Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (32 page)

CHAPTER 13

We're the
cavalry
. It would be bad form to arrive early; in the nick of time would do nicely
.

Skidding and wheel-spinning along the one and only artery between Shillmoor and Blindburn, the muddy Northumbria Police Land Rover made slow and erratic progress towards the Haydon turnoff. A snowplough had made a fleeting dash between villages in the early hours, leaving six foot snowdrifts either side of the road, but since then several more feet of fresh snow had built up on the rutted surface.

The rolling Cheviot Hills and moors to the right of the road were blanketed with a brilliant white, broken only by intermittent stick-like trees – coal-black against the hoary backdrop – hedgerows and the occasional dry stone wall. The River Coquet, to the left, normally a trickle, was fast flowing and swollen with snowmelt, its normally shallow rocky riverbed lost beneath churning, icy water.

Within the warm confines, a uniformed police constable fought a battle of wills with the wheel. Accompanying him were Mitchell, in the front, and Wright in the back, his head lolling against the window, snoring.

“Worst weather I’ve seen up here since I was a kid,” the young driver, scarcely into his twenties, said in earnest.

Wright stopped in mid-snore. Without opening his eyes, he muttered, “And when was that? Last week?”

Rolling his eyes, Mitchell said, “Ignore him, lad. He’s always grumpy in the morning.” As the windscreen wipers worked tirelessly to clear the spray, he squinted to see the Haydon turnoff. “There it is,” he said finally. “Christ. You did bring a couple of shovels, Bainbridge?”

“Aye.”

“We’re gonna need ’em.”

The Land Rover slowed to a skidding halt by the junction. The snowplough had thrown a huge drift into the side road, blocking it completely up to waist height. The road beyond was untouched with deep virgin snow.

Rubbing an ache in his neck, Wright eased his big frame out of the four wheel drive and stood by the roadside, eyeing the obstruction. Mitchell and Bainbridge joined him as the engine idled. The snow had died with the breeze, leaving the breath of the three officers’ hanging in the air in front of them. Mitchell suppressed a shiver and let out a sigh.

“Should we radio in for the snowplough? Get him to sort out his mess?” Wright asked with mild irritation as he plucked his
Marlboros
out of his jacket.

Mitchell shook his head. “The ploughs are working overtime to try to clear the main routes; they won’t have the time to clear these secondary ones just yet. Do you want to hang round here waiting?”

Wright thought about it for a second as he lit up with his red dagger lighter. “Not particularly.”

“Well, we might as well just clear it ourselves.”

Wright turned to the young constable. “You heard the man. Jump to it.”

The dejected look Bainbridge gave him was enough to raise Wright’s flagging spirits. Zipping up his
Parka
, he said, “Only joking, mate. Come on then, it won’t move itself.”

Between the three of them, they managed to clear a path in under an hour. As they finished, snow was starting to fall once again.

Glancing up at the solid roof of cloud above them, red-faced and puffing, Mitchell said, “Bloody typical. We better not hang about too long or we’re likely to be stuck here for Christmas. Can’t say that Shelly would be too happy about that!”

“Can’t have you missing the kid’s first Christmas, mate,” Wright said sincerely, blinking flakes out of his bushy eyebrows as he cast his shovel into the back of the Land Rover. His face, too, was red from exertion and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“I’m supposed to be going to my girlfriend’s parents for Christmas dinner,” Bainbridge said conversationally, adding his and Mitchell’s shovels to the pile of equipment in the back of the four wheel drive.

“Nobody cares,” Wright said evenly, then smiled at the resulting puppy dog eyes. “I’m joking! Jesus, you’re bloody sensitive for a copper.”

The slim officer shrugged defensively, but the gesture barely registered within his bulky florescent high visibility jacket.

The front door to Janet and Larry Herring’s home had been left half open and trampled snow had built up just inside the hallway. Pushing the door fully open with the muzzle of his rifle, Bryce peered into the darkened corridor. He could see all the way through to the kitchen, where he could just make out slender legs lying crumpled beyond.

Cautiously, he stepped inside, followed by Sam who was helping Carol, then Jimmy bringing up the rear. After checking the living room, they moved in to the kitchen where the bodies of Larry, Janet and Kerris met them.

Bryce stopped in the doorway. Despite everything that he had already seen and having a very good idea at what he would find here, the sight of the entire Herring family lying dead was still enough to dig uncaring fingers into his still raw wounds.
Sally’s face contorted into a scream
…
Anthony, terrified and cowering
…
Wiping the back of his hand across his dry lips, he turned to Sam and said, “Erm … take Carol into the living room and sit with her there while me and Jimmy sort things here.”

Nodding, Sam gently coaxed Carol back down the hallway.

Folding his arms across his chest, Jimmy said angrily, “How come he gets the fucking babysitting job while I get shit detail?”

Bryce had started to fish his cigarettes out of his coat, but he paused to glare at Jimmy. “Will you just grow up and show just a fucking hint of consideration?” As Jimmy stared defiantly back at him, grasping for a witty comeback, Bryce continued. “She’s been through the mill, like we all have. We’ve all lost people close to us, but Carol has had years of shit. This has got to be one fucking kick too many for anyone, reet?”

“Well,” Jimmy piped up, “the winner of the understatement of the year award goes to Johnny Bryce of Haydon, Northumberland.”

“You’ve got a smart mouth, Jimmy,” Bryce snarled and stepped closer to him. “For a junkie and a dropout.”

Despite Bryce’s intimidating frame, Jimmy held his ground, looking up to the much bigger man. “Sticks and stones,
John
. I divvent answer to you or neebody.”

“You’ve been a stain on this village since you were a spotty little brat. You’re a worthless layabout who got his lass onto drugs, got her up the duff, and then dumped her like steamin’ shit.” Bryce bent closer to him, willing him to take a swing for him. Suddenly, all of his pent up rage seemed to be aimed squarely at Jimmy’s door.

Despite his best efforts, Jimmy could not help but lean away from Bryce’s infuriated face, but with the farmer’s last words, his own anger overruled his fear. “She dumped me! I loved Lisa!” With that, the tremors returned with a vengeance and he had to grip both arms in fear that he would shake himself apart.

Sam popped his head around the door to the living room. Glaring down the hallway at the two men hovering at the threshold to the kitchen, he snapped, “F-f-f-for fuck’s sake! W-w-what’s the matter with y-y-you people?”

The interruption was enough to take the wind out of Bryce’s sails and momentarily defuse the situation. They continued to stare at one another for a moment longer then Bryce turned and entered the kitchen without another word. After a moment, still trembling, Jimmy followed. Before starting, Bryce produced his last remaining two cigarettes and even reluctantly handed one to Jimmy.

They worked together in silence to lift the three bodies and set them outside in the car park at the back of the house. The snow had started once more and a powdery layer quickly built up covering the Herrings where they lay. After locking up, they briefly wiped over the bloodstains and swept up the broken glass, then beckoned Sam to join them.

Bryce filled the kettle and switched it on as Jimmy and Sam took seats at the patio table, the former trying hard to cast out the images of Kerris’ and Larry’s blood that had just been cleaned up. Spooning instant coffee into four mugs, Bryce said, “I think we should secure this house and try to wait it out.” Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you two think?”

“Anyway,” Bryce continued, marginally irritated at the interruption, “we need to sort summit out for you. Wish I’d brought the Browning as well. Either of you two done any shootin’?”

Sam shook his head, but Jimmy said, “Aye, once or twice. Me dad used to have an old double-barrel.”

Bryce thought about it for a moment, then said, “Much as I’d hate to trust you with a gun, I’d prefer at least two of us armed than not.”

“Touchin’,” Jimmy muttered, absently scratching the back of one hand.

“Means a trek to the farm though,” Bryce mused. “Not sure we should risk it – we’ll be out in the open. The only thing we’ve got in our favour is that he’s not a very good shot. Either that or he was just toying with us. Not sure I want to gamble on that.”

“So we just stay here like sitting ducks?” Jimmy said, exasperated, but with nothing else to suggest. He continued scratching, moving up his arm. Bryce caught the action out of the corner of his eye, but managed to refrain from commenting.

“I-if we w-w-wait for him, we can try to t-t-turn the t-tables on him; su-surprise h-him for a change,” Sam suggested, carefully trying to regulate his speech. The effort appeared to tire him quickly.

Bryce chewed his lip as he finished making the coffees. Passing them out, he said finally, “Think that might be a good idea. There’s only one of him; there’s three of us—”

“Four.” Carol had appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously. Her tear-streaked face and bloodshot eyes exaggerated her haggard features, prematurely ageing her, but there was a determination in the back of her eyes that was unmistakable.

The three men stared at her as Bryce handed her a steaming mug of coffee. As she gripped the mug in both hands, he offered her an encouraging smile and repeated, “Four.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes once more then, in a stilted melody, sung, “One for all and all for one, Muskehounds are always ready.”

Bryce shot him a glare, but then his features relaxed and he managed a weary smile. “Aren’t you too young to remember that un?”

“I worship the
Sky
God.”

“Fair play. We only had the three channels when I was growing up. When we got part-time viewing from Channel Four we thought it was Christmas.”

She seemed reluctant at first to leave the imaginary sanctuary of the doorway, but then, hesitantly, Carol stepped forward and eased herself into the chair. She sat in silence, warming her hands on the hot mug and contemplating the dark brown liquid.

“You want to talk about it?” Bryce offered tentatively.

She remained quiet, seemingly transfixed by the steam drifting above her drink. But just as Bryce was about to change the subject, she let out a sigh and spoke. Her voice was hushed and gravelly, but once she started she seemed adamant to finish.

Carol proceeded to tell them everything that had happened, first at Steve’s house, then finishing with Janet drinking the wine. The three men listened in silence, nodding occasionally. At the mention of Whitman’s name, Bryce held a hand over his eyes.

He had known deep down that it was Whitman, but some small part of him had still prayed that it was not so, that it was just some kind of mix up. This was a man with whom he had drunk and laughed, on many occasions. They had become friends. He had even saved him from Jimmy that night in the Miller’s after the confrontation with Moe. Christ, Moe … and Tess. They had been right all along. Everyone else had been fooled by his charms, but not those two. He had been invited into his home. Sally had cooked for him. This so called friend had then murdered his family. Murdered Sally and Anthony! How could he?
WHY
?

Bryce peered through his fingers at the others. The rage pulsed so deeply within him that he wasn’t even sure whether he had screamed that last thought out loud or not. Carol was continuing, unperturbed, so the scream must have echoed inside his head alone.

When she had finished and sat back in morose contemplation, Bryce felt compelled to take the reigns, and explain his view of events leading to their meeting. He had to force down a lump in his throat with a hearty swig of coffee as he skirted past the macabre discoveries of his wife and child, but otherwise recounted events quietly and matter-of-factly.

Sam had to turn away at the fleeting mention of Bryce’s murdered family, brushing tears from his eyes in the process. Everything had been a constant blur since he and Natalie had strolled down into the bar that morning, unaware and totally unprepared for the chain of events that were about to unfold around them. He had not even had time to grieve for her … his Natalie, his love. She had been taken from him in the blink of an eye; by a stranger, for seemingly no reason whatsoever.

He guessed that Bryce had not dealt with his demons yet either, and somehow, he doubted the poor man ever would. He had not only lost his wife, but he had lost his only child too.

Carol seemed to be one stage ahead of Sam and Bryce. She had been through an emotional meat grinder and somehow, through her strength and courage, had managed to come out the other side with her sanity stretched painfully thin, but intact nonetheless.