“Well, go and get the fucking thing,” he shouted, watching as Miles sloped off in the direction of the trees.
Paul Harvey saw him coming.
Miles pushed his way into the bushes and onward until he was surrounded by trees. For the first time that morning he noticed just how quiet it was inside the copse. His feet hardly made a sound as he walked over the carpet of moss, glancing around in his search for the ball. It obviously must have gone further than usual. Even its bright orange colour seemed invisible in the maze of greens and browns which made up the small wood. He stepped up onto a fallen, rotting tree stump, hoping to get a better view. At his feet a large spider had succeeded in trapping a fly in its web and, for a moment, Miles watched the hairy horror devouring its prey. He shuddered and moved away, his eyes still scanning the copse for the lost ball. He stepped into some stinging nettles and yelped in pain as one of them found its way to the exposed area between his sock top and the turn-up of his jeans. He rubbed the painful spot and wandered further into the wood. Where the hell was that ball?
He stood still, hands on his hips, squinting in the dull light. Mist still hung low on the floor of the copse, like a blanket of dry ice, it covered his feet as he walked. Droplets of moisture hung like shimmering crystal from the few leaves which remained on the trees. They reminded Miles of cold tears.
Something caught his eye.
He smiled. It was the ball, about ten yards away, stuck in the top of a stunted bush. He hurried towards it, suddenly aware of the unearthly silence which seemed to have closed around him like some kind of invisible velvet glove. He shivered and scurried forward to retrieve the ball, tugging it loose from the grasping branches of the bush.
Something moved close behind him, a soft footfall on the carpet of moss. He spun round, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.
A sudden light breeze sprang up, whipping the mist into thin spirals.
Miles started back towards the openness of the rec, away from the stifling confines of the copse. He clutched the ball to his chest, ignoring the mud which was staining his jumper. The odour of damp wood and moss was almost asphyxiating, as palpable as the gossamer wisps of fog which swirled around him.
Something cold touched his arm and he gasped, dropping the ball, spinning round, ready to run.
It was a low branch.
As he bent to pick up the ball, Miles could see that his hands were shaking. He straightened up, a thin film of perspiration on his forehead. And it was at that moment he felt the hand grip his shoulder.
This time he screamed, trying to pull away but the hand held him back and he heard raucous laughter ringing in his ears.
“All right, don’t shit yourself,” said a familiar voice and Miles finally found the courage to turn. He saw Graham Phelps standing there, his hand gripping Miles’s shoulder. “Just thought I’d give you a bit of a fright.” He laughed again, pushing Miles towards the clearing ahead of them.
“How would you like it if someone had done that to you?” Miles bleated.
“Oh shut up and give me the ball,” said Graham, snatching it from him.
The huge frame of Paul Harvey loomed ahead of them, rising from behind a fallen tree stump as if he had sprung from the very ground itself. He towered over them huge hands bunched into fists which looked like ham hocks. Wreathed in mist, he looked like something from a nightmare and, when he took a step towards them, both boys screamed and ran. They darted in opposite directions, the football falling to the ground where it bounced three or four times. Forgotten. They ran and Harvey ran after them.
They crashed through bushes, ignoring the low branches of trees which clawed at their faces, oblivious to the thorns which scraped their flesh. They both burst into the open, running like frightened rabbits. Colin saw them, saw the terror in their eyes and he too, without knowing why, joined them in their crazed flight.
Harvey watched the children as they dashed across the clearing. He waited until they were out of sight, then, scanning the open ground ahead, anxiously emerged from the trees. He crossed to the Tesco bag and rummaged inside, finding several sandwiches, some of which he stuffed into his mouth immediately. The others he jammed into his pockets. He picked up the first thermos flask, flinging it to one side when he discovered it was empty. The second one, however, was full and he could hear the contents slopping about as he shook it. Pieces of half-eaten sandwich fell from his mouth as he tried to swallow as much as he could.
Beyond the clearing lay the rolling fields which marked the outskirts of Exham. Careful not to drop any of his food, he loped off.
In twenty minutes he had disappeared.
It was 10.05 a.m.
The Exham police station was a two storey red brick building set on the perimeter of the town centre. A small construction, barely large enough to house the force of nine men and three women, Randall himself excluded.
At 2.56 p.m., the entire force was crowded into what normally passed as the rest room. There wasn’t enough seats for everyone to sit down so one or two of the constables leant against the white-washed walls, their attention focused on the Inspector who stood beside a board at the far end of the room. There were several monochrome photos stuck to it and, resting precariously on the chair in front of him, Randall had a dozen or so more of them.
“Paul Harvey,” he said, motioning towards the photos. “Get to know that face because we’ve got to find him and quick.”
The Inspector lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it.
“Exham’s quite a big town,” he said. “So there’s plenty of places for the bastard to hide. That’s if he’s even got here yet.” He paused. “Or even coming that is.”
A murmur of sardonic laughter rippled around the room.
“I want a thorough search of the whole town. Any disused houses, places like that and ask people too. Take one of these with you.” He held up the photo and waved it before him. “But just be careful with your questioning. If word gets around that Harvey is on his way back to Exham then we could have a panic on our hands. It’s going to be difficult enough finding him without having people ringing up every five minutes wanting to know if we’ve caught him.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “And if the local press ask any questions, tell them to sod off. This lot around here can’t write about jumble sales without getting the facts wrong so we don’t want stories about Harvey splashed all over the front page of the local rags.” A lump of ash dropped from the end of his fag and Randall ground it into the carpet.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“Did Harvey have any family, guv?” The question came from P C Charlton,
“Yes he did. If you can call it a family. The information’s a bit vague but it seems he lived with his father up until three years ago when the old boy died. Nobody could find any trace of his mother though. The murders were committed after his father’s death.”
“How do you know he’s coming back here?” It was Constable Reed this time.
Randall repeated his conversation with Stokes and the psychiatrist, expressing his own doubts about the killer returning to Exham. Reed seemed satisfied with the explanation.
There was an uneasy silence and Randall scanned the collection of faces before him
“Any more questions?” he asked.
There were none.
“Right,” he glanced at his watch. “There’s a couple of hours of daylight left. We may as well make a start.”
The uniformed men and women got to their feet, filing past Randall and the board, each one picking up a couple of the black and white photos. The inspector himself waited until they had all departed and then made his way up to his office on the first floor. He lit up another cigarette and sat down at his desk, flicking on the desk lamp. Already the sky outside was overcast, heavy with rain, it hastened the onset of dusk and the watery sun which had tried to shine for most of the day had finally been swallowed up by the banks of thick cloud.
Randall held one of the photos before him, studying Harvey’s chiselled features. There was a piercing intensity in those eyes which seemed to bore into the policeman even from the dull monochrome of the picture. Harvey carried two distinctive scars on his right cheek which Randall guessed were bottle scars. They were deep and the Inspector wondered how and when the escaped prisoner had sustained them. He sat back in his seat, tossing the photo onto his desk. The smoke from the cigarette drifted lazily in the air, curling into spirals around him. He closed his eyes.
The wind moaned despairingly at his window.
He couldn’t remember how long he’d been running, only that it had been daylight when he’d begun but now the countryside was wrapped in an almost impenetrable cloak of darkness. He wondered if he had been running in circles, chasing his own tracks round and round as he sought some vague escape route. The hills and fields all looked alike in the blackness. His legs felt like ton weights, burdened as they were by clods of mud. His heart thumped hard against his ribs and the breath rasped in his lungs as if it were being pumped by defective bellows.
He paused for a moment, atop a hill, and looked around. Below and behind him lights were shining. In some places the sodium glare of street lamps, in others the brighter glow which spilled from the windows of houses. If he had been able to calculate distance, Paul Harvey might well have guessed that he was about two miles from the centre of Exham. The town was little more than a collection of dim lights in the distance. Like a scattering of fire-flies. He panted loudly, his mouth filled with a bitter taste. He was cold, the first particles of frost now sparkling on the grass around him as the moon fumbled its way from behind a bank of thick cloud. Harvey looked up at the wreathed white orb and blinked. He put up a hand, as if trying to sweep it from the sky and, when this ploy didn’t work he decided to keep on running.
The hill dipped away sharply before him and he slipped on the slick grass as he descended the slope. He lay still for what seemed like an eternity, ignoring the dampness which he felt seeping through his clothes. He merely lay on his back, gazing up at the moon, sucking in huge lungfuls of air. Every muscle in his body ached but he knew he couldn’t stop. Not yet. Grunting painfully, he hauled himself upright and stumbled on. As he ran he could feel the sandwiches bumping in his coat pockets. He’d eaten one or two since taking them from the children earlier in the day and the flask was now half empty, its contents only luke-warm. He realized that he would have to eat as soon as he found shelter. Eat and drink. But what would he do when that source of food was exhausted? The question tumbled over in his mind as he ran. Yes, the food was important but so was shelter. The night was already digging icy fingers into him, he needed somewhere to hide. And not just from the elements. From
them
.
They
would be looking for him. He knew they would come soon but perhaps not for a few days. Even
they
would have difficulty finding him out here.
The moon escaped a bank of cloud once more and, in its cold white light, Harvey saw a group of buildings ahead of him.
He stopped dead in his tracks, even his breathing slowed for a moment.
Shelter.
He was sure it was a farm. There were. . .
He clenched his fists. Why was it so difficult to think?
One, two, three. There were perhaps more buildings, arranged in a quadrangle, with a large open area at their centre – a farm house, a barn, a pig pen, another barn. He moved closer, his wide eyes ever watchful. There were no lights on in the house, perhaps whoever lived there was out, gone to bed maybe. Or perhaps
they
were in there, watching him. Just waiting for him to walk into their trap. He stood still, panting. No, there was no possible way they would find him here, they couldn’t know he would find this place. Harvey smiled crookedly and licked his lips, advancing a few more yards. It was certainly quiet, there didn’t appear to be anyone around.
He reached the broken fence which surrounded the entrance to the farmyard. It was rotten with damp, the wood black where at one time it had been regularly creosoted. The gate hung from one hinge, an invitation to enter which Harvey took. The yard itself was covered with weeds, some as high as his knees. He walked across to the overgrown hedge which surrounded the garden. There was no gate here, just a weather-beaten arch covered with the spidery remains of a rose plant. Harvey moved tentatively up the path towards the front door of the house, his eyes moving back and forth, waiting for the slightest sign of movement.
When nothing had happened by the time he’d reached the front door, he began to relax slightly. He went from window to window, trying to peer through the grime-encrusted panes in an effort to see what lay inside the house but he could make out no shapes in the gloom. He thought about breaking in. He could smash a window. With his tremendous strength he could even break down one of the doors.
But, what if someone came by? They would see that the farmhouse had been damaged. They would know something was wrong. He would be found.
They
would come for him again. He smiled crookedly again, pleased with his own cunning. He turned and scuttled back down the path, crossing the yard in the direction of the barn This time, two huge wooden doors stood open and Harvey walked cautiously into the black maw which lay beyond.
The barn smelt of dampness and rotting straw. Bales of it were stacked in one corner and also up in the loft. A rickety looking ladder offered a route up to the loft and the big man put one huge foot on the first rung, testing it. It groaned under his weight but held and he began to climb.
There were about a dozen bales of damp straw in the loft, the wooden floor itself covered with a thin carpet of the fibrous stuff. The stench was almost overpowering but Harvey seemed not to notice it. The darkness inside the barn was broken only by the weak light provided by the moon, the beams creeping in through the numerous cracks in the roof. Here and there, large chunks of the slate roof were gone and Harvey shied away from these as if anxious to remain in the enveloping darkness. He settled down against a straw bale and rummaged through his coat pockets for the remaining sandwiches he’d taken from the three boys that morning. He ate ravenously, stuffing the food into his cavernous mouth until it was gone then he reached for the thermos flask. He took a large mouthful but the contents were cold and Harvey spat the liquid out angrily, hurling the empty receptacle away.