Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (33 page)

Jimmy was a different enigma altogether. He had lost the girl, Lisa, but she had been a former partner, clearly with a lot of water under the bridge. Sam struggled to justify his thoughts, but he felt that Jimmy was not even in the same city when it came to loss. Those thoughts were instantly followed by guilt. What did he know of Jimmy; of his life and his relationship with Lisa? Nothing. He was just prejudging, based on his appearance and the brief mention of drugs. With that, he cut off that train of thought altogether.

Keeping his mind occupied with the situation at hand, Bryce picked up on one of Carol’s earlier comments. “Bit worried ’bout this wine,” he said, casting a glance to the refrigerator. “What if he’s poisoned other stuff?”

“Wey, we’ve already had some of the milk and we’re all still breathin’,” Jimmy said, but fell silent to ponder further.

“And Brandy,” Carol muttered without lifting her eyes from the patio table.

Bryce leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and glanced around the room, his frown betraying his concerns. After an awkward silence, he finally said, “Guess we cannat really worry about it.”

Sam nodded solemnly, saying, “Doesn’t d-do us any g-g-good.”

My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,

Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air,

With its lament, it often sounds, instead,

Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead,

Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed,

By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.

The police Land Rover drove slowly along Main Street, its occupants glancing left and right. The snow was falling heavily again, and with it, the wind was picking up once more. Freshly deposited powdery snow was being whipped up into swirling snow devils. Despite the worsening weather, they expected to see some activity, but all they saw was empty streets and dark houses.

As they pulled into an empty parking bay at the Miller’s, all three men glanced over to the freshly covered Fiesta that had been abandoned after crashing into the fencing around the Green. Both doors were still wide open, but the engine no longer idled.

“Someone had too much to drink late last night?” Wright asked, sceptically. “That’s not our friend’s is it?”

Getting out, Mitchell said, “No, he’s got that Daihatsu remember.”

“Don’t see it.” Wright slid out after him, glancing up and down the street. “Bit quiet, innit? Even for a farty little place like this.”

Bainbridge joined them, saying with a smile, “Alien abductions, eh?”

“Pucker up your arse then, boy. Don’t want any anal probes prodding about up there, do you?” Wright said, followed by a wink. The fine snow was catching in his hair and eyebrows and clinging to the fur trim of his hood.

Shaking his head, Mitchell said, “Bainbridge, you stay with the car.”

“Aye, and keep your wits about you.” The young PC expected a laugh or a wink to follow, but Wright’s expression remained serious. He frowned and glanced around the seemingly deserted village.

The two detectives strode over to the door and, Mitchell, in the lead pushed it open. Both men entered the darkened bar. Shaking the flakes from his coat, Wright squinted in the gloom as he shoved the door too behind him. The room was still and cold, his breath pluming ahead of him.

“Mister Falkirk? Mister Whitman?” Mitchell called out. “It’s Northumbria Police; Mitchell and Wright.” Remaining a few feet inside the room, he studied the bar and archway through to the lounge. Nothing appeared out of place, but shadow hid a multitude of sins.

“You getting a funny feeling here?” Wright said in all seriousness.

Mitchell grunted and walked towards the lounge. After a moment’s contemplation, Wright followed. As they approached the lounge, Mitchell called out again, “Anyone there? It’s the Police.”

His foot slipped on the wood floor, nearly throwing him onto his back, but Wright shot a hand out to steady him. They both looked down to see smears of a dark sticky substance. Mitchell bent down and touched a finger to it.

“Oh great,” Wright muttered as they both recognised it instantly.

“Call for back up,” Mitchell hissed, adrenaline quickly pumping through his body. He cautiously crossed the threshold into the lounge.

Wright retrieved his mobile, glanced at the signal and cursed. “No fucking signal, as usual.” Glancing behind him to the door, he whispered, “I’m going back to the car to radio from there. You stay where you are till I get back, then we can sweep this place properly.”

“Back to the car,” Wright ordered, stalking slowly back to the door, his eyes darting over every shadow. Mitchell followed, walking backwards back into the bar. As he retreated, he pulled out his stumpy telescopic baton and extended it with a flick of the wrist.

Wright opened the front door and peered up and down the street. After a brief inspection, he dashed across to the Land Rover. Pulling the passenger door open, he said, “Get on the radio, we’ve got—” He cut short the sentence.

PC Bainbridge was slumped back in the driving seat, his throat cut and blood pumping down his chest from the fresh gaping wound.

“FUCK!” he cried out in shock. Extending his own baton, he rapidly checked the back seats then under the four wheel drive as Mitchell joined him. “Bainbridge is dead,” Wright told him as he stood up again.

“Christ, get on the bloody radio then,” Mitchell snapped, scanning the street for any movement.

Wright lent back into the car and cursed immediately. “Radio’s fucked too!”

Glancing in, Mitchell could clearly see that it looked like someone had taken a hammer to it. “I don’t believe this. This is a nightmare!”

Staring at the SPAR and the Post Office, Mitchell said, “Where the hell is everyone? They can’t all be dead. That’s ridiculous.”

They both stood in silence for a moment, considering their options and scanning doors and windows for any movement. Finally, Wright said, “We’re ineffective against this threat. Much as I hate to say it, but we should take the Lanny back to Shillmoor – we came through there and that was all hunky dory. We should be able to call for backup there.”

Mitchell nodded, solemnly. “You’re right.”

Wright quickly walked round to the driver’s side and opened the door. Carefully, he eased Bainbridge out and laid him down in the snow. He stared at his wide, mildly surprised eyes for a moment then gently brushed his hand over them, closing them for good.

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the low moaning of the wind. Snow was building up quickly over their hair and clothing. After what seemed like an age, Wright lent back out of the car and slowly closed the door. Looking around, he said, “Well, that kinda limits our options somewhat.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Options were being dismissed in his mind quicker than he could even consider them. Mitchell grappled with the one remaining option and it left a very sour taste in his mouth.

Wright walked back around the passenger side, his face set to dour deliberation, his baton held tightly in his grip. With an angry grunt, he flipped his hood back over his head.

“We’ve got no choice but to search for survivors and an alternative means of communication or transport,” Mitchell said simply. With his mind made up for him, Mitchell felt a sliver of control returning. Zipping his own brown leather jacket up, he cursed his stupidity for not bringing something warmer.

“Aye.”

Scratching his chin, Mitchell said, “So what do we do know? We’ve got multiple murders, so far all seemingly knife attacks, but if there are many more deaths out there, it is likely that a firearm could be involved. We don’t know as yet whether this is definitely Whitman’s work, or whether it is the work of one or more assailants, but we do know that he is at least skilled with a blade. How am I doing so far?”

“Spot on.” Wright glanced across at the abandoned Ford and a thought occurred to him. “I’m guessing that the driver of that Fiesta saw something, possibly the bodies in the pub, and tried to make a run for it. One of the tyres is out, I can see that from here, but I’m going to take a closer look. Cover me.”

Mitchell looked at him incredulously. “Are you taking the piss?
Cover me
? What with? If a sniper pops up at a window, you want me to throw my baton at him to keep his head down?”

Wright stared back at him, thoughtful, as flakes of snow continued to settle in his hair and goatee. Shaking some of the snow free, he said, “You know what I mean.” With that, he ran for the car at a hunched sprint, his clumping feet throwing up clods of snow behind him.

Apprehensively, Mitchell kept watch as Wright made his short dash to the car. He scanned doorways and windows for any lurking danger; a flicker of a curtain, the dancing of a shadow. Wright reached the car and began a cursory examination of it. It didn’t take long to see why it had been abandoned in a hurry. Waving his colleague over, Wright crouched down between the car and the Post Office.

Mitchell did not need any other hints. He sprinted across to his partner after only a brief hesitation. Ducking down with him, he asked, “So what’s the story?”

“Bullet holes for one – nine millimetre by the looks. By the placements I’d say a pistol, rather than a subbie, so we’ve got that in our favour. Can’t see any traces of blood, so the driver didn’t get capped here, at least.”

“So we may have at least one survivor then.”

Wright nodded as his eyes were drawn back to the dark, yawning opening in the Miller’s. His gaze shifted upwards, then across to Moe’s. After sucking his teeth, he said, “Reckon the shooter was second floor – the pub or the barbers.”

Mitchell placed a hand on the snow-covered bonnet. “No residual heat, but in this weather that doesn’t tell us much.”

Wright nodded in the direction they had just come. “I noticed disturbances in the snow too – middle of the street and over there.” Mitchell followed his eyes towards the entrance to Bell Lane. “Difficult to tell with all the fresh snow over the top, but certainly looks like one or more people on foot. Whether that was before or after the attempted getaway is anyone’s guess.”

Mitchell chewed his bottom lip and glanced up at the snow-filled sky. “Weather’s getting worse by the minute too.” After a moment’s contemplation, he added with an air of resolve, “Well, let’s see if we can find ourselves a survivor.”

“And maybe a killer too,” Wright said with a glint in his eye.

Something strange is happening in the town of Stepford.

Sam stood quietly by the sink, washing the dishes from their recent meal of cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches. Glancing up at the window in front of him, he was hardly shocked to see the snow continuing to fall heavily. Despite only being lunchtime, the weather gave the illusion of it being dusk. Doing a mundane task like the dishes lent some sort of flimsy reality to their whole situation. The feeling of being slightly out of time only added to the strangeness. Bryce had left them to check the doors and windows, while Carol returned a small block of cheese, butter and a jar of
Hellmann’s
to the refrigerator.

Perched on the edge of the table, Jimmy watched Sam and Carol, biting his grubby fingernails. It was all too happy families for him. A madman out there had murdered hundreds of people, and all these people could think about doing was the dishes. “You know, you don’t need to do the dishes, like.”

Jimmy looked down to his hands, ashamed at his outburst. The anger hadn’t been meant for Sam; he didn’t quite know where it had come from or who it was supposed to be aimed at. No, he did know; Whitman. That bastard was going to pay … somehow. He had got the drop on him once, so he could do it again. Next time there would be no Bryce or Big Joe to pull him off. He would cut him up, like Whitman had done to Lisa.