Grave Doubts (46 page)

‘That’s my fucking knife!’ The outrage in his voice was disproportionate to the size of the puny blade.

‘Come and get it then.’ She was on her feet, weaving as if she were drunk but with a wildness in her she had never felt before.

Holding his eyes, she raised her bloody arm to her mouth and tasted her blood. This wasn’t a healing suck, or a ladylike lick of a wound, this gesture left smears on her chin and cheeks, and painted her teeth red. The taste of the iron and salt awoke in her a primitive desire to inflict pain on the person who had hurt her. Something of this must have shown in her face as the man took a step back and paused in his circling, appraising her.

He came at her again in a sudden rush. She sidestepped but her mind was moving faster than her injured body and the edge of his blade nicked the skin under her arm, inches from her heart. The pain shocked her but was then forgotten as she was forced to jump to one side when he returned, lightening fast, to the attack. He was closing on her now, confident and practiced with his knife. Her feet felt heavy and she forced herself to think through the fog of her bloodlust. Confidence did not guarantee success. Her opponent was fitter and stronger, fuelled by his hatred towards her despite his injuries. If she couldn’t out-think him, she would die as surely as when she had lain trapped on the ground.

When he charged again she stood her ground. At the last second, she aimed a sharp kick at his knee and swung the pen-knife down in an arc. He stumbled, missed his mark and blood appeared along his cheekbone where her knife had opened an old wound. Half an inch higher and she would have blinded him.

He cried out and turned on her at close quarters. His knife sliced the air by her neck and locks of black hair fell to the ground. They both dropped into a crouch, circling each other, snarling, oblivious to pain, equals in the desire to destroy and maim. She saw him feint right but his eyes gave him away and she held her ground. When he rushed her she dropped into a ball at the last minute and rolled into his legs, bringing him down. It wasn’t an orthodox move but it floored him.

She leapt onto him, slicing at his neck, whilst holding his right hand away with her left. He was stronger but she had the advantage of surprise as he hadn’t expected her attack. Avoiding his empty free hand, she slashed at the arm holding the knife, opening a gouge from the wrist across his palm. She tried to slice again but he caught her arm and rolled her over onto her back so that they lay on top of one another, a knife in both right hands. His left hand squeezed her wrist until tears flowed from her eyes. Her left hand found his injury and tore at the broken skin on his palm until he pulled it away, moaning in pain, and dropped his knife.

It lay on the cobbles. Before he could pick it up with his good hand she kicked it away into the shadows by the house wall where it clanged against a bucket. She rolled out from under him.

There was silence. He held his injured arm to his chest and stared at her. She rose to her feet, feeling no pain. Blood soaked her T-shirt and ran down her naked legs onto the cobbles but it was irrelevant. He looked weak, defeated but then he pulled a little blade from his boot and took a coil of twine from a pocket and she realised he’d been faking his weakness. So be it; she closed in.

As she lunged he grabbed her wrist and twisted so that her fingers dropped the knife.

‘No,’ she screamed, and head-butted him sideways. ‘Get away from me you fucking pervert.’ She aimed a kick at his stomach but he grabbed her foot and pulled her forward, unbalancing her. She landed heavily on her side but the momentum of her fall pulled him over. He was focused entirely on slipping a noose of rope over her head. The idea of being tethered like an animal for slaughter made her fight with even greater desperation.

‘No you don’t!’

She jerked her head back suddenly, accidentally striking the point of his chin hard. The sound of his teeth snapping shut made her grin like a savage as she sprang to her feet and stamped on his injured hand so that he released the scalpel. She picked it up.

He was on all fours, stunned by her blow, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. The desire to finish him was extraordinary: step forward, yank his head back and slice. It would be over in a matter of seconds and she would be free of the evil crouching on the cobbles before her. She’d be doing the world a favour. Almost without thinking she touched the tiny blade, marvelling at its fine edge. She took a step forward.

The man looked up, glancing from the knife to the expression on her face and his eyes widened in terror. The sight thrilled her.

‘No, please.’ He tried to stand but the blow to his chin had stunned his nervous system and he only managed to rise on one knee in a parody of a romantic proposal. ‘I’m begging you. For God’s sake don’t.’

To see this man so helpless, looking up at her and pleading for mercy, brought a rush of pleasure to her body. Her face flushed and her mouth opened wider in delight. He must have recognised the look on her face; perhaps he’d seen it before in his mirror, because he shrank away from her.

She took another step towards him, in no hurry now that he was incapacitated.

‘Don’t!’

‘And why shouldn’t I, you sick bastard? It’s what you deserve. A life for a life.’

The knife came up between their eyes.

‘You can’t. You’re police, you can’t kill me. You’re not allowed to.’

She laughed, a horrible sound, and he struggled into a crouch.

‘Get back down on your knees and beg.’ She spat the words at him and after a split second of hesitation he obeyed.

‘Now tell me why you deserve to live.’

‘I have my rights. You can’t do this.’

‘You just tried to kill me. I’m defending myself – kill or be killed. Everyone will believe it was self-defence.’

‘It’s a lie, look, I’m surrendering, see!’ He raised bloody wrists as if to be handcuffed.

She sneered at the gesture.

‘See, see, I surrender. You can’t kill me. I’m your prisoner.’

He was sobbing now, a line of snot trickling from his nose. It was pathetic.

The hatred drained away from Nightingale, leaving her clear-headed and appalled. She’d been ready to kill a man as he begged for mercy and the realisation made her feel sick.

As the bloodlust faded, so did her sense of omnipotence. She was a half-naked woman, injured more than she realised, confronting a serial killer with one of his own knives at an isolated farmhouse. What on earth had she been thinking of, taunting him and ignoring his earlier surrender?

Nightingale shook her head. The man was still kneeling before her, his arms raised. She couldn’t tell whether he had sensed her change of mood but he was looking at her quizzically now, not in fear. If he suspected her weakness, she had no doubt that he would spring back to the attack.

She made her eyes hard and set her jaw but behind the mask her mind struggled to work out what to do next. Part of her still wanted to kill him because of the menace he was but she had no hatred to fuel her actions, just deep distaste. The thought of touching him revolted her.

‘Tie your ankles together. Go on, do it.’ The tone of her voice shocked her. It seemed to come from another person, violent and ruthless. He was hesitating. ‘Fucking do it or I’ll cut your throat and be done with it.’

He rolled onto his backside and brought his knees up as if to obey her but something in his attitude had changed. Nightingale crouched slightly, balancing her weight, ready to spring forward, then realised that he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring over her shoulder, up into the sky.

‘Old trick,
’ she thought, and ignored the implied suggestion to turn around.

‘Go on, tie your…’ she stopped.

She could hear something now. At first she thought it was a car labouring up the hill but the note and rhythm were wrong. Smith recognised it though. A look of panic crossed his face and his eyes darted around the clearing, suspecting a trap. It was a helicopter.

Even as she started to smile the man leapt up. She braced herself for his attack but it never came. He was gone, running towards the trees. Nightingale watched him go with relief that quickly turned to anxiety. Under the leafy canopy he could avoid the helicopter and run for miles, concealed from sight. He would escape and she would never be able to live without fear whilst he was free. She wept with frustration. It wasn’t fair.

‘No!’ she cried, feeling the weight of choice fall on her. Keeping her eyes on the point at which he had entered the woods she ran, her long legs closing the gap to the trees, her feet squelching in blood inside her trainers.

Once in the wood she stopped to listen, heard his crashing run and turned to follow. Ferns and brambles caught at her legs, fresh blood started to ooze from the cut to her side but she still felt no pain. She gripped the scalpel hard like a talisman. The noises he made grew closer. He was running, not hiding, and she was outpacing him.

She found the rope discarded on the ground. When she picked it up she noticed it was covered with blood where he’d held it. She looped it bandoleer fashion from one shoulder and increased her pace.

The sounds of him thrashing through the undergrowth were loud in the night. Beyond them she could hear the faint echoes of the sea. He was heading towards the cliffs through the thickest part of the woods. If she could find the footpath she would stand a chance of cutting him off whilst taking a safer route. She slowed and circled out. After a few minutes of zigzagged running she found the track and began to run faster towards the cliffs.

‘No! Where did she go?’

‘Into the woods, sir. We’ll never catch them.’

Fenwick had arrived with his small band of rescuers just in time to see a figure he thought was Nightingale run into the woods.

‘We have to try and follow them. Spread out either side of where she went in. Keep in radio contact.’

He looked up at the helicopter, virtually useless for a search of woodland at night, and cursed MacIntyre for releasing so few men. He called and was told that more officers had already been released from Clovelly.

He and his two helpers set out in an expanding search pattern each with a powerful torch. Every few minutes Fenwick used his radio to call for silence so that they wouldn’t end up chasing each other through the trees. There were noises a long way off to his right but nothing else. He directed the officers towards them and followed.

Shortly after he’d halted them for the sixth time he spotted a clear swathe of broken ferns ahead of him with traces of fresh blood at waist height. He called the others closer and they followed the trail more quickly, even as the noises ahead of them died away.

The sound of a broken twig snapped through the night and Nightingale froze. He was very close. She crouched down trying to control her breathing and to hear beyond the blood in her ears. Not far away she could make out heavy surf breaking against rocks a hundred feet below. They must be near the headland where an ancient path used by smugglers twisted down to a bay concealed beneath the overhang. There was another faint sound, impossible to position, then silence.

She waited in the darkness. Did he know that she was following him? Was he circling behind her even now? Her skin crawled. She twisted her shoulder blades in an attempt to ease the pricking she could feel between them and risked a glance back. Nothing. Just tree trunks and darkness. She swallowed and it sounded too loud. Gradually her breathing slowed. Perhaps she was on her own and he had slipped away after all. She waited. There was another snap, clearly discernable over to her left. She lowered her body to the ground and started to crawl forward, keeping her head below the top of the bracken. She was near the edge of the wood. A faint glow cast shadows back towards her and she could see grey grass beyond. The helicopter was coming back again, the noise of its rotors faint but growing louder.

The shape of a crouching man crossed between her and the moonlight, less than ten metres away. Another few moments and she would have crawled on top of him. As he ran towards the cliff top, Nightingale slipped through the wood after him. He was looking not towards her but into the sky. He ducked back into the margin of the wood, only three tree trunks from where she lay. The noise from the helicopter was loud, then a spotlight swung onto the cliff top, arced over it and away, its search continuing.

The man barely waited once the light was gone. He ran onto the grass but this time Nightingale was right behind him. In her left hand she held the knife; in the right, a fallen branch that she wielded as a club. She let out a terrible yell as she sprang on him, hitting out as she leapt forward. He half turned and the blow, heavy and full of hate, fell on his neck and shoulder. Something cracked and he yelped with pain. A dressing fell from his face and blood spurted from his cheek. His left arm hung limp at his side.

‘You fucking bitch!’

Despite his injuries, he sprang towards her, eager to fight. In his right hand he held a Stanley knife. The vicious blade glinted in the moonlight. He swung it at her narrowly missing her cheek. She parried with the branch, ducking back out of his reach but he came at her again, with an energy that was unnatural given the damage she had inflicted.

‘Never confront a wounded animal,
’ her father had always said, but that’s exactly what she had done. She should have knifed him when she had the chance. Now she had no doubt that he was determined to kill her, even if he died in the process.

She swung at his arm again but missed and he used her moment of unbalance to leap forward, knife lunging like a bayonet. It caught her lower arm, just a small nick but enough to draw blood and jar her knife to the ground. He laughed in triumph and came at her again, slashing wildly. He knocked the branch out of her hand, and then threw his weight against her. She held his wrist, pushing the knife away from her face and tried to knee him but the angle was wrong. Gradually his weight brought the blade closer to her eyes. In desperation she angled her head to the side and bit down on his chin so hard her that teeth almost met. He howled. Blood filled her mouth and she spat it in his eyes then twisted his badly injured wrist so sharply that he dropped his own knife in shock; she kicked it over the cliff.