Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (36 page)

The walled yard was sheltered somewhat from the unrelenting wind, but the unlit house lent not a shard of light to its cold, wet enclosed stone walls. An outhouse ran along the right side of the yard and dozens of barren, snow-filled plant pots of all shapes and sizes ran along the wall to the left. The deep snow was untouched.

Soaked and shivering, the two men shuffled past a wheelie bin over to the back door. Pausing to wipe his drenched face, Wright pressed an ear against the wood and strained to listen over the low moaning of the wind.

Using a crowbar that they had luckily stumbled across in a previous yard, Wright jammed it into the gap between door and frame just above the lock and yanked hard.

He was rewarded with splintering wood and the door popped open. Mitchell was through the opening before the door banged against the interior wall, torch in one hand and baton in the other. Wright immediately followed, brandishing the crowbar.

They found themselves in a country cottage-style kitchen with floral patterns clashing with herbs on walls and curtains. The room was cold and smelled vaguely damp.

A clatter of crockery preceded a muttered curse from Wright as he cracked a knee off the edge of a low standing trolley with a china tea service set out on it.

The two detectives moved through the kitchen to a narrow, musty smelling hallway. The walls were cluttered with gilded framed oil paintings of various Northumberland, North East and North West locations; Cragside, surrounded by mature woodland, the battlements of Alnwick Castle seen from the Lion Bridge, the luscious Walled Garden of Wallington Hall, puffins nesting on the Farne Islands, the wide golden sands of Druridge Bay, the Roman Bath House at Ravenglass and Hadrian’s Wall at Bardon Mill, were but a few.

The beam of light paused at an open doorway leading to the living room. As they cautiously approached, the rhythmic ticking of an unseen clock rose above their breathing and the intermittent creak of a floorboard.

Mitchell reached the doorway first and swept the beam across the room. A faded patterned two seater sofa and armchair, both complete with doily armrest and headrest covers, were crammed into one end of the room around a vintage 1964 Zenith television set. The right-hand side of the room was home to an oval teak dining table and sideboard.

Dividing the two areas was a flat top, seventeenth century-style oak-case Grandmother Clock, the source of the ticking. As the light paused on it, the clock chose that moment to chime the half hour.

The beam danced across the blown vinyl wallpaper as Mitchell jerked with the sudden burst of noise. His baton raised on reflex, ready to strike an unseen attacker.

Wright lent close to Mitchell’s ear. “Little twitchy there, mate?”

His pulse throbbing in his ears, Mitchell took a deep breath before responding. “Thought I saw something in the corner of the room there, actually.” A deep frown marred his troubled face as he swept the beam into the corner that concerned him. A coffee table with a short, scraggy-looking artificial Christmas tree lay lurking within the shadows. The torchlight glinted off several small isolated baubles.

“Aye, them cobweb pixies can be a pain in the backside, eh?”

“You’re telling me,” Mitchell said, rolling his eyes. He turned away from the door and headed further down the hall towards the front door and the staircase. Wright afforded the living room one final, fleeting glance then followed.

A dark figure slid out from behind the open door in the living room and stepped out into the hall behind the two detectives. Whitman stood in the hallway, his piercing auburn eyes glaring at the two men. A sly grin played across his face.

“I’m getting a bit fucking tired of this sneaking around crap,” Wright muttered. “Maybe we should just go back to the others and wait there for the cavalry.”

“Inclined to agree with you, mate,” Mitchell said with a sigh as he approached the bottom of the staircase. “Make this the last one, eh?”

“Best news I’ve—” Wright paused in mid sentence, his keen senses screaming a sudden warning to him. As he started to turn he felt a sharp pain in his back.

Mitchell turned in time to see his colleague drop to the carpet like a sack of potatoes, his face contorted with pain. Whitman was standing over him with a bloodied hunting knife in hand and a broad smile on his lips. He was soaked through, but coiled to strike.

“Drop the knife!” Mitchell roared, raising his baton. “Tony, you okay, mate?”

“Been better,” Wright gasped through gritted teeth, one hand clutching at the knife wound in his back. After a sharp intake of breath, he added, “Stove his fucking head in.” His body writhed and squirmed as he attempted to drag himself away from his attacker.

“Think that might be what’s known as excessive force, Detective Wright,” Whitman said, keeping his eyes fixed on Mitchell.

“Gig’s up, Whitman,” Mitchell said evenly, tightening his grip on the cold hard handle of his baton. “Drop the knife; you’re under arrest. This is your
final
warning.” He took a step closer, to within kicking distance of Wright.

Wright managed to roll onto his side, against the internal wall. Blood was splattered on the cream carpet and all down the back of his jeans. He took a trembling hand away from the wound to gaze at the dark blood that had drenched it. “
Fucker
,” he whispered.

Whitman appeared to think about it for a moment then said, “That’s a generous offer, Mitchell. But I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request.” After a moment, he added, “Means no.”

His face racked with pain, Wright muttered, “You’re just a walking cliché, aren’t you, you fucking prick.”

“Sticks and stones, love.”

At that, Mitchell stole the opportunity to attack. With the baton raised, he rushed forward, swinging it in a tight downward arc for Whitman’s head. Whitman anticipated the move and side-stepped, raising his blade to slash at the detective’s throat.

Mitchell wrenched his head backwards at the last moment, allowing the blade to just nick the skin on his Adam’s apple. Ignoring the trickle of blood dribbling down his neck, Mitchell surged forward again, shoving Whitman’s knife hand aside and impacting with his chest.

Both men staggered backwards then fell in a crumpled heap close to the living room door. Whitman let out a grunt with Mitchell’s weight bearing down on top of him, but still struggled to angle the knife round to attempt to stick him in the side.

Mitchell expected it, so immediately slammed the baton across Whitman’s hand, causing him to cry out in pain and release the knife. Quickly adjusting his position, so that he was sat across Whitman’s chest, he then raised the baton again and slammed it down across his forehead.

Whitman’s grunts were cut short.

Mitchell glanced across at his friend. Wright’s eyes were closed and the grimace was softening. “Tony! Hold on, mate!” Jumping off Whitman, he grabbed the discarded knife and rushed across to his partner’s aid.

Gently easing him over, he lifted his blood-drenched coat and shirt to examine the puncture wound in his lower back, just to the left of the spine. “Christ,” he muttered to himself.

“
Kill
him,” Wright said with utter conviction. His squinting eyes fixed on his partner with an intensity that overshadowed the pain.

Mitchell had pulled out his handkerchief, but paused to meet his friend’s stare. “Can’t do that and you know it, mate. No matter what the evil bastard’s done. It’s got to be by the book, unfor—”

A gunshot rang out in the confined hallway, causing a ringing in Mitchell’s ears. A neat little bullet hole appeared in Wright’s temple, and a splatter of blood and brains emptied onto the carpet from the ragged exit wound.

“NO!” Mitchell screamed, dropping the useless handkerchief and cradling his dead friend. He turned towards the source of the gunshot, his eyes blazing with rage.

Whitman was standing, holding the side of his head with one hand and the smoking Walther P99 in the other. An angry mark was rapidly blossoming where he had been struck with the baton. “Think you should’ve listened to your dead partner there, Mitchell.” In mock disbelief, he asked, “Haven’t you
ever
watched a horror film?
Dumb
!”

“Sonuvabitch,” Mitchell muttered weakly, his shoulders sagging and his eyes growing moist.

“And then some.” As an afterthought, while continuing to rub his throbbing head, he added, “That fucking hurt by the way.”

Switching his stare from the pistol to Whitman, Mitchell spat, “Good! Here’s hoping for a fucking brain haemorrhage!” He glanced down at his dead friend and then back to Whitman. “Just fucking get it over with, you evil bastard.”

“I will, if you don’t mind. I’m already way behind schedule here, and I’ve still got the others to sort out at the old doc’s place.”

A flash of fear played across Mitchell’s face.

“You two were kind enough to show me where they were hiding, so thanks for that.”

“Joke’s on you, dickhead. We told them to switch to another location after we left as a precaution.” He took one last look at his dead partner’s closed eyes. There was a sense of serenity to his features that he had never quite seen in him while he had been alive.

Whitman smiled. “Nice try, Officer. Pardon me for not trusting you, but I think I’ll just nip down there and check first, eh?”

After gently setting down Wright’s head, Mitchell stood up and set his shoulders back in defiance. Sardonically, he said, “Waste all the time you want, Whitman. I’m sure there’s hours before reinforcements arrive.”

Mitchell was rewarded with the briefest flicker of irritation. “Best not hang about chatting then,” Whitman said evenly and pulled the trigger.

The bullet zipped past within an inch of Mitchell’s ear and shattered the small frosted glass pane in the door. The time between realising that he was still alive and his body reacting was a mere second. The report echoed round the house as he broke for the front door.

Cursing the residual foggy effects of the blow to his head, Whitman aimed and fired again. This time the bullet caught the fleeing detective just below his left shoulder blade, causing him to stumble forward into the door.

Crying out in pain, Mitchell fumbled with the catch and swung the door open. Gusting wind and snow struck his face as another bullet whipped past him into the night. He fell out into the frenzied storm and managed to slam the door shut as yet another bullet struck wood from the inside.

Not wishing to hang around, he stumbled as fast as he could back towards Bell Lane. The wind and icy snow stung at his face and hands, thrashing at his open, flapping jacket. He staggered, agonised and half blinded into the night.

CHAPTER 15

I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.

After pushing a corner of the curtain aside, a face briefly appeared at the darkened living room window, peering out into the storm. Inside, Jimmy cocked his head towards the others, straining to see their outlines in the dark room. The flickering candle only managed to lighten the gloom one shade of grey. “Did you hear owt there, like?”

“No,” Sam muttered, his head resting on the arm of the sofa with his eyes closed.

Bryce sat forward in the chair, cradling the rifle in his hands. “Push back the curtains. Someone might see.” He blinked and rubbed his tired eyes.

He was tired, irritated and hungry, but Bryce managed a piercing stare with his drooping eyes. Their eyes locked, despite the gloom, and he said, “Divvent go there.”

Carol raised her head from the other arm of the sofa, lying next to Sam. “John, take it easy. Jimmy, leave it.” Shifting her position, she added, “We’ve all just got to be a bit patient. Help should be here soon.” She so desperately wanted to believe that, and even more desperately needed a drink. Anything.
Special Brew
would do. Her eyes were drawn back to the mantelpiece where a single Christmas stocking hung in the centre from a small hook. Even in the gloom she could read the sown label that read KERRIS.