Darkside (41 page)

Jonas followed them with his torch.

The prints led down the hill - straight towards Rose Cottage.

'Lucy!' he shouted into the night, as if she might hear him.

Reynolds shone his torch in Jonas's face and saw terror there.

'What?' he said.

'My house!' cried Jonas and pointed to where the bathroom light shone square and yellow two fields away. 'He's gone to my house! My wife! She's alone. I left her
alone
!'

Then he started to run, bounding through the snow in long, awkward strides.

Reynolds ran after him for a few paces, then stopped. 'Jonas! Wait!'

But Jonas ignored him.

'Fuck!' Reynolds turned and made his way back to the blackness behind the cottages. He needed reinforcements. If the killer was indeed at Jonas Holly's house then he didn't want to be the only back-up. Once back on the flat ground, he slipped and skidded around to the courtyard once more, almost surprised that things had been going on here without him. The house was still burning, Grey was still playing with the hosepipe, and Rice and Singh were still bent over Marvel and had started CPR again. Reynolds rushed straight to them.

'How is he?'

'Dead,' said Singh between compressions.

'Shit
,' said Reynolds. 'Shit fuck shit!'

'Yeah, I know,' said Singh. 'Should I stop?'

Reynolds thought of the months of work he'd put into the file he'd hoped would see Marvel kicked off the force in disgrace and without a pension.

Wasted.

Now Marvel had instead died trying to rescue a civilian from a burning building.

Die a hero, stay a hero.

Nothing was fair.

'Yes,' he told Singh. 'Stop.'

Rice and Singh both stopped working on Marvel, and Grey stopped his own pointless task and came over and stood beside Rice. Singh remained kneeling in the sludge that the snow had become. He took off his jacket and laid it carefully over Marvel's face. Then he noticed something sticking out of the inside pocket of Marvel's coat and carefully removed a burned and crispy photograph.

Two charred and blistered boys, damaged beyond recognition.

'Did he have children?' he asked.

'Don't think so,' said Grey.

'Right,' said Reynolds, before they could all get maudlin, 'our man might be at Holly's cottage down the hill. We all need to get there
now
!'

'How?' said Pollard, whose face was as black as a miner's. 'Even fire and ambulance can't make it.'

'Across the fields. You can see it from here. Everyone get a torch and a coat.'

They all looked at each other.

'Come
on
!' yelled Reynolds, and they all scurried into their respective cottages and out again in seconds, Singh in just a sweater.

'Get your jacket,' Reynolds told him roughly. 'You need it more than him.'

Singh tentatively lifted his jacket off the body and pulled it on.

Then Reynolds led his new team out of the courtyard, leaving DCI John Marvel to another, colder shroud, which covered him slowly from a pitch-black sky.

*

When Lucy woke there was dust on her lips and carpet-print on her cheek.

She knew the sound of an empty house and this was it.

The telephone was downstairs. She didn't know how long she had, and couldn't afford the time the return journey would take.

She remembered her first line of defence and limped to the landing and tried to move the bookcase to the top of the stairs, but with her weakened hands and wrists it was a hopeless task which she was quickly forced to abandon.

She thought of banging on the wall to alert Mrs Paddon, then decided not to. What could an eighty-nine-year-old woman possibly do to help? Lucy would only be placing her in danger. Instead she went into the back bedroom, picked up the gaff, opened the trapdoor into the attic and - after several wavering attempts - managed to hook the eye on the sliding ladder and tug it to the ground.

Then Lucy put the knife that Jonas had insisted she carry into her back pocket, picked up the camping lantern from the bedside table and put an unsteady foot on the first rung.

It took her almost fifteen minutes to climb the ladder. She slipped a dozen times - banging her elbows, grazing her fingers, once tearing a gash in her forearm - and had to take several gasping rests, clinging on to the upper rungs and kneeling on the lower ones to try to give her legs some respite. The longer she struggled and the higher she climbed, the more frantic she got to ascend into the square of darkness.

The irony did not escape her. She had tried to kill herself. Still
might
. And yet here she was, trying to hide from a killer who would do the job for her.

The instinct for self-preservation came as a shock to Lucy.

When she finally made it and hauled herself into the dry, cold space that smelled of wood and feathers and mouse droppings, Lucy could not move again for ten minutes. She retched from effort and sobbed in pain.

And then the kick in the teeth came when she found that she could not pull the ladder up behind her. She strained and wept, but her grip was limp and her arms feeble and the ladder didn't seem to be designed for such a thing anyway. There was nothing she could do about it. She tried to move a heavy wooden packing case over the entrance but it stuck on a joist and she had expended the last of her energy. She cried again with frustration. She
knew
what she should be doing! In her head she had it all worked out! The Lucy Holly that she used to be would have run, jumped, set booby traps, armed herself, been prepared.
That
Lucy Holly would have kicked zombie butt and outwitted the very devil. But that Lucy was long gone. And with the new Lucy's body the only one available to her now, it was all she could do to crawl into a corner with her unlit lantern and her knife, huddle in a musty old armchair, and wait for the killer to come home.

*

The killer did come home, although nobody would ever have guessed it.

*

Jonas was a fit man, but running through the foot-deep snow was exhausting. His lungs tore at his chest and his heart pounded his ribs like a madman in a cage. His boots and trousers were wet well past his knees and seemed to be made of something that stuck to snow and dragged at his legs every
time he tried to lift them to place one foot in front of the other.

Still, he made it across the first field lit only by the stars and a slim moon, his eyes adjusting so well that he even spotted the gap in the hedge that denoted a gate, which he clambered over so fast that his legs got left behind and he dropped face-first into the snow on the other side before getting up and running again.

Despite the snow over uneven ground and the wind that drove the flakes into him, fear made him faster than he'd ever have thought possible and blurred the blizzard so that he was running through a snow globe as it was shaken up. He couldn't tell which way was up, as flakes came at him from everywhere - now in his eyes, now in his ears, now slapping the back of his head like a teacher. The only guide was that bathroom light which - mercifully - he had left on in another time and place he barely even remembered now. It disappeared and jiggled and jerked on the inconstant horizon. If it weren't for that he might have run to Withypool for all the sense of direction he had left in him.

Now and then he saw the tracks he was following, but he didn't really care about them any more. His target was that bathroom window. He didn't care where the killer was going - as long as it wasn't Rose Cottage. As long as it wasn't to Lucy.

Not Lucy! Not Lucy! Not Lucy!
The words beat the rhythm of his headlong race across the snow.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the display but there was no signal. Big shock. He tossed it aside like ballast.

The prints in the snow curved slowly to the right. The gate in the second field was off somewhere to his right and opened on to the lane. He couldn't afford the detour and kept running straight down the hill. He would have to go over the hedge beside Rose Cottage. Or through it.

Either way, it wasn't stopping him.

The hedge loomed, huge and black with its happy icing of snow. Because of his height, Jonas had done high jump at school. He wasn't much good at it but he remembered the basics. He speeded up, turned in at the last moment, and threw himself at the hedge in a not-ungraceful arc. He landed high enough to be suspended there in uncomfortable limbo. He rolled on to his stomach, reaching for anything that would give him purchase, gripping handfuls of branches and thorns, dragging himself across the five-foot expanse, which sagged and dug and snapped under him like cruel water, before dropping to the ground in a heap on the other side, right next to Lucy's Beetle. There was a crunch and he winced as he landed on his torch.

He stood, jerked forward as if to rush into the house, and then stopped and caught his breath. The killer could be there. He couldn't just rush in. He needed to
think
. He couldn't afford to screw this up. Lucy needed him. Now more than ever.

He couldn't fall apart on her now.

The front door was closed but unlocked. His fault.
His
fault. Leave it open for people so Lucy wouldn't have to keep getting up. This was the countryside; his home village. They'd felt so safe! Leaving the door unlocked had become a dangerous habit, and a bedtime oversight.

He sucked air into his burning lungs and pushed open the door.

Everything was the same.

He peered into the dark front room but the TV was off, although the fire still burned softly behind the guard.

No light in the kitchen. He crossed quietly to it. It was empty, and the washing machine hummed.

Up the dark stairs, pausing at every other step to listen for an intruder, missing the tread halfway up that creaked so badly.

The bookcase at the top of the stairs had been moved slightly, which Jonas discovered painfully with his left shoulder. A little gasp of surprise escaped him before he could apprehend it.

No answering sound.

The light was on under the bathroom door. Jonas went in.

The air was still slightly warm and heavy with moisture from his earlier shower.

Jonas's gut lurched. There was blood on the tap.

There was blood.

On the tap.

He went closer to the basin. The smear of blood was unmistakable - as if someone had turned the tap on or off with a bloodstained hand. A little drip ran down the porcelain.

He frantically looked around with eyes attuned to this one thing, and found more. Two drops on the floor, a smear near the laundry basket, what looked like half a handprint on the outer edge of the basin - four slightly splayed strips where someone had rested their printless fingers.

Jonas turned sharply to go and caught a movement close to his head that made him flinch and put up a hand in self-defence.

He almost laughed. He'd jumped at his own fuzzy reflection in the cabinet mirror!

He stopped dead.

In the lingering condensation on the cold glass mirror was a message he had no doubt was meant for him.

'Lucy!'
he cried in strangled horror, and ran to the bedroom, slapping on lights. She was not there. He ran into the box
room. Empty. Jonas was no longer looking for, or afraid of, the killer. He only wanted to see his wife.

The back bedroom. His childhood room. She wasn't there but, behind the door, the loft ladder had been dropped from the attic.

'Lucy?' he hissed. He was wary again now. He couldn't see how Lu could have extended the ladder, let alone gone up it, without help.

Or without being forced.

Halfway up the ladder was a long smear of blood.

He bit his lip to keep himself quiet. He peered up into the black hole. There was no light in the attic; they used a camping lantern. A lantern that was no longer in its usual place on the bedside table.

Jonas gripped the ladder and slowly climbed into the dark.

*

From his secret place the killer watched with a dispassionate eye as Jonas Holly warily ascended the ladder. He knew what he would find up there, and knew that this would soon be over.