The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

42

Escape

Jack Renfield had run the London Marathon four times, but he had been lighter in those days. He had seen the figure burst from the back of the barn and had taken off after him. But he didn’t know the terrain and couldn’t see where he was going. He knew he might break his ankle at any moment as they charged across the roughly ploughed, rock-strewn field. There were drops and ditches all around.

He fell once, then again, and wished there was someone other than Bryant and May with him. Looking up he could still see the figure hopping and flailing over the earth trenches, heading for the cover of tall trees. If he reached them there would be no chance of finding him.

Renfield lifted his aching legs higher and jumped over the deepening ridges. The figure he was pursuing looked like a scarecrow come to life, presumably because of the greatcoat that flapped about him. Perhaps it was a woman – a girl, even – the figure was light and had immense agility. The chase was played out in total silence, with only the rain and the wind talking in the trees. A large bird beat past him, knocking him back. Renfield was not easily stopped, and climbed up on his feet again, now caked in reeking mud.

But there, just ahead, was an insurmountable problem. A black, wide line crossed the field – a deep-sided brook too wide to jump. He knew he was likely to break a leg if he threw himself in and would not be able to get up the sheer earth bank of the other side. He watched helplessly as the hopping figure reached the treeline and vanished inside it.

♦

“Don’t stand any closer or I’ll brain you,” said Dan Banbury. The CSM had been on his way home to Croydon when he received the call, and was quickly able to divert his route. Bryant had been about to walk on the plywood boards but thought better of it. Instead he was forced to lean forward from behind Banbury’s tape line.

“Nice pitchfork shot,” remarked Bryant. “Would he have survived if he’d fallen the other way?”

“Yes, probably. Bad luck. Slippy shoes. Expensive leather soles. He’d have lived if he’d been wearing trainers.”

“Any dabs on the handle?”

“Given the history of this case, what do you think?” Banbury gave him a withering look.

At the front of the barn, May was talking to medics from the Kent Ambulance Service. They were attempting to find a staffed regional local police constabulary, but so far had had no luck.

“The dummy’s a bit of a giveaway,” said Bryant, opening a packet of Rolos. “You’d better put a call out for Ella Maltby, John. And see what’s happened to Renfield.”

“We’re in a barn,” said Banbury. “I’m not going to look for fibres and specks of dirt, the whole place is made up of them. There’s half a foot of mud in here. I’ve got at least six sets of prints made by Wellingtons.”

“Just do what you can.” Bryant unstuck caramel from his dental plate. “We’d better find out who this place belongs to. A local copper would be useful. John, you having any luck?”

“We’re still trying,” said May. “Can I send the med team in yet?”

“Dan, can we take out the body?”

“Yeah, I’ve got all I need there.”

The detectives watched as Robert Kramer was unpinned from his position on the barn floor and removed. “I don’t understand,” said Bryant. “We should have caught him before this happened. I honestly thought both victim and criminal were equally duplicitous, but now I can see I made one fundamental error.”

“What was that?”

“Anger takes many forms. Kramer wasn’t forced to come here. It means he was arrogant enough to think he could deal with whomever he was meeting. I’d assumed we had got in the way of a victim and an attacker who were equally matched. They say cruelty is the English disease, don’t they? But from here it looks as if they had very different temperaments. Kramer had the coldness that allowed him to retain perspective. His killer is someone whose frustration makes him prone to outbursts of violence. Now he’s finished what he set out to achieve. It’s over. We’ve lost him.”

“It has to be somebody who was at the party, so if he tries to vanish, we’ll know who’s gone.”

“Yes, but if he’s smart he’ll stay in plain sight and brazen it out, just as he has been doing, and then we’ll never get to discover the truth. I honestly thought we could stop him before he acted again. Four deaths. It’s a total disaster.”

“Jack chased someone across a field and got cut off by a stream.”

“A stream? Tell me you’re joking. He couldn’t cross a stream?”

“It’s pitch black out there and raining hard, and there was quite a drop by the sound of it.”

“Did he at least get a good look at him? Where’s the nearest light?”

“Sevenoaks. Nine miles away. No, he didn’t. Couldn’t even be sure it was male. Just somebody running in a big coat and boots.”

“Well, here’s a how-de-do. Dan, have you got anything else?”

Banbury looked up from his position beside the dummy. “You could say so.” He held up something in a pair of tweezers. “He makes his own labels. Stitched into the top of the dummy’s spine.”

“What does it say?”

“AM Ella Maltby Original.”

“That does it. Let’s get back to London. We can stick Maltby in one of the lock-ups in Islington and resume in the morning. Make sure she’s not left alone.”

“You’re sure this is over, Arthur?”

Bryant folded his sweet wrapper into his pocket, thinking. “The target of all this torture is dead. The killer is, we hope, about to be apprehended. There’s nothing more we can do except watch the Unit crash and burn after Kasavian gets wind of this. I guess we should all start looking for jobs again. Oh, and by the way, I’m having my home taken away from me tomorrow. All in all it’s the end of a perfect week.”