Spawn (22 page)

She turned and ran back to the bedroom, hearing the heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs behind her. She screamed again as she threw the door shut and pressed her pitiful weight against it, expecting at any second for him to launch his huge bulk against it. Instead, she heard the loud thud and the splintering of wood as he buried the sickle’s vicious curved blade in the door. The point protruded a few inches through it and, as Harvey tore it free, a panel was ripped loose.

She screamed again.

Jack heard her and dashed into the sitting room, looking up to see the large figure of Harvey poised before the bedroom door, the sickle swinging back and forth as it made matchwood of the partition. Jack raised the shotgun to his shoulder simultaneously yelling something at the madman who turned to face him. Harvey moved with lightning speed and, slobbering like a rabid animal, threw himself to the ground.

There was a thunderous roar as the shotgun barrel exploded in an orgasm of fire and lead, the sound amplified by the enclosed space. The deadly load struck the wall just above Harvey’s head. Paint and lumps of plaster were blasted away by the impact and Jack cursed aloud when he saw Harvey scramble to his feet, running across the landing towards the solitary window there.

He hit it with the force of a steam train, crashing through the glass and wood, heedless of what lay below. Shards of crystal sprayed out in all directions as Harvey hurtled through. He clutched at empty air for a second before plummeting to earth. He crashed into a privet hedge, the wind knocked from him, but, other than that, he was unharmed. He rolled clear and got to his feet.

Jack Maynard ran to the window and looked out in time to see Harvey loping off into the darkness. Then, the shotgun still gripped tight in his hand, he dashed into the bedroom where he found Liz on her knees beside the bed sobbing uncontrollably. It took him fully fifteen minutes to calm her down then, that done, he made his way downstairs and dialled three nines.

Inspector Lou Randall skimmed the file once more then threw it down onto his desk.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled. “Doesn’t anybody ever see this bastard? What is he a man or a fucking ghost?” He leant back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the stubble on his cheeks and chin as he did so. He’d been called out at six that morning and had driven to the police station without shaving or eating. His stomach rumbled disapprovingly and his mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage.

“Who found this one?” he asked, wearily.

“A milkman,” Norman Willis told him. “He said the body was lying in the road. No attempt to hide it.” The sergeant studied his superior’s worried face. “He wasn’t making much sense when Charlton took the statement from him.” He paused. “He’s still badly shaken up.”

Randall grunted.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “Finding a headless body at half past five in the morning lying in the middle of the street is enough to give anyone the bloody shakes.” He glanced at the report again. “Same murder weapon?” It came out more as a confirmation than a question.

Willis nodded.

“Everything about it is the same as Ian Logan’s murder. Rust in the wounds, a single-bladed weapon and the head was taken.”

Randall fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, finding them with some difficulty. There was only one in the packet and he tossed the empty receptacle away, not really bothering whether it reached the waste-bin or not. He lit the fag and drew hard on it.

“What about this other incident?” he said, picking up Jack Maynard’s statement regarding Harvey’s attack and break-in. Willis told his superior about it while Randall quickly read the statement himself.

“The break-in happened at half past one,” said Randall. He flipped open the file in front of him. “The pathologist’s report puts the time of death at around two.” He tapped on the desk top with his index finger as if seeking some kind of magical inspiration, a clue to what the hell he was going to do next. “He didn’t kill anyone at the shop where he broke in, maybe he lost his rag and decided he owed himself one anyway. This poor sod just happened to be the first one he came across.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Where was the body found? Which side of town?”

“Going out towards the main road into Mayford. There’s lots of fields out that way,” Willis explained.

“Is it being checked?” Randall wanted to know.

“Not yet, we’re spread a bit thin at the moment trying to find him but as soon as a car calls in I’ll send them out that way.”

The Inspector nodded.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, wearily. “How the hell can Harvey just keep disappearing like he does? He must be hiding somewhere around Exham and yet we’ve already checked it over once.” The Inspector smiled sardonically. “Perhaps he’s not as mad as everyone seems to think he is.”

“They always say that it’s the brains who are locked up and the lunatics who are free,” added Willis, shrugging.

“I’m beginning to agree,” said Randall. He ground out his cigarette, watching the plume of grey smoke rise mournfully into the air.

“We’ll get him, guv,” said Willis.

Randall raised an eyebrow, questioningly.

“Can I have that in writing?” he said, humourlessly. The phone rang and, as he picked it up, Willis turned to leave. Randall picked up the receiver, quickly cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. “Hey, Norman, a cup of tea would go down a treat.” ‘

Willis smiled and left.

Randall pressed the phone to his ear.

“Inspector Randall speaking.”

“I’m not going to beat about the bush, Randall,” said the voice at the other end, one which the Inspector immediately recognized as belonging to Chief Inspector Frank Allen. There was a harsh, cold quality to the CI’s voice which made it unmistakable. The younger man stiffened in his chair.

“Yes, sir,” he said, wondering what his superior wanted. He glanced across at the wall clock opposite him and saw that it was almost 9.05 a.m. Whatever the miserable old sod wanted must be important, Randall mused.

“I understand you’re having some problems down there,” said Allen. “This escaped maniac, Harvey isn’t it? How long has he been free now?”

Randall swallowed hard.

“Just over nine weeks, sir. Everything possible is being done to apprehend him. My men. . .”

“And how many has he killed. One or two?”

Randall paled.

“Two, sir.” It came out almost as a confession.

Allen exhaled deeply, his voice taking on an even harder edge.

“I see,” he said. “Well, look Randall, you don’t need me to tell you how serious this whole business is. Your inability to find the man in the beginning was bad enough but now this. For Christ’s sake put the lid on it and find Harvey quickly.” There was a pause, during which time the CI’s mood seemed to lighten a little. “Do you need any help?”

“A couple of bloodhounds I think, sir,” he japed.

“Don’t be facetious, Randall,” Allen snapped. “This series of events is not going to look very good on your record. Now, I asked if you needed any help.”

The Inspector clenched his fists until the knuckles were bloodless, trying hard to control his anger.

“Some extra men wouldn’t go amiss, sir,” he said, brusquely.

“Very well. But catch this bastard. Quick.”

“Yes, sir.”

Allen hung up.

Randall held the receiver in his hand for a second, listening to the persistent drone then, angrily, he slammed it down onto the cradle. He had the uncomfortable suspicion that someone was keeping tabs on him. Christ, he wanted a cigarette but, as he peered at the empty packet nearby he could only mutter irritably to himself. “Catch Harvey”. He shook his head. Any ideas where we should start, big head? He thought, glaring at the phone, the anger still boiling inside him. He got to his feet and looked at the map of the town on his office wall. It bore two red crosses, each marking the scene of the murders. Both were in different parts of Exham. At least two miles separated the scene of each crime. Randall stood gazing helplessly at the map.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, you bastard,” murmured the Inspector.

The windscreen wipers of the Audi swept slowly back and forth across the glass, brushing away the rain which had been falling steadily for the past three hours.

“I need a new set of blades,” muttered Mick Calvin, jabbing a finger at the area on the windscreen which was still rainsoaked.

“You always need something, Mick,” said his wife, Diane, firmly belted into the passenger seat beside him. “I think it’s about time we had a new car.”

Calvin snorted.

“Well, my darling,” he said, sarcastically. “As soon as we get home you write me a cheque for six thousand and I’ll nip out and get us one.”

“You know what I mean,” she said, irritably. “
You’ve
been saying the same yourself for months.”

“I just wish your bloody mother didn’t live so far away,” he added.

Diane studied his profile for a second.

“I suppose it’s her fault that the car’s falling to bits?” she said, acidly.

“Did I say that? I just said that it’s a long drive to where she lives.”

Diane smiled impishly.

“She could always come and live with us, that would save the journey.”

She laughed aloud at the expression which crossed her husband’s face.

“I could get to like long journeys,” he said, smiling.

“She wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“That’s what they said about Hitler.”

Diane punched him playfully on the arm.

“Dad, can we stop?”

The voice came from the back seat where Richie, their eldest son at eleven, was dressed in a pair of freshly pressed jeans and a Spiderman sweatshirt. He was on his knees, pulling at his crutch agitatedly. Beside him sat his brother, Wayne, two years younger, his face round and red as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time.

“Dad.”

“What?” said Calvin.

“Can’t we stop? Wayne and me both want to go for a wee,” he protested.

“Can’t you hold it? We’re nearly home now,” said Calvin. “And it’s Wayne and
I
,” he added as an afterthought.

The oldest lad was bouncing up and down now.

“Dad,” he persisted, clutching his groin with both hands, as if letting go would release a flood tide.

“Oh, pull over, Mick,” Diane said. “They can nip behind a hedge.”

“It’s wet out there you know,” said Calvin, as if trying to deter his two sons.

Diane looked at Wayne who was going ever redder in a monumental effort of self-control which he was obviously going to lose at any minute.

“It’s going to be wet in here if you don’t pull over,” she said.

Calvin nodded and glanced ahead for a suitable place to stop. There were fields all around them but few seemed to be blessed with bushes. He saw the massive edifice of Fairvale hospital towering above a row of trees and remembered that there was a lay-by just beyond. The fields that backed onto the hospital itself would offer plenty of cover for the two kids. He could see the electricity pylons towering over the field, their cables swaying in the breeze. Checking his rear-view mirror, he swung the Audi across the road and into the lay-by. Immediately, the two kids were fumbling for the door locks in their efforts to get out and Calvin couldn’t resist a smile as he watched them both scramble out of the car.

“Go behind those bushes over there,” he said, pointing towards some bare gorse bushes which masked a sizeable hollow in the field. The hollow ran from the base of one of the towering pylons.

He and Diane watched as the kids clambered over the low fence which separated the lay-by from the field, then both of the boys were racing towards the bushes. They disappeared behind the bushes and Calvin grinned broadly.

“Do you want to go as well?” he asked Diane. “There’s plenty more bushes in the field.” He laughed.

“No,” she whispered, leaning closer. “But I’ll tell you what I do want.” She pulled him to her and their mouths met eagerly. She spoke something into his ear, kissing the lobe as she did so, one hand straying to his thigh.

“Now that
will
have to wait until we get home,” he said.

They both laughed.

The screams which they heard made them both sit bolt upright, but it was a matter of seconds before Calvin was unhooking his seat belt, pushing open the car door. He slipped as he leapt out onto the wet tarmac but regained his balance and hurried towards the fence. Diane was close behind him, her high heels sinking into the mud as she reached the low wooden fence. She struggled over it, seeing that her husband was already racing towards the bushes where the screams were coming from.

He was panting madly, the high pitched screams of his sons ringing in his ears as he ran. The rain plastered hair to his face but he ignored it and ran on, his only concern to reach his children. As he drew closer, he saw Richie staggering from behind the bushes, his face colourless, his mouth open. Behind him came Wayne, his jeans wet around the crutch, his flies still open. By now, Diane could see them. She called their names but no sound seemed to come, she was mouthing the words but only silence escaped her.

Calvin reached his eldest son and held him by the shoulders, gazing into his eyes that were bulging wide and red-rimmed. He was motioning behind him, his breath coming out in deep, racking sobs. Wayne merely stood where he was, apparently oblivious to the rain. Calvin hurried across and lifted the boy into his arms. He seemed limp, like a puppet with its wires cut and, but for the fact that his eyes were open and blinking, he had the appearance of a waxwork model.

“What’s wrong?”

It was Diane’s voice, trembling and full of fear.

“Wayne, Richie, what is it?” she repeated.

Calvin himself held the eldest boy close to his chest while Diane took over the responsibility for Wayne.

“There,” gasped Richie, once more motioning behind him.

“Take them both back to the car,” said Calvin but Diane hesitated, watching as he walked behind the bushes and along the depression in the field, stopping at one point. He turned to face Diane, her hair now hanging in dripping coils.