High Moor 2: Moonstruck (5 page)

“Ye should have torn the fucker’s throat out the second ye saw him. After what he did to ma Megan, how could ye not?”

“It was on my list. I had other things to worry about, and to be honest, I thought he was already dead until he started shooting.”

Connie opened her mouth to reply, but was silenced by a look from Gregorz. He turned to Marie and frowned. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning. What happened?”

“Before I could make contact with John, he got into a fight with a local dickhead called Malcolm Harrison. He punched John in the mouth, and John’s teeth broke his skin. Next full moon, he turned.”

“I thought you said there was no moonstruck?”

Marie shook her head. “No. Worse. He turned wild. Slaughtered his family and a few locals, then ambushed me when John and I went looking for him. What happened to John? Is he alright?”

Gregorz sighed. “Simpson survived, but is in police custody. This is a critical situation for us, Marie. Moonstruck or not, if he doesn’t change before the next full moon, his beast will do it for him. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

Marie sat up. “We have to get him out of there. Out of the country and back to the pack.”

“Oskar is handling that particular problem.”

“Then I need to be with Oskar’s team. Where are they now?”

“You’re in no fit state to go anywhere, Marie. You can hardly stand, and in case you hadn’t noticed, your wounds have stopped healing. The police will also be looking for you by now. You are to stay hidden until we can arrange passage back to Russia.”

“So when’s the rescue going to happen?” She looked at Gregorz, then to Connie. Neither of them would meet her gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding me. They’re not going to attempt a rescue. They’re going to fucking assassinate him, aren’t they?”

“The order’s been given. You know how it works.”

Marie pushed herself up into a sitting position. “That’s a load of shite, Gregorz, and you know it. I want to talk to my brother, and I want to talk to him now.”

***

15th November 2008. Treworgan Farm, High Moor. 19.16.

Silently, Rick and Mark moved along opposite sides of the track, weapons raised. The outline of the house up ahead was just visible through the skeletal tree branches: the track, which wound its way through a small wood leading to the courtyard, was blocked by a white Transit van. Rick motioned to the other man, dropped to one knee and took up a covering position. He then moved to the side of the vehicle and made his way to the driver’s door. Cautiously, Rick pulled it open.

The vehicle turned out to be empty, apart from discarded coffee cups and crisp packets in the foot−wells and an empty packet of cigarettes on the dashboard. Pervading the vehicle’s interior was a foul smell. Rick signalled Mark, who nodded and moved closer to the vehicle, weapon trained on the van’s back doors. Rick followed him, making sure to keep out of his partner’s line of fire. He nodded, counted to three and opened the doors.

The stench of spoiled meat billowed out like a miasma, its source a heavy duty black plastic sack nestled in the van’s interior. Dark liquid pooled beneath it, filling the grooves in the corrugated floor. Rick took out his pocket knife and slit the sack open: he instantly regretted his decision as a mass of blood, bone and tissue spilled across the van and onto the road. He took an involuntary step backwards, simultaneously trying not to vomit. The body was human, but almost unrecognisably so. Rick couldn’t fathom how someone could inflict that kind of damage on another person. The man’s head had been torn in half for Christ’s sake, cracked open like a walnut.

He took a second to compose himself, then activated his radio. “Control, we have a body in a white ford Transit van, approximately one hundred yards from the house. It looks to be the remains of a white Caucasian male, but it’s hard to be certain. No sign of movement from the property. Moving to check the barn next.”

The cold hard knot of fear tightened in his stomach, filling his veins with ice. The tips of his fingers felt numb, and his heart pounded in his ears. He felt glad that DI Fletcher had arrived with the backup and that he’d made Olivia stay at the track’s entrance. He hadn’t caught the details, but he got the impression that something had occurred at the hospital where last night’s bodies had been taken.

Rick teetered on the edge of a precipice, the ground falling away beneath his feet. This kind of thing didn’t happen around here. Sure, there were the usual: fights that got out of hand, petty theft, robbery and smack−heads with re−commissioned pop guns which were more likely to blow up in their owner’s hand than fire. But all this shit they’d had to deal with was unbelievable, and the fact that they had a suspect in custody hadn’t done much to calm Rick’s nerves. He took a deep breath, pushed down the fear, and focused on the job at hand.

He signalled to Mark, and the two officers moved into the woods. The barn loomed up before them; a large wooden framed building, with rotted walls and a heavily rusted corrugated iron roof. Its door stood open, creaking on ancient hinges as it shifted in the breeze. Rick’s every instinct told him to avoid the open doorway, so he crept around the other side of the building while Mark took up a covering position behind him.

He saw it as soon as he’d rounded the corner − a gaping hole in the barn’s side. The rotten walls had splintered into long, viciously jagged shards, as if something (or someone) had burst through it with tremendous force − or had been dragged through.

He moved closer, aiming his tactical light into the hole. The wood was bloodstained, and one of the lower boards had
something
snagged on it: it looked like a party streamer, pointing back into the tree−line and out of sight. He shone the narrow beam onto the object, realising as he did so that he was looking at someone’s intestines. It was all he could do to stop himself from falling on his knees and emptying his stomach all over the crime scene.

He heard Mark coming closer, but waved him away. He walked unsteadily up to the hole, shining the light through. The lower half of a man’s body lay just inside. Rick knew that if he followed the unravelled guts, he’d find the rest.

“We’ve got another one. There’s…there’s half a body in the barns, with a trail of intestines heading back into the woods. It looks like this one was dragged through the wall, I…”

An electronic beep pierced the silence. Rick looked through the hole once more, trying to locate its source. The beep rang out again, and he saw the trouser pocket of the half−corpse glow in the darkness.

“Control, it looks like one of them had a phone on them. Mark and I will check the main house, but it’s quiet as a grave up here. It looks like no−one’s home. No−one alive, anyway. Get forensics ready to move when we give the all clear.”

***

15th November 2008. The Angel Public House, Durham City. 21.32.

Gregorz strode through the busy city centre streets, heading for a meeting with Oskar. If circumstances had been different, he would have liked to spend more time in Durham, if only to appreciate some of the architecture. The cathedral and castle dominated the city, especially at night when floodlights illuminated it. The magnificent buildings stood proud on the skyline for miles around, although at ground level the ancient streets had been ‘developed’, with orange and brown brick shopping centres clinging to the old stone like an obscene fungal growth. Gregorz considered it nothing less than vandalism.

Streams of young men and women, in various states of inebriation and undress, staggered past him. One girl, dressed in a PVC nurse’s uniform, stumbled into his path and threw up over his shoes. He considered hurling her from the stone bridge into the fast flowing river below, but quickly reminded himself of his purpose and the need for restraint. He’d have to have another talk with Connie about that later.

He walked away from the bustling centre, turning off into a side−street. It was mostly residential here, with a couple of shops here and there. A gaggle of young people, all sporting long hair and motorcycle jackets, were standing outside a bar, smoking cigarettes. Heavy metal music reverberated incongruously along the old narrow street. Gregorz sighed. Of course this is where Oskar would want to meet. He could sniff bars like this out in a five mile radius, knowing that Gregorz hated them.

He eased his way past the crowd at the door and pushed it open. The noise hit him like a solid wall. Dozens of conversations, screamed over music so loud it made his ears ache. People were squashed together as they jostled to get back to their seats, laden with drinks, or pushed their way through to the bar. One teenager, a dark haired youth with half of his face concealed by his fringe, sat underneath the pool table while one of his friends, a tall, blonde boy in a denim jacket, passed drinks down to him. The air stank of sweat and leather, with a faint hint of marijuana beneath.

He considered leaving and texting Oskar to rearrange the meeting, but then he caught sight of Troy. He could hardly miss the big American. He was six and a half feet tall, with a close cropped blonde buzz−cut. In a place like this, he stood out more than Gregorz was comfortable with. The problem was Troy stood out everywhere. Gregorz pushed his way through the crowds until he arrived at the table where he found Troy sitting with Oskar and Gabriela.

Oskar raised a bottle of dark brown liquid. “Ah, Gregorz, I’m glad you could make it. Would you like a drink? This local beer is quite good. Gabriela, would you mind getting a bottle of…what did they call it again? Oh yes. Dog. Would you get Gregorz a bottle of Dog.”

Gabriela got to her feet, and eased her way into the crowd, which shifted and parted to allow her to get to the bar. She returned minutes later with a cold beer, which she put in front of Gregorz and returned to her seat without so much as a word.

He picked up the bottle and took a mouthful. “Have you seen the news, Oskar?”

The Norwegian nodded. “It’s unfortunate that those bodies were discovered. The moonstruck is well guarded, meaning it will be even more difficult to get to him. This situation is getting too much attention and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how dangerous a position we are in. This could get worse than 1996 if it escalates any further. Did you get anything from Marie?”

Gregorz took another swig. “She’s adamant that Simpson isn’t moonstruck, but based on the news reports that’s looking less likely.”

Troy raised an eyebrow. “You think she’s protecting him?”

Gregorz shrugged. “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t care. Her face is all over the news at the moment, so I’m going to keep her out of sight for a few weeks and then get her back to Russia. She can explain herself to her brother.”

Gabriela snorted. “Even if she is harbouring the moonstruck, do you think her brother will abide by the law? He’s soft when it comes to her. Weak.”

Oskar raised his hand. “That’s enough. Michael is our pack leader, and he will deal with matters according to the law or face the consequences. Until he goes against that law, he is our alpha and you will treat him with respect. We have more pressing matters to attend to. Did you get anything else from her, Gregorz?”

He took another mouthful of the ale, enjoying the flavour. “Yes − she said that Stephen Wilkinson is involved and he silver−shot her. I don’t know what he did, but she’s not healing like she should. She also said that he was a casualty, having been badly mauled. However, there’s been no mention of him in news reports. I’ll get Daniel to look into it in the morning.”

Troy let out a whistle. “Jesus. Wilkinson? How the hell have you kept a leash on Connie?”

“It’s not been easy. Daniel is currently baby−sitting them both − I’ll try to keep them from killing each other or doing something equally stupid tomorrow, while Daniel checks into Wilkinson’s involvement. I’m sending Connie back to Moscow. She’s got too much personal involvement in this, and she wasn’t behaving rationally before she heard about Wilkinson. I dread to think how she’d behave in the field now.”

Troy grinned. “We heard about the hospital. You can’t deny the girl’s got a refreshing directness. Plus, if she hadn’t torched the evidence you might not have made it out with Marie.”

Oskar laughed. “Dear Connie is a blunt instrument, one you aim and then get out of the way. I’m not sure why you brought her, if I’m honest.”

Gregorz nodded. “We thought we were coming over to retrieve a corpse. As you say, the job changed and she’s no longer the right tool. Do you know how you’re going to solve the Simpson problem?”

Oskar raised his bottle to Gregorz and took a long swig. “Yes. When you speak to Michael, you can tell him that John Simpson will be dead within the next thirty six hours.”

Chapter 3

15th November 2008. Seven Bells Hotel, Durham City. 22.35.

Marie paced the floor of the tiny hotel room. Daniel sat in the corner, reading a book while Connie lay on the bed, watching
X−Factor
on a small flat−screen TV. As the programme went into an advert break, she craned her head to look at Marie, a snarl on her lips.