Buried Slaughter (21 page)

All of a sudden, Brian felt very alone, standing there in that churchyard. Phil Mcphee had done a runner. He could hear voices down the gravelled pathway‌—‌commotion, an old woman kicking up a fuss. He knew the police would be down there, and no doubt up here soon, too.

The wind blew his greasy fringe up so that it tapped his wrinkly forehead. He took a few steps back towards the road, away from the towering church, still not totally focused.

Darren Anderson had paid Phil Mcphee £16,120 to steal an executioner’s sword from Leeds Royal Armouries.

As Brian sped up his walk, keeping his head low so that hopefully no one would pay any attention, the little niggling clues of the case began to click together in his mind. Darren Anderson was the only survivor of the Pendle Hill massacre. If that wasn’t enough of a giveaway as it was, then there was his reluctance for his face to be shown in the newspaper. He must’ve known that people like Phil Mcphee had a chance of identifying him otherwise.

He turned onto the street. An old woman with skin as tough and hard as a rhinoceros, and a big beak of a nose, peered at him as she leaned on her walking frame. “You okay, my love? Police’ll be ‘ere soon. No need t’panic.”

Brian smiled at her and walked away, continuing up the hill, away from the church and away from the Grey Goose pub. He knew he’d left the red Fiesta right outside the pub. DI Marlow or Stephen-frigging-Molfer would be on his case in no time. Shit. He just needed to walk until he knew he was clear. Buy something from the shop. Pretend he was doing something remotely normal, goddammit.

And then he had to get to Darren Anderson’s place on Beech Drive, now he was sure.

When he got there‌—‌only then‌—‌he’d call the police and have them join him.

He was leading this investigation, whether the police liked it or not.

He started to get out of breath. The hilly Berry Lane was a tricky one to climb, and it just seemed to go on forever and ever. He panted, his breath clouding in front of him. He turned to look over his shoulder. The police were standing outside the pub. There was a man beside them, pointing in the general direction of the church.

The chunky bald man who had confronted him at the bar. Fuck.

“Going somewhere, Brian?”

Brian froze. He was still looking behind him, down the road at the police. He was sure the voice came from in front of him, but how was that possible if the police were at the pub?

He turned around.

DI Marlow was standing in front of him. He was leaning on a silver Vauxhall. An unmarked Panda car. Two officers inside. Shit. He should’ve seen that coming a mile away. How long had he been out of the police, again?

DI Marlow rolled his top lip out, his bushy grey moustache looking in even direr need of a shave every time Brian saw him. His eyes were baggy underneath, like two purple sacks dangling from his eye sockets.

“Detective, I can explain‌—‌”

“I rang you in confidence,” DI Marlow said, squaring up to Brian. He spoke in a raspy tone, like he had a bad chest, and his breath smelled of a mixture of onion and mint. “I rang you to inform you that we had evidence. Real fucking evidence. And now I find out from my team down the road that you scared Phil Mcphee off. That you went chasing after him on some sort of one-man mission.”

“Phil Mcphee isn’t our man, Detective. He stole the weapon, but it was‌—‌”

“Are you telling me my evidence is wrong, Brian? Are you seriously telling me that your street policing and your blowing off journalists is genuinely superior to the joint investigation of Preston, Burnley and Blackburn police departments?”

Brian tensed his fists and straightened his neck. “With all due respect…‌Yes. I am. I’ve been one step ahead of this investigation since it all started. Now I know you
say
you had the evidence that I had, but only after I’ve gone and hand-delivered it to you. Now I’m telling you, as a fact, that Phil Mcphee was paid £16,120 to steal an executioner’s sword from the Royal Armouries. £16,120, like the £160,120 the archeological groups were‌—‌”

“This is nonsense,” DI Marlow said. He reached out for Brian’s arms. “You’re causing a nuisance and you’re hampering the investigation. I hereby‌—‌”

“‌—‌He was having money troubles so he did it as a last resort,” Brian said, resisting DI Marlow. “But the man he described to me. The man who paid him the money. It’s Darren Anderson. He spoke of this huge gap between his front teeth, and that’s the guy’s only distinguishing feature.”

DI Marlow pushed Brian against the silver Panda. He started to recite his arrest lines, but Brian continued talking over him as he dragged him towards the back of the car.

“That’s why he was the only survivor. That’s why he didn’t want any media coverage. He’s duped you. He’s duped us all. You need to stop him.”

The back door of the Panda slammed shut. Brian lay across the back seat. When he looked around, he realised his day had just got a whole lot worse.

In the seat beside him, DS Carter sat. She raised her thin brown eyebrows and gave him a slanted, disappointed-teacher sort of smile, the large mole above her lips protruding as she did.

“Righto, Brian,” the voice from the driver’s seat said. Brian knew who it was without even looking at him, but hearing his voice made him smile at the typicality of it all. He could see who it was from the man’s hunched posture, like a little squirrel, and his badly shaven head, different lengths in different spots.

Stephen-frigging-Molfer would be the man to arrest him, wouldn’t he?

Brian sat upright. He let his neck fall against the headrest, as the Panda vehicle did a turn in the road and drove up the hill, up Berry Lane, away from the police circus.

DI Marlow watched them depart. He stared at Brian through the window, his expression unwavering in sincerity. He’d set a line for Brian. He’d allowed him to get as close as possible to the investigation. But now he was tossing him away. The line had been well and truly crossed.

The car turned left as it reached the top of the hill, past the pub that had been converted into an aptly titled Indian restaurant named “Indian Restaurant”. Brian knew his game was up for the day. And who knows what Darren Anderson could do while the police were elsewhere and Brian was locked in a police station?

Hannah. Shit. He wished he’d called her again to check how she was. The way Anderson had been targeting them, first with the question marks, then Marie and the anonymous things in the post.

But why? Why would he do that to Brian?

The car turned left again, and started to descend a hill.

“Quicker to go right to the station,” Brian suggested. “I know you’re an amateur and all, Molfer, but surely even you know that.”

“We’re not going to the station,” Stephen said.

Brian frowned. He looked at DS Carter beside him, who raised her painted-on eyebrows even higher.

“What do you…‌What do you mean?”

Stephen Molfer clutched the steering wheel even tighter. “Carter‌—‌you explain it to him. I need to psych myself up for what I’m about to do.”

Chapter Twenty Three

Brian’s pulse raced. He looked from Stephen Molfer, who was driving, to DS Carter, and back again. He didn’t like the way Stephen had said that he had to “psych himself up” for something he was about to do.

“What’s going on here?” Brian asked, his voice breaking. He turned to DS Carter again. The silver disguised police Panda vehicle sped over a mini roundabout. They weren’t heading towards the station, that much was clear now.

“Somebody tell me what’s going on, please.”

“Taking your body into the woods and chopping you into tiny pieces,” DS Carter said. She stared at Brian with a complete poker face. He had no idea how to respond.

Then a smile tugged at the sides of her mouth. “Just kidding. I…‌Sorry. Not the most appropriate joke, I realise. But anyway, the stuff you were saying about Darren Anderson‌—‌we think you’re right.”

Sweat dripped down Brian’s face. He could tell that his arse was sweating too, as he sat there in the cramped back seat of the car. What a state he must’ve looked. He almost wished he could go back to not caring so much for his image again. “You…‌you do? What, both of you?”

“I had a look into Phil Mcphee’s records the second you gave me that photograph you got in the post,” Stephen Molfer said. “He was the first guy that came to mind, to be honest. I know he has a history for screwing about with ancient stuff. But anyway, he’s been clean for a few years now.”

“And then I remembered a call we’d got a few weeks back from the Leeds Royal Armouries,” DS Carter added. “They said they’d had a weapon of theirs stolen and they believed there were a few medieval thieves over this side of the Pennines looking to sell them on for profit. Anyway, we got the footage back from them and sure enough, it looked damn like Phil Mcphee.”

“Then what makes you believe me? That it is Darren Anderson? Phil Mcphee was paid to steal that sword, I’m sure of it. He was paid to steal it by Darren Anderson. I’m starting to think now that Phil Mcphee was set up. The fact that the handwriting of that poem that was sent to me matches Mcphee’s makes me think that even more so. It was Anderson. The crafty shite.”

“We don’t disagree with you,” Stephen Molfer said. The car swung to the right, sending Brian tumbling to his left, almost crushing DS Carter in the process. Damn good job he wasn’t as fat as he used to be.

“We’re putting our jobs on the line for you, Brian. The police…‌DI Marlow. The whole lot of them. Marlow seems too eager to believe that Phil Mcphee is responsible. It’s as if he’s jumping on the first name possible, just like‌—‌”

“Just like Darren Anderson wants them to.”

“Something’s not right, Brian,” DS Carter said, shaking her head. “Something’s off with this whole investigation. I mean, we see things from the inside now, and I swear, the incompetence is unforgivable. This is supposed to be a major case. The biggest fuckin’ case in recent memory. Yet the DIs…‌they’re treating it like a daily mugging or something. It’s almost as if they don’t want to find the answer. Not the correct answer, anyway. They’re just desperate to wrap things up and make themselves look like the heroes, even if it means somebody innocent being arrested.”

Brian was taken aback by DS Carter’s words. Not because of the hints of police secrecy‌—‌he knew damn well from his time on the Watson case that police secrecy was rife and it was horrible, always twisted for personal interests. But mainly because DS Carter and‌—‌he had to take a moment to process this‌—‌DS Stephen Molfer were actually sticking up for him.

“So what now?” Brian asked. They were back in the suburbs again, away from the countryside. Instead of mountains looming over them, pylons and high-rise flats did instead.

Stephen Molfer flicked his indicator to the right. He hadn’t once looked in his mirror to directly address Brian in this whole exchange. “We’re going to go to Darren Anderson’s house, the three of us, and we’re going to find out what’s going on.” The car swerved to the right, sending Brian sliding back against DS Carter again.

“But…‌but your jobs. You realise what jeopardy you’re putting yourselves in? You’re highly ranked officers. Not that I don’t want or appreciate your help, but it’s…‌you can’t do this.”

Stephen’s eyes finally looked in his mirror. They were tired. Bloodshot. “I’ve seen enough shit in the last few weeks to know when something’s right or wrong. And right now, something’s wrong. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Brian, but I understand where you were now. How fucking frustrated you must’ve been when Price kept on swaying the ship and diverting that Watson case. I get it now. And I’m tired of it too.”

Brian nodded in acknowledgement. If only Stephen Molfer knew the half of former Detective Inspector Price’s cover-ups. If only.

“We end this together,” DS Carter said. “I was there with you when you found your…‌your girlfriend’s sister. I was there. I saw what it did to you. How it made you feel. And it sickened me too. Sickened me to the core that this had been allowed to happen. Sickened me that‌—‌that we could maybe have stopped it if we’d all taken the case a little more seriously. But we weren’t being allowed to, you get that, right? We would’ve done if we’d been allowed too. And now we are anyway.”

Brian took in a deep breath. Held it for a few seconds. Let go. “You can hang back. I’m the only one who has to be in any shit here. You can…‌you can say I broke free of the car, or something like that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stephen said. “As if a lump like you would ever break free of my clutches.”

He said it jovially enough, but Brian knew damn well that Stephen was still a dickhead at the core. A dickhead could have morals, too.

“I just don’t understand it all,” Brian said, as they drove slowly down Lightfoot Lane, trees lining the street. “I don’t understand what Darren Anderson wants. Is he the…‌the descendant of the surviving witch, or something? Does he have some kind of point to prove? And…‌and what’s my place in all this? What’s Hannah’s place? Marie’s?”

Stephen Molfer pulled up. They were a few hundred yards away from the small black gate of Carnel House. Darren Anderson’s residence.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Stephen said. He opened his car door as DS Carter unlocked the cuffs around Brian’s wrists.

“Coming?” she asked.

Brian gulped and nodded. He looked over at Darren Anderson’s detached house, tall and out of place in this area. “Let’s go get some answers.”

Chapter Twenty Four

Darren Anderson’s house looked uninhabited from outside. It was a grey day, clouds growing thicker by the minute, so it would’ve made sense for there to be a light on inside. Perhaps Darren Anderson wasn’t even home.

They had to hope he was, though. They didn’t want to consider where he might be if he wasn’t home.

Stephen Molfer led the way. He had his back perfectly straight, as if somebody had stuck a piece of string on the top of his balding head and were pulling him as upright as they possibly could. A Stephen Molfer voodoo doll. Now there was a thought Brian had had a few times.