The Chemistry of Death (10 page)

The police had set up a table to help co-ordinate the public search. It was as much a PR exercise as anything; giving the community a sense that it was doing something and making sure the volunteers didn't get in the way of the professional teams. But the countryside around Manham was so wild that it would be impossible to cover all of it anyway. It could soak up searchers like a sponge without ever giving up its secrets.

I saw Marcus Metcalf standing with a group of men, yet slightly apart from them. He had the undefined muscle bulk of a manual worker, and a face that, under normal circumstances, was pleasant and cheerful under a shock of blond hair. Now he looked haggard, a pallor yellowing his tanned features. With him was Scarsdale, the reverend finally finding a situation that suited the severity of his features. I'd considered going over to express ... what? Sympathy? Condolences? But the hollowness of anything I could say, and memory of how little I'd appreciated the awkward utterances of near strangers myself, prevented me. Instead, leaving him to the reverend's ministrations, I went straight to the table to be told where to go.

It was a decision I would come to regret.

I spent an unproductive few hours trudging across a boggy field as part of a group that included Rupert Sutton, who seemed glad of the excuse to be out without his domineering mother. His bulk made it hard work for him to keep up with the rest of us, but he persevered, breathing heavily through his mouth as we slowly made our way across the uneven landscape, trying to skirt the wetter patches of ground. Once he slipped and stumbled to his knees. His perspiring body gave off an animal whiff of exertion as I helped him up.

'Bugger,' he panted, his face colouring with embarrassment as he stared at the mud coating his hands like black gloves. His voice was surprisingly light, almost girlish. 'Bugger,' he kept repeating, blinking furiously.

Other than that, few people spoke. When the growing dusk made it impractical to search any longer we abandoned the attempt and made our way back. The general mood was as sombre as the darkening landscape. I knew many of the searchers would stop off at the Black Lamb, seeking company more than alcohol. I almost went straight home. But I didn't feel like being alone any more than anyone else did that night. I parked outside the pub and went in.

Apart from the church, the Lamb was the oldest building in the village, and one of the few in Manham that had a traditional thatched roof. Anywhere else in the Broads it would have been smartened into twee respectability, but with only the locals to please no real attempt had been made to halt its slow decay. The reeds on its thatch were slowly mouldering, while the unpainted plaster of its walls was cracked and stained.

Tonight, though, it was doing good business, but it was far from a party atmosphere. The nods I received were solemn, the conversation low and subdued. The landlord lifted his chin in silent enquiry as I reached the bar. He was blind in one eye, the milky cast emphasizing the resemblance to an ageing Labrador.

Tint, please, Jack.'

'You been out on the search?' he asked as he set the glass in front of me. When I nodded he waved away my money. 'On the house.'

I barely had time to take a drink before a hand fell on my shoulder. 'Thought you might come in tonight.'

I looked up at the giant who'd materialized beside me. 'Hi, Ben.'

Ben Anders topped six feet four, and seemed half as broad again. A warden at Hickling Broad nature reserve, he'd lived in the village all his life. We rarely saw much of each other, but I liked him. He was easy company, someone I felt as comfortable maintaining a silence with as talking to. He had a pleasant, almost dreamy smile in a heavy-boned face that looked as though it had been screwed up and only partially smoothed out again. Set in its tanned leather, his eyes seemed incongruously bright and green.

Normally they held a twinkle of good humour, but there was no humour in them now. He propped an elbow on the bar. 'Bad business.'

'Lousy.'

'I saw Lyn a couple of days ago. Not a care in the world. And then Sally Palmer, as well. It's like being struck by lightning twice.'

'I know.'

'I hope to Christ she's just buggered off somewhere. But it's not looking good, is it?'

'Not very, no.'

'God, poor Marcus. Doesn't bear thinking about what the poor bastard must be going through.' He pitched his voice lower so it wouldn't carry. 'There's a rumour going around that Sally Palmer was cut up pretty bad. If it's the same man who took Lyn... Jesus, makes you want to break the fucker's neck, doesn't it?'

I looked down into my glass. Obviously word hadn't got out that I'd helped the police. I was glad, but it made me feel awkward now, as if keeping quiet about my involvement were making me a liar.

Ben slowly shook his massive head. 'You think there's any chance for her?'

'I don't know.'

It was as honest an answer as I could give. I remembered what Mackenzie had said earlier. If I was right, then Sally Palmer hadn't been killed until around three days after she'd disappeared. I wasn't a psychological profiler but I knew that serial killers followed a pattern. Which meant, if this was the same man, there was a chance that Lyn might still be alive.

Still alive.
God, could she be? And if she was, for how long? I told myself I'd done what I could, given the police as much as could reasonably be expected of me. But it felt like a cheap rationalization.

I realized Ben was looking at me. 'Sorry?'

'I said are you OK? You look pretty bushed.'

'It's just been a long day.'

'You can say that again.' His expression soured as he looked towards the doorway. 'And just when you think it can't get any worse...'

I turned to see the dark figure of Reverend Scarsdale blocking out the light as he entered. Conversations died away as he advanced stern-faced to the bar.

'Don't suppose he'll be getting them in,' Ben muttered.

Scarsdale cleared his throat. 'Gentlemen.' His eyes drifted disapprovingly over the few women in the pub, but he didn't bother to acknowledge them. 'I thought you should know that I will be holding a prayer service tomorrow evening for Lyn Metcalf and Sally Palmer.'

His voice was a dry baritone that carried effortlessly.

'I'm sure all of you' -- he let his gaze run around the pub --
'all
of you will be there tomorrow evening to show your respect for the dead and support for the living.' He paused before stiffly inclining his head. 'Thank you.'

As he headed for the door he stopped in front of me. Even in summer there seemed an odour of mildew about him. I could see the white dusting of dandruff on the black wool of his jacket, smell the mothball taint of his breath.

'I trust I'll see you as well, Dr Hunter.'

'Patients allowing.'

'I'm sure no-one will be selfish enough to keep you from your duty.' I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that. He favoured me with a humourless smile. 'Besides, I think you'll find most of them will be at the church. Tragedies draw communities like this together. Coming from the city you'll probably find that strange. But we know where our priorities lie here.'

With a final terse nod, he left. 'There goes a real Christian,' Ben said. He raised his empty glass, more like a half-pint in his big hand. 'Ah, well, you ready for another?'

I declined. Scarsdale's appearance hadn't improved my mood. I was about to finish my drink and go home when someone spoke behind me.

'Dr Hunter?'

It was the young teacher I'd met at the school the day before. Her smile faltered at my expression. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude ...'

'No, that's OK. I mean, no, you aren't.'

'I'm Sam's teacher. We met yesterday?' she said, uncertainly.

Normally I'm bad at remembering names, but I recalled hers straight away. Jenny. Jenny Hammond.

'Sure. How is he?'

'OK, I think. I mean, he didn't come to school today. But he seemed better by the time his mother collected him yesterday afternoon.'

I'd meant to check on him, but other things had intervened. 'I'm sure he'll be fine. There's no problem with him being off, is there?'

'Oh, no, not at all. I just thought I'd... you know, say hello, that's all.'

She looked embarrassed. I'd assumed she'd come over to ask something about Sam. Belatedly, it occurred to me she might just be being friendly.

'So, are you with some of the other teachers?' I asked.

'No, I'm by myself. I went on the search and then ... well, my housemate's out, and it just didn't feel like a night for sitting in alone, you know?'

I knew. There was a silence for a while.

'Can I get you a drink?' I asked, just as she said, 'Well, I'll see you later.' We laughed, self-consciously. 'What would you like?'

'No, it's all right, really.'

'I was just going to get myself another.' I realized as I said it that my glass was still half-full. I hoped she wouldn't notice.

'A bottle of Becks, then. Thanks.'

Ben had just finished getting served as I leaned on the bar. 'Changed your mind? Here, let me.' He started putting his hand in his pocket.

'No, it's all right. I'm getting someone else's.'

He glanced behind me. His mouth twisted in a smile. 'Fair enough. See you later.'

I nodded, conscious of my face burning. By the time I was served I'd finished the rest of my beer. I ordered myself another and took the drinks over to where Jenny was standing.

'Cheers.' She raised the bottle in a little toast and took a drink. 'I know the landlord doesn't like you doing it, but it just doesn't taste the same from a glass.'

'And it's less to wash up, so you're actually doing him a favour.'

'I'll remember that next time he tells me off.' She grew more serious. 'I just can't believe what's happened. It's so awful, isn't it? I mean, two of them, from here? I thought places like this were supposed to be safe.'

'Was that why you came?'

I didn't mean it to sound as intrusive as it did. She looked down at the bottle she was holding. 'Let's just say I was tired of living in a city.'

'Where was that?'

'Norwich.'

She had started to peel the label from the bottle. As if realizing what she was doing she suddenly stopped. Her expression cleared as she smiled at me.

'Anyway, how about you? We've already established you're not a local either.'

'Nope. London, originally.'

'So what made you come to Manham? The bright lights and scintillating night-life?'

'Something like that.' I saw that she was expecting more. 'Same as you, I suppose. I wanted a change.'

'Yeah, well, it's that all right.' She smiled. 'Still, I quite like it. I'm getting used to living out in the middle of nowhere. You know, the quiet and everything. No crowds or cars.'

'Or cinema.'

'Or bars.'

'Or shops.'

We grinned at each other. 'So how long have you been here?' she asked.

'Three years.'

'And how long did it take you to be accepted?'

'I'm still working on it. Another decade and I might be thought of as a permanent visitor. By the more progressive elements, obviously.'

'Don't say that. I've only been here six months.'

'Still a tourist, then.'

She laughed, but before she could say anything there was a commotion in the doorway.

'Where's the doctor?' a voice demanded. 'Is he here?'

I pushed my way forward as a man was half-supported, half-carried into the pub. His face was contorted in pain. I recognized him as Scott Brenner, one of a large family who lived in a ramshackle house just outside Manham. A boot and the bottom of one trouser leg were soaked in blood.

'Sit him down. Gently,' I said, as he was lowered into a seat. 'What happened?'

'He stepped in a snare. We were going up to the surgery but we saw your Land Rover outside.'

It was his brother Carl who'd spoken. The Brenners were a clannish lot, ostensibly farm workers but not averse to poaching as well. Carl was the eldest, a wiry, truculent individual, and as I eased back the blood-soaked denim from Scott's leg I entertained the uncharitable thought that this had happened to the wrong brother. Then I saw the damage that had been done.

'Do you have a car?' I asked his brother.

'Don't think we walked here, do you?'

'Good, because he needs to go to hospital.'

Carl swore. 'Can't you just patch him up?'

'I can put a temporary dressing on, but that's all. This needs more than I can do.'

'Am I going to lose my foot?' Scott gasped.

'No, but you're not going to be doing much running for a while.' I wasn't as confident as I sounded. I considered taking him up to the surgery, but by the look of him he'd been manhandled enough. 'There's a first-aid kit under a blanket in the back of my Land Rover. Can somebody fetch it?'

'I will,' Ben said. I gave him the car keys. As he went out I asked for water and clean towels and began mopping the blood from around the wound.

'What type of snare was it?'

'Wire noose,' Carl said. 'Tightens once anything's got its foot in it. Cut through to the bone, it will.'

It had done that all right.

'Whereabouts were you?'

Scott answered, face averted from what I was doing. 'Over on the far side of the marsh, near the old windmill--'

'We were looking for Lyn,' Carl cut in, giving him a look.

I doubted that. I knew where they meant. Like most windmills in the Broads, the one outside Manham was actually a wind-powered pump, built to drain the marshes. Abandoned decades before, it was now an empty shell that lacked sails or life. The area was desolate even by Manham's standards, but it was ideal for anyone wanting to hunt or trap animals away from prying eyes. Given the Brenners' reputation, I thought that was a more likely reason for them to be out there at this time of night than any sense of public duty. As I wiped the blood from the wound I wondered if they'd managed to blunder into one of their own snares.

'Wasn't one of ours,' said Scott, as though he'd read my mind.

'Scott!' his brother snapped.