Buried Slaughter (11 page)

“I am sorry, officer,” Tony said. He lowered his head and stared at the ground in front of Brian’s feet. “I…‌I let myself get a bit out of control. It’s just when I saw you, I was convinced, y’know? I was convinced you two shits were trying to stitch me and my brother up again. But…‌but…‌Oh, and the…‌er…‌the gun,” Tony said, waving the gun in Brian’s face. “Doesn’t work. Just a shitty old replica, officer. I swear it’s just a‌—‌”

“Okay, okay,” Brian said. His entire body was shaking. He wanted to call back his police powers in that instant and send the pair of fuckers directly to a cell for the problems they’d caused.

But mostly, he just wanted to get the hell out of here before they changed their minds.

“I ain’t done no drugs for…‌for years,” Tony said. He smacked his brother on his arm. Phil flinched, then offered a half-smile in Brian’s direction. “No women either. We’re clean as owt these days, I say. We own the Grey Goose, and all. Seriously, this is just a‌—‌a misunderstanding. Tell you what, wife bought me a watch that I don’t want. You can have it. Both of you. I mean…‌I mean, you can sell it and share the‌—‌”

“It’s okay,” Brian said. He avoided eye contact with Tony. Funny really, how they were all just as civilian as one another. Or as criminal as one another, rather. Brian was pursuing leads and withholding important information. He couldn’t rest on his “police powers”, not anymore. “Come on, David. Let’s just get out of here.”

David nodded rapidly and shot ahead of Brian and towards the concrete steps. The closer they approached the steps, the more sound Brian could hear upstairs. Clearly a public place of some sort. Hidden in plain sight.

“Here, couldn’t help but notice you mention those murders on Pendle Hill and Longridge Fell. Anything we should know, like?”

Brian peered back at Tony. His eyes shot to the ground again, unable to maintain contact. “Why should you know anything?”

Phil raised his bony hands in his brother’s defence. “Just as members of’t public, like. All he means.”

Brian sighed and shook his head. Doing so reminded him how much it ached from the blow he’d received. That was a point‌—‌a third person had knocked him to the ground. Obviously one of Tony and Phil’s dodgy mates. Oh yeah, if he knew Tony and Phil Mcphee as well as he thought, then they had no shortage of dodgy meathead mates to do their dirty work, that was for sure.

“Brian, can we go?” David stood at the top of the steps. His voice was shaky and his jaw was quivering. Seeing him like this cheered Brian up a little.

“Just through the door on the right, pal,” Tony said. “You’ll know where to go from there.”

Without any further encouragement, David was out of the door and into the hum of voices in the room above.

“Stay out of trouble, you two,” Brian said, as he followed the hard concrete steps towards the wooden door.

“Seems like you’re the one who needs to stay outta trouble,” Tony called. “Be careful when yer huntin’ for ghosts, officer. Never ends pretty.”

As he pushed through the door at the top of the steps, the realisation of where he was erased any minor curiosity at just how peculiar receiving abstract advice from a headcase like Tony Mcphee really was.

Punters peered at Brian and muttered to one another. A large, open log fire crackled in the corner of the room. A bartender sprayed real ale into a murky-looking pint glass. It was the Grey Goose pub. The very place David and Brian had started their discussion earlier.

And judging by the way David was speeding out of the door, they weren’t sticking around for another pint.

Chapter Twelve

Brian had just about got accustomed to Hannah’s disappointed expression these past few days.

She was there by the window again when he got back. David offered him a ride home, but he refused. He needed time alone. Time to pull himself together after their kidnapping ordeal.
Kidnap.
He couldn’t actually believe he’d been stupid enough to allow himself to get tangled up in such a situation. He was supposed to be a former detective sergeant, for fuck’s sakes. He’d have to make sure he kept this as quiet as he possibly could.

He approached the door, a sense of dread welling up inside him, his chest tightening. The sky was a dark blue shade as night descended. His head wasn’t aching so badly from being knocked unconscious, but he’d have to keep an eye on it if it started bleeding. He didn’t want to have to mention today’s events to Hannah in too much detail, though. Oh no, that’s exactly what he didn’t want to do.

He slipped his key into the front door. He could hear the neighbours chatting somewhere nearby, so he wanted to avoid them as successfully as he could. He’d have to say something to Hannah. Explain his absence in some way. After all, he’d shot off earlier without even giving her an idea of where he was going. He could fix this, though. Fixing things was in his nature. He was a former police officer, for God’s sake‌—‌fixing problems was in his resumé.

As he stepped inside his house, he noticed the sheer silence of the place. Usually in the evening, he’d hear the light hum of static from the television in the lounge; Hannah opening drawers and dropping cutlery to the floor in the kitchen. Chaotic, but at least it was life.

Not this. This was a purer sound of chaos. A looming cloud of bickering and false explanations edging ever closer. He needed to be honest with her. He needed to tell her the truth.

Out of curiosity, he popped his head around the living room door. To his surprise, Hannah was sitting in the living room staring out of the window. She didn’t look happy.

“Han, are you‌—‌”

“Don’t ‘Han’ me,” she snapped.

Brian lowered his head. Maybe he had been a little forward using her pet name. Now for a Plan B. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry I shot off earlier. I just…‌I had something important to do. Something really important.”

A smile broke across Hannah’s face. “Something really important,” she said.

“Yeah,” Brian said. He approached her. She was sitting on the single chair‌—‌the one chair that barely got used in this place.

“Something really, really important. More important than taking your son bowling, I figure?”

Brian felt like a gun had fired at his stomach at point-blank range. His entire body seemed to crumble. “Oh, I…‌Fuck. Fuck.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled down to Vanessa’s name, but before he had the chance to dial, Hannah snatched the phone away.

“You’re sinking, Brian.” Her eyes were bloodshot and her bottom lip was quivering. “Just like you sank with the Watson case. I heard about what you were like. How all your…‌all your focus was just on the case and not on your family.”

Brian frowned. “How do…‌how do you know?”

“I spoke to Vanessa,” Hannah spat. She was up on her feet now, scooping up her handbag and a larger bag that she tended to toss spare clothes into. “She told me what you were like during that case. The booze. The self-loathing and self-pity. I know, Brian. And I can’t watch you do that to yourself again.”

Brian reached out for Hannah’s shoulder, but she smacked his hand away.

“Don’t. You don’t just walk in here looking like you’ve been mugged and expect me to just sit down and let you do whatever it is you’re doing.”

“If you’d let me speak,” Brian said, raising his voice.

“What else is there to say?” Hannah said. She smiled sympathetically at Brian, bags over her shoulders. “We spoke about this last night. You made the choice. The choice to be that family man. But then you went and fucked off this morning…‌I was worried sick. Worried to the pit of my stomach about you.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks now.

“Hannah,” Brian said. This time, she let him rest his hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I mean that. And…‌And I realise I should be more open with you. That‌—‌that maybe if I’m more open, you’ll understand.” He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out one of the documents he’d taken from David Wallson. It was one with the ancient diagrams on, as well as a few excerpts from a local history book. “There’s something going on that the police don’t know about. This case‌—‌the Pendle Hill and the Longridge Fell killings‌—‌there’s somebody called Harold Harvey who is involved. Only Harold Harvey is dead, and the name is of a bloke who executed a bunch of witches back in the…‌”

His speech trailed off because of the way that Hannah was looking at him. She shook her head. Wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her cream cardigan. “It’s this Cassy stuff, isn’t it? This evidence the journalist has? It’s got a grip of you, hasn’t it?”

Brian thought about rejecting Hannah’s suggestion completely, but he knew he’d only be kidding himself. “It started as just that. And of course, that’s a factor. But no. It’s not just that anymore. There’s something with this case that just…‌It fascinates me.”

“Brian,” Hannah said, shaking her head. “This case fascinates me. But I don’t go jumping in pits and mingling with the dead. Where were you today?”

“I…‌In a pub. Meeting an old friend. About‌—‌”

“Then you need some time on your own.”

She lowered her head and walked around Brian.

“Wait,” Brian said. His whole body was tensing up. “Please, Hannah. It’s over now. I swear it’s over.”

“You said that the last time. How do I know your new journalist friend isn’t going to just call you again with a juicy new piece of information?”

The feeling in Brian’s body was so familiar. He’d felt it when Vanessa and Davey walked out of his life. He knew the emotion so well. “Please, Hannah.” It was as close as he was going to get to begging. “Please stay. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Hannah smiled, but the wetness on her cheeks revealed her emotions much better than a false smile ever could. “I’m staying with Marie for a few days. Figured I’ll be a useful sister and help her look after this new dog of hers, anyway. Hopefully that’ll give you time to…‌Yeah.”

She walked around the door of the living room and into the hallway.

Every part of Brian’s body wanted to go out there and follow her, but he knew it was worthless. He knew there was no point in begging. He wasn’t a beggar‌—‌it wasn’t in his nature.

The front door clicked open.

“Please, Hannah,” Brian called.

She didn’t even respond. The front door slammed shut and her car revved up, disappearing out of the driveway and out of the street.

Brian stared up at the ceiling as he lay in bed. It was pretty chilly in the house, but he couldn’t be arsed moving to mess around with the heating. He always had the philosophy that putting a hoodie or a jumper on made much more sense, too. But right now, he couldn’t even be arsed doing that, as he peered at the plain white ceiling. The room was cold, but not just because of the temperature. More because he was alone. Without Hannah for the night and potentially more, all thanks to his stupid little obsession.

Every time a car drove down the road, Brian hopped out of bed and stared out of the window in hope that Hannah was returning, but it was no use. She was a woman of her word. She wouldn’t be back tonight, and judging by what she’d said, she wouldn’t be back tomorrow either. It was Brian’s time to sort himself out. Get himself straight. Realise his priorities.

He sighed as he rolled over in bed, the screen of his iPad tablet still lit from incessant Internet browsing earlier. A boredom cure more than anything. He’d called Vanessa an hour or two ago. She wasn’t pleased with Brian’s no-show, but he’d rearranged to meet his son in two days time. He’d played down his suspension too. He wasn’t too sure how much Vanessa believed him or fell for his “extended holiday” story, but fuck‌—‌he couldn’t have her involving herself in his personal life, especially now that Hannah and she had been in contact. He didn’t want people being suspicious about him. It didn’t sit right.

As another car sped down the road, Brian hopped back out of bed.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered, as a white Renault shot past. He sighed and returned to his bed, picking up his iPad in the process. He wasn’t sleeping any time soon, so perhaps some more inane Internet browsing would send him into an information-overload-induced coma.

Opening up the browser, he clicked around on Amazon and a few other shopping sites first, but nothing really caught his eye. Then, he went on the BBC page, and saw a story about the Longridge Fell killings in the local news section. Apparently, the police had eyes on a suspect, and warned the public to be on guard for any suspicious activities. Yeah, right. Like any sane human being is going to willingly refuse a lump sum of £160,120 for a bit of menial work.

But the fact that they had eyes on a suspect likely meant one thing‌—‌they knew about the Harold Harvey alias. Whether they had more information, Brian doubted. He clicked over the
Lancashire News
page. Ah, now that’s where the police likely got their information. A nice big exposé story revealing the “twisted alias” of an “obsessed cult fanatic”. Whispers of an inside source, too. Fuck, when did Brian become such a sellout?

As a dog barked outside the window and another car drove past, Brian took a look at the document David Wallson had left with him. Those 17
^th
Century diagrams. The faces, then the body parts. He compared it to a small photograph from both of the killing sites, cringing in the process. The heads, perfectly severed from the necks of the poor victims. Loose flaps of tendon dangling down into the mud. Grey faces. Vacant, terrified eyes.

And bones. Old bones. Witches’ bones? It looked that way.

Brian opened up a new tab and searched for “Pendle Witch Stories”. There had to be something he could pull up about all this that everybody else was overlooking. The killer was using Harold Harvey as an alias. Why would he use such a publicly known name? And if he were supposedly filling the boots of a witch hunter, then why was he also replicating the diagrams and rituals of these supposed witches? Something wasn’t right. Something really did not add up.

But the main question, more than anything, was a simple “why?” Why was the killer doing what he was doing?

Brian clicked through a few of the pages and scrolled through the sensationalist and incidental information.