The Drowners (25 page)

‘First we check there’s no disk in the drive,’ said Dave, peering around the front of the computer for the slot. ‘Ah, here you are. Wow, this is a really modern model. Look – it takes 3½ inch floppies.’ He reached out and lifted the lock on the gate to the disk drive. Beside him Sergeant Willis rolled his eyes and gave a soft groan.

‘Sorry, sorry. Look – the slot is 3½ inches wide. This means it takes a newer, better sort of disk. They’re stronger because they’ve got a rigid plastic cover and they take a lot more stuff. You should have one with the start-up program on it somewhere. Maybe in the plastic bag there …’ He pointed to a sealed bag containing closely printed sheets of paper, some cables and a very thick, complicated looking book.

Reluctantly, Sergeant Willis broke the seal and tipped the contents out on the desk. He picked up the manual and flipped through it before he spotted a much smaller flyer labelled “Start Here!” in bold letters. Abandoning the manual he began to read out the instructions that, in theory, would take him step by step through setting up and using his new computer. Dave waited, curbing his impatience although he knew from the cables lying around loose what the next few steps should be. His hands twitched as he watched Willis picking up each item, matching it to the pictures in the booklet and setting it back on the desk.

‘Oh come on, Sarge,’ he said finally. ‘I bet you count all the screws and bits from your MFI furniture before you start!’

Sergeant Willis laid the booklet on the desk and turned to look at him.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Makes no sense, just jumping in. You need to be careful, do it right the first time.’

Dave slumped back in his chair trying not to grit his teeth in frustration as one of the men across the room called his name.

‘Dave – Dave? Phone call for you.’

Sergeant Willis was on his feet, reaching around the computer to plug in the mains cable and he waved a hand at his constable.

‘Go on. I’m okay here for a bit. You go and do some real work now.’

Feeling slightly hurt by this dismissal Dave trooped over to the phone but the voice on the other end snapped him out of his sulk in an instant.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. There was a stunned look on his face as he replaced the receiver.

‘What?’ asked the owner of the phone.

‘Oh bloody hell,’ Dave whispered and hurried back over to Sergeant Willis.

‘Sir,’ Dave swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry with anxiety. ‘Sir, that was Taunton on the phone. They’ve had a report from Dr Higgins at the lab. That piece of glass from the torch …’

Sergeant Willis twisted his head round and dropped the cable on the desk. ‘Spit it out Constable. What about the glass?’

Dave took a deep breath before continuing.

‘It had fingerprints on it,’ he said. ‘Most of them were from Andrew Cairns, obviously, but there was one from someone else. They matched it with the records – Sir, it’s from Derek Johns.’

Alex rounded up her gang of attendees who were clustering in the far corner of the car park, eyeing the continuing police presence with suspicion. There was very little she could do with them as the day centre was still being photographed and would need cleaning of fingerprint powder before it was fit to be used again. Reluctantly she told them to go home, checking their names against the register and handing out bus money before reminding them they were booked in for the workshop later in the week and were expected to attend regardless of what was going on in the main building.

‘So we’s free to go then?’ said Brian hopefully.

Alex nodded, her frustration at yet another break in the routine evident on her face.

‘Try to use the time constructively, Brian,’ she said wearily. ‘Perhaps a trip to the Job Centre, as you’re in town.’

Brian screwed up his face in disgust. ‘They got no real jobs in there no more,’ he said. ‘Lots of this “Community Programme” bollocks but ’tis all.’

Alex wasn’t sure she approved of the Community Programme herself but anything legal would be an
improvement
where most of her charges were concerned.

‘It would give you some experience,’ she said. ‘A chance to earn a bit of money too.’

‘Most of ’em, they pays the dole and maybe a tenner more,’ Brian protested. ‘Cost more’n that gettin’ in to town for a week. Reckon I’m going to work for nothin’ – not likely.’

‘Yeah,’ chipped in Charlie from the back of the group, ‘there’s no decent jobs left now. Everyone calls ’em “Community Programme” so they can get us to work for pennies. Same jobs as used to have decent wages, just made cheaper. ’Tis a con.’

There was a general murmur of agreement as most of the lads nodded their heads, hands in their pockets. Alex was struck by how few of them seemed to be smoking nowadays. That was a good thing, obviously, but she suspected it was down to lack of money rather than common sense or a proper regard for their health. In the distance the clock on the Cornhill Exchange rang the hour and Brian was off, heading for the gate.

‘Got to see a man about some stuff,’ he yelled over his shoulder and was gone off up the road before Alex could react.

‘Is not stuff like that,’ said Charlie softly, seeing her anxious face. ‘He’s getting some things from a mate. Nothin’ illegal. Well, not really. I mean …’

He stopped, looking flustered as Rob kicked him on the ankle. ‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ he finished with a rather sickly grin.

Alex picked up the register and made her way across the yard, running her eye down the list of names before stopping and yelling at the group as they drifted off.

‘Simon! He’s on the list – anyone know where he is?’

There was a general shaking of heads and several youths made ‘cuckoo’ gestures, swirling their fingers round beside their heads.

‘Probably off on the Levels again,’ came an anonymous voice as the last of the group disappeared.

Alex ground her teeth in frustration. ‘Off on the Levels again’ – bad news with the increased police presence, not to mention an unknown predator stalking people seemingly at random. She hurried back inside and hounded Sue until she produced the file again.

‘Where the hell is Lower Godney?’ she demanded, poring over the faded carbons.

‘Oh, you don’t want to go out there,’ said Sue airily. ‘Horrid little house with a baby crawling around with no nappy on. Honestly, I’m sure I picked up something nasty last time. Anyway, Simon’s not there most of the time. Shows he’s got some sense I suppose.’

‘If he’s not there then where does he live?’ demanded Alex. ‘Come on Sue, he could be heading for a whole world of trouble if the police pick him up and he’s carrying those horrible drugs. They won’t care if he doesn’t understand or even if he doesn’t know about them. They’ll just lock him up and you and I both know that will probably kill him.’

‘You’re frightfully melodramatic today,’ Sue observed.

‘So would you be if you’d had the week I have,’ Alex snapped.

Sue refrained from pointing out that, although she hadn’t been hunted through the day centre in the dark she had been woken by Alex’s return and sat with her friend for several hours whilst the police took statements, fingerprints for elimination and consumed a considerable quantity of coffee. Consequently she was feeling pretty worn down herself.

‘Look, what can you do?’ she said, trying to be
conciliatory
. ‘You can hardly watch him every moment of the day. If he’s not here tomorrow, well you’ll have to chase him but give yourself a break today.’

Alex remembered Gordon’s words of wisdom, felt her heart rate fluttering with all the caffeine she had consumed in an effort to keep herself going and finally allowed common
sense to prevail. A quick word with Gordon and she was off home for some much needed rest.

That evening Sue let herself in to the house and was greeted by the aroma of roast chicken. Alex was up and feeling better, she thought with a grin.

Determined to enjoy a good meal at home, she refused to discuss the day’s events with her friend until they had eaten, but once the dishes were cleared away Alex could not be deterred.

‘We could ask the police to drop by …’ Sue had suggested hopefully. Alex didn’t even grace this idea with a reply. There was nothing like a sudden visit from the police to send Simon racing out in to the night, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

‘Well, I’ll come with you,’ said Sue, trying not to let her reluctance show.

Alex smiled and shook her head. ‘No, you don’t need to put up with my obsessive ideas,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine – probably only gone for an hour or so. Don’t worry, I’m feeling fine now. I got to sleep all afternoon, remember?’

Sue watched through the window as Alex pulled away in her battered old Citroën. Sometimes she wondered just how safe the car was. It seemed to keep going, but in bad weather often needed a jump-start and the eccentric hydraulic suspension gave her the shivers. Anything that could fail and take the brakes out at the same time was a really bad idea in her view. Suppressing a twinge of guilt at abandoning her friend, she returned to the comfort of the back room and the dubious joys of evening television. Just as she pressed the on button the phone rang and she answered it with a sigh. It was the police. They were sorry they hadn’t called earlier, said the desk sergeant. Just to warn Miss Hastings, Derek Johns was still alive and out on the Levels. Nothing to be alarmed about – they were hunting him right now. Just sit tight, continued the patronizing voice on the end of the line. Let the police handle this. Sue replaced the receiver, her hand shaking. Drawing back the curtain, she peered out at the night. Oh
Alex, she thought. Where the hell are you? And what the hell do I do now?

Simon Adams loved to run. He relished the freedom it gave him, the breeze in his hair and the sense of control over himself and his body. Wrapped in his fantasy lorry, he pounded the streets and footpaths of the area in all weathers (after all, he had a cab to keep him dry and warm), alone with his thoughts. Simon’s mind could best be described as ‘fuzzy’, and he had serious issues with the gap between himself and the real world, but he was nevertheless talented in his own way. With an instinct for the terrain, the ability to find his way without maps or signs, and tremendous stamina, Simon could run for hours at a steady pace, burning up the miles, without even getting out of breath.

This evening he was running for pleasure, out across the Levels without worrying about being stopped by the police or arriving too late for his delivery. It had been several months since he’d been able to choose his own routes and he gloried in the cool evening air, admiring the moon as it rose in the dark sky. His bare feet rustled in the grass and the mild air felt good against his body. He settled in to a steady rhythm, moving with a curious grace across the broken landscape of the Levels. Shifting marshes and hidden bogs held no fears for him as he cut across the reeds and peatlands, hopping over small ditches and jumping larger rhynes. As he ran he hummed a strange and wordless song to himself, the music he heard as he travelled through the countryside.

Suddenly he stopped humming and listened, straining his ears as he ran. Above the sound of his feet and deep, regular breathing was a different kind of music. A soft, hypnotic swirl, like a flute piping gently but insistently in the distance. Without realizing it, Simon slowed, his running falling into the slower cadence of the ghostly sound. As it faded away he slowed to a halt, confused and a little afraid as he peered around in the evening gloom. A memory stirred, long buried in his early childhood, the legacy of an imaginative babysitter
telling stories to frighten her charges into compliance. Shifting from foot to foot he waited, holding his breath as he waited for the music to resume. There was a slow swirling from his left and Simon started, leaning forwards as he strained to make out the sound. Then it seemed to get louder, as if the invisible musician were approaching through the twilight. Simon was off like a startled rabbit, bounding over the rough ground, leaping the narrow channels and splashing around the pools of water that seeped across the wetland.

All grace, all rhythm gone, Simon fled in panic, his
childhood
terrors filling his mind and blinding him to the more immediate dangers. Stumbling in the growing gloom, Simon tripped on a concealed dip, his feet sliding away from under him as he crashed headfirst into a shallow stream. Spluttering and coughing, he tried to haul himself out only to slide further in the mud, his arms sinking deep into the slurry lining the bottom of the ditch. The music swirled around him
mockingly
as the terrified youth struggled to free himself from the treacherous mire that seemed to suck at him, threatening to pull him back every time he managed to grab for support from the surrounding foliage.

After what felt like an age Simon finally succeeded in hauling himself out of the ditch and he lay gasping for breath on firmer ground, shivering as the breeze struck through his soaked clothing. As his breathing settled a little he was relieved to hear only silence around him. The haunting music was gone and he began to feel a bit better as he got to his knees and then up on his feet. Even Simon realized he needed to get home and out of his wet clothes before he got any colder so he took a moment to look around, seeking the quickest and safest route. In the distance, ahead of him, came the murmur of voices. Indistinct but clearly male and coming closer, they carried on the light breeze. Simon’s heart began to pound as he twisted round, frantically trying to decide which direction to choose. Ahead were unknown people, almost certainly up to no good all the way out here but he could not bring himself to retrace his steps for behind him
was the terrible, ghostly music and all it stood for. Trapped like a hunted animal, Simon dropped to his knees and curled up into a ball, shaking and trying not to cry as the voices approached. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps they wouldn’t see him. Perhaps they would pass by and he could escape. He curled up as small as he could and waited.

Tom had been reluctant to show the secret bridges to Max but it was necessary, a vital part of the plan he and Ada had put together in the upstairs room of the Royal Arms. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing he would normally come up with, which was probably a good thing. Max was a nasty, violent piece of work but he was not stupid and he had a gift for reading other people. Tom was sure if he had tried to deal with the problem alone, Max would have seen through him in an instant. Ada, however, had reserves of cunning and imagination he had not previously appreciated. He doubted very much that Max could anticipate what she had in mind. He just wished he could contact his brother and let him know why he was breaking the promise he had made. If Milosh discovered what he’d done, he would see it as the final betrayal and despite their long estrangement, or perhaps because of it, Tom had begun to yearn for his brother’s approval. He sighed and rose to his feet, looking around the clean, empty little cottage he called home. There was no more time to brood. He straightened up and headed out of the door to meet Max and his little gang of Bristol boys.

Max was parked up in a lay-by off the Glastonbury Road, his shiny new Sierra blending in as well as a giraffe on a bicycle. Tom pulled his shabby old Vauxhall in behind the oddly styled silver car and tried not to let his exasperation show on his face. Max’s Ford might be the car of choice for hoodlums in the city but out on the Levels there were few better ways to get the attention of the local constabulary. He moved round to the driver’s side and tapped on the window, making sure his face was visible to the occupants. There were
four young men in the car and the couple in the back looked jumpy, twitching round and glaring at his appearance. Amateurs, Tom thought. Any one of
his
boys would have already noted his arrival, jotted down the registration and been ready for just about anything. Max wound down the window and stared up at him.

‘What ho, Max,’ said Tom as cheerfully as he could. ‘Ready for a bit of a walk then?’

There was some muttering from the other occupants and one lad said, ‘Didn’t say nothing about no walking. Got my new boots on. I ’ent plodding through no mud nor nothing.’

Max snapped his head around and snarled, ‘Well you can bloody well stay here then. Need someone watchin’ the car and reckon that’s about all you’s good for.’ He pushed open the car’s door, narrowly missing Tom, and stepped out, stretching his heavy frame.

‘Right, the rest of you, on your feet,’ he shouted, and the other two young men scrambled to obey, leaving New Boots in the back looking decidedly mutinous. Max leaned through the open window and removed the keys from the ignition.

‘Just in case,’ he said with a smirk. ‘And no smokin’ in the back neither. You want a fag, you get out the car. And don’t be leaning on my paintwork.’

Well, thought Tom, who would have thought tough-guy Max was so precious about his car. He turned his back and stared out over the darkened landscape. A cool wind began to pick up, swirling the debris in the lay-by in miniature whirlpools and the new leaves on the surrounding trees hissed against one another. Tom felt a chill run up his spine and suppressed a shiver. He was not a superstitious man. Any apprehension he felt was easily explained by the risky business he was planning. Shoving his hands in his pockets he turned back to the bunch of Bristol boys who were still squabbling by the car.