High Moor 2: Moonstruck (22 page)

She gave him a weak smile, before shuffling over to the kitchen table and flopping down in a chair. “That’s okay, I understand that you were tired. Feeling better today?”

John put a plate of food in front of her, then putting his own plate on the table and sitting down. “Yeah, lots. I think I must have slept for twelve hours straight, but it did the job. I feel like I could run a marathon today.”

She picked at her food, without much enthusiasm. “I’m glad at least one of us is feeling alright. Christ almighty, why do people drink when you feel like this the next day.”

John arched an eyebrow. “You have a hangover? Bloody hell, Marie, how much did you have to drink?”

She held up a finger. “One bottle of wine. I am officially a lightweight.”

John looked confused. “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t your…you know, take care of that?”

Marie’s stomach flip−flopped again, but this time it had nothing to do with her alcohol consumption. She’d not quite told John everything yesterday, and she’d wanted to keep this from him for as long as possible. “Well, normally it would. Unfortunately, whatever your fucking bastard friend did to me killed my wolf.” She realised how bitter that sounded once the words left her mouth, but found that she didn’t care. John, on the other hand, looked shocked. Again.

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that you’re human? That you’re cured?”

Marie’s hangover must have been worse than she realised because it was affecting her aim. Instead of hitting John straight between his eyes, her coffee cup sailed harmlessly over his shoulder and shattered against the pine cladding on the far wall. “Cured? I’m not cured. That fucker killed part of me. He crippled me in the worst possible way, and you have the fucking nerve to say that he cured me?”

John raised his hands. “Whoa, hang on a minute. I’m just saying that if it worked for you, then it might work for me. I could be free of this. I could be normal.”

She snarled. “Well, I hate to break it to you, John, but your fucking friends’ cure involved cutting me in half with a fucking machine gun filled with silver bullets. If I hadn’t spent years developing an immunity to silver, then I’d have died. I
should’ve
died, but I think my wolf sacrificed herself to save me. She burned herself out to heal my wounds, and you have the nerve to talk about her like she was some kind of disease? How fucking dare you!”

John’s face paled. “Hang on a second, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, John. That’s exactly what you meant. You don’t appreciate the fucking gift that you’ve been given, when I’d do anything to get it back. All you do is mope around, feeling sorry for yourself, while everyone around you has to pick up the pieces.”

A spark of anger flashed in John’s eyes. “Well, I was doing fine until your little plan to lure me out of hiding backfired. I had a house that I loved, a good job, and no−one fucking died because they knew me.”

Marie recoiled as if struck. “You…you’re saying that this is all
my
fault?”

“Well, isn’t it? If you’d left me alone, then none of this would have happened. I’d be at home, working on some project for work, instead of being the most wanted man in the country, hiding out in the arse end of Scotland with a trail of fucking corpses behind me.”

Marie took some slim satisfaction that her aim was improving as the porcelain plate struck John on the bridge of his nose. “You want me to leave you alone? Fine. You can fuck off and die, you ungrateful fucking cunt. Let’s see how long you last without me.”

John seemed to realise that he’d gone too far. He stood up and held out both hands. “Marie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, but you meant it. You meant every fucking word. I’m going back to bed to sleep this hangover off, and when I get up I’ll grant you your wish. I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.”

“Marie, I…”

She didn’t wait for the rest of his sentence. She stormed upstairs and locked the bedroom door. Then, when she was sure that John hadn’t followed her up the stairs, she fell face down on the bed and let the tears come.

Chapter 13

14th December 2008
.
Rick’s House, Newton Hall Estate. 11.30.

Phil swore under his breath as the road he’d been following became a cul−de−sac. He’d only been to Rick’s house once before, and instead of using his sat−nav he’d been determined to find it from memory. Unfortunately the estate was like a rabbit warren. Neat rows of virtually identical houses, laid out in the same manner on each street, meant that he’d been driving around for almost ten minutes, wondering if the red−brick box with the mock Tudor front he was looking at was the one where he was supposed to be, or whether it was just another one of the hundreds of others lining the labyrinthine streets. He realised that he was getting nowhere, and from the sound of Paul’s voice when he’d called, the situation could be serious. Defeated, he retrieved the sat−nav from his glove compartment and entered in Rick’s home address.

“Turn around when possible,” said the machine in a helpful, metallic voice.

“I know. I fucking know.” Phil put the car into reverse and executed a three point turn, then drove back the way that he’d just come.

“In two hundred yards, turn right, then left, then right, then you have reached your destination.”

“About bloody time.”

He turned onto Rick’s street, stuffing the sat−nav back into the glove compartment without bothering to turn it off.

“You have reached your destination.” announced a muffled voice. Phil ignored it and got out of the car.

Paul Patterson and Mark Briggs, the other two members of Rick’s team, stood on the block paving drive and nodded a greeting.

Phil lit a cigarette and walked over to the two police officers. “What’s going on? It’s not like…”

Mark shook his head. “Nothing like that. He’s in there by himself as far as I can tell. He told us to fuck off and leave him alone about ten minutes ago, then nothing.”

Phil took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Well, he was close to Olivia. They went out for how long? Four years? Five? He’s going to be taking this harder than the rest of us.”

Paul put his hands against the glass, and tried to peer past the impenetrable barrier of the net curtains. “Yeah, but what I’m worried about is how hard he’s taking it. Truth be told, Phil, he’s been struggling with things ever since that night in High Moor. I think that Olivia might have pushed him over the edge. I wouldn’t have bothered you otherwise.”

“No, I’m glad you called me. I wanted to speak to you all anyway.” He strode over to the front door and hammered on it. “Rick? Sergeant Grey? This is DI Fletcher. Open the door.”

The house was silent. Phil turned to the other officers. “Have you tried round the back?”

Mark didn’t respond, but instead walked over to the ornate metal side−gate and let himself into the back garden, while Phil and Paul followed. Mark walked over to the kitchen window and peered through. “Oh fuck, he’s on the floor.”

Phil moved to the back door, only to discover it locked. Mark eased him to one side. “I’ve got this, Phil.”

The big man took a step back, aimed a savage side−kick at the lock. The wood splintered with a tortured cracking sound, and the door flew open.

Rick was lying on his back, with a yellow crust of dried vomit on his lips and down his chin. Without a word, Paul and Mark crouched down beside him, checking for signs of life. When Paul put his finger against Rick’s neck, the seemingly unconscious man sat bolt upright.

Rick looked at them with bleary eyes and his brow creased into a frown. “What the hell are you all doing in my house? And what part of ‘fuck off and leave me alone’ was unclear?”

Paul reached down to take Rick’s hand, but the other man shooed him away. “Rick, we were just worried about you.”

Rick tried to get to his feet and stumbled into the dining room table. He steadied himself, then looked at his wrecked door. “Well, you can bloody well pay for that, mate. Look, I’m fine, alright. Just let me sleep it off and I’ll be right as rain.”

Mark went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. “I’ll get some coffee on. You go and have a shower, Rick. You fucking stink and there’s puke in your stubble. Phil said that he wanted to talk to us all about something, so we might as well try and sober you up a bit first.”

Rick’s face took on a pained expression. “No offence, Phil, but can’t this wait until later? My head’s all over the place at the moment.”

Phil shook his head. “No, Rick. I really don’t think it can. I think that we’re all neck deep in the shit. Go and get yourself together, and then I’ll tell you all about the visitor I had last night.”

***

Rick walked back down the stairs ten minutes later. He’d not bothered to shave, but was at least wearing clean clothes, an old t−shirt and a pair of jogging pants. He crossed the kitchen to where the other men sat, gratefully accepting a hot mug of black coffee from Mark.

“Sorry, mate. It’s just instant. Couldn’t work out how to use your machine.”

Rick gave a weak, half−hearted smile. Truth be told, he hadn’t fully grasped how to use the complex espresso machine either, not that he’d let his workmates know that. “That’s okay. You’d probably have broken it if you’d started pissing about with things.” He turned to Phil. “So, what’s so important that you come down here on my day off and kick my back door in?”

Phil’s expression fell, and the older man looked uncertain of himself, maybe for the first time since Rick had known him. “Okay, what I’m going to tell you is going to sound insane, but bear with me, okay? Like I said earlier, I had a visitor last night − a visitor who bypassed my home security system, got inside without either Sharon or I realising it and then held me at gunpoint. That visitor was Steven Wilkinson.”

Mark’s head cocked to one side and he stared at Phil with partially squinted eyes. “What? The comatose, crippled gun−nut that went missing from the hospital the other night? That Steven Wilkinson?”

“Yes, that Steven Wilkinson. And if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t believe what I was seeing at first either. And I haven’t even got to the really insane part yet.”

Rick massaged his temples, wishing that he’d been given an Alka−Seltzer instead of coffee. “Let me guess, he says that he’s a werewolf.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he said, and I know what this sounds like, but you don’t just get up and walk around after an injury like that. Ever, let alone a month after getting it. That’s not the only thing. Bob Adams told me that Wilkinson was a terminal cancer patient, but when he was admitted to hospital there was no sign of it. There’s something going on with him that I can’t explain.”

Rick’s stomach burbled, but he fought down the wave of nausea and forced himself to take another sip of his coffee. “Okay, let’s say for a second that he’s telling you the truth, which, by the way, he isn’t, why did he break into your house in the middle of the night? He must have wanted something.”

“He wanted to warn us. He said that there is some kind of werewolf assassination squad hunting us. He said that was who killed Olivia, and that we’re all next in line.”

Rick felt a surge of anger wash over him. “Fucking bullshit. We know who killed Olivia.”

“Look, I know how it sounds, but hear me out. We know that Simpson didn’t escape on his own, and that the two naked corpses we found probably had a hand in that.”

Paul chuckled. “Well, it does explain why they were naked. They just grew their own fur coat as needed.”

Mark frowned. “You know those two corpses ended up going in the incinerator? Administrative mistake, apparently. Some sort of mix up with the labelling at the morgue.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Rick couldn’t bring himself to meet Phil’s gaze. The pieces all fit, but the picture it formed was impossible. Unbelievable. “Look,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the table. “I can see how this looks like it makes sense, but there has to be another explanation. Yes, it looks like someone is doing their best to cover their tracks, but that doesn’t automatically make them fucking werewolves.”

“The thing is, Rick, if there is even a chance that this could be true, then we are all in a world of shit. You saw what happened to Olivia. You know how tough she was, and you saw the state of the house. Are you really prepared to take the risk that they won’t turn up here, looking for you?” He turned to Paul. “Or at your house, when you’re in the middle of dinner with your family?”

Rick glanced sideways at Mark and Paul, hoping to see some support, but both men were silent, eyes cast down to the tabletop. He exhaled. “So, what are we supposed to do about it? If what you’re telling us is true, then what do we do? Get hold of some silver bullets and crucifixes?”

Mark let out a grim chuckle. “Crucifixes are for vampires, mate. Get your facts right. Didn’t your mam let you watch horror films as a bairn?”

Phil took a long drink from his coffee. “Wilkinson said that he’d help us deal with them. And yes, he said that we’d need silver bullets. Preferably the ones locked up in evidence.”

Rick pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Phil. Have you heard yourself? You want to work with an escaped suspect, wanted for possession of illegal weapons, who suggests the first thing you do is break the evidence against him out of lock−up? He’s playing you. Next time the bastard contacts you, we’ll set him up, arrest him and then find out what he knows down the station. The way that we’re supposed to deal with things. Then we can put our efforts into finding that fucking bitch, Connie Hamilton.”