Death Walks Behind You Page 2

  At least she’s not wearing a ring, Moran reassured himself. “Yes, that’s right. First for quite a while.”

  “Now, let me see,” Celine stroked her chin and looked him up and down. “I always enjoy this bit.”

  Moran made a face to hide his discomfort at her top-to-toe examination.

  “Got it.” She clapped her hands and grinned. “Policeman.”

  Moran groaned. “That obvious, eh?”

  She sipped her drink. “Always is. You can tell by the eyes.”

  “The crows’ feet?”

  She laughed, a tinkling, resonant sound Moran found appealing and not a little beguiling. “I’ve seen worse,” she told him. “But it’s not that, it’s the depth.”

  At that moment the door of the pub crashed open. A small blonde woman in jeans and a red blouse stormed up to the bar and banged her fist on the counter. Heads turned and mouths froze in mid-conversation.

  “Listen up,” she shouted, “will somebody in this joint please tell me where I can find Linda Harrison? Or are you all as clueless as her six-pack-centrefold husband seems to be?”

  “We found each other again. On Facebook,” the woman explained. It turned out her name was Blanche, and her capacity for whisky, Moran had noticed, even in the short time since she had arrived, was impressive. “We hadn’t been in touch for years, but you know how it is; you’re noodling around the internet and you think, ‘I wonder what happened to … dot dot dot.’

  Moran nodded. But he didn’t know. The last thing he’d consider as a leisure activity would be ‘noodling around the internet’.

  It had taken a while to calm Blanche, but Celine had risen to the challenge with an impressive display of empathy, a well-attuned listening ear and a few practical, if obvious, suggestions.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Blanche continued. “She told me she never went anywhere these days.”

  “Tell me again what her husband said,” Celine prompted.

  Moran listened with half an ear. He hadn’t come to Cernham for mystery. Fatigue had crept up on him and he began to concoct excuses with which he could comfortably extricate himself and leave the women to it.

  “…and he just looked at me with this blank expression and said, ‘I’m not my wife’s keeper. How should I know where she is?’ Rude, rude, rude.” Blanche knocked back her drink and gestured to the barman. “I’ll have another scotch.”

  Moran chuckled to himself at the way Terl scuttled to obey; Blanche’s Uncle Sam assertiveness seemed very much at odds with the pub’s cosy Englishness.

  “I know Matt,” Celine told her. “Body builder, outdoor type. He never says much, so I wouldn’t read anything into it. Typical man, really; avoids conversation if he can.”

  Moran coughed.

  “There are exceptions to the rule of course,” Celine laughed. “Sorry, Brendan.”

  “No need to apologise.” Moran took his opportunity. “I’m going to head off, so if you ladies will excuse me.” He drained his glass. “I hope you track your friend down,” he said to Blanche. “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.” And to Celine, “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too, Brendan. See you around, no doubt.” Her eyes sparkled.

  Moran nodded. “No doubt.”

  The cottage was snug and comfortable. Moran busied himself unpacking his few belongings and rustling up an egg on toast from the meagre supply of groceries he had collected at a Tesco Express somewhere en route. He whistled tunelessly along with the local radio station as he worked, feeling pleasantly tired and relishing the prospect of a long, untroubled sleep. He began to toy with tomorrow’s agenda; a late breakfast perhaps, followed by a walk along the coastal path, lunch in some local café, and if further afternoon exertions warranted, tea and scones to round off his first day. Total R and R, just as Dr Purewal had recommended. Recharge the batteries, disconnect the brain, feel the stress slough away. Moran stopped what he was doing and let his hands fall to his sides, only too aware of how fickle his mind could be: past experience had proved its inner workings to be well versed in the art of dissembling. R and R, Brendan? Is that why you’re here, or is there a subconscious agenda you’re not owning up to?

  He switched the radio off and let the silence close around him. You know why you’re here, Brendan Moran. You’re here to make a decision. To continue, or not to continue?

  There. It was in the open now. He’d confronted it.

  Moran sighed. That is the question… Retirement, or onward? Onward to the next case, and the next, and…

  A series of staccato knocks on the front door made him jump. Who…?

  In two strides he was fumbling clumsily with the latch. “Brendan?” A female voice penetrated the woodwork. The door was stuck. He heaved and it sprang open.

  Celine pushed into the cottage, her face paler that he had last seen it, mascara smudged and hair awry. “Brendan. You have to come. I’m sorry to ask, but – it’s the American woman, Blanche. Please–” She grabbed his arm, pulling.

  Moran drew back in alarm. “Hey, hey, hey. Hold on a second. Come in, sit down and–”

  “No! You have to come now.” Celine’s eyes blazed into his. “She’s dead, Brendan. Dead.”

  Chapter 2

  Celine’s assessment of Blanche’s condition was, Moran reluctantly admitted, entirely accurate. The American was slumped forward in her car, a silver Lexus, and there was no pulse to be found during Moran’s customary checks. The saloon was parked next to the low cemetery wall two hundred metres from the pub, a dimly-lit corner of the village. Had it not been for Celine’s curiosity the body could well have remained undiscovered until the morning. He straightened up from his examination.

  “I’m afraid you’re right. We’ll need to call the police.”

  Celine was shaking. “I thought I’d done that already.” She looked at Moran.

  “No. This is a matter for the local police. I have no jurisdiction here.”

  “Can you tell what happened? I mean, look, there’s not a mark on her.”

  “No, I can’t. The police doctor will come and perform a more thorough examination. The best thing we can do is make the call and leave them to it.”

  “But don’t you want to know what happened? I mean, she might have been murdered or something.”

  Moran rested his hand gently on her shoulder. “Look, we don’t know that. She may have died from perfectly natural causes. There’s no point in speculating, trust me.” Moran found his mobile and tutted in frustration. “No signal.”

  “There never is here. We could try the pub. They’ll still be clearing up.”

  “OK, after you.” Moran fell into step beside Celine. “When did she leave the pub?”

  Celine shook her head in consternation. “A few minutes after you. I chatted to Terl for a bit and then left myself. And there she was. I knew straight away she was … you know.”

  “I know.”

  Moran rapped on the pub door. The lights were still on and presently they heard the sliding of a heavy bolt followed by the jangle of a security chain. Terl’s head appeared, silhouetted against the jaundiced interior light.

  “What is it?”

  Moran explained.

  “You’d better come in.” Terl stepped aside and motioned them through. He closed the heavy door behind them and headed for the bar. “You could use a drink, I expect. I’ll knock up PC Frobisher – our local bobby.”

  “No,” Moran said. “This needs more than local expertise. I’m calling Exeter.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Moran tried to keep the exasperation from his voice.

  “All right. Phone’s just there,” he told Moran. “Come round the side.”

  As Moran picked up the receiver he noticed Terl helping himself to a generous measure of vodka from the optic range. Celine was fiddling with a packet of B&H, tapping an unlit cigarette on the gold packet. Terl offered her a light and she inhaled the smoke greedily.

 
Moran made his report and replaced the receiver.

  “Now what?” Celine asked.

  “Now nothing,” Moran told her. “Now I go back to the car and wait for the police. Then I go to bed.”

  “How can you be so calm?” She blew smoke and took a swig of whisky.

  “Seen it all before, I expect,” Terl offered with a half-smile.

  Moran shrugged. He just wanted to go to bed. “Yes, I suppose I have. Thanks for the drink.”

  “I appreciate your help, Brendan.” Celine stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray Terl had conjured from somewhere. “Sorry I had to disturb you.”

  “You did the right thing. I expect the police will want a quick word. I’ll send them along. No point in both of us hanging around in the dark.”

  She smiled briefly. “Thanks.”

  “Well, good night. Thanks again, Terl.”

  “Cheerio, Mr Moran.”

  Moran stepped out into the night. He’d forgotten how dark it could get without any light pollution. It wasn’t just dark, it was opaque.

  His footsteps echoed flatly on the road. The Lexus was just round the next corner, by the church. With any luck the police would be there soon. It wasn’t as if they had far to come. This is bizarre, he mused. First day off for months and what happens?

  He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks. For a moment he thought he’d made a mistake, taken a wrong turning. But there was the low cemetery wall, the bulky shape of the church. No mistake. He was in the right place, but the Lexus certainly wasn’t.

  The car had vanished.

  “Renting the place are you?” The young detective sergeant cast his eyes around the cottage interior. “And you arrived this afternoon, you say?”

  Moran gave the policeman a withering look. “Yes, I did say.”

  “All right, sir. We’re nearly finished. Just trying to get everything straight, you know how it is.”

  “Yes, I know, DS Wilmot. Forgive me. It’s been a long day.”

  “That’s all right, sir.”

  Moran watched Wilmot jot a brief note. He was young, sandy-haired; not long in the job, Moran concluded. Keen. Moran’s eyes were grainy with fatigue; he knew that his patience was nearing its end.

  “You’re absolutely sure that the woman was dead, sir.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you have no idea where the car might be?”

  “Of course I have no idea.”

  “And no idea who might have taken it?”

  “None. How should I know? I’ve only just arrived.”

  DS Wilmot rested his pad on his lap and gave Moran a sympathetic smile. “Sir, if I might suggest a possible solution, don’t you think it’s entirely feasible that you may have been mistaken? Perhaps this lady was resting; maybe she had simply dozed off? And while you went back to the pub she simply woke up and continued her journey?”

  “No. She was dead. Dead people don’t wake up, in my experience. Except for Lazarus, and that was two thousand years ago.”

  “Laz…? Oh, yes, I see.” Wilmot’s businesslike expression barely flickered. “But you do see my point, sir.”

  “Yes, of course I do. But I am a senior police officer, DS Wilmot. I know a dead person when I see one.”

  For the first time, Wilmot looked uncomfortable. “Point taken, sir, but it does seem odd, doesn’t it, that someone would drive away in a car containing a dead body.”

  “Yes, I am compelled to agree.”

  “Especially as they would first have to move the body in order to drive the car.”

  “Yes.” Moran stood up. “Look, DS Wilmot, I’ve told you all I can for the moment. May I suggest that I pop in tomorrow morning to have a chat with your senior officer?”

  “I’m afraid that will be a bit of a problem, sir. DI Steele went off sick last week. We have the flu going round at the moment.”

  “So, you’ll be dealing with this yourself?”

  Wilmot’s expression told Moran all he needed to know; the young sergeant was struggling to keep his head above water. Moran felt a pang of guilt. How were his own team faring in his absence?

  “Myself, sir? Yes, that’s correct.”

  Moran rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Look, son, why don’t you have a word with the lady who alerted me in the first place? Her name is Celine. She may have learned something during the course of her conversation with this woman that’ll shed a little light. And I’ll come and see you first thing.”

  Wilmot tapped his biro on the chair arm as he considered Moran’s suggestion. A moment later he nodded. “All right, sir. I’ll expect you around half past nine, if that would suit? You know where to find the local station?”

  “No.”

  Moran waited while Wilmot scribbled directions in his pad and tore out the leaf.

  “A little different to Thames Valley HQ, I shouldn’t wonder,” the DS said. “Suits the place, though. Quaint, I call it. I don’t come out this way much but it always makes me smile.”

  “Is that so? I’m not that big on comedy, I’m afraid,” Moran said. “Especially after a death.” He ushered the sergeant to the cottage door. “Good night, DS Wilmot.”

  “Good night, sir. I’m sure we’ll sort it all out tomorrow.”

  Moran closed the door, puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Happy holidays, Brendan…

  Moran knew he was asleep but the dream had him in its grip and he couldn’t wake up. He knew the story; he had heard it from his maternal grandmother’s lips. He also knew that he didn’t want to hear it again, because it had always unsettled him, made him uncomfortable. It was a story about his great-grandfather, but in this dream Moran found himself cast in the central role.

  He was returning from some errand, following the old track through dense woodland. It was eerily quiet. Presently he found himself in a clearing; in its centre was a neatly constructed circle of sticks and broken wood. He approached it cautiously, but also with a flutter of excitement. He knew what it was: he had found a meeting place of the hidden ones, the spirits of the forest – the little folk. He bent, selected a curved shard of wood from the ring and backed away. Was he being watched? He felt daring, slightly giddy, and then suddenly fearful. He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to see this. He turned towards the gap in the trees that would reunite him with the path, but as he reached the edge of the clearing a sudden weakness in his legs pulled him up short. He couldn’t stand… He sank to his haunches and keeled over, his useless legs splayed out behind him. Panicking, he dug his hands into the mulchy forest floor and hauled himself away. How far to home and safety? A mile? Two? He began to crawl, using the stolen stick for leverage.

  A lifetime later, bruised and terrified, he emerged from the trees by the rutted forest road. Doggedly he crawled on, still with over a half a mile to go.

  It was fully dark by the time he reached the village. No one was about, nobody came to help him. Summoning his last ounce of strength he dragged himself to his mother’s doorstep.

  She was waiting for him on the threshold, silent, angry.

  “You know what you have to do, Brendan.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “I can’t.” His knees were raw, his hands bleeding.

  “You must.”

  And she turned her back on him; shut the heavy door against his futile attempts to enter.

  He cried for a long time but his mother was pitiless. He felt the rough wood in his hands and knew that if he didn’t go back, didn’t make good the damage he had done, he would never walk again.

  It took him twice as long to crawl back along the lane, to re-enter the foreboding woodland, to negotiate the labyrinthine paths of his childhood. He cut himself on shards of flint, briars and brambles, splinters and stones. He was scared witless, hungry, near to collapse, but he drove himself on, knowing that his mother was right.

  He crawled and rested, crawled and rested. Once he dozed on a pillow of dead leaves
but then some nocturnal noise scared him awake and the nightmare journey continued. Just when he thought he couldn’t go on, the moon sidestepped nimbly from behind a cloud and he found himself within sight of the clearing. As he hesitated with lungs wheezing and heart thudding he became acutely aware of some heavy, invisible weight of expectation, as if the old gods themselves had gathered to witness his penance completed.

  He placed the wood carefully where he had found it and half-rolled, half-crawled away from the ring. He reached the edge of the clearing and felt the blood rush back into his legs. He got up, unsteadily at first, and began to limp through the moonlit trees towards the village and safety. As the strength in his legs returned he broke into a run. Branches flicked his face as he flew by and the wind soughed in the high boughs like voices telegraphing his progress.

  Now he was nearly home, nearly at the forest perimeter. Legs pumping, he followed the track around a narrow bend and came crashing to a halt. Was it his imagination? He took cover behind a broad oak and peered into the gloom.

  No, he wasn’t seeing things.

  Just ahead, blocking his way, a tall figure waited silently, shrouded in darkness. He saw the horns, the misshapen head and froze in terror…

  Moran awoke with a start. The moon painted the tiny bedroom with a wash of delicate silver. For a moment he had no idea where he was until the events of the previous night came back to him in a rush. The missing body, the Lexus, Celine…

  He tossed and turned for the remainder of the night as the church bell tolled in the near distance, marking the passing hours until dawn.

  Chapter 3

  The local police station was unassuming in the extreme; a small terraced building three doors from the local grocery store. Moran entered and found himself in a reception area furnished with three slatted chairs, a low table covered with a spread of old magazines and a tatty counter behind which a shirt-sleeved police constable was sipping tea and tapping his pen thoughtfully on the Formica top. A name plate announced his name as PC William Frobisher. He looked up with a surprised expression as Moran closed the door behind him.