03-Savage Moon (42 page)

Sutton's half-closed eyelids moved slightly.

'You won't realise this, but the same word was written at the scenes of Derek Peterson's and Trevor Kerrigan's murders. It also appeared at the bottom of a suicide note left by one Danny Gordon.'

Sutton remained impassive.

Jon sat back, injecting a more casual note into his voice. 'Why all these security measures? Shouldn't the guns be kept in their locker when not in use? Are you frightened of something, Mr Sutton?'

His head moved a fraction. Obviously unsettled by Sutton's silence, Andrew Du Toit said, 'We're taking extra precautions because of the animal out there.'

Jon kept his eyes on Sutton. 'Animal or person?' Du Toit looked confused. 'What do you mean?'

Jon saw a chink in Sutton's defence. His nephew didn't know what was really going on. 'Your uncle has reason to fear a person, not an animal. These killings are to avenge past wrongs aren't they, Ken? That's why you scrubbed the word off the rock. You knew its significance. Do you speak Kikuyu then, Mr Sutton? Have you ever been to Africa?'

Du Toit sat forwards. 'Uncle? What's this about. Tell the policeman—'

Sutton's head whipped round and spit flew from his mouth.

'Say nothing!'

His nephew flinched backwards.

That's better, thought Jon. Now we're getting somewhere. The dead animals were staring down and Jon glanced up, as if by glaring back he could force their heads to turn. A stag, antlers branching out high from its head. Several foxes, their mouths partly open as if panting for breath. Deer, sharp horns spiralling up a good two feet. Jon's eyes narrowed. Those weren't deer, they were impala. He ran his eyes along the walls, identifying the head of a warthog in the corner.

'You lived in Kenya, didn't you? When was it?' He began working out the dates. Sutton was about seventy. During the fifties, he would have been in his twenties. He married Rose Sutton late. What had Clegg said? When he was well past forty? Was that because he didn't live in Britain during the fifties?

'James Field.' Jon said the words slowly. 'Njama Gathambo.' Sutton's head turned and Jon saw the fury in his eyes.

'That name means something to you, doesn't it? Njama

Gathambo's mum was called Mary.'

Sutton kept his silence. Keep going, Jon thought. You'll hit a nerve soon.

'She was orphaned during the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya. Her mother died in a British detention camp at Kamiti.'

Still he kept his mouth closed.

'Njama has made two metal panther claws. He used them to kill your wife and then he daubed the word “remember” on the rocks with her blood.'

Sutton's fingers dug into the arms of his chair. 'The savages. The filthy, bloody savages. I knew that evil would never die.'

'Uncle, what's he talking about?'

'What did you do in Kenya? Were you in the army?' Sutton shook his head. 'I was a farmer, one of the dozens who the Government encouraged to go out there and make something of that land. We transformed the country, made it a success. But the bloody Kukes weren't happy. They wanted what we'd created. They formed that barbaric sect and started attacking us, creeping out of the jungles, smeared in blood and entrails. Eating their victims.'

Jon sat forwards. 'You fought the Mau Mau?'

'It was a fight to save civilisation itself. And people get hurt in fights. I joined the Kenya Regiment. Later, when the detention camps were built, I worked in one of those.'

'Kamiti? You worked there?'

Sutton raised a finger. 'That was for bloody women. The ones who'd hide bullets in their baby's blankets, then smuggle the ammo to the animals hiding in the jungle.'

'Where did you work then?'

'Hola.'

'The site of that massacre? You tried to deny it ever happened.'

'Massacre?' Sutton gave a cruel smile, eyes glinting in the light from the flames. 'We only killed ten of them. They were the hardcore, the lowest of the low, the ones who wouldn't confess their oaths, no matter what we did.'

'And you did plenty, didn't you?' He looked into Sutton's eyes and saw only malice. You cruel bastard. He wanted to wipe the look from his face. 'Well, the grandson of one of those men you killed is coming for you, right now.'

'We built that country. And the Government in London sold us down the river. When they decided it was all an embarrassment, they washed their hands of us. They even let out Kenyatta, the biggest terrorist of all.'

'So you moved back here?'

'Before they handed power over to those bloody savages, yes. We had to leave that farm behind and start again. My sister, Andrew's mum, went to South Africa.'

Du Toit looked up. 'Hang on, this is all about a kaffir? You're saying my Aunty Rose was killed by a fucking kaffir?'

A beeping noise sounded in the kitchen. Du Toit's head snapped to the side. 'Something's triggered the sensors in the top field!' He jumped to his feet, grabbing his gun as he did so.

Sutton struggled to get up. 'No! Andrew, stay inside.'

Jon was on his feet. 'I'm calling for back-up. Everybody sit down.'

'Bullshit,' Andrew replied, hurrying into the kitchen. Sutton was reaching for his gun.

'Stay where you are,' said Jon, pulling his mobile out. One bar of signal flickered on and off. He tried to dial Longsight, but the call was dropped after two shaky rings. Bollocks! Du Toit reappeared in the doorway and threw a walkie-talkie to Sutton.

'I'm going out. Keep this turned on.'

'Andrew, don't!' said Jon, grabbing Sutton's arm as he too made for the door. 'Where's your bloody phone?'

Sutton struggled to get free. 'There, by the gun cabinet.' Jon bounded over to it. 'How does it work? I can't get a dial tone.'

Sutton turned in the kitchen doorway. 'The green button. Press it.'

'I have! There's nothing.'

Sutton walked stiffly over, listened to the phone, jabbed at the green button and lifted it to his ear once again. 'He's cut the wires.'

Jon remembered the line from Field's project. The Mau Mau chose isolated farms with no phones. Think. There must be some way of getting help.

Sutton returned to his armchair and sat down on the edge of it, rifle in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other. Low static emanated from the speaker.

'We should go and get him back,' Jon said, peering through the tiny windows set into the thick walls.

'He knows what he's doing,' Sutton stated, before adding,

'Kill the bastard, Andrew.'

Jon paced up and down. Text messages! Don't they require less signal to get through? He started typing,
Suttons farm
.

The walkie-talkie came to life. 'He's here, on the track. Climbing down one of your telephone posts. Looks like he's wearing an animal skin.'

Sutton pressed the transmit button. 'Kill him! Kill the bastard!' As Jon tried to grab the walkie-talkie it emitted a sharp burst of static. An instant later the sound of a gunshot rolled across the fields outside. 'I think I winged him! He's running back to the top field.' The words came in broken snatches. 'He's fast.'

Ken stood up. 'Now we'll show him who's boss.'

Still trying to type the message, Jon made a grab for him.

'Sutton, do not go out there!'

The older man yanked his arm free, the walkie-talkie falling to the floor.

'Jesus,' cursed Jon. Quickly he completed the message.
Jammer here. Send help
. He brought Rick's number up and pressed send. The little envelope on his screen folded itself over and flew off. A second later the words,
Message Sent
appeared. 'Thank fuck for that,' Jon said.

Outside the quad bike roared to life. Jon got to the front door just as Sutton zoomed past, his rifle jammed into a gap behind the seat. The red lights bounced away down the track, Chip barking manically at them.

Jon looked at the dog. 'This is a fucking nightmare.' He went back into the kitchen. What the hell do I do now? Inside the front room, the walkie-talkie continued to buzz. Jon went though, picked it up and pressed the transmit button. 'Hello? Andrew, can you hear me? Andrew?'

He crossed the room and looked into the gun cabinet. Sutton's single shot .22, used for killing rats. Better than nothing. As he pulled it from the rack the walkie-talkie sounded again.

'I'm near the wall. The sneaky bastard, I think he's doubled—' A burst of noise like a hurricane, punctuated by gasping screams. Silence.

Jon pressed the button. 'Hello! Andrew! Can you hear me, Andrew!'

He let his finger off and now heard the sound of an engine getting louder and louder. The noise died down and, as Jon stared into the fire, he heard Sutton's voice. 'Oh Andrew. Oh sweet Jesus Christ. Andrew can you—'

A loud snarl. The start of a shout, abruptly cut off. Jon threw the walkie-talkie on to the armchair and ran from the room, the rifle in his right hand. Images seemed to register in freeze frames. The red light on the monitor in the kitchen flashing on and off, Sutton's cat staring smugly at him from on top of the Aga, Chip barking loudly and throwing himself against his chain, sheep in the barns with mouths open as they bleated in fear.

He ran down the track, all the while glancing through the low hedge into the top field. The headlights of the quad-bike came into view. The vehicle was motionless on the far side of the field. Jon squeezed between the thorny branches and began jogging across the lumpy grass, all the time trying to scan the darkness before him.

The headlights shone towards the dry-stone wall, just illuminating the beginnings of the moor as it loomed up, blotting out a good part of the night sky. Within fifty metres of the still idling vehicle he stopped. Two bloody forms were visible in the outer reaches of the quad-bike's beam, steam rising from their wounds. They were lying almost at the base of the dry-stone wall. Jon fought the urge to turn and run. Instead he began a slow circle round, trying to get a better view. Fuck this, a voice screamed. Get back to the farmhouse and lock yourself in. One of the bodies moved, a hand fluttered weakly in the air. Shit, Jon thought, drawing closer, gun held before him.

Now he could see them better. Andrew Du Toit was on his side, a gory mess below his chin. His unblinking eyes stared at the grass and Jon knew he was dead. Next to him Sutton lay on his back, a hand still waving weakly in the air. Along with the steam rising from his gaping chest, Jon could see breath curling from his open mouth. He crept forwards. No sign of the killer. Maybe hiding on the other side of that wall? He knew that helping Sutton meant entering the beam of light and exposing himself to view. His heart was like a drum beating in the night. Do it. Go in fast, get him on to the quad-bike and drive for the main road. Don't! Just turn around and get away from here! He extended a foot, then brought it back. He took several quick breaths. 'Come on Spicer, go, go!'

Keeping low, he ran across the grass and entered the bright glare. As he knelt down, he looked for their weapons. All he spotted was the other walkie-talkie by Sutton's leg. Quickly he jammed it into his pocket. Then he tried to hook an arm under Sutton's. The man was like a sack of coal. Jon looked at the rifle in his hand. Do I put you down? No fucking way. He grasped Sutton's collar and started trying to pull him through the long grass towards the vehicle. The lamp shone directly into his eyes and slowly he started to stagger towards it.

Something black passed across the beam of light, a long tail trailing behind it. Jon squinted, just able to make out movement behind the vehicle. The engine abruptly died and with it the light. Jon blinked, suddenly unable to see a thing. At his feet Sutton let out a shuddering sigh then stopped breathing. Jon opened his eyes as wide as they could go. But all he could see was churning clouds of bright colours, his night vision ruined by looking into the headlight. Shit, shit, shit. From the darkness in front came a low rumbling snarl. Ice blasted through Jon's veins and he let Sutton's corpse sink to the turf. Hands shaking, he brought the weapon up, desperately trying to hear if something was running at him. He felt tears brimming in his eyes. Alice, I'm so fucking sorry to leave you like this.

The noise came again, closer this time. Jon felt his last bit of self-control give way. Pure terror flooded him. His legs began to pump and he realised he was sprinting blindly across the grass. Pain exploded up from his left ankle and he pitched face first into the ground. He got back on his feet and tried to put some weight on his twisted ankle. An agonising stabbing carried right up his leg, countering the waves of panic, clearing his head. The dipping sheds, he thought, somewhere to my right. He started to hobble in what he hoped was the right direction. He became aware of the wall at his side. There was light above. The moon. It had come out. He was regaining the ability to see. Turning round he searched the field, just able to spot a dark form in the silvery light. It was zigzagging across the grass towards him, pointed ears sticking up from its head.

Lights on the track, flashing blue. Lots of them. The procession of vehicles was speeding towards the farm. 'Here!' Jon yelled, waving his arms. 'I'm here!'

The police cars didn't slow. He pointed the rifle upwards and pulled the trigger. A weak pop and the procession continued past. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see the black shape was now less than thirty metres away. He turned in the other direction. The sheds were just ahead. Half running, half hopping, he set off, the anticipation of the claws sinking into his back increasing with every step. Into the courtyard, railings lining the edge of several deep trenches. He thought of hiding in one, then imagined being trapped down there as the creature, with claws extended, dropped into the other end. A wooden door led into the shed on his right. Please. Please God you have to be open. Gasping for breath, he yanked the handle. Locked. He rammed the tip of the barrel into the gap between the edge of the door and the frame, started levering it violently back and forth. The barrel suddenly snapped with a loud crack. As the broken halves dropped to the ground he looked wildly around. There was one other door in the far corner of the courtyard. Knowing it was his last chance, he hobbled towards it, curled his fingers round the rusty handle and pulled. No! It wouldn't budge. As he sank against the wooden surface the walkie-talkie sounded in his pocket.