High Moor 2: Moonstruck (9 page)

Oskar sipped from a glass of iced water, then smiled at Gregorz. “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.

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 watched 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.