Relics (21 page)

Wallace exhaled deeply and reached for another cigarette. How come nobody ever saw or heard anything? In every case, the killer had forced entry to the homes of his victims, and the extent of the mutilations seemed to indicate that he spent at least thirty minutes, if not longer, on each corpse. Wallace knew from previous experience that people avoided getting involved in police affairs wherever possible, but even so, someone at some time must have seen events taking place before or after the killings which looked odd. This time a neighbour
had
heard something but had assumed that it was kids messing about, throwing stones at the windows of the house where the two women were. By the time he got around to phoning the police it was too late.

The inspector blew out a long stream of blue smoke and watched it disperse in the air.

Four murders and a kidnapping.

‘The quiet little town of Longfield,’ he murmured humourlessly, but his thoughts were cut short as he heard raised voices in the corridor outside his office.

He spun round as the door crashed open.

James Cutler strode into the room, his eyes fixed on the inspector. Wallace caught a glimpse of Sergeant Dayton trying to pull the land developer back.

‘You’re supposed to knock first,’ said Wallace, unimpressed by the anger which contorted the older man’s face into a twisted mask.

‘I tried to stop him, guv,’ Dayton said. ‘I warned him.’

‘You incompetent bastard, Wallace’ Cutler said, pulling away from the sergeant.

‘Right, that’s it,’ snarled Dayton, gripping the land developer by the arm and twisting.

Cutler hissed in pain but Wallace shook his head.

‘Leave him, Bill. Otherwise we’ll have Mr Cutler crying police brutality.’ The inspector motioned for Dayton to leave the room. Looking a little perplexed, the sergeant did so, closing the door behind him.

Cutler brushed the sleeve of his jacket and glared at Wallace.

‘You know why I’m here,’ he snapped.

‘Telepathy isn’t one of my talents,’ Wallace told him.

‘Another of my employees was butchered last night. When the hell are you going to find the murderer?’

‘It isn’t as simple as you seem to think, Cutler,’ the inspector said, trying to keep his temper. ‘There aren’t many leads.’

‘Then find some,’ Cutler said. ‘God knows who’ll be next. It could be me. I initiated this building project. If the killer has a grudge against me and my workers then it’s only a matter of time before he comes after
me
.’

‘That had occurred to me, too. I know you’re a likely target. So is everyone who works for you, but I simply haven’t got the manpower to give all of you protection if that’s what You’re driving at.’

‘Then call in some help, for Christ’s sake,’ the land developer shouted, anger and fear colouring his tone. ‘Do your superiors know how you’re handling this case? Perhaps it’s time they did.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Wallace said, his own anger now boiling up.

Cutler didn’t answer; he merely glared at the policeman.

‘If the building project is the cause of these killings then call it off, at least temporarily,’ Wallace suggested.

‘No. My men are working to schedules.’ the older man said. ‘To call a halt would mean losing hundreds of thousands of pounds.’

‘Well, it’s up to you, Cutler. You’ll have to decide what price you put on your own life. If there’s any way you could stop the project . . .’

‘Not a chance!’ The land developer turned and headed for the office door, then glared back at the detective. ‘I’m telling you Wallace, I want results. Fast!’

‘Get out, Cutler,’ Wallace said, watching wearily as the other man pushed open the door and strode out, almost colliding with Dayton in the process.

The sergeant hesitated for a moment, then walked in.

Wallace sat down and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk.

‘What is it, Bill?’ he said, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Dayton approached the desk slowly, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

‘I just took this message, guv,’ he said, quietly. ‘Her name’s Julie Craig. She’s five years old.’

‘I’m not with you,’ Wallace said, frowning.

Dayton sighed and handed over the piece of paper.

‘Another kid’s been taken.’

As Frank King watched, thick white wisps of steam rose from the tar trailer, a cylindrical tank about six feet long which carried the molten fluid. The tarmac-laying crew were careful to keep a safe distance from the blistering black mess as it spilled over the ground, covering an area which would eventually form part of a car park servicing the leisure centre.

The smells of tar and diesel fumes were strong in the air but the foreman seemed oblivious to the odours as he surveyed the building site like some kind of nineteenth-century general inspecting a battlefield.

He shuddered involuntarily as a powerful gust of wind swept past him. He’d be pleased when this bloody project was over and done with. King turned and headed towards the Portakabin, glancing up at the rain-heavy clouds above.

In the cab of the JCB, David Holmes was also watching the sky, but his attention was drawn to his watch as the alarm went off, telling him that it was one o’clock. Lunch-time, he thought with relief. It was freezing in the cab of the JCB. He couldn’t wait to reach the relative warmth of the Portakabin. Holmes worked the controls of the machine expertly, guiding the great metal arm around, swinging it in a wide arc before it thudded down into the earth, ploughing deep, scooping up a mound of the dark soil. The arm rose again and Holmes manoeuvred it around so that the load could be dropped into the back of the lorry which stood alongside, its engine idling. He watched as the dirt cascaded from the bucket.

The machine’s giant arm swung back into position and Holmes locked it there, twisting the key in the machine’s ignition to cut off the power. The JCB stood silent and motionless in the chill wind which was sweeping over the building site.

Holmes checked once more that the vehicle was securely locked up. Then, using one of the caterpillar tracks as a step, he lowered himself to the ground.

There seemed to be fewer men working on the site today, he thought, pausing to extract a cigarette packet and matches from his pockets. He knew that because of the accidents of a few days ago and now the news filtering through of Cutler’s employees being murdered, a number of men had simply refused to work on the project anymore. But Holmes was not one to be frightened easily. Besides, he needed the money. The blokes who’d chucked it in must be mad or well off, he hadn’t figured out which yet.

A gust of wind blew out the match as he tried to light his cigarette. He struck another match but the wind blew it out, too.

The gusts seemed to increase suddenly in ferocity, drowning out the creak of the JCB’s metal arm.

As Holmes struggled with a third match the great machine seemed to move an inch or two, its massive bulk like some lumbering metallic dinosaur.

The metal arm came free.

Even above the roar of the wind, Holmes finally heard the rush of air as the heavy bucket came hurtling towards him as if to scoop him up.

He did not hear it in time.

The metal edge hit him just above the waist, shearing through muscle and bone effortlessly. Slicing his body in two.

Blood and intestines erupted from the severed torso which was sent pinwheeling across the ground, spraying crimson in all directions. Fragments of pulverized spinal column mingled with a trail of viscera. Like a decapitated farmyard chicken, Holmes’ lower half staggered a few yards, as if searching for the other half, then buckled and fell to the ground, blood still fountaining madly from the torn arteries. The torso, blood now running from the dead man’s nose and mouth, finally came to a halt on its torn base. As the blood poured out in a wide pool around it, the body looked as if it had been buried up to the waist in a thick gore.

The bucket of the JCB swung slowly back and forth, gobbets of flesh and streamers of crimson dripping from it.

The cigarette which Holmes had been trying to light was still stuck firmly between his cold lips. Blood had soaked into the filter like ink into blotting paper.

The classroom was large, holding somewhere in the region of thirty children. From that considerable group, a steady babble of excited chatter rose.

Clare Nichols seemed oblivious to any extraneous sound as she carefully considered the set of coloured crayons before her. So many colours to choose from. Where should she begin her drawing? Beside her, Amanda Fraser, Clare’s best friend (at least for the past week she had been), was already busy on her own drawing. As were most of the children in the room.

Clare tapped her bottom lip with the blue crayon and decided to start with the sky, so she scribbled a blue border along the top of her paper, glancing up as Miss Tickle moved from desk to desk inspecting the work of the others.

Clare giggled. She always did when she thought of Miss Tickle. Not just her name, but those funny red tights which she always wore. It looked as if someone had painted her legs the colour of a letter box, Clare thought, reaching for the yellow crayon. She gripped it firmly, and just beneath the rim of blue she drew a large yellow sun, remembering to add spoke-like rays around it. It was going to be a nice sunny day in her drawing, she’d decided. Not like it was outside.

Rain was coursing down the window panes in torrents and Clare hoped that it would have stopped by the time she had to go home. Still, perhaps her mother would pick her up in the car. Or, if not, she could always get a lift from Amanda’s mother.

Clare liked Mrs Fraser. The large wart with its three ever-present hairs growing beneath her chin never failed to mesmerize the small girl. She glanced out of the window once more, watching the rain as it ran down the glass and she felt a chill run through her.

Clare swallowed hard and looked down at the paper, wondering why her hand seemed to freeze as she reached for the green crayon which she needed to draw the grass. Her hand hovered over the wax stick for a moment longer, then she picked up the black one, and with swift strokes began to draw.

Her breath was coming in low sighs and her eyelids had partially closed, yet still her hand worked over the paper, moving in unfailing curves and lines, fashioning an image which she herself could see only in her mind’s eye.

Amanda spoke and looked over at Clare and her drawing, but the girl seemed not to hear.

Her eyes were now almost completely closed and her lips fluttered rapidly as she mouthed soundless words, the crayon moving back and forth across the paper with dizzying speed.

The black crayon, then the red one, then the black again.

Clare heard a loud noise from beside her and the sound seemed to rouse her.

She looked up, like a dreamer awaking from a deep sleep, her eyes focussing on Amanda, who was backing away from her, eyes riveted to the drawing before her. Miss Tickle was making her way towards the desk, her face knitted into that familiar look of concern.

She saw how pale Clare looked. How the colour seemed to have drained from her cheeks. The child looked like death.

Miss Tickle approached her slowly, seeing that Clare was about to faint. She was swaying from side to side on her chair, one crayon still gripped in her hand, gliding across the paper.

‘Clare,’ the teacher said, softly. ‘Clare, are you all right, dear?’

It was patently obvious that the child was not.

Miss Tickle turned to a boy near her and told him to run and fetch the nurse. All other eyes in the classroom turned towards Clare, who had now turned the colour of rancid butter.

She was still swaying back and forth, and now Miss Tickle rushed towards her, seeing the child’s eyes roil up in their sockets.

From somewhere deep inside her Clare heard a sound tike rolling thunder. A deafening roar which seemed to hammer at-her eardrums. So loud that it hurt.

She screamed and fell forward onto the desk.

Miss Tickle reached the girl and cradled her in her arms, lifting her away from the desk. As she did so she looked down at the drawing, and she, too, felt an unearthly chill run through her.

‘Oh God,’ she murmured, softly.

Kim knelt beside the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s forehead, feeling the soft skin with the back of her hand.

‘There’s no sign of a temperature,’ the school nurse told her. The woman was young, Kim’s age, but painfully thin, the dark uniform she wore accentuating this feature. ‘She woke up as soon as we got her in here; the nurse continued, making a sweeping gesture with her hand to encompass the school sick room. It was small, clean and smelt of disinfectant. There were pictures of animals and toys on the walls, competing for space with cabinets and shelves.

‘How do you feel, sweetheart?’ Kim asked her daughter.

‘I’m all right, Mummy,’ Clare assured her, the colour having returned to her cheeks. She sat up quite happily and sipped the plastic beaker full of orange squash which the nurse had given her.

‘I think it might be best if you took her home, Mrs Nichols,’ said the thin woman and Kim agreed, fumbling in her jacket pocket for her keys. ‘It’s a good job we were able to reach you at the museum,’ the nurse added.

Miss Tickle, who had been standing by the doorway throughout the conversation, now stepped forward and beckoned to Kim.

‘Might I have a word?’ she asked, almost apologetically.

Kim smiled, noticing as she approached the woman that she held a piece of paper. The two of them moved out into the corridor, while inside the room, the nurse helped Clare into her shoes and coat.

‘Your daughter was drawing when she . . . passed out,’ the teacher said. ‘This is what she’d done.’

Kim took the paper from the other woman and looked at it, her brow furrowing.

‘I didn’t know what to make of it,’ the teacher confessed. Kim noticed that goose-pimples had risen on the woman’s flesh.