No Mercy Page 28

  With excruciating slowness, he inched the door open, his life’s blood boiling in his veins, his breath pulsating in his throat, almost choking him. Easy… go softly. On tiptoes he padded forwards, the dark night embracing and chilly to his face. At first he could see nothing through the blackness. Then a movement! The smallest of movements… to the right of him, a sliver of moonlight falling on the curve of a shoulder, a head, bent towards the window intent on peering in. Easy now… go easy! Like a snake with its belly to the ground, he slithered along the wall, closer, as yet unseen. His grey-blue breath made gyrating patterns in the bitter night air. The clouds drifted away, uncovering the moon. Now! Now! Before the head was lifted and the eyes swung to see him. With deadly speed he surged forward, part-running, part-leaping. There was a sickening thud as he pitched himself at the quarry; a kind of breathless gasp, soft cold flesh beneath his fingers and a soaring desperation in his heart, fury mingling with terror. A primeval, deep-down yearning to kill! Surprise had been his advantage. The intruder was pegged to the ground, his large plain features shaped by fear, his hang-dog bloodshot eyes stared up. In the cold moon glow his face took on a silver-blue tinge. It was a bad face, a guilty, frightened face. Alec Harman stiffened with astonishment. It was Gregory’s face!

  Mesmerised, the face stared up, the eyes bulbous, wet and stark in the folds of flesh. ‘I didn’t mean no harm… I swear to God,’ he whimpered. His breathing was erratic, his chest pumping up and down as though it might suddenly burst open.

  ‘Gregory!’ Alec Harman’s fists remained locked onto his quarry. He could feel it trembling beneath him. Fred Gregory! He was not the one Alec Harman had expected. It occurred to him now that he might have been wrong. Such a prospect did not sit easily in his frantic mind. Like a fleeting macabre procession, the trail of images passed through his mind now… the missing children and the priest… George’s wife… the attack on old George… the bonfire. It was too much! He flicked his eyes shut, trying desperately to banish the awful sight of the boy, charred and blackened. He had tried so hard to believe it was as they had decided – ‘an act of misadventure’ – but he couldn’t accept such a verdict. The images seared his mind, his heart, his very soul. He glared down at the man in his clutches. Dear God, he had been so sure! Had he been so wrong? Another image… of tyre tracks impressed into the soft, damp earth! Tyre tracks, leading down to the water’s edge, and then disappearing into the moving blackness there. And footsteps. Large. A man’s footsteps – shallow impressions, then cutting deeper as though the weight had become two-fold. Like a physical pain, the memory of that young man spiralled in his thoughts – a young man come to see Ellie, an old battered van… the tyre tracks. He feared the worst! Anguish rose up in him like a vindictive tide. He had thought to handle it alone. He was a fool! In the distance, beyond his mind, he could hear Fred Gregory pleading. Bitterly, he began shaking him, demanding in a harsh voice, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I weren’t doing no harm! Just stalking a wild deer… or a fat-bellied rabbit.’ He struggled to get upright. Harman kept him down.

  ‘You damned liar!’ he hissed. ‘You were looking in the window, that’s what you were doing.’ He tightened his grip on the fellow’s shirt collar, twisting it until it bit into the thick, leathery neck like a hangman’s rope. ‘You’d best tell the truth, Gregory… or I’ll not answer for the consequences!’

  ‘Honest to God, you’ve got to believe me. All right, so I was looking in the window. I saw the girl and Ellie Armstrong earlier… I was curious, that’s all. Nothing more. So help me, I was just being curious.’ His words were choked, his big plain face growing redder by the minute. Suddenly, he was crying, blubbering like a baby, the tears rolling down his face.

  Alec Harman had to think fast. He must decide. He prayed it was the right decision. ‘Get up!’ he ordered, releasing the big fellow and watching his every move. Surprised but grateful, Gregory scrambled to his feet, both his hammer hands round his chafed neck, soothing the soreness there. With narrowed eyes, he glowered at the other fellow. His silence was ominous. Harman sensed the undercurrent of loathing, but his decision was made. He had little choice. ‘Take to your heels, man,’ he said, glancing furtively from side to side, his watchful eyes minding the door. Ellie must be protected at all costs. ‘Get the police! As fast as you can… there’ll be murder tonight if you don’t.’ Gregory made no move. Instead, he continued to glower at him, as though he had not heard. Harman gripped him by the shoulder, twisting him away. ‘Run, man! Fetch the police, you bloody fool! There’s a maniac loose in these woods.’ He silently prayed he was not making a grave mistake in letting the fellow go.

  ‘What d’yer mean… a maniac?’

  ‘Never mind. All you need to know is that someone out there means to commit murder this very night. Do as I say… get the police!’ He lowered his voice. ‘And I shouldn’t take too long about it. He’s probably watching us even now. For God’s sake, man… Run for your life!’ It was enough. The big fellow inched away, his loose, pale eyes peering all around. In a moment he was gone, his large bulky shadow merging with the night. Satisfied, but not completely, Alec Harman swung away. He was only a few steps from the doorway when the blow was struck – a heavy, merciless blow that thudded against his skull like a sledge-hammer, sending him reeling against the door, where he crumpled to the ground like a felled ox.

  ‘Is he dead?’ The voice was curiously small, squeaky, like that of a child, yet – not like a child.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Johnny.’

  ‘Aw… I thought you said I could watch you kill.’

  ‘You will, Johnny. He has to die, just like the others. Only not yet. Not yet.’

  ‘Soon, though?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Soon. Very soon.’

  When she heard the footsteps mounting the stairs, Ellie ran to the door, beating at it with her fists and demanding to be released. Her terror was heightened by the fact that no light filtered beneath the door. Before, when Alec Harman had come to the door, a light had been switched on somewhere outside the room. Strangely, now, all remained in darkness. Only the thin shard of moonlight lifted the blackness. The footsteps came nearer, nearer, faltering a little, but determined. Curious, and suddenly filled with a terrible dread, Ellie backed away from the door. The key was inserted. She cringed in the corner, her heartbeat thumping inside her like the tick of doom. The footsteps were different! It was not Alec Harman, nor was it the girl. And yet, somehow, somewhere deep in her senses, the footsteps echoed with murmuring familiarity. ‘Who’s there?’ she called, her voice sounding strange, even to her own ears. No answer. Slowly, the door was pushed open. There was no place for Ellie to go. Her legs were paralysed beneath her, mortal fear pressing her down, down. She knew she had to try, had to try… had to try! But she could not move. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, she was mesmerised by the oncoming figure. It was only a flicker of moonlight, the briefest glance, but, in that split second when he raised his arms to smother her with a blanket of darkness, she thought she recognised his face. Her horror-struck senses refused to believe what she had seen. In those few frantic moments when she struggled, fighting for her very life, the last voice she heard before her senses slipped away was the voice of her dead brother. What it said was chilling. What it said was, ‘Kill her now. Now!… You promised I could watch.’

  12

  It was the earliest hour. In the drawing room of the vicarage, two men were deep in conversation; one an officer of the law, the other a man of God.

  ‘Of course we will follow up your complaint, vicar.’ The police officer wrote hastily into his notepad before returning it to his pocket. ‘And you say you contacted…’ He paused, his brows furrowed. Dipping into his pocket, he drew out the notepad again, quickly consulting his notes there. ‘Mr Armstrong?’ he finished, retaining the notepad in his chubby fist.

  ‘I did.’ The vicar looked distressed, his hands wringing one over the other and his bri
ght blue eyes beseeching the officer. ‘You will go gently, won’t you?’ he asked. ‘Mr Armstrong was ill with grief at the loss of his wife. I would hate to think I was the cause of bringing him even more pain.’ He began pacing the floor, his footsteps silent against the plush blue carpet. ‘But you see… I had no choice. None at all,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t, sir,’ agreed the officer, ‘but… you say he did not reply to your letter… didn’t contact you in any way?’

  The vicar shook his head. ‘That was when I decided to bring in the authorities.’ He lowered his gaze to the carpet and shook his head sadly. ‘A terrible… terrible thing,’ he murmured, ‘… who would want to desecrate a grave?’ The very idea was too incomprehensible.

  The officer also looked shocked. ‘It’s a sorry fact that some people are capable of anything,’ he told him.

  ‘What will you do… exhume the body?’

  ‘First things first… we’ll need to establish the facts… get authorisation where necessary…’

  He replaced his helmet and moved towards the door. ‘Our first port of call will of course be the deceased’s next-of-kin… Mr Armstrong.’

  ‘You’ll talk to him? Explain, that his wife’s grave has been tampered with?’

  ‘With all respect, vicar, we don’t know that for certain yet. But yes, we will arrange for someone to call on Mr Armstrong, at… Thornton Place, Redborough.’ He shook his head and furrowed his brows, lapsing into a brief interlude of deep thought. ‘Hmm… Redborough. Can’t say I’ve heard of the place, but then again, I’ve only ever been south once, and that was on a six month course with the London Metropolitan.’

  ‘I had not heard of Redborough either,’ rejoined the vicar. ‘Had it not been for an arrangement made between Mr Armstrong and our ground-keeper for him to take care of the grave, well then, I might not have so easily located the address. As it was, our good fellow gladly offered it. According to what Mr Armstrong told him, Thornton Place was somewhat “off the beaten tracks”.’ A thought suddenly presented itself. It tempered a part of his anxiety. ‘Ah!… of course that could be why he has not responded to my letter. Perhaps the mail is not so regularly delivered. What do you think?’

  ‘We’ll soon know,’ the officer promised, after which they parted company; the vicar to his Godly calls, the officer to his ungodly ones. And neither of these two realising what horrifying developments they would cause to unfold.

  ‘I’ll take you home again, Kathleen, To where your heart will feel no pain… where the hills are fresh and green… take you home again, Kathleen.’

  The plaintive tones floated from the radio. Inspired, Rosie hummed along, hopping from one end of the tiny kitchen to the other as she prepared old George’s breakfast – a piping-hot mug of tea, two thinly buttered slices of toast, and a lightly boiled egg; that was it! All ready now. The song had ended. A voice intervened, harsh and penetrating to the ear, announcing news from Monaco of Princess Grace and her first-born child, a girl.

  Rosie switched the radio off, and brought out the trolley from underneath the wall cupboard. First, she put the empty tray on it, then one by one she put the breakfast items onto the tray; it was a difficult exercise, being hampered as she was by the two crutches always in the way. Rosie, however, had mastered the task through years of practice. Soon it was done, and, hoping against hope that he might for once be able to eat his breakfast… or at least a good part of it, Rosie trundled the trolley before her, out of the kitchen, through the cosy parlour and into the room where the senile slept. She shivered. As yet, she had not kindled a fire, and the cold morning air wrapped itself round her like a clinging vapour. The curtains were not drawn back either, so only the lamplight from the kitchen showed her the way.

  At the bedroom door, she manoeuvred the trolley to one side while she lifted the latch and pushed open the door. Normally, Rosie would have gone straight into George’s room on waking, but this morning she had done the unforgivable – she had overslept! It had been a bad night with little sleep, when all the worries and fears of these past years had come to torment her. Alec had promised it would soon be over.

  She hoped so. Oh, she hoped and prayed so!

  ‘Breakfast, sweetheart,’ she called out, propelling the trolley ahead of her. When there came no answer, she tut-tutted, smiled a little and made her way across the room in the semi-darkness. At the window she grasped the curtains one by one and slid them back. The daylight poured in. She peeped through the glass, shivering aloud and remarking, ‘By! It looks sharp and bitter out there, George. You’re in the best place… warm an’ cosy in your bed.’ She swung round, gasping with astonishment when she saw that George was not ‘in his bed’. The bed was empty. The shock of it momentarily silenced her, numbing her brain. Then, a murmur, ‘George.’ She went clumsily forward to the bed, bending down to run her hand between the sheets. Cold. Stone cold – as though it had not been occupied for many hours. ‘George… George!’ She glanced round the room, her brown panda-like eyes half smiling. ‘You bugger, George… are you playing games with me again?’ Since he had been more or less confined to his bed, George had nurtured a real liking for ‘playing games’.

  Rosie searched everywhere. George was definitely not in the cottage. His outdoor clothes were gone and she was at her wits’ end. Exhausted and beside herself with worry, she dropped into the armchair, her frantic mind casting back to when she had last seen George. ‘Last night… soon after Alec left,’ she told herself. She had gone in to say goodnight. A cold hand gripped her heart. She should have realised! Recently, he had seemed very distant to her, steeped in thought, ranting a little and demanding to know why he ‘couldn’t remember’. He had been saying that a lot of late… ‘couldn’t remember’. Remember what? Time and again Rosie had talked with him, but to no avail. Her efforts at conversation had been disturbing to her, but more disturbing to him. Something was plaguing him. It was plaguing him more than usual last night, after Alec left. Rosie wondered now whether George might have overheard the conversation that had taken place between herself and Alec. If so, it could have alarmed him, could have sounded ‘strange’ to him. Suddenly, she was afraid. Suddenly, she was suspicious again, being made to recall other times when she had been suspicious… the children… the priest… George’s own wife. No. No! Whatever was she thinking of? He was not the one. How could he be?

  Now, she was out of the chair, hobbling back and forth across the room, her mind in turmoil. ‘Take hold of yourself, Rosie gal,’ she said softly, ‘you thought all of that through once before, remember! And didn’t you decide that… George was not the one!’ A horrible realisation spread through her. ‘Dear God above, let me be wrong… let me be wrong!’ She had to find him. She prayed that she had not innocently put Alec in danger. Oh, and Ellie! Ellie! Alone in that big, sprawling place. George knew every inch of it… every nook and cranny… every way out, and every way in. Every way in! Terror rose like a tidal wave; her voice rose with it. ‘George!… George.’ She was screaming now, rushing from the cottage and going towards the house, tumbling and slipping, and calling out to Ellie, ‘Stay inside… don’t let him in! For God’s sake, Ellie, don’t let him in!’

  Behind her, the cottage door swung back and forth. Fingers clutched it, held it still. The intruder entered the cottage with a pitiful burden breaking its back. Silent, broken and bloody though it was, the seemingly lifeless form was somehow still breathing, not yet devoid of life, but dangerously near. Softly, the cottage door closed behind them. Another opened. Down, down, deep into the earth. As deep and unlovely as hell itself. And yet, it appeared as heaven, and calm and gratifying to the crazed mind that now perceived all of its work. It had been a long and painful road. Now, all was as it should be. The sound of gentle laughter echoed through the cottage. The scent of lavender pervaded the air. A voice breathed, soft, satisfied. ‘Yes… all is as it should be.’

  After a while, the cottage door opened again. He came out. This time
he was alone, having deposited his burden amongst the gruesome victims of his insanity. In the star-shine the smile lingered on his features, the eyes glittered, alive with madness. On quiet, urgent footsteps he went towards the house. The paintings! He must have the paintings.

  A short way from the house, he saw Rosie standing at the top of the steps. Slipping surreptitiously into the long shrubbery, he watched, biding his time. Presently, her ungainly familiar figure came down the flight of steps; even from this distance it was obvious that she was crying. It was a saddening sight that touched his wicked heart. He knew how unhappy she would be if only she knew… if only she knew! He did not intend her to know. All the others deserved to be punished. It was only right. But not her. Not Rosie. He felt he could never hurt her.

  ‘George… Ellie… for God’s sake answer me!’ Rosie searched and called, the tears rolling down her face, smudging the make-up round her eyes. The bright crimson gash that was her mouth turned down at the corners, heightening the comical effect. Now, she passed within only feet of him! He watched slyly, glad that she had not detected his presence. If she had suspected, he would be obliged to kill her. Unawares, Rosie went on, still searching, desperately hoping that, even now, Ellie might be unhurt.