The Disciple (4 page)

He pulled the curtain aside as minutely as he could and flicked a glance up and down Station Road. A light wind was blowing and the brown and withering leaves of the trees were shedding as the seasons waged their inexorable campaign. Branches swayed with gentle eroticism against the backdrop of the streetlamps. Nothing else moved.

He moved the chest of drawers away from the door and tiptoed to the bathroom. He drank from the tap to counter the dry stickiness of too many WKDs, downed with his crew to celebrate his release. Returning to his room, he fancied he heard a noise so
he lifted the chest of drawers back into place as quietly as he could manage.

He flicked at his mobile. It was four in the morning. He pulled the curtain further back, opened his window and took a long pull of chilled air, faintly scented with decay and the sharp promise of winter.

He heard the creak of a floorboard and froze. His eyes darted around the room, at the dark shadows of the wardrobe, the blackness of an alcove. He could imagine The Reaper hiding there, waiting to strike. He flung himself back into the still damp bed and pulled the duvet over his head.

Finally, he poked his head out from his cocoon and heaved a timorous sigh.

‘Oh my days.’

Was this all he had to look forward to – cowering in this gloomy old house, waiting to die? Waiting for The Reaper to spring from his hiding place and cut him to pieces?

He was invaded by an urge for the outdoors and dressed quickly. He padded downstairs to the kitchen to pull on his Nikes. He took a pinch of the barely eaten welcome-home cake baked by his aunt and crunched down on the icing. Kicking aside one of the three deflating balloons mustered for his homecoming, he tiptoed softly to the door. A minute later he was out on Station Road, hunching himself against the breeze in his too thin jacket, heading towards the bridges – one for the river and one for the railway that no longer stopped in Borrowash. He crossed the road that fed traffic across to the scrubby flood plains of the Trent and beyond, heading towards the path from which he’d occasionally fished as a young boy, and further on to the grounds of Elvaston Castle, dilapidated and long since abandoned to its fate by the council.

As he approached the railway bridge, Jason was halted in his tracks by a noise, which might have been a car door slamming. He turned to face the line of parked cars resting beside the pavement from their daily labours. Nothing moved. No one stood
outside their car ready to disappear into their home and no engine was started by a driver making an early start.

Jason stood back against a hedge, completely still apart from his eyes, which flicked frantically around in the gloom. Then he spotted the cat wandering down the pavement towards him, bobbing along, not a care in the world. He breathed more easily but wondered whether leaving the safety of the house was a good idea. The Reaper could be out here, waiting for his chance. But that was exactly why he had to get out. In the open air he could see all comers. In bed, death lurked behind every curtain, every door.

He turned to resume his walk but before he could take another step the cat, now just a few yards away, swerved away from a gate and froze, staring at something behind a hedge. Jason tried to follow the cat’s gaze but could see nothing. He crossed the road as stealthily as he could manage and continued to stare after the creature.

Jason’s heart rate, already accelerated, missed a long beat when he saw the shoe glistening black against the streetlight. He could see a leg now, also dressed in black, and further up to what might have been a gloved hand. He looked around for an escape route, peering back up the road to his aunt’s house, wondering whether to make a run for it. But to do so would take him closer to the figure hiding in the neighbouring garden. Before Jason could separate reason from panic, the figure stepped out of the garden and faced him in a manner he knew only too well from his dreams.

In the split second before he ran down Station Road towards the river beyond, Jason’s feverish mind managed to register the black balaclava, black overalls and black sport shoes. Black … to hide the blood.

Chief Inspector Hudson lit a cigarette and watched idly as the Scientific Support Team unloaded their equipment and prepared to do their work on the sleek black Mercedes nestling in the
parking bay of Preston Street NCP. A uniformed officer looked round, then took out a set of keys at Hudson’s signal. He approached the driver’s door then hesitated. He reached out a gloved hand and opened the door.

‘Not locked, sir,’ he said then stood back.

‘Thanks.’ Hudson discarded his cigarette and approached. DS Grant reached the top of the stairwell at that moment, panting heavily, and walked with some difficulty over to the hub of activity.

Hudson kept his eyes on the car as Grant joined him. ‘It’s four floors up, girl. Don’t you think you should be taking the lift?’

‘Good for me,’ she grinned by way of explanation, though Hudson knew all about her claustrophobia.

‘Face it, luv. You’ll never see twenty-nine again. It’s downhill all the way.’

‘So I see,’ panted Grant, giving Hudson the once over. Hudson laughed, then turned his eyes from the interior of the vehicle to the uniformed officer and nodded at the boot. ‘Okay, Jimmy.’

The officer popped the boot and Hudson and Grant moved to take a look. Inside was a soft brown leather suitcase which, to judge from its shape, appeared full. On top of the suitcase a dark blue suit covered in cellophane had been hastily tossed in. Next to the case was a set of car keys. The officer examined the suit and pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of the jacket. He handed it to Grant, who’d just finished snapping on latex gloves.

‘Double room. Paid in cash,’ said Grant. ‘It’s an invoice from the Duchess Hotel. I know it. It’s a dive on Waterloo Street.’ Hudson flashed an inquiring glance. ‘A tom I know got beaten up there by her client.’

‘So Harvey-Ellis did come back early for a bit on the side. Our big cheese has got himself a tasty cracker.’

Laura Grant smiled indulgently. ‘Well, he was alone when he parked the car, guv, I’ve just seen the footage. The car arrived at 14.07 hours on Saturday …’

‘14.07 hours,’ said Hudson. ‘This is National Car Parks, darlin’, not the SAS.’

‘That’s what it says on the computer, guv. But I can put “Saturday lunchtime” in the report if you prefer?’

Hudson chuckled, then gestured at the suited technicians waiting to examine the car. They approached the vehicle and set to work combing, sifting and collecting.

Keep running. Keep thinking. Keep running. Keep thinking. Jason was used to neither but still he ran and tried to think, attempting to block out the vision of a vengeful hunter gaining on him. He’d set off into the murk of the fields, picking up the path that hugged the deceptively idle river.

But his tar-lined lungs wouldn’t let him run and he had to stop to suck in much-needed oxygen. He wheeled round unsteadily, ready for an attack, but there was no one behind him. He coughed then sucked in a few hard breaths and tried to focus back down the path, but sweat stung his pupils. He wiped it away and a few seconds later he saw the figure, maybe a hundred yards away, striding relentlessly towards him. Jason turned and struck out again, trying to tamp down the fear that was constricting his lungs even more than the tar.

When he slowed again, he could hear the steady rhythm of his pursuer. Eventually Jason had to rest again but this time his rapid pull for oxygen couldn’t ease the stabbing pains in his chest. He faced back down the river, trying to see, but again the sweat salted his vision. Although there was no artificial light to soothe him, a fine moon ensured good visibility and, as his breathing became easier, he was able to distinguish a dark figure rounding the bend of the path.

As he scrambled along, Jason began to sob soundlessly as he’d learned to in White Oaks. A part of his brain urged him to stop to face his fate: anything was better than this torment, day and
night. But he didn’t. Something basic, something primal inside kept him going.

When he stopped again, Jason realised he was at a fork in the path. The main path continued to follow the river back towards Derby, but the left fork wound its way round to Elvaston Castle and its dark tree-lined grounds.

He turned down the path towards Elvaston. After hobbling round a couple of ninety-degree bends, he staggered onto the overgrown bank of a stream. He settled into the undergrowth with a view of the path and tried to regain the rhythm of his breathing as quietly as he could.

Several minutes elapsed but nobody came down the path. Jason began to shiver and, worse, started to get cramp. He’d crouched in as near a position of readiness as he could manage but it soon began to hurt. After ten minutes of this, Jason finally had to swivel into a seated position and wait, eyes darting, ears pricked, every sense on heightened alert.

Hudson and Grant stepped into the gloom of the dingy lobby onto a threadbare carpet, feeling the tacky pull of ancient spillage on their shoes. The noxious odour of cheap disinfectant assaulted their noses and the tobacco-stained walls did the same for their eyes.

The man behind a cramped bureau gave Grant an unsubtle stare of approval as she approached, then turned to Hudson with an over-friendly grin. He was short, slightly overweight, and had long straggly hair that disguised his early baldness as ineffectively as the grin hid his yellowing teeth.

‘It’s thirty for the hour or sixty-five for the night and we don’t do breakfast …’ Grant’s warrant card silenced the man and his manner became defensive. ‘Oh yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m DS Grant, this is Chief Inspector Hudson. We’re inquiring after a guest who stayed here on Saturday night,’ said Grant,
brandishing a photograph of Tony Harvey-Ellis under the man’s nose. ‘Are you the proprietor, sir?’ she asked as he took the picture from her.

He looked up at her and back at the photograph. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded. ‘I am.’

‘Your name, sir?’ asked Hudson, swinging around, preparing to take an interest for the first time.

‘Sowerby. Dave Sowerby.’

‘Do you recognise the man, Mr Sowerby?’ asked Grant.

Sowerby concentrated fiercely on the photograph. ‘No,’ he said after a few moments of unconvincing deliberation. He handed back the photograph, returning his attention to the reception desk and fiddling with some papers as if to imply a heavy workload.

‘Mmmm.’ Hudson wandered off to the front door but neither he nor Grant made any attempt to leave. After a minute, Hudson ambled back to the desk, picked up the local newspaper from under a stack of documents and jabbed a finger at the picture of Tony Harvey-Ellis, smiling on the front page. ‘Perhaps this is a better likeness, Mr Sowerby?’

‘Is that the guy?’ said Sowerby, hardly bothering to look.

‘That’s him,’ said Hudson. ‘His name is Tony Harvey-Ellis. But then you knew that because he stayed here Saturday night. Mr Harvey-Ellis drowned in the early hours of Sunday morning. The picture we showed you was taken at the mortuary.’

‘Most people who see a picture of a dead body tend to react in some way,’ added Grant, smiling coldly.