Death Walks Behind You Read online

  Death Walks Behind You

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Death Walks Behind You

  Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956 and educated at Douai School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career was kick-started after he won first prize in the1996 Sunday Express short story competition. Scott’s fantasy novel for children, The Ley Lines of Lushbury, was long-listed for the Times/Chicken House Children’s Novel competition in 2010 and his archaeological thriller The Trespass is a Kindle top 20 bestseller. Scott continues to work as a semi-professional drummer with Italian prog rockers Analogy and Genesis tribute band The Book of Genesis. He lives in Berkshire with his wife and two youngest children.

  Scott can be contacted via his website at:

  www.scott-hunter.net

  Death Walks Behind You

  Scott Hunter

  Death Walks Behind You

  A Myrtle Villa Book

  Originally published in Great Britain by Myrtle Villa Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Scott Hunter, Anno Domini 2015

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher

  The moral right of Scott Hunter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously

  ISBN - pending

  For Absent Friends

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you as usual to Louise, my wonderful editor, without whom I would be in serious trouble …

  Cover Design:

  Andrew Brown

  [email protected]

  Hu seo þrag gewat,

  genap under nihthelm,

  swa heo no wære...

  How that time has passed away,

  Grown dark under cover of night,

  As if it had never been...

  The Wanderer (Old English Poem)

  Author’s note

  Death Walks Behind You is the sequel to Creatures of Dust, but it can still be read as a stand-alone novel, so don’t worry if you haven’t read COD.

  I hope you enjoy Inspector Moran’s latest outing.

  SH

  Prologue

  Linda Harrison wouldn’t have described herself as an outdoor type but she did enjoy her early morning perambulations, a word her new husband had coined to describe her forays into Cernham Woods. Linda and Matthew were owners of a hyperactive Cocker Spaniel and a pair of young Boxers. Linda was only too aware that forgoing their morning constitutional would mean that the three dogs would spend the rest of the day tearing the house apart, a reality she’d had to deal with on more than one occasion when illness or practical necessity had conspired to keep her indoors. Matt knew this, of course, but he persisted with his teasing, as though her morning routine was little more than some selfish indulgence.

  “Pippa! Stop that!” Her thoughts were interrupted as the young spaniel plunged into one of Cernham’s many puddles. “Out!” Linda scolded the bitch who was clearly having a wonderful time. “Not another bath, I can’t believe it! You are one high maintenance dog, girl.” Alf and Bennie, the Boxers, sniffed around the puddle’s perimeter. Thank goodness they weren’t water dogs like Pippa.

  Linda strode on, wrapping her scarf more securely around her neck. Although the year was turning and spring was imminent the dank air held little promise of warmth. As she turned onto the long path by the fallow field she shivered, a long, body-shaking shiver that left her wishing for her wood-burning stove. Matt was a great wood cutter and she took comfort in the knowledge that their log pile would last well into the new season. Linda smiled to herself as she thought of her husband’s ritualistic preparations: chopping and splitting, hewing and stacking, his lean, wiry frame stalking the garden, axe in hand and a glint in his eye.

  “Come on, guys!” She called the dogs after her. There were few folk around this morning, but it was dull and misty so Linda wasn’t particularly surprised. Sensible people would wait for the sun to burn off the mist before braving the elements, and besides, many of the dog walkers with whom she came into regular contact only appeared in the woods after the morning school run , or later in the day before the teatime chores were squared up to. No school runs for us, though, Linda said quietly to herself. At forty-two the sands of time had pretty much run out for her. However, Matt didn’t seem to mind. They had each other, the dogs, a nice cottage. All in all, much to be thankful for.

  Footsteps behind her interrupted her reverie. She turned and acknowledged the half-grunted “Morning” as a cagouled shape walked by, green Wellingtons slapping on the muddy farm path. Not one of the regulars. And no dog. Linda deliberately slowed her pace to put a comfortable distance between herself and the stranger. She rarely worried about walking on her own, but it was wise to be vigilant. She paused at the next gap in the hedgerow to watch the mist rolling across the fields. It was a beautiful, almost other-worldly sight. A kite called mournfully for its mate somewhere high above and she felt a warm sweep of contentment. This was England, her England, and no one would shift her from it. You could keep your holiday cottages in Tuscany and the south of France. This was her country and she loved it, whatever the weather.

  Linda smiled contentedly. She still pinched herself every morning to confirm that the unexpected transformation of her life was grounded in reality and not just the product of her own menopausal imagination. Whirlwind romance? She’d heard of such things, of course, but hadn’t considered the possibility that it might actually happen to her. A weekend visiting a friend in Exeter had turned her life upside down. There they were, herself and Susan, enjoying a quiet drink. And there was Matt – tall, strong, rugged, watching her from the bar. Ten minutes later he’d asked her out (much to Susan’s amusement). Ten weeks later they were married. A small ceremony, no fuss – one or two friends, no family to speak of . Linda’s parents had died a long time ago and she had been raised by her aunt, now a frail old lady in a nursing home.

  Pippa appeared at her feet, sniffing and whimpering. “What’s up, girl?” She bent to stroke the spaniel’s head. “Where are the two Bs?”

  She
peered ahead, looking for the Boxers. No sign. That was unusual; they usually stuck together, never roaming too far as Pippa was prone to do.

  “Alf? Bennie?” She picked up her stride and followed the path away from the field into the woods. “Come on, guys, where are you?” She rounded a corner where the path twisted away towards the chalk pits. Aha. Behind a tree, a flash of movement. “Alf?”

  As she drew nearer a shape detached itself from the shadows and blocked her way. The walker she had seen a few minutes ago. Or was it? The face was covered, didn’t look right... She drew back in alarm, looked around for her dogs. Where were they when she needed them? The mist was thicker here; for a moment she thought her imagination was playing tricks, but then she saw the figure again just ahead, standing perfectly still. It was shaped like a man, but – somehow it wasn’t right...

  Linda’s heart was pounding. Should she turn and run? A weapon, something … she felt the Boxers’ chain around her neck and her fingers went to unclasp it . The next moment something reached out of the fog and caught her by the arm.

  Linda pulled away with a strength born of sheer terror. She felt fingers grasping at her coat, a brief scrabbling resistance and then she was free, stumbling and flailing through the trees, branches whipping and stinging her face. Don’t look back, she told herself. Don’t...

  She ran until she felt as though her lungs would explode. Disoriented, she came to a halt, pressed her back against the trunk of an old oak and scanned the woodland for signs of pursuit. The woods were eerily still. Where were the dogs? She daren’t call them. Calm, Lin, calm… Linda’s breath gradually slowed to something approaching normal. Where was she? In her headlong flight she had lost all sense of direction. She began to walk cautiously to where a gap in the trees suggested one of the many well-trodden paths might pass close to her present location. And then she heard it: the soft crunch of leaves underfoot, the slow searching tread...

  Oh no, please... Linda bent low, darted away into the undergrowth. After a few seconds she recognised where she was – close to one of the smaller chalk pits. She remembered an ancient tree perched on the edge of the pit, its roots forming a knotted cage beneath the lip. If she could find it, slip inside, curl up, cover herself with leaves... She almost stumbled over the edge of the pit in her terror. Where was the tree? Was it as she had remembered? Yes… there…

  Half-slipping, sliding down the chalk face she grabbed at the roots and checked herself. There was just enough space. Heart thumping, she squeezed in and lay down in the nest of foliage, sweeping handfuls of leaves over her legs and torso. For a while there was no sound except birdsong, the occasional scamper of a rabbit or squirrel. Then she heard it. Slap, slap, slap, marking the perimeter of the chalk pit. She lay still, hardly daring to breath. The footsteps circled once, twice. And then receded.

  Linda shivered. How long should she wait? A few minutes, maybe... What was that? Something skittering into the chalk pit, snorting, rooting around. A dog... Oh no, no…

  A wet nose appeared through the mesh of roots. A spaniel’s nose. No, Pippa. No... She reached for the dog but the bitch backed away, alarmed to find such a large moving object half-buried in the mulchy floor of the chalk pit. Pippa barked, and barked again.

  No...

  Linda grabbed at the roots to extricate herself but a cold hand slid between them and caught her deftly by the leg. She screamed and tried to pull back but the grip was inexorable and her voice was muted by the mist. As she was dragged into the open she made a grab for the scarf hiding her attacker’s face, but he was strong and strangely elusive, moving with an assured, swaying grace. Her heart skipped in fright as she saw that his head was oddly misshapen, with stubby, antler-like protrusions jutting from the skull… and then he was behind her, twisting her arm, making her gasp at the sudden, shocking pain. She felt something snap and the pain intensified. Probing, abrasive fingers slid around her neck, squeezing and palpating her flesh. She kicked back once, twice, tried to catch hold of his clothing, but he was quick, far too quick, and her hands were left clutching at nothing.

  The pressure on her neck increased. Her legs thrashed wildly but then became limp as she gave in to the inevitable.

  I’m going to die…

  Linda felt resistance go out of her like the final sigh from a pricked balloon; she was floating now, embracing the darkness. Somewhere far away she heard the shrill, whistling call of the kite as it plunged and dipped in the gusting thermals high above, searching intently for its prey.

  Chapter 1

  DCI Brendan Moran nudged the door open cautiously, unsure what to expect. He fumbled for the light switch and blinked as light flooded the small room. His eyes took in the scene with approval. It was just what he had hoped it would be: small, snug, quiet, clean and simply decorated. There was a wood-burning stove beneath the mantel, a criss-crossing of oak beams above and an atmosphere of profound peace.

  “Brendan, old son, I think you’ve picked a good one for a change.” He dropped his bag on the stone floor, shrugged off his coat and draped it across the back of the small settee. The clock on the wall told him it was 8.45pm. The whole journey had taken around five and a half hours, door to door. Not bad going, he congratulated himself, especially considering the state of the roadworks on the M5 and the predictable holiday traffic on the A30. And what’s more, he reflected happily, the pub is still open…

  “Staying long?” the landlord asked as he pulled Moran a pint.

  “Ten days,” Moran replied, handing over a five pound note. “Just a short break.”

  Moran allowed his eyes to range around the room . The pub was half-empty; a few couples were eating at tables, one or two locals supped ale at the end of the bar, chatting quietly. Not a drug dealer in sight, Moran thought contentedly. This was why he had come to the West Country, and it looked as though the West Country was going to deliver.

  “Where’re you from?” The barman handed Moran his change.

  “I live and work in Reading, in Berkshire ,” Moran said. “Not much life, actually; mainly work.”

  “I know it,” the landlord said. “Big town. Ten days’ll be long enough for you here, I expect. Not a lot goes on in Cernham.”

  “No?”

  The landlord shook his head. He was of a similar age, Moran estimated, broad-faced and profusely sideburned. “No,” the man laughed. “Been here all my life and I’m still waiting for something to happen.”

  “That’s just how I like it.” Moran smiled and raised his glass. “Long may it continue.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” the landlord nodded and picked up a half-pint pewter tankard conveniently to hand by the till. “All the best for the season.”

  “And to you, sir.” Moran inclined his head mock-formally.

  “If you’re around tomorrow night we’ve got the Morris side in.”

  “Oh really?” Moran raised his eyebrows. “Bit early, isn’t it? I thought Morris dancing was a Whitsun event.”

  “We celebrate seasonal change here when the time is right, not when some church calendar tells us to.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s your prerogative,” Moran replied cautiously, worried in case the landlord had taken offence.

  However, his new acquaintance had adopted a pensive posture, one hand stroking a sideburn, the other clasping his tankard proprietarily as if someone might suddenly challenge his right to drink from it. “Nature’s what it’s all about, y’see, not all that God business. End of winter, start of the growing season. That’s what’s worth celebrating in our part of the country. That’s what’s real. Load of hypocrites, these church people, the lot of them.”

  “Perhaps,” Moran said non-committally, reluctant to be drawn into a religious discussion. He was saved by the arrival of a new customer, a woman in her early forties who greeted the barman with the ease of long familiarity.

  “Usual, Celine?”

  “Terl, what else would I be having?”

  Moran’s ears pricked up. He c
ould tell a Cork accent a mile off, even when it was diluted by a splash of Cornish lilt.

  “Evening.” The woman smiled pleasantly at Moran as she waited for Terl to fetch her drink. “Warmer today, isn’t it?”

  “Very pleasant,” Moran agreed. She was rather attractive, her long dark hair, loose and unpinned, framing a slim, well-balanced face in which was set the most extraordinary pair of green eyes Moran had ever seen. “Forgive me for asking, but do I detect a Cork accent?”

  “Oho. Very astute,” she replied with a grin of acknowledgment. “I was born and raised in Cork – in another life. I’m Celine, by the way.” She extended a slender hand which Moran squeezed briefly.

  “Brendan Moran.”

  “You can’t get more Irish than that, eh?” Celine laughed. “Thanks, Terl.” She unclasped her handbag and perched on the adjacent bar stool, rooting around for her purse.

  Moran fought quietly with himself. His track record with women was poor. He wanted a peaceful holiday, not more complications. Besides, there was the unresolved issue of Shona…

  “I’ll get that,” Moran heard himself say. He passed Terl another five pound note.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Celine had found her purse. “If you’re sure? That’s very kind.”

  “My pleasure,” Moran smiled, cursing himself inwardly.

  “So, you’re on holiday?” Celine settled herself on the stool.