High Moor 2: Moonstruck (7 page)

He took another sip of his coffee and smiled. There it was − the prisoner transport vehicle detailed to ferry John Simpson to Durham Prison. He reached into his pocket and removed his phone. He sent the message he’d prepared earlier to Troy and Gabriela, after which he left the café, got into the hire car parked outside and started following the armoured van.

They drove through the town, past abandoned shops and rows of small terraced houses, out to the dual carriageway leading to Durham city. Oskar felt his pulse quicken, his beast rousing itself from slumber − he could almost imagine it wagging its tail in anticipation.

Soon. Be patient.

The armoured van was five cars ahead, so he slowed down to allow two more vehicles to pass before joining the flow of main road traffic. Gabriela would be around the same distance ahead of the van by now. The noose was tightening around Simpson, and he had no idea. This would all be over in moments. Oskar smiled and waited for Gabriela’s signal.

The line of traffic ahead came to an abrupt standstill; the rows of brake−lights stretching out through the grey drizzle like a neon snake. The prison van had stopped directly opposite a junction, Gabriela timing her breakdown to perfection, but then Oskar had expected no less from her. It was time to close the jaws of the trap. Picking up his phone, he texted a single word to Troy.

‘
Now.
’

A blare of horns came from the adjoining road as the twin headlights of a petrol tanker blazed through the rain and burst through the traffic, accelerating towards the junction on the wrong side of the road. Oskar unbuckled his seatbelt and removed the vehicle’s ignition keys, then bringing his wolf fully awake and holding it just below the transformation threshold. Time slowed, the world taking on a monochrome cast. He heard cries of alarm from the occupants of the other vehicles as the tanker hurtled toward the junction, the click of door−locks as people scrambled to get clear. Children screamed, their mothers frantically trying to free them from car seats. Oskar looked up at the tanker and saw Troy, grinning like an idiot, sitting stop the corpse of the tanker’s driver.

The petrol tanker slammed into the side of the prison van.

The impact hurled Troy through its windshield, sending him sailing over the crash barrier and down a slight slope leading to the fields beyond. The momentum of the massive tanker had pushed the prison van against the steel barrier, crumpling the side of the van. The tanker, with a dead man’s foot still planted on the accelerator, hadn’t slowed down, instead mounting the side of the armoured vehicle as if it were a ramp. The tanker’s storage vessel ruptured, spilling fifty thousand litres of petrol onto both the road and prison van. Oskar smiled, taking a phone from his pocket and dialling a prepaid cell phone they’d picked up the previous day. Expectantly, he braced himself.

The bomb that Troy had planted on the tanker was crude and small, little more than a firework with a detonator connected to a phone. It was more than enough. The device ignited the fuel from the stricken tanker, exploding in a searing fireball that appeared to expand in slow motion, consuming the vehicles closest to it. The roar of the flames mingled with the screams of those of the trapped, while the people who’d managed to escape their vehicles staggered ablaze along the roadside until they collapsed to the ground and burned. One child, wrapped in fire from head to foot, still carried a burning teddy bear for a few agonising steps before the flames consumed her. Oskar opened his car door, removing a silver stiletto from his jacket, and stepped out into the inferno.

The heat was intense, but now that the initial fireball had passed, had become manageable, at least in the short term. Oskar raced through the flames, ignoring his blistering skin and stinging eyes. The heat, smoke and noise confused his senses, his wolf whining at the back of his mind, but he pressed on until he reached the wrecked van.

The back doors had buckled with the impact of the crash and now lay open. Three corpses, little more than blazing skeletons, lay strewn across the inside. Oskar swore under his breath, then leapt over the ruined crash barrier. He rolled down the embankment to extinguish his blazing jacket, picking himself up and running alongside the road until he reached the spot where Gabriela’s car had ‘broken down’. He opened the rear door and got into the back seat.

Troy sat in the front passenger seat, picking shards of glass from his forehead. He turned to Oskar. “All done?”

Oskar shook his head. “No, Simpson wasn’t in the van. Even a fire as intense as that would not have killed him so quickly and there was no wolf scent. Was Connie certain that Simpson left the court?”

“She couldn’t be sure. He was in court with the others, but she thought the cop in charge of the investigation might have recognised her, so she scrammed.”

Oskar sighed. The plan had been perfectly designed and executed, yet Connie had still found a way to ruin things. Gregorz should have sent Daniel, a fact that he’d make very clear when he spoke to him later on.

Gabriela started the car and drove away from the inferno behind them. “So what the hell do we do now? That was our only shot at Simpson before the next full moon. How are we going to get to him and destroy his body when he’s locked up tight in a high security prison?”

Oskar removed his ruined jacket and smiled at her. “Don’t worry, my Italian beauty. I have a plan. Tell me, how do you feel about doctors?”

Chapter 4

5th December 2008. Aykley Heads Police HQ, Durham. 11.25.

Olivia balanced the stack of folders on her left arm, holding them in place with her chin while she struggled to open the office door. She’d only given the documents a cursory glance after retrieving them from the archive, nevertheless she hoped that they might provide the breakthrough they’d been looking for. Phil was not going to believe some of the things she’d managed to dig up. The door swung open, two uniformed officers stepping through it. Olivia nodded a greeting and stuck her foot into the open doorway before it swung closed. Sighing, she pushed the door all the way open with her backside while struggling to control the paperwork.

The office was open plan, with only short partitions on each desk offering any sort of privacy. The levels of background noise made her ears hurt. Constant telephone ringing mingled with the low thrum of the heating system and dozens of different conversations, until it all blended into a dull roar. She had no idea how anyone managed to concentrate in here. Putting her headphones on was the only way to block it out, drowning out the noise with music, otherwise she’d never have been able to keep her train of thought long enough to accomplish anything.

Phil’s desk was at the end of a row, by a window overlooking the car park. He sat hunched over his PC, a cold cup of coffee on the desk next to him. Olivia made her way along the row, grabbed an empty chair and slapped her folders down on his desk.

Phil looked up from his screen. “Jesus, Olivia! You scared the life out of me!”

She grinned. “Yeah, sorry about that, boss. You were off in your own little world, but I thought you’d like to see this.”

He picked up the first folder, opened it and skimmed through its contents, finally turning to her with a confused look. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

Olivia’s grin turned into a smug smile. “These are the case files from the High Moor beast attacks in 1986. Take a look at the name on the report.”

Phil flicked through the folder again. “Steven Wilkinson? Our comatose friend in the hospital?”

“It gets better. Carry on reading.”

He scanned the papers and flicked past a couple of faded photographs then stopped. “Is this real?”

“It most certainly is. Sergeant Steven Wilkinson was the officer who saved the life of those boys at the scout camp, including one John Simpson. We’ve been looking for something to tie the two men and I think this qualifies. Not only that, but the boy who later died in hospital was called Michael Williams, brother to David Williams, who was the first victim and…”

Phil exhaled tiredly and sat back in his chair. “Marie Williams. Our mysterious vanishing witness. Olivia, I could kiss you.”

She screwed up her face. “I’d rather you didn’t. You haven’t shaved and you have coffee breath. What do you think Wilkinson’s solicitor will make of this?”

“I’d say the little weasel is going to shit his pants. We’ve got solid evidence linking the suspects and he can’t block the search warrant of Wilkinson’s place anymore, no matter how many friends he has in high places. I’ll give you the pleasure of delivering the message, if you like?”

“Oh yes. Can I get the little scrotum down here so I can tell him to his face?”

“I think that under the circumstances, that would be quite appropriate.” He picked up his coffee mug and took a sip, making a face and putting it back on the desk. “I think I’m getting somewhere with our other mystery woman. I’ve been going over the CCTV tapes from the hospital and the court.”

“Are you still on about this? Phil, there are no shortage of red haired women in High Moor, and even if the same woman was at the hospital and court, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“All I know is that I saw that woman when Marie Williams disappeared, and the next time I saw her was at John Simpson’s court hearing. If I hadn’t sent him back to the nick in a squad car, then he’d have died in that wreck with the others.”

“We’ve been over this. The autopsy on the driver said that it looked like he’d had a heart attack. You’re chasing ghosts, when you should be concentrating on this new evidence.”

“I appreciate your concern, but you’re wrong. Here, take a look at this from the hospital. She’s being very careful to avoid the cameras, but she gets caught for just a second, right here.”

He paused the video and expanded the screen until a pixelated image of a woman’s face filled the screen. He dragged the window across onto his second monitor and called up another video file.

“Again, you can see her entering the building. She’s being careful to avoid the cameras, but she couldn’t get past the one near the metal detector without looking suspicious.” He hit pause and expanded the image. This one was clearer and showed a woman in her mid−thirties or early forties with shoulder length red hair. “That’s the same woman I saw at the hospital. No other cameras get a clear shot of her the entire time she’s in that building, and she leaves just before the end of Simpson’s hearing. She’s got something to do with this, Olivia. I’m sure of it.”

Olivia sighed. “OK, print that out for me and I’ll make some quiet enquiries at the local hotels and B&B’s. Maybe something will turn up. By the way, did you get anywhere with those bogus police officers?”

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?”