Grave Doubts (40 page)

His brain worked quickly. If he just cut one opening in the perimeter fence they would search the site until it was cleared. It was huge but that wouldn’t stop them. He needed to make them think that he had left the site and throw the dogs off his scent.

The stench in the site was gross. He pushed his way back outside the fence, ran along it for a hundred metres then cut into it again. This time he pulled the flaps of wire outwards, making it look as if he forced his way through. He pulled the towel from around his neck and smeared blood on the wire. Then he ran into the scrub that bordered the site and rubbed more blood on the ground before stepping in his footprints back the way he had come. He ran along the inside of the fence, rubbing the towel on the wire as he went before throwing it far into the scrub on the other side. Opposite the second hole he jumped as far as he could into the mound of rubbish. He landed on a refuse bag that burst open and spilled rancid milk and what looked horribly like the contents of a baby’s nappy onto his trainers. Ordinarily he would have been disgusted but today he saw it as a blessing.

He jumped forward again but fell awkwardly. A flash of pain went through his ankle and up his leg. Ignoring it, he ripped open the rubbish bag next to him and spread the contents over the place where he had landed. It wasn’t quite as malodorous as the first one but the rotten food should stink enough to confuse the dogs. He straightened up to try one more leap but his ankle was too sore so he hopped forward instead for a distance of about one hundred yards, covering up after himself each time, until the sounds of pursuit became too loud for comfort.

Smith rolled into his own rubbish bags quickly before burrowing into a soft, stinking pile of garbage, as the baying of the dogs reached a peak and they came through the foot tunnel. He heard their noise through the concealing layers of rubbish and the muffled shouts from their handlers as they scanned the area. With luck they wouldn’t even bother to search the site. He waited, all his senses muffled by his concealment. After what seemed an age he heard the rustling of sacks close by him and the unmistakable sound of a dog, sniffing.

He pinched the edges of his two sacks close together. The sound of his blood pumping in his ears was so loud that he was sure it would be audible to the dog’s sensitive hearing. He willed it to slow down and suppressed his breathing so that it was silent.

There was a sudden rustling next to him and he froze. It was close enough for the pile of rubbish above him to tremble. The noise grew louder and there was a sense of weight close to him. He could hardly breathe. The air in his sacks was almost gone, his chest constricted and his nose pressed against the plastic, damp with condensation. The claustrophobia that had terrified him since childhood threatened to overwhelm him and he had to fight the urge to rear up and out into the open.

There was a distant cry and the presence above him moved away. They must have found the towel or baseball cap he’d thrown into the undergrowth. He counted to thirty then cracked the sack open so that he could breathe. His face was suddenly wet and he couldn’t tell whether it was from blood, sweat or tears. He licked the salty taste from his lips and stifled a sob of relief.

He lay there a long time, exhausted and bruised from inside out. At some point he must have slept because he awoke disoriented and terrified from a dream in which he had been buried alive. Fear was a new sensation for him and its power to enfeeble was an unwelcome shock. In the stinking darkness of the dump he felt for his rucksack and the bottle of water it contained. In swinging it from his shoulders a strap rubbed his neck causing him to cry out in pain. He reached up and touched his injured skin delicately. It felt hot and scabby in some places, still sticky in others. When he sniffed his fingers there was a taint that worried him. He had never been injured before.

The water and sleep revived him and his survival instincts started to reassert themselves. He needed to get away from here. When they failed to find him in a wider search they would return to his trail again. There was silence in the dump so he risked pushing upwards until he could see the sky. He checked his watch, almost nine o’clock; barely five hours since he’d killed her. It wasn’t yet fully dark but he couldn’t wait in case they came back.

Cautiously he opened the sacks, paused, listened and stepped out in a crouch. In the distance against the perimeter fence, two people in white suits were searching the ground on hands and knees. They were completely preoccupied. It amused him to see bright police tape marking the lines of his false trail. His decoy had worked on more than the dogs. Never once taking his eyes from the suited figures he backed away to the far side of the dump. There was an entrance with a pole across and gates, deserted now that the site was closed. His cutters made short work of the flimsy padlock and he was out on the road. From memory he had less than a mile to travel in the open until he came to a footpath that would take him across country.

He tried to jog but the pain in his ankle and the jarring along his neck were too painful and he had to slow to a hobbling walk. Two cars passed him but neither slowed. His rucksack and sensible shoes still made him look like a rambler in the dusk. The hooded sweatshirt that he’d put on to cover the worst of his injuries looked warm for a summer’s evening but apart from that there was nothing to distinguish him from any other walker.

A plan began to form in his mind. He would make his way back to the cottage, clean himself up then take the bike and go down to Devon where he would kill the bitch policewoman and leave the country. He had an escape route worked out; fly to the Channel Islands, which wouldn’t require a passport then take a day trip across to France and a train to northern Spain. He remembered reading at school that the mountains on the border between France and Spain were wild and untamed. Hiding would be easy.

Thoughts of the life waiting the other side of his next killing kept him going despite pain and hunger but he moved slowly. It was well past midnight when he reached the forest bordering the hills where the cottage lay. The night was dark except when the cloud was blown away by the increasing wind to reveal a full moon. As he trudged through the trees he heard the sound of a motor in the distance. He paused, trying to identify the engine. Whatever it was, it was travelling fast and in his direction. He froze in the shadow of a leafy birch. The regular whump whump of rotor blades slicing the air could only mean one thing.

An intense spotlight illuminated the valley he had just left and flickered through the trees. He waited for it to pass then ran for the next dense patch of cover, forgetting his pains as adrenaline anaesthetised him. The helicopter swept back and he pressed himself up against the trunk of a larch, hoping that he would blend in.

The sweep finished and he ran on. For half an hour the pattern repeated itself as the helicopter searched the area in a tight grid. Eventually it moved on but the encounter had been another blow to his confidence. His cottage was less than a mile away but it was no longer a place of refuge; if they were hunting he needed to keep on the move. As he limped on he saw a sweep of headlights down the unmade road that led to the cluster of cottages by the lake. He crept to the edge of the woodland and looked back up the road. He could see two other cars blocking access, one of them with a distinctive blue and white pattern down the side. The sight rocked him back on his heels and he sat down, head in hands.

How could they have found him? His first thought was to blame Wendy but the idea was too far-fetched. Wayne then. The little snake had grassed after all, despite his promise of undying loyalty. Until he’d been locked up because of that bitch, his control of him had been absolute. She was the cause of all his problems; this was all her fault. Thinking of the policewoman reminded him that he needed the information he had hidden in the bike.

He trod silently on leaf mould, aware of the stillness around him and the searchers so close by. The bike was where he had left it, the panniers full and ready for his departure. He contemplated wheeling it through the woods but it would be impossible without making noise so he decided he had no choice but to leave it behind and trust his legs for a few more miles. He unlocked the panniers and pulled out one of the bags.

The air was cool on his bare skin as he stripped off his stinking clothes and changed. He folded a couple of clean shirts, underwear and some jogging pants into his rucksack, then put his razor and the computer printouts on top. There wasn’t room for anything else.

He walked back down the rise away from the cottage. When he was far enough from the police, he called her number from his mobile phone. It was past two in the morning and he could tell that he’d woken her. Her voice was thick with a cold and he shuddered with distaste. He hated snot, hers in particular, but he set that thought to one side and issued instructions in a low voice.

Call made, he calculated how long he would have to wait and where to hide. He decided to make his way straight to the pick-up point he had given her. There was a stream on the way he could drink from and his hunger could wait a few more hours. Ignoring his fatigue, the fire at his neck and the sharp ache in his ankle, he settled his rucksack more comfortably between his shoulder blades and turned south.

The birds were just starting to sing and there was a line of colourless light along the eastern horizon when he neared the rendezvous. The sound of male voices brought him up with a start and he crawled forward until he could pick out words above the sound of splattering as someone relieved themselves.

‘…one hour then home and bed.’

‘You don’t want the overtime?’

‘The wife’ll kill me. If I have a choice I’m saying no but I’ve got money on it that they’ll cancel all leave and make the extra time compulsory.’

‘That’s crazy. He’ll be miles away by now. Let some other division have the pleasure of finding him.’

‘Maybe, but you know Cave. He’s a belt ‘n’ braces man. He’ll have roadblocks up for at least another twenty-four hours. You got any of that coffee left?’

‘Half a cup. You’re welcome to it. Any more caffeine and I’ll be awake ’til Sunday.’

As the two men went back to their car, Smith inched forward until he had the height of the hedge between himself and their eyeline then crept on soundlessly. Two fields away he pulled out his map, pleased with himself for keeping it. There was no way that the police would be able to cover all the back roads in this part of the county. He selected an unnamed single-track road and called her again with the change of pick-up location, plus a demand for blankets, her medical kit, food and drink.

She wouldn’t be able to check for letters until eight-thirty, which meant she should be with him by ten-fifteen at the latest. When he reached the track he’d chosen, he was pleased to see it was clear of police and he settled down to wait. At ten-thirty he’d rung her to find out that she was still ten miles away. He started to curse her slowness then remembered that she was his only lifeline for now. The sense of dependency was unwelcome and he decided that as soon as she’d done what was needed, she’d have to go. As he waited he worked through his ideas of how to rid himself of her. It was an amusing diversion and he was smiling when she arrived.

There was a new look of fear on her face that he put down at first to her guilt for being late but when she couldn’t look him in the eye he’d begun to suspect another reason. As he travelled concealed in the tiny boot of the Peugeot his phobia of cars warred with a terror that she was going to turn him in. By the time they’d stopped somewhere near Hay, away from the motorway, he had been sick with nerves.

He swapped his hiding place for the floor in the rear of the car and arranged blankets over himself. It was still an awful place to be if one had a fear of being trapped inside a small place but it was better than the boot. They stopped in a deserted National Trust car park and he allowed her to wash his wounds with fresh water from a drinking fountain before dressing them.

‘How bad?’

‘The one on your cheek is a scratch but the gash along your jaw is nasty, you’ll have a scar. And you were lucky with the one to your throat. It missed a major artery by less than half an inch but it’s deep.’

He noticed that she didn’t ask him what had happened and was pleased at the control he had established over her.

‘A stupid accident. I’ll be more careful next time.’ He explained.

She nodded, keeping here eyes averted but the fact that he had volunteered information made her bold.

‘Where are we going?’

‘North Devon.’

‘For how long?’

‘As long as it takes. What did you tell the hospital?’

‘That I was still sick. I’ve been off for days.’

Her illness was of no relevance.

‘So they won’t be expecting you back for a while. Good.’

Later in the afternoon he kept out of sight while she went to find bed and breakfast accommodation in a seaside village. She was gone a long time and he started to fret. When she returned he smacked her head hard enough to turn her ear pink.

‘It’s summer. Everywhere is full but I eventually found a small B & B on the outskirts of town that had a cancellation. I explained to the landlady that you were recuperating from a car accident. She’s given us a room on the ground floor at the back. It’s small but it will do, won’t it?’

‘It’ll have to.’

‘I bought you this.’ She passed him a walking stick with a carved horn handle.

‘I don’t need it.’

‘It will help with the…’

‘The what?’ He was amused by her frightened discomfort.

‘It will make it more convincing, about the accident. And if I add some more gauze to your chin, and put the other arm in a sling…’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ But he submitted to more gauze and consented to carry the stick.

Normally he didn’t listen to the news because he had never considered himself vulnerable to police enquiry but with their arrival at the cottage all that had changed. Knowing what they knew about him had become important. He switched on the car radio. When the news came around and he was the main item, he looked at her from the corner of his eye. She kept her face straight ahead, her expression frozen. Her lack of reaction told him that she wasn’t surprised and he wondered whether she thought it was true. Best to continue their charade.