High Moor 2: Moonstruck (6 page)

“Can you pack that shite in? You’re driving me mental. Sit your arse down before you wear a hole in the fucking carpet.”

Marie stuffed her hands in her pockets and flopped down in the other chair. “When’s Gregorz coming back? He’s been gone for hours and I need to talk to Michael.”

Connie rolled her eyes. “He’ll be back when he’s good and ready, and not a second before. Now settle down and shut the fuck up. Ah’m trying to watch telly.”

The door handle twitched. Daniel dropped his book, motioning for Marie to get into the bathroom. Connie sprang from the bed and positioned herself to one side of the door. The lock clicked and it swung open. Gregorz stepped inside, with a mobile telephone held to his ear. He nodded to Daniel and held the phone out. “You can come out now, Marie. Your brother wants to talk to you.”

The bathroom door burst open and Marie grabbed the phone from him, quickly putting her hand over the mouthpiece. She looked at the others and waited for a moment. “Any chance you lot could piss off, and let me talk to my brother in private?”

Connie looked at the TV. The adverts had ended, and the show’s theme music was playing. “Oh, ye’ve gotta be fucking kidding. Ah’m gonna miss the sing off. Can’t ye just stand outside?”

Gregorz picked up the remote control and turned the TV off. “Connie, Daniel, let’s give Marie some time to talk things over with her brother.”

Daniel shrugged, picked up his coat and stepped out into the corridor. Connie gave Gregorz a pleading look, then huffed, grabbed her jacket and stomped after Daniel. Gregorz turned to Marie. “We’ll be downstairs in the bar. I discovered a wonderful local beer that I think Daniel would appreciate. Take your time. I’m sure you both have a lot to talk about.” Then, without another word, he followed the other two, closing the door behind him. Marie sat down on the bed and put the phone to her ear.

“Michael?”

“Fucking hell, Marie. You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice. When I heard you were dead…”

Marie cut him off mid−sentence. “Cut the crap, Michael. Why did you order a hit on John, instead of an extraction?”

“You have to be kidding me? Have you seen the news? John’s a fucking celebrity. The UK’s latest serial killer. His face is all over every TV station, newspaper and website in the civilised world. There’s no way we could get him out of the country, and even if we did he’d still be recognised wherever we took him.”

Marie’s knuckles tightened around the phone. “So that’s it? You’re just giving up on him?”

The line was silent for a moment. “Do you have any idea how serious this is? One of the papers has already started calling him “The Wolf Man”. If he changes in police custody, then it’s over for all of us. It’ll make what happened in Czechoslovakia seem like child’s play. You told Gregorz that he’s not moonstruck earlier. Is that true? Because the news reports from John’s farm sound a lot like the work of a moonstruck to me.”

“They had him tied up in a fucking chair and were beating the shit out of him with a hammer. I’d have done the same thing. So would you.”

“So it’s just a co−incidence that this happened on a full moon? Don’t lie to me, Marie. You know what the penalty is for harbouring a moonstruck. I won’t be able to help you if this comes out later.”

“He’s something else, Michael. He told me that he brought the change on himself, before the moon was up, because Billy was going to take his eye out. And when he came after me the following night, he changed and killed Malcolm without a full moon. I think he’s learning to live with his beast.”

“But is he moonstruck?”

Marie clenched the phone and took a breath. “He was. He isn’t anymore.”

Michael’s voice turned hard. “It makes no difference. Given the circumstances, I’d have to order the hit irrespective of who it was, even if it was you. You know what’ll happen if they find out what he is. You’ve seen it. We’d be hunted down. Those of us who’ve survived would spend our lives hiding in the shadows or fleeing to the forests like frightened beasts. I won’t allow it. Not again.”

Marie held the phone at arm’s length, with her hand over the receiver as she tried to stifle her sob. She wiped her eyes and brought the phone back to her ear.

“Marie? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Good. I’m only going to tell you this once. Don’t fuck me about on this. It’s too important. There’s too much at stake. You keep your arse out of sight until we can get you out of the country and don’t get in Gregorz or Oskar’s way. If you do, then I won’t be able to help you. Do you understand?”

Marie stared at the faded floral wallpaper and gritted her teeth. The plastic casing of the phone creaked as she tightened her grip. The urge to throw the device at the wall swelled almost irresistibly. Everything that Michael had said was right. She’d hunted down and killed people for acting on the same urges she was having now. There was nothing she could do to save John. Killing him was the right move. In that instant, her rage evaporated into a thick, cloying fog of resignation and despair. Tears moistened the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Michael. I understand. I’ll do as you say.”

***

17th November 2008. High Moor Police Station. 07.30.

John lay on the cell’s hard bed, watching the world come back to life. The sky turned from a muddy orange to a dismal flat gray that leeched the colour and energy from everything beneath it. Even the birds were unimpressed, their songs muted as if they lacked the enthusiasm to greet the cold, wet morning. He could sympathize.

The sound of jangling keys caught his attention, but he remained still until the steel cell door creaked open. Four police officers, armed with pepper spray and batons entered the room, keeping as much distance from John as the confined space would allow.

One of them moved forwards and held out a set of handcuffs. “Face the wall and put your hands behind your back. Don’t try anything funny or we might be forced to break a couple of ribs while restraining you. Got it?”

John swung his legs off the bed, taking amusement in the fact that all four officers took an involuntary step backwards. He stood, faced the wall and moved his arms behind him. Rough hands grasped his shoulders and wrists, pushing him against the cold concrete wall as the handcuffs locked into place.

He tried to turn his head and found his face forced against the wall. Deep within him, the wolf growled. He forced the beast down with difficulty. “Do I not get a shower before I’m dragged into court? I’ve not washed or shaved for three bloody days and in case you hadn’t noticed, I fucking stink.”

One of the police officers, a squat, foul−tempered thug called Carter grabbed John’s shoulder and snarled in his ear. “Does this look like a hotel to you? Get a fucking move on. DI Fletcher wants you at the court nice and early.”

Carter and another officer frog−marched John from his cell and down a short corridor to another secure holding room. Two private security guards stood chatting with the duty officer, and an armoured prisoner transport van sat in the garage area. Reinforced shutters giving access to the rear of the police station was the only other way out. When John and his escorts entered, the two security guards and the duty officer stopped their conversation and stared at him.

Carter nodded to one of the guards. “Alright, Frank? Got a celebrity for you this morning. You take good care of him, now. From what I’m reading in the papers, this bastard bites.”

Frank nodded. “Don’t you worry, mate. If the prick tries anything like that, then I’ll pull his teeth out, one by one. Paperwork’s all sorted, so we’re good to go.” He nodded to John. “Your carriage awaits, your majesty.”

The two police officers bundled John into the rear of the van and secured his handcuffs to a chain in the floor. The van’s only other occupant was a young man; pale with dirty jeans, and missing one of his front teeth. He looked up from the floor at John, then back at his feet.

Frank and the other guard climbed into the rear of the van, closing the doors behind them. John heard the click as the lock engaged. After Frank had banged twice on the van’s side panel, the vehicle’s engine started and pulled out of the police station.

The pale man glanced up at John. “Drugs?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Did the fuckers get you for drugs? You look a bit strung out.”

Frank laughed. “Whitey, you are in the presence of a celebrity. Mr Simpson here allegedly killed five people. Tore most of them apart with his bare hands and his teeth.”

Whitey sat back in his seat, his mouth hanging open. “Fuck me, is that true?”

John arched his eyebrow. “Allegedly.”

Whitey shuffled further away from John. “Shit, I didn’t mean any offence, mate. We’re cool? Yeah?”

John nodded. “Don’t worry. We’re cool.”

The journey to the magistrate’s court took a little over twenty minutes, but to John it felt like hours. Whitey had lapsed into a worried silence, while Frank whistled the theme tune to
Mission Impossible
over and over again. The other guard turned his baton over in his hands and kept a cautious eye on John. When the van arrived, John and Whitey were shoved through a set of metal doors and into another holding area. Once the paperwork was processed, they were taken to adjoining cells in the basement.

As soon as the guards left the room, Whitey got up from the bench and walked over to John. “Is this your first time, mate?”

John nodded. “Yeah. I take it that you’ve been here once or twice before?”

“Yeah, once or twice. Your brief should have told you what was happening. Unless you took the duty solicitor?”

“Some bloke called Jarvis, I think. He sat down once with me, but to be honest I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Jarvis? You need to get shot of that useless wanker, and quick. He’s a waste of fucking space. It won’t matter much this time around, though.”

“Why not?”

“This is just the magistrates, mate. They aren’t even proper legal professionals. Just power crazy twats that like to lord it over the peasants. They’ll take one look at you, shit their pants and pass the whole thing up to Crown court. All they’ll want from you today is a guilty or not guilty, then they’ll take you back to your nice, cosy cell.”

John exhaled and lay back on the bench. “Any idea how long we’ll be sitting here?”

Whitey smiled a lopsided grin. “You might as well get comfy, mate. These daft tossers like to take their time.”

***

17th November 2008. High Moor Magistrates Court. 11.13.

Phil sat at the front of the courtroom, arched his back, taking pleasure in the loud pop as his spine realigned itself. He’d lost count of the number of hours he’d spent on hard wooden benches in dingy little courtrooms like this, waiting for the magistrates to pull their bloody fingers out. He’d specifically requested Simpson’s case to be pushed to the front of the queue, to try and avoid the swarms of reporters. The magistrate had ignored him, and the first case; some junkie up for aggravated burglary had dragged on for the best part of two hours. Then the magistrates had buggered off for tea and biscuits.

The situation made Phil uneasy. Simpson should be secure enough in the holding cells, but something was gnawing on his nerves. They’d found more bodies at Simpson’s house over the last twenty four hours, and some of them looked like they’d been in the ground for a very long time. Forensics couldn’t give him an exact date yet, but they’d guessed they’d been there for at least twenty years, maybe more. If that was the case, then Simpson would have been nothing more than a child when they died. That implicated his parents, but they’d been dead since the mid nineteen nineties.

Then there was Steven Wilkinson’s involvement. For the life of him, he couldn’t work out where he fitted into the puzzle, or how his lawyers had managed to get his name withheld from the press. They didn’t even have a search warrant for the bastard’s house yet. He massaged his temple and sighed. The more information that came to light about this case, the less sense it made.

The door to the chambers opened and the magistrates shuffled out to take their seats. A few moments later, two police officers escorted Simpson to the dock and secured his handcuffs. The room had been silent, but now was buzzing with an uneasy murmur as people in the public gallery held fast, hushed conversations and pointed at the man who’d brought so much death to their town. Predictably, the room was packed. Phil recognized some of the faces, but not all: the usual mixture of local journalists and old dears with too much time on their hands. He caught a glimpse of a red haired woman, sitting at the rear of the room. He couldn’t make out her face from here, but before he could adjust his position for a better look, the magistrate called order and proceeded with the case.

Simpson’s court appearance was a routine matter. The magistrates just had to remand him in custody after the duty solicitor gave the “not guilty” plea, and refer the case to the crown court in Durham, although one of the magistrates, a retired dentist called Ferguson, had looked ill as he read the case notes. Simpson kept his eyes pointed at the floor and only spoke to confirm his name. The whole thing was over and done with in twenty minutes, when Simpson was taken back to the holding area.

As soon as the magistrates left, Phil got to his feet and rushed to the rear of the courtroom, looking for the red haired woman who, naturally, was nowhere to be found.

Phil had a sick feeling in his stomach − his every instinct screamed that something was wrong, but the pieces wouldn’t fit together. He stood frozen for a moment, finally leaving the courtroom and making his way to the building’s holding facility.

***

17th November 2008. Weardale Café, High Moor. 14.02.

Oskar sipped his latte and observed the world through the café’s rain−streaked window. People hurried along the street, dragging small children and shopping carts behind them, while others huddled in shop doorways to avoid the worst of the downpour. The only sounds were the low murmur of conversation from other occupants of the café, and the hiss of car tires on the wet tarmac outside. He checked his watch. It wouldn’t be long now.