High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  Olivia entered through the double doors at the end of the office, took one look at her boss’s face and then beat a hasty retreat towards the coffee machine. He was about to join her when the phone rang again. He grabbed it from the desk and hit himself on the side of the head with the receiver. “What?”

  “Erm, DI Fletcher? This is Dave down in forensic IT. You said you wanted to know when we pulled anything off that phone?”

  Phil massaged the growing lump on his head with his free hand. “Phone? What phone?”

  “The one they found at the Simpson house. On the body of…hang on…I’ve got his name here somewhere”

  “You mean Simon Dobbs? What did you find? Anything useful?”

  “I think you’re going to want to see this for yourself, Sir.”

  “Can it wait? I’m trying to get hold of Simpson’s doctor.”

  “No, Sir. I think you’re going to want to see this right away.”

  Phil let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  He locked his computer and headed towards the exit. Olivia was trying to sneak back to her desk without attracting Phil’s attention. “Olivia, come on. They’ve got something for us downstairs.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes, took a sip from her drink and followed Phil into the corridor. “What’s up?”

  He shook his head. “No idea. Forensics say they’ve gotten something from Simon Dobb’s telephone. They say we need to see it for ourselves.”

  Olivia tutted. “This better not be another one of those bloody YouTube videos. The last one Dave showed me put me off my dinner. Did he show you the one with the giant spot? Never seen anything so gross in my entire life.”

  “I was spared that one. If this is more of the same, then Dave will get a size ten planted right up his arse. I’ve been trying to get hold of Doctor Miller all day, and that bitch of a receptionist says that he’s taken his fucking family on holiday and can’t be contacted. Can you believe it?”

  “Nothing that weasel does surprises me anymore. I’ve been chasing up some hotels and B&B’s in High Moor, but no luck tracking your mystery woman, by the way. Maybe she’s just a local. I’m waiting to hear back from a couple in Durham, but I’m not holding out much hope. Did you see the inventory from Wilkinson’s place yet?”

  “Yeah. The evidence lads are having a fit, trying to find somewhere secure to store all those weapons. His solicitor’s being unusually quiet about the whole thing, but it looks like there are enough unregistered firearms in that house to lock our comatose cripple up for a few decades. It looks like the Mac−10 was his, and Simpson’s prints are all over the place.”

  Olivia raised one eyebrow and grinned sardonically. “Woo hoo. Another win for the good guys. Let’s see if Dave has any more good news for us.”

  The IT Forensics lab was situated in the basement level at police headquarters. Phil rang the buzzer and waited to be let in. It didn’t take long. Dave virtually flung open the reinforced door and ushered them both inside to where an LCD monitor sat on a desk, surrounded by cables and pieces of circuit board. The monitor was plugged into a desktop PC with its case open, and Simon Dobbs’ telephone was connected to a USB port. Dave grabbed two red plastic chairs and placed them next to the table so that Phil and Olivia could sit down. The man was a bundle of nervous energy.

  “OK, so we went through the contents of the phone. Most of it was pretty standard stuff. A few homemade porn pics. You know the sort of thing? Anyway, what was really interesting was a video file created on the night of Mr Dobbs’ untimely death.”

  Olivia frowned. “Cut the shit, Dave. Just get on with it. Some of us have more important things to do than watching homemade porn on a dead bloke’s phone.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. Now, the camera on this phone is pretty low spec, but you need to bear in mind that what you are seeing is raw, unedited footage. I checked the digital signatures on the files and they have not been messed with. In this instance…”

  “Dave!”

  “Oh, sorry.” He reached over to a mouse and clicked play, then stepped back to allow Phil and Olivia an unobstructed view of the screen.

  It showed an image of Simon Dobbs, dressed in a badly fitting balaclava. He swore to himself, then turned the phone around so that the camera was pointing the other way.

  John Simpson was tied to a chair in the centre of a room. Fresh blood covered his battered face and stained his clothing. White fragments of bone jutted out through the fabric of his t−shirt and from his ruptured knees. Another masked man removed a knife from his pocket and brought it up to John’s face. “I’m going to take one of your eyes now, John. Just the one. I want you to be able to see what we’ve done to the rest of you.” The tip of the knife pushed into John’s cheek and sliced through the flesh in a slow, deliberate line towards his left eye.

  John thrashed against his bonds, his body going into violent spasms. The chair toppled over and crashed to the floor.

  The image on the phone shook and Simon Dobbs voice wavered as he spoke. “Billy? What’s happening to him? Is he having a fit or something?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve hardly touched him yet. Get the tape off his mouth. He might be having trouble breathing.”

  The image moved around John as Simon crept closer. His hand reached out and removed the strip of tape from John’s mouth. “There you go, mate. No harm done, eh?” The image focused on John’s face. The cut on his cheek had vanished and his eyes were a bright feral yellow. “Oh Jesus…he’s…it’s…”

  Simon backed away, the camera still aimed at John’s thrashing body. John’s jaw dislocated with a loud snap and the front of his skull seemed to warp and shift. Then the video file ended and the screen went black.

  Olivia put her hand to her mouth. “Jesus, what the hell was going on there?”

  Dave grinned, barely able to contain his excitement. “I told you that you had to see it for yourselves… “He turned to Phil. “So, DI Fletcher, what do you think?”

  Phil exhaled, not realising that he’d been holding his breath. “I really don’t know… Has anyone else seen this video file?”

  “No, not yet anyway. I thought you’d want to be the first.”

  “Dave, let me be clear about this. Nobody else is to watch that file without my express permission. I don’t know what we just saw happen, but the press would have a field day with that footage, and Franks would have our heads on a pike. You say that the file hasn’t been altered in any way?”

  Dave looked crestfallen. “No, it’s the raw footage. If the files had been altered then the digital signature would have changed. There’s no way that it’s been tampered with.”

  “Thank you, Dave. We’ll be in touch, but in the meantime, remember. No one sees that file without my say−so. I don’t want anyone even knowing about it. Okay?”

  Dave’s head dropped and his bottom lip puffed out slightly. “Alright. I got it.”

  Satisfied, Phil turned to Olivia. “Come on, we need to go and have a talk.”

  Phil and Olivia got to their feet. Leaving the IT lab they walked the length of the corridor, going into a small meeting room at its end. Phil shut the door behind them.

  “Was that for real, boss?”

  Phil leaned against a table and ran his hand across his thinning scalp. “I don’t know. The eyes could have been contact lenses. We didn’t get a good look at his face until that close up, so he could have already been wearing them. The thing with his face could have been crap on the camera or any number of other things. If nothing else, we’ve got a motive for what Simpson did to them.”

  Olivia shook her head. “Got to be honest, I can’t really say I blame him, after watching that. He’d have a pretty good case for self−defence.”

  “Self−defence would be beating them up and driving them off. Simpson chased each one of them down and tore them to pieces. It’s understandable to an extent, but it’s still murder.”

  “So, you don’t think that we just watc
hed a video of our suspect starting to turn into a werewolf then?”

  Phil exhaled. “I honestly don’t know what to think. I’m not at the point of believing in werewolves, but there was something going on with Simpson.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Well, the first thing I’m doing is getting on the phone to Durham nick. If Doctor Miller isn’t around to take charge of his prisoner, then we need to keep him where he is, preferably in isolation. At least for tonight.”

  “You mean, until after the full moon.”

  Phil nodded. “Yes. Until after the full moon.”

  ***

  12th December 2008. Durham Prison Segregation Unit. 15.05.

  John lay on the hard metal cot and waited. His new cell was small; barely eight feet by five, with only a metal bunk and small table (both of which were fixed to the floor), a steel toilet and a chair made from reinforced cardboard for furniture. The walls were made of old salt−encrusted brick, curving above his head to form a dome and painted a flat white that reflected the glare from the fluorescent tube on the ceiling. The only natural light came from what could euphemistically be called a window; a steel grille with small cubes of reinforced glass fitted in it. It seemed to be more metal than glass, and the weak grey light from outside was overpowered by the flickering phosphorescent glare of the overhead tube. The only way in or out of the cell was through a sturdy steel door on the wall opposite the window. In many ways it reminded John of the secure basement in his secluded Welsh home. He wondered if the police had been there, and what sort of state it had been left in. He sighed. It was all irrelevant. He knew he would never see the place again.

  The full moon was less than two hours away. This close to the change, his senses were aflame with sensation, and he found that he could map the entire wing out in his mind using only sound and smell. The low muttering from the convicted child murderer at the end of the hall. The laboured breathing of the drug dealer two cells along, asleep in his cell and unaware of the cancerous rot taking hold in his lungs. John smelled the sickly odour with every exhalation the sleeping man made. The sound of a door opening and several pairs of sturdy shoes ringing against the vinyl floor. Getting closer. The key jangled in the lock of John’s cell.

  No!

  John sat bolt upright as the door swung open and Mr Phelps, flanked by two other prison officers, stood in the open doorway. Mr Phelps had a pair of handcuffs in his hands. The other two guards carried batons and pepper spray.

  “Rise and shine, Simpson. Turn around, face the wall and extend your hands behind your back.”

  John got to his feet and backed away from the prison officers. “What’s going on?”

  Mr Phelps took a cautious step into the cell. “What’s going on is that you are going to turn around and extend your arms or these gentlemen behind me will assist you in doing so.”

  “You can’t take me out of here. Not until tomorrow. Just lock the door and walk away. Please.”

  The three men took another step into the confined cell, and John found his back pressed against the wall. Mr Phelps smiled. “Last chance to do this the easy way, Simpson.”

  John’s shoulders sagged and he turned around to face the wall. He couldn’t risk another confrontation. Not this close to the full moon. Rough hands grasped his shoulders and the cold, unyielding metal of Mr Phelps’ handcuffs clamped around his wrists. The officer backed out of the cell, while the other two guards grabbed John’s arms and dragged him into the corridor.

  “Please, put me back in the cell. Just for a couple more hours. Then you’ll see.”

  Mr Phelps stepped in front of John, a sneer playing across his face. “In a couple of hours, you’ll be tucked up, safe and sound in the nut−house where you belong.” He nodded to the guards. “Get this piece of garbage out of my sight. We don’t want to keep the van waiting.”

  ***

  12th December 2008. University Hospital of Durham. 16.18.

  Daniel drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the rented car and waited. Part of the hospital car park had been cordoned off to accommodate the builders working on restoring the pathology lab, and it had taken him over twenty minutes of driving in circles before he’d found a place to park. Even then, he’d had to cut off another vehicle that had been making for the same space. The driver of the other car had gotten out of the vehicle and stormed over to him in a rage. Rather than risk confrontation, Daniel had simply apologized and handed the irate man a twenty pound note, which seemed to satisfy him.

  He was not comfortable with returning to the hospital. Too many people had seen them last time. He was certain that the police officer guarding Wilkinson would have been briefed on the two men and the red−haired woman who visited Marie before her disappearance. It would have made more sense for someone from Oskar’s team to take care of Wilkinson, while he and Gregorz joined the assault mission against Simpson. Oskar could show flashes of pure inspiration when planning attacks, but all too often his arrogance meant that he sometimes made bad decisions. As far as Daniel was concerned, this was one such instance.

  He checked his watch. Gregorz had been inside the building for over an hour, posing as a hospital porter, and the lack of subsequent communication was making him nervous. The moon would rise soon and he could already feel its effects. He could smell the traces of cigarette smoke in the upholstery of the vehicle and make out fragments of conversations from the people standing in the hospital foyer. His limbs buzzed with power, while at the back of his mind he could feel his beast’s desire to run, hunt and kill.

  It was a mistake to leave the assault so late. Wilkinson was comatose and crippled. Helpless. When the moon came up and he transformed for the first time, all of that would change. His wounds would be healed, and they would have to deal with a newborn, moonstruck werewolf in a crowded hospital full of CCTV cameras. Again, it had been at Oskar’s insistence that they delay the assault until the last possible moment. He feared that Wilkinson’s death, if discovered too soon, might jeopardize their attack on Simpson. Gregorz had argued with Oskar for over an hour but had eventually relented when Oskar had called Michael and asked for him to make a ruling.

  His phone vibrated on the dashboard and he snatched it up to check the message. One word. Restaurant.

  A grim smile played across his lips. “Finally.” He reached across and picked up the black canvas bag from the passenger seat, then stepped out of the car and made his way towards the main entrance of the hospital.

  The foyer bustled with activity and people queued three−deep at the receptionist’s desk. Daniel made his way through the crowds and veered off to the left, taking the staircase to the second floor where the restaurant was located. Gregorz sat in the far corner of the room, with his back to the rest of the patrons. Daniel bought a coffee from the vending machine and threaded his way through the room, sitting on a table adjacent to his team leader.

  He took a sip from his cup and grimaced, then put it down on the table and leaned back on the plastic chair. “I was beginning to worry about you, Gregorz. How are things looking?”

  “It’s as we suspected. Wilkinson is in a private room, with a single police officer stationed outside. None of the cameras have a direct line of sight to the doorway, but there is one at each end of the hallway, and there is a nurse’s station almost directly opposite the room.”

  “I take it you have a plan to distract the nurses and policeman?”

  Gregorz took a drink from his cup and nodded. “I think a more constrained version of Connie’s plan will be the most effective.”

  “So you are not intending to burn the hospital down? She will be disappointed.”

  “I think a small, easily contained fire may serve our purposes better. We should be able to get to Wilkinson and deal with him in the initial confusion.” He nodded to the bag at Daniel’s feet. “You have everything?”

  “Yes. We have some silenced nine millimetres and I made up the solution before I left the ho
tel. I have to say, though, just handling it makes me nervous. I almost wish that we could deal with Wilkinson in a cleaner way than injecting him with that foul substance.”

  “Just remember who you are dealing with. Wilkinson has slaughtered our kind for decades, without any mercy. Connie’s daughter was only eight years old, and it didn’t stop the bastard from shooting her in the face. Silver particles suspended in acid is almost too good for him. If it were up to me, I’d simply lock him in a room with Connie for a few days and leave the manner of his demise up to her. Unfortunately, that is not my decision to make.”

  Daniel checked his watch, and reluctantly took another drink from the plastic cup. “We have less than an hour before moonrise. When do we make our move?”

  “We wait for Oskar’s signal. Once he’s sure that they have Simpson where they want him, we can take care of our mission.”

  “Well, then let’s hope that Oskar doesn’t take too long.”

  ***

  12th December 2008. Seven Bells Hotel, Durham City. 16.25.

  Connie paced back and forth, then stopped by the door to the room and put her hands on her hips. “Can ye not get a bloody move on? The moon will be up in an hour, and ah don’t want ye changing in the fucking car.”

  Marie picked up a towel from beside the sink and dried her wet hair, leaving dark streaks of dye across the white fabric. She was as keen to get out of the hotel room as Connie was. After spending almost a month inside it, with only Connie’s sparkling company and daytime TV to distract her, she felt more than a little claustrophobic in the cramped surroundings. “I’ll just be a second. Just need to get this eyeliner on and I’m good to go.”

  A sneer played across Connie’s face. “Do ye not think yer a bit old to pull off the goth girlie look? Ye’d have been better off going for ‘middle−aged mum’. Ye’ve already got the arse for it.”