The Eighth Witch (5 page)

He checked his watch. It was only a little after eleven but the canal bank was empty, devoid of life. The narrow boats moved listlessly on the black water, most of them in darkness, but then most of them were empty. Very few people lived on the canal these days. He remembered, when he’d first come here to visit, the canal had been bustling with life, but in recent years there had been a decline. Several of the boats had For Sale notices pasted to their windows and many of them were quietly decaying, their owners abandoning them for the comfort of bricks and mortar.
 

Holly Ireland was made of sterner stuff. For a number of years she had travelled the canals around London, making her home for a while in Little Venice. High mooring fees had finally forced her out of London and she’d made her way north. Now the Rochdale Canal was her home and she was fiercely passionate about canal life, its customs and its rituals. Her boat was testament to that passion. It was brightly decorated in traditional motifs, with panels of brightly colored flowers, rose-bordered landscapes, crudely painted but with a charm all their own. The interior was similarly adorned, but it housed every modern convenience—a TV and DVD player, state of the art stereo and a computer. One end of the boat was given over to her studio, and it was here she designed the pieces of jewelry that the fashion houses and galleries of London were so hungry for.

He’d first met her in New York seven years ago. It was her first time in the States and he’d been invited to the preview of her first exhibition by a mutual friend. He’d clicked with Holly instantly, over champagne cocktails and expensive canapés, and found himself in her bed that same night. It was never going to be a permanent union. She was based in England and he in the States, but on the occasions they got together there was no denying the strong, sexual bond that cemented their friendship. On his regular trips to England he would always stay with her. He fitted easily into her world and embraced it. In his life lovers came and went but Holly Ireland was a constant. He couldn’t confess to loving her, but he felt a deep affection for her, and for the most part it was reciprocated.

It was strange that on this visit frictions had started to develop. Her behavior tonight was by no means typical and he was at a bit of a loss to know what had triggered it. He figured they needed to talk. But not tonight. He’d drunk too much and alcohol always made him aggressive. It could wait until morning.

He could see the lights of Holly’s boat away in the distance, just beyond the stone arch of the bridge that crossed the canal. He shivered as the wind cut through the thick tweed of his overcoat. The boat lights looked inviting and he picked up his pace.

As he approached the bridge he paused. He’d seen something ahead, a shadow slightly darker than the regular shadows thrown by the dim sodium lamps that lined the towpath. He picked his way gingerly through the puddles left on the path by the earlier rain and strained his eyes to see the shadows better. There was something moving under the arch of the bridge in a fluid, sinuous way, like a liquid cat.

Norton glanced behind him. The path was deserted. Damn it! It was all that talk of death at the dinner table. It had unnerved him, made him jumpy. He pressed on.

A yard before he reached the bridge he stopped, watching, listening. There was no sound except water slapping against hulls and the steady drone of the wind. Movement under the bridge had ceased and there were only the regular shadows to be seen. Beyond the bridge Holly’s narrow boat was alive with light and deliciously inviting.

He took one more step forwards and something grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off his feet. As he ascended his face was dragged against the rough-hewn stone of the ancient bridge, and blood started to seep from raw patches where the skin was rubbed away. The pressure on his neck tightened and he flailed his arms, trying to fend off his assailant, but he met no resistance. There was nothing for his arms to make contact with.

Suddenly the pressure on his neck was released and he fell, fifteen feet onto the puddled towpath. For a moment he lay winded, fighting down a rising wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Shakily he pushed himself onto his elbows and looked about him. Nothing. He twisted around and got to his knees, using his hands to push himself to a half-standing position, but his balance was all wrong, and when the attack came it knocked him off his feet.
 

Blows rained down on him but he couldn’t see who was inflicting them or where they were coming from. He was only aware of the pain as his body and head were pummeled mercilessly.
 

When he felt the first bite he tried to scream, but the noise that issued from his lips was little more than a gurgle. Blood was filling his mouth and throat, threatening to choke him. Instinctively he curled himself into a fetal ball, but it did nothing to stop the pounding and the biting. He was beyond thought. He just wanted to escape the pain.

When unconsciousness finally claimed him he could only welcome it like an old friend not seen for many years.

Chapter Five

Annie was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a large mug of coffee. When Carter trotted down the stairs she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose.

“I want to apologize for last night,” Carter said, sitting down opposite her and filling an equally large mug of Italian coffee from the pot that sat in the center of the table. “I was very rude. I should have let you finish your story.”

Annie shrugged. “So are you still going today, or have you reconsidered?”

Carter caught the crack in her voice and peered at her closely. “You’ve been crying.”

“Yes,” she said wearily. “I’ve been crying.”

“Not because of me?”

She shook her head. “No, Rob, not because of you. I’ve just had a phone call from Adam. His sister’s a dispatcher at the local police station. Henry Norton was attacked on his way home last night. He’s in intensive care at Calderdale Royal Infirmary. He’s in a coma, and they only rate his chances of survival at fifty-fifty.”

Carter pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing out the smoke in a thin, blue stream. “Was he mugged?”

“He still had his wallet when they found him, so a mugging’s unlikely.”

“What about Holly? Did she make it home okay?”

“No one knows. Constable Ellis went round there to break the news, but there was no sign of her.” She reached out suddenly and grasped Carter’s hand. “Oh, Christ, Rob. What the hell’s going on?”

He patted her hand. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Okay, we know Norton was attacked, but Holly… Well she could be anywhere. Could Adam Chapman shed any light? He and Penny were walking with Norton back to the canal. Did they see anything suspicious?”

“He says not. They left Henry at the path leading down to the canal and that’s the last they saw of him.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Do?”

“The hospital, perhaps? Or maybe you want to see if you can track down Holly? Whatever you decide I’ll come with you.”

“No, Rob, I couldn’t let you. You said you were going home today…and you’re exhausted, remember?”

Carter smiled grimly. “I’ve reconsidered. Perhaps another day or two.”

That brought a smile to Annie Ryder’s lips. “The hospital then. I doubt they’ll let me see him, but at least I can check on his condition for myself. And you never know, Holly may have got wind of what’s happened to him. She might even be there at the hospital.”

“Okay. Get your coat. I’ll drive.”

The drive to the hospital in Halifax took no more than thirty minutes. Finding a space in the rammed car park added even more minutes to the proceedings. When they finally got inside they were stonewalled by a nurse who refused to give them any information about Henry Norton.

“I’m afraid it’s a police matter,” the nurse said. She was in her late thirties with black hair so severely pulled back from her pinched face it looked in danger of coming out at the roots.

“But you must be able to tell us something,” Annie tried again.

The nurse said nothing but her expression remained implacable.

“Hello, Annie.”

Annie Ryder spun round and found herself face to face with a young uniformed police constable. “Doug!” She turned to Carter. “Rob, this is Doug Ellis, our local bobby. Doug, this is Rob Carter, a friend of mine who’s staying with me for a few days.”

The two men shook hands. Doug Ellis had a kindly, open face with a hint of mischief in his eyes. He turned to the nurse who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Is there a problem here?”

“They were asking about Professor Norton. I told them it was police business.”

“And so it is,” Doug Ellis said. “But I can vouch for them. I am, in case you hadn’t noticed, a policeman.”

The nurse’s eyes narrowed furiously. “Yes. You are,” she said in a voice dripping with contempt. “Room 208.”
 

“Yes,” Ellis said. “I know.”

The nurse made a sound like a cat growling, and then spun on her heel and stalked off down the corridor. Ellis grinned at her departing back. “So what are you doing here?” he said.

“We came to see Professor Norton,” Carter said.

“Henry was at my house for dinner last night,” Annie explained. “He was on his way home from mine when he was attacked.”

“So you were among the last people to see him.” Ellis looked thoughtful for a moment. “Come on. This way. We’ll take the lift. They’ve sent the big guns in from Bradford to tackle this. They’ll want to speak with you.” As the lift doors slid shut behind them he said, “Strangest case I’ve ever seen.”

“In what way?” Carter said.

“It was me that found him by the canal. I was on patrol last night. He was unconscious on the towpath. At first I thought he was drunk…it wouldn’t be the first time…but when I got closer and saw the state of him… He looked as if he’d been in an RTA, and, at first, I thought that was what had happened to him. I figured he may have been hit by a car and staggered down to the canal bank. His clothes had almost been ripped from his back and he was cut and bruised to hell. It was only when I saw the bite marks that I began to question my earlier assessment.”

“Bite marks?” Carter said.

Ellis nodded. “Covered in them. His arms, legs, torso. It looked as if he’d been savaged by a pack of wild animals.”

“What kind of bite marks?”

“Nothing like I’ve ever seen before. They certainly weren’t dogs. I used to breed Staffordshire bull terriers, so I know. Been bitten a few times myself, and dog bites have a very distinctive pattern. The canines leave pretty deep wounds. But these bites weren’t like that. They were even, as if all the teeth were more or less the same length. They were what I imagine a human bite would look like…if our mouths were about three times the size they are, with three times as many teeth. Weird-looking things. And the other thing was that there were no tracks.”

“Tracks?” Carter said.

“Around the professor. There were his footprints, of course, but no one else’s, and certainly no animal tracks. The ground was wet from the rain earlier last night, so someone or something would have left marks, but it was as if he was totally alone on the towpath when the attack happened, and that’s just not possible. As I say, weird.”

The lift arrived at the second floor and they stepped out as the doors slid open onto a long, cream-painted corridor.

“All the private rooms are up here. Norton’s in the one at the end.”

As they looked along, the door to Norton’s room opened and a young Indian doctor in a white coat stepped out, followed by two men, both dressed in overcoats.

“That’s them,” Ellis said. “West Yorkshire Constabulary’s finest. Detective Inspector Ian Lacey and Detective Sergeant Matthew Sparks. Together they make quite a team. One hell of a clean-up rate between them.”

As the three of them approached, Lacey turned and stared at them. “Who’ve you got there, Ellis? I told you to keep people away. It’s not a bloody floor show.”

“Witnesses, sir,” Ellis said.

A frown crossed Lacey’s brow, but he beckoned them forwards with a quick motion of his hand. He was a big man in his late forties, scruffily dressed, with prematurely gray hair and a complexion that made him look the outdoor type—wind-hewn and rugged. Sparks on the other hand looked like he rarely ventured out of the office. His skin was pale, almost white, and his fair hair was precision cut and very neat. The suit he wore carried a designer label and his black shoes were polished to a mirror finish.

As she approached, Annie held out her hand. “Annie Ryder,” she said. “I teach at Claremont.”

“And you say you saw the attack on Professor Norton last night?” Lacey said.

“No.”

Lacey glared at Ellis. “You said they were witnesses,” he said.

“Professor Norton was on his way home from Ms. Ryder’s house when he was attacked, sir,” Ellis said quickly, feeling Lacey’s laser-gaze boring into him.

“I knew that,” Lacey snapped. “I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Chapman earlier. They told me the self-same thing. And as I understand it…” he said, turning his attention to Annie, “…it was them and not you who were the last people to see him before the attack.”