Blood and Stone (15 page)

‘Would you like to explore the caves?' he asked Mariner.

‘Not today,' said Mariner, inwardly shuddering. He could think of little worse than being enclosed by tons of solid rock; the mere thought of it made him break out in a sweat. Disconcerted too, at suddenly being among so many people again while he was walking, Mariner didn't linger at the falls for long, preferring to get back on to the quieter footpaths. He made his way back around the mountain and as he began the descent towards the pastureland of Caranwy, the cloud began to thicken again, the breeze strengthened and he heard the first rumble of thunder. By the time Mariner climbed the wall and into the woods the rain was pelting down and the storm was moving directly overhead, the thunder booming periodically. Nearing the village and through the trees Mariner saw the wind billowing the sides of Willow's poly tunnels, and wondered if it had been a profitable day at market. It occurred to Mariner that the farm must really be thriving if it generated enough produce to sell locally and to distribute more widely. He was pondering the logistics of this, and trying to calculate tonnage and turnover, when a howl, like a human cry of anguish, ripped through the air and made his scalp crawl.

Mariner stopped walking and stood stock still, straining his ears for the slightest sound. He could hear nothing now, except the rain pattering on the leaves and the last clap of thunder dying slowly away. Maybe he'd been mistaken, or had imagined it. Somewhere up in the trees a crow cawed and Mariner shook his head with relief. He ploughed on through the dense undergrowth, the footpath eventually opening out again close to the wall, and he had just started to make good progress along it when out of nowhere Mariner caught a brief flash of fluorescent green before something hurtled into him, sending him flying sideways into the scrub, to land on a bed of brambles and nettles. Scrambling to his feet Mariner lunged for his assailant, before he or she could escape, and received a heavy clout to the side of the head in return. Despite Mariner's efforts to restrain him, the figure kicked and fought like an animal, though Mariner had an impression of a man, small and wiry, dressed in black lycra and a high-visibility waterproof jacket.

‘Get the fuck off me!' he was shouting. ‘I didn't see anything, I'll swear to it. Let me go!' But Mariner was bigger and more experienced at this kind of tussle and after sustaining several further blows, he had the man pinned to the ground, face down, with his arms high behind his back, both of them gasping for breath. ‘Please,' the man said, pleading now. ‘I can forget what I saw. I swear I won't tell a soul. I didn't see your face and I'll walk away without turning round …'

‘Relax,' Mariner said, gulping in air. ‘I'm not going to hurt you. I don't know who you think I am but my name is Tom Mariner. I'm a police officer. I'm staying in Caranwy and I'm walking back there after a day out. That's all. What's your name?'

He tried in vain to wriggle out from Mariner's grasp. ‘Why the fuck should I tell you that?'

He had a touch of the Irish brogue, Mariner noticed. ‘All right, that doesn't matter. Just tell me what it is you're running from.'

At that the man seemed to suddenly accept defeat and his resistance crumbled. ‘My name is Hennessey,' he wheezed. ‘Joe Hennessey.'

‘Right, Joe, I'm going to let you get up,' Mariner said. ‘Then I want you to tell me exactly what's going on. Understood?'

Hennessey nodded. ‘Deal,' he said.

Bit by bit Mariner released his hold and Hennessey got to his feet, stretching out an arm to lean on a nearby tree trunk for support, but keeping a distance between them. In roughly his early thirties, he was slim and pale with mouse-brown hair that was either fashionably, or as a result of the rain and wrestling, untidily mussed. He was wearing what Mariner could identify now as running gear, complete with trainers, the twin earpieces of an mp3 player dangling around his neck. It was now that Mariner also saw the mud and the blood on Hennessey's high-vis jacket. ‘So?' he asked.

Hennessey drew a breath. ‘There's a man, back there. He's been … he's dead … oh, Christ. I was just out running and, fuck it, I slipped and fell down the bank and landed on top of him, on the ground. Someone's killed him. I thought you must be . .'

‘Show me,' said Mariner.

Hennessey's eyes cast wildly about. ‘Ah fuck it; can't we just go get someone?'

‘We will, but first I want you to show me.' Mariner put a hand on Hennessey's shoulder. ‘Take some deep breaths. I told you; I'm a police officer, although I can't exactly prove it right now. All I'm asking is that you take me to where he is.'

Finally Hennessey seemed to pull himself together. ‘Sure, okay, okay. It's back this way.'

He led Mariner back along the footpath towards the rickety bridge. After they'd been walking for about three minutes they came to the edge of a small gully, the river running along at the bottom, and Hennessey slowed his pace. Then he stopped at a place where the side of the footpath had broken away, and there were deep gouges in the mud that disappeared over the edge of the steep embankment. ‘Down there,' Hennessey said in a hoarse whisper, looking anywhere but down.

‘All right Joe,' Mariner said, firmly. ‘I'm going to take a quick look and then we're going to report it. But you must wait. You're an important witness so I need you to stay with me.' Hoping that Hennessey wasn't about to scarper, Mariner scrambled down the embankment and a wave of nausea swept over him. He'd witnessed unnatural death in many different forms but could never get used to the initial shock. A man, or more accurately the remains of one, was lying on the ground face up, his chest a mass of blood and raw flesh where he had been repeatedly hacked in what looked like a frenzied knife attack. His face, what was left of it, and clothing were covered in mud, intermingled with the blood, as if he'd been rolled in it. A split-second image of Anna, lying covered in blood on the roadside, careered into Mariner's head and he rapidly deflected it.

Bracing himself, he knelt by the body and checked the pulse points knowing that it was futile. The skin was cool to the touch and he could feel the beginnings of the onset of rigor mortis. He also went through the pockets checking for any identification, but there was nothing. Remaining where he was, to avoid the risk of disturbing forensic evidence, Mariner cast a look around the immediate area but could, on the face of it, see no sign of a murder weapon, though he could determine what appeared to be blood smears on the foliage to his right and there were some signs that a half-hearted attempt had been made to conceal the body with leaves and brush. Careful to retrace his exact steps, Mariner clambered back up the bank. The top was greasy and steep and he was grateful when Hennessey reached out a hand to help him up the last couple of feet. He noticed again the blood on Hennessey's clothes.

‘He really is …?' Hennessey said, reluctant to say the word again.

Mariner just nodded his head. He'd already taken his phone out, but it was useless. ‘Christ, there's no signal,' he said to Hennessey. ‘Where's the nearest place you can get one around here?'

‘I don't know,' Hennessey said defensively. ‘I'm just staying at the pub for a couple of days. I mean, I've tried, but it's never consistent, one day to the next.'

‘There must be somewhere.'

Mariner cast around him; in the confusion he'd completely lost his bearings, and the trees here were so thick that they blocked any sight of landmarks. His dilemma was to raise the alarm and to preserve the scene, but he didn't want to lose sight of Hennessey.

‘We're nearer to the Hall,' Hennessey said, eventually seeing his uncertainty. ‘The edge of the estate is just a couple of hundred yards up that way.' He pointed up to the left.

Mariner considered. Gwennol would at least have the advantage of land lines, and would provide a useful reference point for the police when they came. ‘Shit,' he said, thinking aloud, ‘it might be nearer, but there's all that bloody barbed wire to negotiate.'

Hennessey swallowed. ‘There is a way through that,' he said. ‘But if anyone finds out …'

Mariner glared. ‘A man's been killed,' he reminded him. ‘We're not pissing about here. Show me.'

‘I don't know.' Hennessey was suddenly uncertain. ‘It might look as if …'

‘Never mind that,' said Mariner impatiently. ‘We're losing valuable time. Now move.' Mariner gestured towards the path, making sure that Hennessey went ahead of him. From the state of the man he was pretty certain that he was telling the truth about his discovery of the body, but one could never be sure. Again they had to battle their way through the deep brambles, emerging at the end of the path alongside the tantalizingly close estate park, the tarmac road clearly visible a few yards ahead of them, in parallel with the thick swathe of barbed-wire fencing. ‘Christ,' Mariner murmured under his breath. ‘What is it about people round here?'

‘Come up this way,' Hennessey said, and leading Mariner about ten metres along the fence, he crouched suddenly and after manipulating it for a few seconds, he pulled open a panel large enough to crawl through, where the wire had been cut.

Mariner gave him a sideways look. ‘I can see why you'd want to keep this a secret,' he said.

‘I'm not doing any harm,' Hennessey grumbled. ‘I take photographs. There's some unbelievable wildlife here, especially around dawn, and with the trees in the background you can get some great shots across the parkland and through the mist. Sometimes even the odd stray deer. It doesn't hurt anyone.'

Mariner hesitated before crawling through. ‘What about the dogs?'

‘They're only part time,' Hennessey said. ‘They work Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.' He had done his homework.

They scrambled under the wire, picking up the darkened line of the footpath across the grass, then following it until it emerged part way along the tarmacked drive of the manor, from where they could see the solid grey Palladian building towering up ahead. Mariner led the way up to the main entrance.

‘I'm not sure that they'll like me being here,' Hennessey said, hanging back.

‘I can't imagine they'll be overjoyed to see either of us, particularly the state we're in,' Mariner said brusquely. ‘But there are more important things to consider, so get over it.'

Broad, shallow steps ascended between twin statues and up to the huge double doors. Mariner took them two at a time and pressed on the bell. They waited and waited some more. Mariner had little idea of how such grand houses were run, and had the sudden thought that they might have made a serious mistake in coming here first. There may not even be anyone at home. The storm itself had passed, but all the time that the rain was coming down the crime scene was being compromised, not to mention any wildlife that might be interested.

‘Have you seen the helicopter this afternoon?' he asked Hennessey.

The Irishman shook his head. ‘Can't say that I have,' he said. He'd gone deathly white and his teeth were starting to chatter, the enormity of the last hour starting to have its impact on him. Delayed shock was setting in and he looked close to passing out.

Cursing inwardly, Mariner was just trying to calculate how far they were from the village itself, when the heavy oak door swung open. The woman who stood behind it was dwarfed by the oversized doorway. She was petite to the point of childlike, with black hair tucked back behind her ears, and olive-skinned oriental features. She wore a businesslike white blouse and dark skirt, making Mariner think housekeeper. As she took in the walking and running gear, the mud and the blood, Mariner watched the half-formed smile falter. ‘Can I help you?' she asked.

Mariner had expected some kind of exotic Eastern European accent, but if those were her origins she'd worked hard to disguise the fact. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Mariner,' he said, feeing oddly ineffective without the armour of his warrant card. ‘I need to use your phone to call the local police. A serious incident has occurred in the woodland bordering this property to which we are both unfortunate witnesses. We need to get the police here as soon as possible, and this man needs to go somewhere warm and get a hot drink inside him.' He became suddenly aware of Hennessey swaying on his feet and put out an arm to steady him.

Whether due to the unexpectedness, the uncompromising tone of Mariner's voice, or simply common sense, the woman set aside any objections she might have been considering and opened the door to let them inside. They walked into a cavernous reception hall with wide staircases sweeping up from each side, and handsome portraits looking down from the walls.

‘Christ,' Mariner heard Hennessey breathe beside him.

‘You can use the phone in here,' the woman said, taking them into a room to the right which appeared to be some kind of study, traditionally and somehow appropriately furnished in the style of Agatha Christie, complete with leather Chesterfields and dark mahogany furniture, the walls lined with bookshelves. A huge walnut desk was incongruously topped with a state-of-the-art computer, printer and phone.

‘Thank you,' said Mariner. ‘We could use some blankets, and if you could organize some hot drinks please?' he ordered, nodding towards Hennessey, who had slumped on to one of the sofas. He picked up the receiver. Clearly reluctant to leave them, the housekeeper nonetheless did as Mariner had asked and, as he punched in three nines, he heard her speaking urgently to someone just outside the door. In seconds the dispatch centre cut in and Mariner described what they had found and the location, keeping his voice low to minimize any alarm. As he was doing so the housekeeper reappeared moments later with an armful of fleecy rugs, which she took over to Hennessey. Ending the call, Mariner nodded his thanks. ‘The police will be in here in whatever time it takes them to get from where they're coming.'