Flint coming through the cat flap. Ruth picks up her cat and hugs him tightly.
The lights are getting brighter now. Judy can see the walls of the yard, the house rising up in the distance. Thank God. They’ve made it. Her ankle hurts, she’s wet through and she feels as if her heart is about to explode, but she’s curiously elated. They’ve made it through the dark woods and there, a few yards away, is shelter, a telephone, backup. The wind is still roaring but the rain seems to have stopped. She’s just about to turn to Clough to congratulate him, thank him, when the most terrifying noise fills the night. A kind of drawn-out moan, guttural and agonised. Judy stops, petrified. She hadn’t thought it possible to be any more frightened but now she feels as if her hair is standing straight up on end.
‘What the hell was that?’ she whispers.
‘Sounds like a donkey,’ says Clough briskly.
‘A donkey?’
‘Yeah, a donkey braying. Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.’
Why would there be a donkey at a racing stables, thinks Judy, but she jogs to keep up with Clough. She’s not about to let him out of her sight for a second. They are near the stable wall now and she can see the clock tower and the horse walker, monstrous in the moonlight. The light is coming from the cottage by the main gates.
‘Caroline’s cottage,’ pants Judy.
‘She’s a mate of Trace’s,’ says Clough. ‘She’ll help us.’
Judy is still not very well disposed towards Caroline but right now she’d trust anyone who isn’t actually pointing a gun at her. She thinks of warm houses, lights, telephones. She starts to run.
As their feet touch the tarmac, the security lights come on, almost blinding them. The terrible noise reverberates again. It’s only a donkey, Judy tells herself, but it gives her the horrors all the same. Surely the noise must have roused someone up at the house. Randolph? The mysterious Lady Smith? Surely, any moment now, Len Harris will appear and shoot them down like vermin. But no one appears. They run through the car park, past sports cars and jeeps (Judy is now sure that the blue Ferrari belongs to Len Harris), and seconds later they’re pressing the bell marked ‘Visitors Please Report Here’.
Caroline takes some time to come to the door but, when she does, she is fully dressed in outdoor clothes. She looks different, Judy thinks. Perhaps it’s because she has her hair up.
‘Police,’ gasps Judy. ‘Need to use your phone.’
‘The lines are down,’ says Caroline. ‘It’s the storm.’
‘I’ve got my phone,’ says Clough. ‘Can we come in?’
Caroline stands aside. ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ she says.
‘You’re soaked through.’
She ushers them into the sitting room. Clough stabs away at his phone but can’t get a signal; Judy has lost hers. She collapses in a chair, feeling that nothing much matters any more.
‘How did you find me?’ she asks Clough.
He looks up. ‘You sent me a text, didn’t you? I was checking my phone every few minutes. Thought there might be news about the boss. I never thought you’d come down here on your own like Nancy bloody Drew. Jesus, Johnson, how could you be so stupid?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Judy. ‘I thought I’d solved the case. I thought I could do it all myself.’ She tells him about the mules. Clough whistles silently. ‘Of course, half the horses come from the Middle East. The perfect cover. Brilliant.’
‘Glad you think so,’ says a voice from the doorway. Len Harris is standing there, next to Caroline. Both are holding guns.
The voices have started. Voices coming from the sea. Nelson knows that he mustn’t listen to them. If you listen, you are lost. If you answer the knock at the door, you are lost. He sets his mind against the soft, beguiling whispers from the deep. Michelle, Ruth, Laura, Rebecca, his mother. Always women’s voices. He mustn’t give way to them. He must keep walking along the beach, walking beside Cathbad. One foot in front of the other. But it’s hard, the hardest thing he has ever had to do.
‘This way,’ says Caroline politely. An effect slightly ruined by the gun, which she is pointing directly at Judy’s chest.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ says Clough, blusteringly, to Len Harris.
‘No, you’ve made the mistake,’ says Harris. He doesn’t sound out of breath at all. Has he just run through the woods or did he have a car waiting outside the gates? It must have been Caroline, Caroline who locked the gates and then opened them again for Harris, driving him round to her
house as calmly and efficiently as a taxi. Caroline, Trace’s friend, whom Clough said they could trust.
Harris is smiling now, his leathery gnome’s face transformed into something far less benign. A goblin or a troll perhaps. ‘You wandered into the yard,’ he is saying, ‘and, sadly, became the victim of a tragic accident.’
He looks at Caroline. ‘The walker?’ she says.
‘Perfect.’
‘This way,’ he points the gun. Judy and Clough have no choice but to follow. Clough considers turning on Harris and trying to force the gun out of his hand, but the trouble is, if it works, Caroline will probably shoot Judy. If it doesn’t work, Harris will definitely kill him. Both of them look like people who know how to handle guns. He curses himself for not arranging back-up. He curses Judy even more.
They cross the yard, silent except for the sound of the wind. Judy thinks about shouting for help but who would hear her? The horses? The cat? The donkey? She wonders where Randolph and Romilly are, not that they’d be much help. Their feet squelch in the mud as they approach the horse walker. What is Harris planning to do to them? Surely if he wanted to kill them he’d have done it by now. Or does he have something more exciting in mind?
Harris kicks open the door of the horse walker and Judy and Clough are pushed into one of the compartments. They hear the door being locked and footsteps going away. They look at each other. They are shut in a triangular wooden box, just wide enough, at its widest, for two people standing abreast. Clough hurls himself against the door. The wood creaks but holds.
‘Have you still got your phone?’ asks Judy.
‘No. That bastard took it.’
‘What are they going to do to us?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Clough grimly.
‘I can’t believe Caroline’s in it too.’
‘Nor can I. Trace told me that she was a real airy-fairy type, loved all the birds and the little animals, that sort of thing. Wait till I tell her.’
They are both silent, both thinking the same thing. Will Clough ever have the chance to tell his girlfriend about Caroline’s perfidy? Funnily enough, Judy finds it harder to imagine Clough being killed than it is to imagine her own death. Is this because she feels so guilty that, in some way, she thinks she deserves to die?
The sound of hoof-beats recalls Judy to life. She looks at Clough, who tightens his lips and clenches his fists. He looks quite formidable. All these years Judy has deplored her colleague’s Neanderthal tendencies; now she’s glad of them. The hooves come closer. Then the door is unlocked and Len Harris stands in front of them, gun in hand. Next to him is Caroline, holding a large black horse by the halter. The horse arches his neck and paws the ground, reminding Judy of Nelson.
‘We’ve brought The Necromancer to keep you company,’ says Harris. ‘So sad. Two policemen, sorry police people, trampled to death by a wild horse. And, believe me, he is wild.’
Judy believes him. Close up, The Necromancer looks huge and very frightening. His eyes roll and he stamps his great hooves. In a few seconds they will be trapped in a tiny space with him. Clough looks terrified, all his swagger gone. He flattens himself against the side of the compartment. Harris sends the horse forward with a slap on his rump. Caroline drops the halter and the massive animal is inches away from Judy. She can see his red nostrils and rolling, hysterical eye. She smells his woody animal smell, the scent she remembers from her own pony and which, oddly enough, still has the power to comfort her.
‘Have fun!’ shouts Harris. The walker starts to move forward. Judy falls to the floor. The great horse looms over her.
CHAPTER 29
The stairs are suddenly just there, white stairs leading up from the black beach. And he’s climbing them, Cathbad just in front, purple cloak flapping. And even in this dream state or whatever the hell state he’s in, he knows that stairs have got to be a good sign. Going up has to be good. It’s not like the tunnel. Every fibre of his being told him that the tunnel was a bad idea. But stairs – white stairs – that’s got to mean progress, surely? And then, without warning, a great wave breaks over him. He staggers, losing his footing and then he’s drowning in the black water and there’s no one to save him.
Michelle thought the frenzied activity was bad but this sudden silence is worse. ‘What’s going on?’ she shouts, but no one answers her.
Judy struggles to her feet. Beside her Clough is panicking, battering at the wooden sides of the horse walker. The Necromancer turns on him, teeth bared, ears back.
‘Clough!’ shouts Judy. ‘For God’s sake, stay still. You’ll scare the horse.’
‘I’m scaring him?’ But Clough stops flailing about. He edges next to Judy, breathing hard. The Necromancer twists his head, snake-like, and tries to bite him.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Stay still.’
Judy tries to call on all her old horse whispering skills. ‘It’s OK horse,’ she says. ‘It’s OK.’ The Necromancer puts one ear forward but he still looks furious. The walker lurches forward. The horse kicks out angrily and they hear wood splintering.
‘It’s OK,’ says Judy but with less conviction. The Necromancer is trying to turn in the small space, getting angrier and angrier. Judy and Clough find themselves pressed into the apex of the triangle. A hoof flashes out, catching Clough’s leg. He yells and falls to the floor. The Necromancer kicks again and Judy only just pulls Clough out of his reach. But the horse is turning, getting closer. All they can see in the darkness is the white stripe on his face and the whites of his rolling eyes. Judy thinks of the other horses that she saw writhing in agony. Has The Necromancer been drugged? He is certainly more vicious than any horse ought to be. Now, fatally, he turns his back on them, preparing to kick out with those powerful quarters. Judy and Clough huddle together, trying to protect their faces. It’s all they can do.
They are both flung forward as the walker stops. The Necromancer staggers too, momentarily distracted. Then the door is opened and a voice is saying, with much more authority than Judy could manage, ‘It’s OK, boy. It’s OK.’ Instantly the horse’s ears go forward and he drops his head. Judy, cowering in the corner, is only aware of the sudden space and silence as the horse is led away. She straightens up. Randolph Smith stands by the open door, stroking The Necromancer’s nose.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘Never better,’ answers Clough, who is limping badly. They stagger out of the walker into the cold night air where the wind is still blowing through the trees. Randolph’s black hair and The Necromancer’s mane both stream out behind them.
‘Did Harris shut you in there?’ asks Randolph.
‘Harris and Caroline,’ says Judy. ‘They’re in it together.’
‘Caroline’s here,’ says Randolph. Judy is suddenly aware that a woman is standing in the background, a tall woman with long dark hair. Judy squints at her in the darkness.
‘Then who…?’
‘Tamsin,’ says Caroline. ‘You saw Tamsin. She looks very like me.’
Is it possible? Judy thought she recognised Caroline but she’d only seen her once before. And because she was expecting Caroline, she’d hardly looked at the dark-haired woman who’d opened the door. Clough, by his own admission, had never met her before.
‘Tamsin,’Judy repeats.
‘I was due to meet her at the pub this evening,’ says Caroline. ‘But she never turned up.’
‘She and Harris are both tied up in this drugs thing,’ says Randolph. ‘We’ve suspected for some time, haven’t we, Caro?’
‘We suspected something,’ says Caroline, ‘but we weren’t sure…’ Her voice dies away.
‘Where are they now?’ says Judy. ‘They’re both armed. We’ve got to call for back-up.’
‘They’re not at the big house,’ says Randolph. ‘We’ve just come from there.’
‘Can we stop chatting and call for back-up,’ says Clough. His voice sounds strained, as if he’s in pain.
‘Come to my
house,’ says Caroline. ‘I can give you something for that leg.’
‘I’m going to search the park,’ says Randolph. ‘They won’t be far away. They must have been planning to come back and check on you.’ And without another word he vaults onto the back of the great seventeen-hand horse. The Necromancer cavorts like a charger, arching his neck and swinging his quarters round. Randolph just laughs. The horse has no bridle, only a halter. A few seconds ago he was a raging mass of muscle and fury. Now he looks like the perfect mount, spirited but in complete control. ‘See you later,’ says Randolph, and with a clatter of hooves he and The Necromancer gallop off into the night.
Judy watches, open-mouthed. ‘I thought that Randolph didn’t know anything about horses.’
‘Who told you that?’ says Caroline indignantly. ‘He’s a wonderful rider.’
Ruth watches from her bedroom now, still holding Flint. The wind is louder than ever, the stunted trees in the garden blown into a frenzy. Bob finishes another circuit of the embers, then he pauses and, unmistakably, raises his staff in her direction. Is it a salute or a threat? Ruth doesn’t know, because Bob turns and forces his way back through the low bushes into his own garden. The fire is almost out. Ruth looks at the clock by her bed. Nearly two o’clock. She thinks of the hospital, miles away across the storm-tossed night. What’s happening to Nelson? Is he alive or dead? Isn’t three a.m. the low point for the human soul, the hour when most people die? Flint meows and she puts him down. She can hear him wandering crossly around the room as she gets into bed. She thinks that she will lie awake for hours, but when she closes her eyes sleep comes instantly.
Judy rings for an armed response unit from Caroline’s mobile phone. Tamsin was right about one thing; the telephone lines are down. Judy also rings Whitcliffe, who asks a million awkward questions (‘How did you come to be there in the first place?’) and says he’ll be on his way. Judy also sends a unit to Len Harris’s flat and a Met patrol car to Tamsin’s house.
A Room Full Of Bones Page 22
