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than the two girls. Some bastard had got one of your colleagues, you might be
the next ... So you moved heaven and earth to find the killer.
Fillery couldn't work it out about PC Lee. One of the most promising young
detectives in the force yet there was evidence that he had raped the decoy
girl; they had both fled into the wood. We'll rip the fucking place right
open, Fillery told himself. The way we're going to scour it today a vole
couldn't escape undetected.
Damn this fog, wasn't it ever going to shift! Now its tentacles had stretched
right up to the village, a vaporised monster extending its territory. These
villagers were scared, most of 'em skulking in their cottages and flatly
refusing to assist in any way.
'You won't get anybody from Droy to join in the hunt, Sarge.' Eddie Farnett,
the sub-postmaster, shook his head slowly, a half-burned cigarette perpetually
bobbing in the centre of his thick lips. 'None of 'em will go within half a
mile of the wood. It doesn't bother me, personally, but I can't get away from
the post office. My wife doesn't like the post office work, she'll only look
after the shop part, if you see what I mean. When we go on holiday or I'm ill,
I have to get a temp in. But you can't get temps at a moment's notice, if you
see what I mean. And you can't shut a post office up, can you?'
Excuses on tap, a ready-made cocoon. Jim Fillery saw what he meant all right,
only too well. Just two locals amongst the large gathering on the road
adjoining the wood. PC Houliston because he didn't have any choice;
Roy Bean because secretly he resented this intrusion of his game preserves. He
didn't go to Droy Wood in the course of his work but he objected to anybody
else going there. They were trespassers whichever way you looked at it. Dogs
in any woodland were a bloody nuisance except on shooting days; they ran about
barking and disturbing every species of wildlife. In a way the wood was a
useful reserve. Pheasants could breed safely in there during the summer
months; the wood had its uses and today was going to undo all of them.
Muffin seemed strangely lethargic today, not even straining at the leash,
keeping close to his heels as they split up in bunches for briefing. She
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didn't like the set-up, that was only too clear. Cringing, tail between her
legs. Silly bitch, but he felt uneasy, too. Like something was going to happen
today, something awful.
A three-pronged 'attack' was planned for today; Houliston had already left
with fifty men, skirted the perimeter of the wood and gone out to the marsh.
They would move inland, due north. Two lines of searchers, one from the east,
the other from the west, everybody in due course converging in the centre,
approximately where the ruined house stood. Thirty dogs in all, a net which
nobody could slip through, Fillery had told them and tried to sound confident.
And after that they were going to drag every pool. Nobody mentioned the bogs
because you couldn't do anything about them.
The mist was thicker than ever, had the density of an old-fashioned
'pea-souper', a strange menacing purposeful-ness about the way it hung over
the wood and the village, a deliberate obstruction to the hunters, hiding its
terrible secrets. Elsewhere the atmosphere was dull and cloudy with normal
visibility. That was what disturbed you most.
A long wait. Roy Bean tried to curb his own impatience. This was how the
shooters felt when the beaters had to go out a long way in order to bring a
patch of cover back towards them. Anticipation, then boredom. Today there was
an added ingredient - fear!
At last they heard the whistle, a synchronisation of all their respective
lines, looking to the men on either side of them. Keep me in sight all the
time, you guys. For Christ's sake don't leave me on my own. Always was scared
of the dark and if this fog gets any thicker it'll be as good as night.
Moving forward, Alsatians, terriers unleashed and being encouraged to hunt for
a scent. This time they just had to come up with something.
It had taken Jock Houliston over an hour to reach the outskirts of Droy Marsh
following a circuitous route over the adjoining pastureland, always hoping he
was going in the right direction because the fog gave you a feeling that your
own personal radar wasn't working any longer. At last, though, they reached
the narrow foreshore, stood with their backs to the sea, heard the tide but
couldn't see it, an eerie watery wilderness lapping against the rocks. It's
trying to drive you back into the wood. That's ridiculous because we're going
there, anyway. Hurry then. Everybody looking about them but they could not see
anything, not even the murky outline of Droy Wood.
A noise, one that you gradually became aware of, a splashing that wasn't just
the waves on the shoreline. Rhythmic, forming a picture in your mind, a
draw-by-dots kiddies' scene that had you pencilling, joining up the dots
eagerly, wondering what was going to unfold. A seascape ... a boat! Houliston
hesitated, half turned back. Of course, nobody had tumbled to it, not even
those smart-alec plainclothes detectives. It took an ordinary bobby in uniform
to solve a case which had commanded the front pages of every daily newspaper
for almost a week. Foster had a boat, had lain low and now was making his
escape by sea!
The policeman's pulse raced and his hand went to his pocket radio. And
stopped. No fear, not on your nellie! The bright boys would take all the
credit with not a mention of your long-serving country copper. Well, this time
they were going to end up with egg on their faces. PC Jock Houliston would
make the arrest, he'd have the killer handcuffed before he ... but he didn't
have a boat and you couldn't chase anybody out to sea without one!
Swish . . . splash . . . swish . . . splash.
Louder! It should have grown fainter, as the boat gradually left the shore,
barely discernible.
Swish . . . splash.
Houliston craned his neck, thought he could make out a shape in the fog; the
boat, somebody hunched in it, heaving on a pair of heavy oars; coming this way
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. . .
Unbelievable but it was true. Who ever it was they were now scraping the
bottom of their craft on the beach, jumping out, pulling it up out of the
water. More than one of them . . . peering again. Three of them. Foster and .
. . Five people had gone missing. Perm any three from five. Logically one of
them had to be the rapist and that was all that mattered.
The policeman glanced behind him; there was no sign of the rest of the search [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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