The Killing Season (12 page)

‘The solstice arrived and the sunset approached. The villagers took the young maiden Eadlin and led her up the hill to the summit of the Beeston Bump. Approaching on the sea as the sun set, the flames of a torch could be seen as the Viking craft drew near to the shore. It was a long wooden boat and at the helm there was a dragon’s head, with blazing eyes painted red.

‘The villagers cast their own burning brands into the bonfire that they had built, and the flames crackled and flared upward, dancing in the cool evening breeze. The crowd fell to their knees and prayed to the god of the seas.

‘A tempest arose, the like of which had never been seen before. So that the Viking craft carrying the men who had come to take their loot was hurled beneath the waves and the men drowned. But just as quickly as the storm had come it vanished, when the sea god realised that the druid had tricked him. Had tricked all the villagers, too, because the figure tied to the stake was not a real person at all but an effigy with a waxen face and a wig.’

‘Like our own Guy Fawkes?’

‘Exactly so, darling. It was too late to bring back the drowned Viking warriors but the sea god looked down and saw that the sole survivor of the shipwrecked vessel was a black dog. Paddling in the now-calm waters. And the sea god took his vengeance, for when that dog reached the shore he had become the size of a small horse, with wild shaggy hair and huge saucer-like eyes that flashed with fire.’

‘Black Shuck!’

‘Black Shuck indeed. And since that fearful day over twelve hundred years ago, when the sun sets over Sheringham and Overstrand, then Black Shuck comes out to prowl, loping and hunting, along river bed and shoreline, on the clifftops or up in the dark pine woods, along the quiet country lanes, leaping over flint walls in churchyards and cemeteries. Jumping out, headless sometimes, from behind old gravestones, seeking retribution on the druid who had tried to cheat the gods. And if anyone hears him behind them, howling like a very banshee from Cork, then they’d best make sure not to set their eyes upon his fearsome form. For if they do, they will be dead within the year.’

‘Yes, but that’s just a story, isn’t it?’ my daughter asked, clutching the bed sheet up to her chin.

I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Course it is, darling. You’re safe up here.’

THE FOUR MEN
stood in the dark. All in dark clothing, all with balaclavas over their heads under black watch caps.

Two of the men held sawn-off shotguns. The other two held baseball bats. They were motionless. Silent. Their breaths misting in the cold air. They were waiting.

They knew how to wait.

Bill Collier flicked the on switch on the CD player mounted under his dashboard and pressed
PLAY
.

Dolly Parton started singing ‘It’s a Hard-Candy Christmas.’ Bill didn’t care that Christmas was a couple of months away yet. He liked Dolly Parton. He had promised himself that one of these days he would make the pilgrimage to Dollywood, Dolly Parton’s huge theme park based in the good old US of A, way down south in Tennessee. A temple to the lady herself. With accommodation and shows and amusement rides. And, as he had often said to his strong but dim associate, he’d sure like to take a ride on Dolly’s special attractions. He smiled to himself at the thought, felt himself stiffening as her throaty voice sang about the loneliness of a single woman at the festive season. She wouldn’t be alone for long if he had his way. She’d have some hard candy, sure enough. And not the sort you could buy in a sweetshop.

Bill was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He’d had a couple of pints of Kronenbourg in The Ship and a smoke of the good stuff in the pub’s car park. He’d booked an Eastern European escort from Cromer, with big blonde hair, artificially augmented breasts and a willingness to take part in certain sexual practices that some of the local girls in Norwich baulked at. She was due to arrive at his house in about an hour and a half and he moved his crotch in time to the country carol in eager anticipation. The speed he had taken and the little blue pill he had dropped in expectation of a good long session probably helped his mood as well.

He drove his car into his driveway as Dolly finished her song, maintaining that she would be fine although she clearly felt she wouldn’t be, or at least the character personified in the song wouldn’t be. But old Bill, he was going to be fine. Pretty fine and dandy. And that was a fact.

Except it wasn’t.

He clicked the locking button on his car key and was walking to the front door of his house when the men in balaclavas stepped out from the darkness.

LATE OCTOBER, EARLY
morning and I was running up a hill wearing thermal underwear, joggers, a couple of shirts, a hoodie and a black watch cap on my head.

It was bitterly cold out, the wind still scalpelling in from the north, but I had worked up a sweat and certainly wasn’t feeling the chill. It was a routine I had got into. I got up early with Kate and the girls. We had breakfast. Kate dropped Siobhan off at the local school, and took the baby with her into work. They didn’t have a crèche as such, but there was an informal arrangement and if needed we had a nanny we could call upon. I’d come to the office, change into my running outfit and jog over the Beeston Bump, over the railway and up Beacon Hill, the long stretch that climbs to the highest point in Norfolk at a place called Roman Camp.

There has never been any evidence of a Roman presence there, mind: the name was made up by drivers of horse-drawn cabs around the turn of the nineteenth century to make the place sound more exciting to tourists. It certainly seemed to work. Mainly because of the views. It was called Beacon Hill because the area below and to the north of it, The Runtons on the coast, was at one time one of the most dangerous areas on the Norfolk coast for piratical activity and Viking invaders. A beacon lit on the top of that hill, warning of incoming people with hostile intentions, could be seen for miles around. And it is true to say that when the weather permits the views there are spectacular.

It was still a bastard to run up, though. Especially getting towards winter when the narrow paths that thread though the tangled trees growing up the long hill get wet and muddy. The wind had scattered torn branches and dead vegetation everywhere, making the path an obstacle course.

But I had made myself a promise. Four runs a week at least. Maybe when winter bit really deep I would join a gym. But not yet: the spandex and weight machine brigade had never appealed to me.

So despite the cold I was sweating and breathing heavily when I got back to my trailer-van office.

The mobile phone on my desk was trilling and dancing a little as I unlocked the door and entered. I picked it up.

‘Delaney,’ I said.

‘Jesus, Jack! You having a wank or something?’

I recognised the sweet feminine tones of my old boss back in the Met.

‘Hi, Diane,’ I replied, getting my breath back. I heard an intake of breath – Diane Campbell had scant regard for the law about smoking in public places. I could picture her in my mind’s eye standing by her window, puffing smoke and watching the uniforms come and go in the car park below her office.

‘So how’s the boondocks treating you, Cowboy?’

‘Very peaceful. You know, seashores and pine woodlands. Air you can breathe.’

‘Sounds like a fucking nightmare to me.’

‘Kate likes it.’

‘Is the mad woman still going to marry you?’

‘Seems like it. We do have a child or two, you know.’

‘Quite the nuclear family.’

‘Are you going to make it for the big day?’

‘Damn right! Promised Kate I’d make sure you wouldn’t do a runner.’

‘More than my life’s worth.’

‘She
is
a determined kind of lady.’

‘It’s Siobhan I’m scared of.’

I could hear Diane laughing on the other end of the phone. I missed that laugh. I missed Sally Cartwright and the others back in the Met. I even missed that miserable old bastard Bob Wilkinson.

‘So when are you coming back to the real world, Jack?’ she asked as if reading my thoughts. ‘There’s more important work for you to do down here in the big city than up there at the back of beyond finding sheep rustlers and pig pokers.’

‘For a lesbian you’re not particularly politically correct, are you, Diane?’

‘If it squeals like a pig and wallows in mud. Isn’t that what they say? Just telling it like it is.’

‘Working on a murder case, actually.’

‘Who’s the client?’

‘No client as such.’

‘Assisting the police with their enquiries?’

‘Not in an official capacity. The lady sheriff round here doesn’t exactly warm to me.’

‘Is she a dyke too?’

I laughed this time. ‘I have absolutely no idea. She’s a ball-buster, sure enough.’

‘You’ve always had big balls, Jack. Tell me about the murder.’

‘Body buried near a cliff. Part of the cliff collapses. The body is exposed.’

‘How long had she or he been there?’

‘A he, and a good few years.’

‘So it’s a cold case.’

‘Pretty cold.’

‘We have plenty of live ones down here.’

‘As ever was. So why are you calling, Diane?’

‘Like I said, we could you use back down here. Christmas is coming, Cowboy. The goose is getting fat and your gap-year vacation is coming to an end.’

‘It’s a sabbatical.’

‘We both know what it is.’

‘Sorry, Diane, I’m not cut out for the politics of Paddington Green.’

‘Purpose of the call.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the plans to merge us into Paddington Green have been shelved. They are focusing on what our American chums call homeland security. White City is going back to being its own centre of excellence in the big fight against crime in our own special part of the naked city.’

‘Good for you.’

‘And for you, Jack. Like I said, I want you back. Resources are stretched – I need good people. People who I can work with. People who can get the job done. You, in short.’

‘I made a commitment to Kate.’

‘You made a commitment to take a year out. You’re renting a house and it was always on the cards that you would come back – isn’t that right?’

‘I don’t know, Diane. I kinda like it up here.’

‘I’ll leave you to chew on it, big feller. I know you, is all I’m saying. Give me a call.’

She hung up. I looked at the phone thoughtfully. Damn the woman. She was right.

She did know me.

THE SHOWER IN
the caravan was small but it was hot at least.

I had been standing under it for five minutes, letting the water wash over me and chewing over what my old boss – still technically my boss, in fact – had put to me. The New Year was a long way off yet. Plenty of time to make a decision when push came to shove. I was rinsing shampoo out of my hair when I heard two sirens, both of them police. They were coming in my direction. Then, by the sound of it, two squad cars screeched to a halt right outside and the sirens cut off in mid-shriek. So I figured they had come for me.

I figured right. There was a hammering on the door.

‘Police! Open up!’

‘It’s locked – give me a minute,’ I called out and turned off the shower. But it seemed that the North Norfolk Constabulary had little patience. I heard a crunch, footsteps and then a familiar voice shouting out.

‘Delaney, get out here.’ It was Superintendent Susan Dean.

‘You want to give me a minute, Susan?’

‘No, I don’t. Get your arse out here now!’

I shrugged. I of all people knew the authority of the law. I opened the door of the shower cubicle and walked out.

‘Do you want to pass me that towel, please?’ I asked.

She looked at me for a second, shocked, a flush creeping across her face. Then she turned around. ‘Get that clown dressed and down the nick and if he gives you any trouble . . . taser him!’ she said to a couple of uniformed male plods and stomped out the door. I picked up the towel and headed to the bedroom. ‘Give me five minutes,’ I said.

‘I’ll give you two minutes,’ said a broad-shouldered constable in his twenties.

‘Or what?’

He didn’t seem to have a response to that so I left him to consider his options while I got dressed.

Sheringham police station was built on the site of the new Tesco supermarket.

Tesco had been at war with many of the good people of Sheringham for over fourteen years before they finally got the local council to give them permission to build in the town. Part of the deal was that they had to build a new fire station, community centre and police station. Maybe they had placed the cop shop in their car park because they feared some kind of vandalism reprisals. But in fact the supermarket was pretty well used.

As police stations go it certainly wasn’t a Paddington Green. It wasn’t a White City. Just a small local police station for local people. It did have a couple of holding cells, though, and I was being marched straight into one. Watched by Susan Dean.

‘Why don’t you just tell us where you were last night at nine o’clock, Delaney?’

‘Like I said, superintendent, I am perfectly happy to make a statement. After I have discussed the matter, as I am entitled under law, with my legal representative.’

‘Amy Leigh is on her way, Delaney. Why don’t you just stop pissing me off? It won’t turn out well for you.’

‘Why don’t you let me have a word with my client, superintendent?’ asked Amy Leigh from the doorway. ‘I am sure everything can be cleared up.’

Susan Dean snorted and clacked away on her heels as the uniforms showed Amy into the holding cell and shut the door on us.

‘What’s going on, Jack?’

I shrugged.

‘Bill Collier was found by his colleague this morning. He had been tied up, doused with petrol and told by four masked men who had captured him that they would be back later to set fire to him. They also stole his car.’