High Moor 2: Moonstruck (4 page)

He sat back in the chair. “Shit. The bloody sample must be contaminated.” He slammed his fist down on the desk. “Fuck it! Can nothing go right today? Just for once?” He’d have to do it all again, before Dr Pearce found out.

He removed the slide from the microscope and picked up another one which held the blood of the mystery woman. He placed the glass under the lens and refocused.

“What the hell?”

He placed the slide from Malcolm Harrison back into the microscope, then put the woman’s back in. There was no doubt about it. They both had the same elevated white cell count, and the same cellular infection. Either both samples were contaminated, or there was something else going on. He reached for the telephone to call Dr Pearce. A hot, slender hand grasped his wrist.

Colin cried out in surprise and almost fell off the chair. He looked at the attractive, red haired woman holding his arm and managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry, you startled me. I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with something?”

The woman released his hand and smiled. When she spoke, it was with a soft Scottish accent. “I don’t know. Perhaps. Did you find anything interesting in the blood samples from last night’s victims?”

Colin frowned. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. I was just about to call Dr Pearce and get him to take a look. I’m sorry, but, who are you exactly?”

The woman smiled, and turned him around to face her. She reached out and stroked her hands across his cheeks, then grasped the side of his head and twisted. The sound of his neck snapping reverberated inside of Colin’s skull, and a terrible sharp pain flared for a brief moment that seemed like forever. He slumped to the floor, twitching and unable to move or breathe.

As darkness closed in on him, the woman’s voice echoed in his ears. “Who am ah? None of yer fucking business, Pal. Now, where do ye keep the bloody ethanol?”

***

15th November 2008. University Hospital of Durham. 17.28

Phil arrived just as Doctor Adams was leaving Stephen Wilkinson’s room. Phil walked up to him and shook his hand. “Nice to see you again, Bob. How’s the patient?”

Doctor Adams closed the door. “He’ll live.”

“Well, that’s the best news I’ve had all day. Is he in any state to answer questions?”

The doctor shook his head. “Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Leaving the room they headed for the cafeteria. “Well, Mr Wilkinson isn’t going to be answering any questions for a while, Phil. He’s suffered severe spinal trauma and he’s in a coma. There’s no way of telling when, or even if, he’ll ever come out of it.”

Phil exhaled in frustration. “So much for the good news. I was hoping that he’d be able to tell me what happened out there. The suspect we have in custody isn’t making any sense and he’s the only other person that survived the night.”

“That’s not the interesting part. I saw Mr Wilkinson three weeks ago. I gave him six months to live, and I was being optimistic. Lung cancer. Inoperable and most assuredly terminal. Yet today, there’s no sign of it.”

“Really? How is that possible?”

Doctor Adams shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, I have no idea. I’ve heard stories about people suffering major trauma and their bodies healing ability going into overdrive, but never with cancer, and never this quickly. Mr Wilkinson will never walk again, and he may end up spending the rest of his life being fed through a tube, but other than that, he’s in perfect health.”

They entered the cafeteria, and joined the queue for the coffee machine, when Phil felt someone touch his shoulder. He turned and saw the assistant pathologist, Susan Turnbull.

“Oh, sorry to disturb you, Inspector Fletcher. Henry is waiting for you downstairs in the pathology lab, and your colleagues said that they’d catch up with you back at the station.”

Phil’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, Doctor Turnbull, but which colleagues were those?”

“Inspector Pawlac and Braun, I think their names were. They’d come in with Miss William’s cousin to identify the body. Of course, I couldn’t wait to tell them the good news.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Turnbull, but I’m not following you at all. What good news?”

“Well, the news about Miss Williams being alive after all.”

Phil looked at her, open mouthed. He composed himself, and was about to speak when the fire alarm went off.

Susan huffed. “Another bloody fire drill? We only had one last week.”

People detached themselves from the coffee queue, grumbling, and made their way to the fire exit. Phil grabbed Susan’s arm as she turned to leave.

“Miss Williams is alive? Where is she now?”

“She’s up on the second floor, in the trauma unit. Ward 12 , room 2.06. You can’t go there now though; we’ve got to go out to the car park.”

Phil wasn’t listening. He ran from the cafeteria and threw open the door to the stairs. A tide of people flowed past him, hurrying to get downstairs. Thin wisps of smoke drifted up from the basement, and in the distance he could hear the sound of approaching sirens. He fought his way through the crowds until he reached the second floor. He ran to room 2.06 and threw open the door. The monitor by the bedside screamed an alert and the ventilator was still running; however there was no sign of Marie Williams.

Phil stepped into the corridor and ran back to the stairs. Thick, chemical smoke billowed up from the stairwell beneath him. He put his coat sleeve over his mouth in an attempt to filter out the fumes, and made his way down as quickly as he could. He burst out into the crowded foyer and through the double glass doors into the car park. The cold clean air burned his chest as he sucked it in. As he looked up at the milling crowd of staff and patients in the car park he caught the eye of a beautiful red haired woman. She winked at him, then moved away through the crowds and out of his line of sight.

Chapter 2

15th November 2008. Treworgan Farm, High Moor. 18.16.

Olivia shifted in her seat, attempting to hide her discomfort. Even though she’d been a police officer for more than ten years, there was still something disconcerting about being in the back of a squad car. The iron grill separating any back seat passengers from the driver made the vehicle feel like a cell. Then there was the bloody baby. The damn thing seemed to delight in lying against her bladder, probably thinking it was a water−bed or something. Of course, she couldn’t let the other officers in the car know this. They’d never let her live it down. Instead, she turned to Sergeant Rick Grey, who shared the back seat with her. “How much further is Simpson’s house?”

“We should be there in a moment. It’s supposed to be up here on the left somewhere. Half a mile down a farm track, back from the main road.”

Olivia suppressed a groan. “Maybe we should approach on foot. If there’s anyone there, it might not be a good idea to let them know we’re coming.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “Good idea. You know you should have gone before we left?”

Olivia’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “I did go before we left. It’s the baby. You’ve got no bloody idea what it’s like, especially in a car.”

“Do we need to stop at the services?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. Worst case scenario is I squat behind a bush.” She tapped on the wire mesh partitioning the vehicle. “And if I catch you with any night vision gear out, Mark, then you’ll get it shoved where the sun doesn’t shine. Got it?”

Constable Mark Briggs, the armed response team’s operator, laughed. “What? Honestly, Olivia. Do you really think I’d do something like that?”

“Yes. And you’d record it and stick it on YouTube or something for a laugh. I know you too bloody well, mate.” She looked at Paul Patterson, the unit’s driver, who was trying to hide a smirk. “That goes double for you, Paul. Remember, I know your wife.”

Paul raised his eyebrows in an attempt to look innocent. “Nothing to do with me, Olivia. I’m staying well out of it. Never mess with a pregnant woman. Especially if she’s a copper and has access to firearms. Oh, hang on, I think this is it.”

The police car slowed down then turned onto a gravel drive. The car bounced as a wheel went through a pot hole.

Paul’s smirk became a grin. “Sorry about that, Olivia.” Then he veered to the right and hit another.

“Paul, if you make me piss myself in the back of a squad car, I’ll make what remains of your life a living hell. Jesus, what the fuck is that?”

The police car ground to a halt in a crunch of gravel and dust that swirled in the twin beams of the headlights. They could just see a large dark stain covering the centre of the track right in front of them.

Rick leaned forward in his seat. “What the hell! I hope that’s not what it looks like. Paul, put a call in. Mark, get the gear out of the back. Olivia, you stay here.”

Olivia bristled. “Bollocks will I. This is my case, and in case you’ve forgotten, I did two years on armed response. I’m going up there with you. Now stop wasting time and get me a vest and a Glock.”

Rick shook his head. He’d seen Olivia like this on plenty of occasions and knew there was no point in arguing. “OK, but you know the score. Stay behind me and Mark, and try not to shoot us up the arse.”

They walked to the back of their vehicle, where Mark was passing out the weapons and protective gear in silence. After donning vests and helmets, the team checked and loaded their weapons. Only then did they move to investigate the dark patch in the road.

Olivia crouched down and examined the mark. She’d been praying that it was just an oil patch, but once she got close there was no mistaking it − dried blood, dotted with small chunks of meat, and smeared where something had been dragged through it. A small glimmer of white caught her eye, reflecting the beam from the headlights amid the dried gore. She looked closer and, for a moment, couldn’t work out what it was; then she made the connection, a wave of nausea washing over her. It was a severed human thumb.

Rick put his arm on her shoulder, but she brushed him away. “I’m fine, Rick. Really.”

He nodded and withdrew his hand, then turned to Mark. “Talk to Paul. We’re going to need a forensics team here, and we’re going to need some backup. Get the area sealed off, and tell Franks that we’re going to need that warrant yesterday. Then, we’re going to take a little walk and see what’s been going on at that house.”

***

15th November 2008. Seven Bells Hotel, Durham City. 19.04.

Marie floated in warmth and darkness. Images played across the theatre of her mind: a jumbled subconscious narrative that followed no real logic, but nevertheless made perfect sense somehow. She could hear voices, muted as if a radio was on in the next room. The voices became louder, clearer. Awareness began to leak into her protective cocoon, but instead of opening her eyes she remained still, regulating her breathing to feign sleep until she could work out where she was, and who the voices belonged to.

“What part of ‘no killing’ was I not clear on?” said a man’s voice, deep with a thick eastern European accent and clearly angry.

“What the hell did ye expect me to do? They had her blood under a microscope. Ah only just got there before the lab tech called his sodding boss.” A woman, this time, with a Scottish accent and an indignant tone.

“So your solution was to break the lab tech’s neck and then burn the fucking hospital down?”

“Ah, the hospital’s fine. Only the basement labs and the morgue were damaged. By the time they figure out that it was started deliberately we’ll be far away from this shit hole.”

Both speakers sounded familiar, but Marie struggled to place who they were. Realisation dawned slowly, eliciting a groan: Gregorz and Connie. Michael must have sent a team to retrieve her. Marie opened her eyes and attempted to sit up. “Do you two mind keeping it down. How the fuck is anyone supposed to sleep with that almighty racket.”

Connie, to her credit, managed to keep her snarl in check. “Ah see Sleeping Beauty’s finally woken up.”

Gregorz got up from the chair and walked to the bedside, then took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit. My head feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool, while the rest of me appears to have been run over by a truck. Other than that and a dry mouth, I’m fine.”

Gregorz picked up a glass of water from the bedside cabinet and passed it to her. “Can you remember what happened? What did the moonstruck do to you?”

She shook her head. “There wasn’t any moonstruck. I got silver−shot.”

Connie walked across the room and stood at the end of the bed. ““What in Christ’s name happened here, Marie? This was supposed to be a simple recruitment. How could ye fuck things up so badly?”

Marie felt a familiar anger bubble up, but forced it back down. “There were other factors. Steven fucking Wilkinson for one. He’s the bastard that shot me.”

Connie’s face turned purple. “Wilkinson? Here? Where is he now?”

Marie propped herself up on her elbow and fought through the wave of nausea that hit her. “How the fuck should I know? He almost cut me in half with a Mac−10. If it makes you feel any better, by the time I got there, Malcolm had made a nasty mess of the bastard. I’d be amazed if he was still alive.”