High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  Phil was about to reply when his telephone rang, a look of irritation on his face. “DI Fletcher. This had better be important.” Moments passed, and while she couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end, she could tell by the reddening of Phil’s neck that he didn’t like the message. He slammed the phone down without another word and turned to Olivia.

  “Simpson’s shrink has been to the courts and requested he be transferred to a secure unit pending assessment. It seems that, in his infinite wisdom, the judge agreed and signed the papers.”

  Olivia’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck? Why are we hearing about this now? We should have been told about this as soon as the hearing was scheduled.”

  Phil’s face twitched. “Yes, we should have, but it seems that we didn’t get the memo.”

  “For fuck’s sake. Those tossers never bother to tell us anything. Can we do anything about it?”

  Phil shook his head. “No. It’s a done deal. They’re moving him next week, on the twelfth, once all the paperwork is sorted out.”

  “At least those secure units are safe. Simpson won’t be going anywhere. The security in those places puts Durham nick to shame.”

  “Yeah, as long as there aren’t any more accidents en−route.”

  Olivia took out her phone to update her calendar and frowned.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, nothing, just a funny co−incidence, really. The twelfth is the night of the next full moon.”

  ***

  5th December 2008. Dr. Miller’s Office, Newcastle upon Tyne. 16.43.

  Phil pushed the door open with enough force it slammed against the wall. The receptionist raised an eyebrow at his show of aggression, and then turned back to her computer. Phil strode across the room and stood in front of her desk. “I need to see Doctor Miller. It’s urgent.”

  If the woman heard him, she made no sign. Instead, she continued tapping away at the keyboard.

  “Excuse me, my name is Detective Inspector Fletcher, and it’s vital that I speak to Doctor Miller right away.” When the woman still refused to acknowledge his presence, he leaned over the desk and turned off the power to her monitor, noticing that the vital work she’d been doing involved a soon−to−end auction on eBay. For a hat.

  A look of supreme irritation etched itself onto the woman’s face and she glared at Phil. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s a police matter and it’s urgent. Is he in his office?”

  “He’s with a patient, and when he finishes up here, the office will be closing. If you would like me to make an appointment, then I believe he has a free slot at the back end of next week.”A look of pure evil flashed across the woman’s face.”Or maybe it was the week after.”

  Phil felt an overwhelming urge to reach across the table and slap the old woman. With what felt like a feat of superhuman willpower, he forced himself back under control. He placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Look, I could make life very difficult for you and we could spend the next half an hour arguing about it, at which point I’m pretty sure that your auction will have ended and you’ll need to go and find another disgusting hat instead of working. Or, you could call Doctor Miller, tell him that I’m waiting outside, and then get back to whatever it was you were doing. Your choice.”

  The receptionist’s face twisted and after a moment, she picked up the telephone and rang through to the Doctor’s office. Phil heard it ring several times before it was answered. “Yes, Doctor Miller. There’s a police officer in reception to see you. He says it’s urgent. Yes, of course. I’ll send him right in.”

  Phil smiled at the sour faced woman and strode past her. He knocked twice on the door, and when the Doctor answered, he strode into the office.

  The Doctor’s office was just as Phil had imagined it would be. A large, expensive desk made of dark, polished wood, dominated the room, and rows of bookcases filled with heavy medical volumes lined two of the room’s walls. To the right was another door, marked as the treatment room, while medical certificates adorned the wall behind the desk, along with a framed print of a kitten gripping a branch for dear life, with the caption “Hang in there, Baby!” written across the bottom. Doctor Miller himself was a thin, pale and unassuming man. His hair was untidy and his shirt creased, with the top button undone. He got up from his chair and offered Phil a limp, sweaty handshake.

  He sat back down and regarded Phil. “Please, take a seat. So, DI Fletcher, what brings you all the way out here?”

  Phil sat down in a leather chair, noticing that it was quite a bit shorter than the one Doctor Miller sat in. He’d seen this tactic before. Chief Inspector Franks used it when he wanted to make people feel uneasy and inferior. Not the sort of behaviour he would have expected from a psychiatrist. “Well, to be honest, Doctor, I wanted to know why the hell you went behind my back and made arrangements to have John Simpson transferred to a mental institute?”

  Doctor Miller gave Phil a weak, knowing smile. “If I remember correctly, Detective Inspector, you contacted me and requested that I perform a psychiatric evaluation on Mr Simpson prior to his trial. Unfortunately Durham Prison is not the most conducive environment for me to make any kind of assessment. True lycanthropy, where the patient believes they actually transform into a wolf, is rare, and we need to know whether he truly believes what he is saying, or whether he’s making it up to try to plead insanity. I decided, as his Doctor, that he needed to be taken out of the prison environment to a secure unit where I could assess his condition properly. That is what you asked me to do, is it not?”

  Phil leaned forward in his chair. “I asked you to assess Simpson. I didn’t ask you to cut me out of the fucking loop, go straight to the judge and push through a court order to have him moved.”

  “I assure you, everything is completely above board. You can check the paperwork if you like. I did notify your station of my intent last week. I can hardly be held responsible if your colleagues didn’t pass the message on. Now, if there’s nothing else, I still have a patient and you are eating into her valuable time. If you need to speak to me again, please call Martha on reception and have her make an appointment for you.”

  Phil got to his feet. “Look, Doctor. I think you’re making a mistake. I have reason to believe that the incident with the petrol tanker outside of High Moor last month may have been an attempt on Simpson’s life. Not only that, but for someone who claims to turn into a monster every full moon, don’t you think that transferring him on that very day could be potentially damaging to your patient?”

  Doctor Miller shook his head. “If I could have got the paperwork through sooner, then I would have had him under observation in the secure unit well before then. It’s vital that he’s in the proper environment on that night, so that he can be restrained or medicated if necessary. It should also give us valuable insights into the nature of his condition. Now, I really must get back to my patient. Thank you, Detective Inspector. I’ll be sure to keep you informed from now on.”

  Phil got to his feet and made to leave. “Please make sure you do, Doctor. I don’t need to remind you that this is a high profile case, and I need to know exactly what’s happening with my suspect at all times. I’m glad I can count on your co−operation.”

  Doctor Miller was already moving towards his treatment room, so Phil let himself out. Martha the receptionist didn’t even look up from her computer as he left and made his way back to the car park. Something was bothering him, but for the life of him he couldn’t work out what it was. He’d feeling that a lot lately. He reached into his pocket for cigarettes that he’d not carried in ten years, shaking his head in disgust when he realised what he’d been doing. He got into his car and drove away.

  ***

  Doctor Miller closed the door of the treatment room and walked to the window, where he stood until the police officer had driven away. Turning to the dark−haired woman sitting on the couch., he said “He knows. I could see
it in his face. He suspects.”

  In a single sinuous movement the woman rose from the sofa and put her hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He flinched at her touch. “The policeman knows nothing, and it had better stay that way. If he comes around asking questions again, then deal with him, just like you did this time. Do you understand?”

  Doctor Miller nodded. “Yes, I understand.” He looked up into her eyes. “Please, I’ve done what you asked. Can I see my family now?”

  The woman smiled and pushed him down onto the sofa. “Don’t worry about your family, Wesley. You just be a good boy and sit quietly over there. Once your receptionist leaves, I’ll take you home to your wife and children. I’m sure my friends have been taking very good care of them.”

  ***

  12th December 2008. Durham Prison. 07.30.

  The reveille bell echoed around the cell block. John’s eyes snapped open and he sat upright in bed. His brow was sticky with sweat and his heart raced. He’d been dreaming, reliving the fight with Malcolm over and over, feeling the hot gush of blood on his tongue and the sweet taste of his enemy’s flesh. He forced himself back to the present and shook off the memory, aware of dissatisfaction lurking in the back of his mind.

  John’s cell mate, a man called Jonesy, peered down from the top bunk. “Fuck me, you don’t half make a racket when you’re asleep. You must have had a nightmare and a half last night. I tried to wake you a couple of times, and you just opened your eyes and stared at me like I was meat. Scared the shit out of me.”

  John’s fear of the coming night coiled and writhed in his stomach. He managed a sheepish grin. “Oh, shit, sorry, mate. Last night’s dinner can’t have agreed with me.”

  Jonesy clambered off the bed, stark naked, and stumbled across to the toilet, then sat down. “Yeah, tell me about it. I swear it’s given me the shits n’all. I can feel my guts sloshing around. Oh, here we go.”

  John buried his face in his pillow and tried to ignore the noises coming from the other side of the cell. It was going to be a long half−hour before the doors were unlocked to let them out for breakfast. Thirty minutes in which to agonise over the details of his plan and to let doubt gnaw the edges of his already tattered nerves.

  There was no way he could get out of this prison before moonrise that night. It was early tonight −17.38 on the dot, just after the cell doors were unlocked and the prisoners let out for their evening’s free association. The entire block would be out in the communal areas, playing cards and gambling their daily allowances away. Almost a hundred men would be torn to bloody ribbons and no−one would be able to do a thing about it. They’d know the truth then. The world would know. There was nothing that he could do to change that. There might just be a chance to save the lives of the other inmates. That’s if the plan worked; if he didn’t go on to make things even worse.

  Jonesey let out a satisfied grunt, accompanied shortly afterwards by a liquid splattering. “Ah, better out than in, that’s what my Dad used to tell me.”

  John buried his face deeper in the pillow. This close to the change, his senses had heightened, and right at this moment an enhanced sense of smell was the last thing he needed.

  The automatic door lock clicked open and John dived through the cell door, out onto the steel walkway beyond, almost colliding with one of the prison officers.

  Officer Phelps glared at him. “Watch where you’re going, Simpson.” He stuck his head into the open cell and withdrew it at speed. “For Christ’s sake, Jones. Wipe your arse and get dressed. Breakfast’s in five minutes.”

  “I can’t, guv, got the shits, guv. Must have been that manky tuna casserole we ‘ad last night.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. Stick a bloody cork up it if you have to. I want you out of that cell and downstairs in two minutes or you’re on report. Again.”

  The sounds of grumbling came from the cell. The toilet flushed, then after a few seconds flushed again. The handle was pushed two or three times in quick succession, making Jonesey swear under his breath. Ten seconds later he stumbled out with one shoe still in his hand and his shirt on inside out. He sniffed at his hand, shrugged and turned to the officer with a wide grin plastered across his face. “There we go, guv. All ready. Are they doing the marinated quails’ eggs this morning? Or is it the deep fried slop for a change?”

  The officer shook his head. “Well, why don’t you get your arse down there and find out. And for fuck’s sake, Jones, wash your hands before you set foot in that dining area.”

  As the officer walked away, Jonesey winked at John. “Mr Phelps will make someone a lovely mother one day.”

  They made their way down to the morning roll call, then filed into the dining area. The blocks were brought in, one at a time, with A block usually the first through the doors. A few officers stood around the periphery of the room, keeping a close eye as the inmates queued for food.

  John picked up his breakfast: fatty bacon with a couple of forlorn sausages drowned in baked beans. He grabbed a mug of coffee and followed Jonesey to a table in the centre of the room. The adrenaline coursed through his body, making his stomach do somersaults and his heart hammer. Fuck it. Now or never.

  He turned to Jonesey and smiled. “I’m really sorry about this, mate…” Then he slammed his hot cup of coffee into the other man’s face.

  Jonesey screamed and fell to the floor, holding his hands to his scalded face. John leapt to his feet and began kicking the prone man in the ribs, feeling the bones crunch under his feet.

  Within seconds, the guards had swarmed over John and pounded at him with their batons, forcing him to the floor. John’s beast snarled and tried pushing its way to the surface. His body had become slick with sweat and he could feel the first itching of the transformation begin at the tips of his fingers and back of the jaw. Still the blows rained down, breaking his concentration, giving the beast more of a hold. “No more,” he panted. “Please, no more.”

  The beating stopped and his hands were forced behind his back. Cold metal restraints gripped his wrist. He was dragged to his feet. John shoved the snarling wolf back into the deepest recesses of his mind, feeling relief flood through him as the itching subsided and his temperature returned to normal.

  Mr Phelps lifted John’s head and looked into his bloodshot eyes. “Now, Simpson, I know Jones is an arsehole, but that’s no excuse to beat the shit out of him and spoil everyone’s breakfast.” He turned to one of the officers holding John’s arms. “Get him cleaned up, get the Doc to check him over, and stick the bastard in isolation. He can bloody well rot there until his remand hearing as far as I’m concerned. And someone get Jones down to the infirmary before he bleeds all over the floor.”

  The other inmates glared at John with murder in their eyes. Jonesey was popular here, having a knack for getting hold of certain luxury items. John’s attack hadn’t gone down well, but he didn’t care. As he was dragged away he grinned at them through bloodied teeth. It didn’t matter what happened next. His plan had worked like a charm.

  Chapter 5

  12th December 2008. Market Tavern, Durham City. 11.35.

  Gregorz pushed open the door, smiling at the rush of warmth from the bar. He stepped inside, closely followed by Daniel. The interior was dimly lit, with old stained wood floors and an oak counter that was probably close to a hundred years old. The pub smelled of old wood infused with decades of spilled alcohol and cigarette smoke. Rickety wooden tables stood on the dance floor, with small laminated menus laid on their surfaces. The lunchtime crowd had not yet arrived, so the place was almost empty, except for a couple of under−age boys in the corner nursing pints of watered−down lager, who cast suspicious, furtive glances at the newcomers. Gregorz made his way to the bar, ordered two glasses of cola then moved away from the main area with Daniel, to an alcove where Oskar, Troy and Gabriela waited. Without a word of acknowledgement, Gregorz and Daniel took their places at the table.

  Oskar sipped from a glass of iced water, then smiled at Grego
rz. “Is everything in place? Have the arrangements been made?”

  He nodded. “They have, but there’s been a complication. Daniel found Wilkinson alive. At the hospital and under police guard.”

  Oskar arched his eyebrow. “That does complicate matters. How do you propose to deal with it?”

  “We’ll have to infiltrate the hospital again and take care of him before he turns. It sounds like he’s in a coma, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The guard will be difficult, but not impossible.”

  Oskar nodded. “Please, tell me that you are leaving Connie at home for this job.”

  Gregorz laughed. “Yes, she knows nothing about this. Connie will be escorting Marie into some nearby woodlands so she can change. As far as she’s aware, Steven Wilkinson died from his wounds, and Daniel and I are providing your team with logistical support.”

  “Good. This situation has got out of hand and needs to be brought back under control.”

  Troy drained his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The weapons shipment arrived this morning. Your team’s allocation will be in the trunk of your car by the time you get back to it.” He winked at Daniel. “There should be enough there for even the two of you to put an old cripple down.”

  Daniel ignored the American and spoke to Oskar. “Do you know how you’re going to get to Simpson? The police will be cautious after the last time.”

  Oskar smiled. “Don’t worry, my friend. You take care of your little problem. The Simpson situation is well in hand.”

  Gregorz stood up. “I’m glad to hear it. Come on, Daniel. We have things to do. Good luck, Oskar.”

  Oskar smiled. “Luck? Luck won’t even come into it.”

  ***

  12th December 2008. Aykley Heads Police HQ, Durham. 16.18.

  “What do you mean, he’s gone on holiday? Do you know where? Well, did he leave a contact number? A mobile? A fucking email address? Anything? Well, thanks for nothing.” Phil slammed the phone down and glared at it, imagining what it would be like to wrap his hands around Dr Miller’s receptionist’s turkey−neck and squeeze until her face turned blue and her eyes bulged out of her smug self−satisfied face.