Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

When the man appeared in front of her, she could not imagine, at first, where he had come from. It was as if he had appeared by magic from the sand.

“Max,” she cried. “Max. How did you get here? I didn’t see you.” And she began to run towards him, tears streaming down her face.

It was only when she saw the blade of the wide, triangular kitchen knife, shining in the moonlight, that she began to feel afraid. It was that and his failure to answer, his stillness and silence. She realised then that he had been waiting for her crouched behind one of the blocks of concrete. He had known all the time where she was. He had seen her on the high dune, watched her walk along the tide line, and waited patiently for her return. She screamed and began to run away from him. She knew instinctively that she would have no chance against him on the flat sand. He was stronger than she and much faster. Her only hope was to get back to the car.

She began to scramble up the dunes on all fours, pulling with her hands and kicking with her feet. He seemed surprised by her sudden movement and could not use both hands because he was still holding the knife, blade outstretched. But he seemed to have power in his legs to compensate, and when she slipped, gulping for air, exhausted, he almost caught her. She kicked back with one foot, sending a shower of fine sand over his face and into his eyes. He swore and lunged forward with the knife towards her, but he could not see and missed her. She ran on. She could not hear him behind her. She slowed down for a moment and listened, but there was no sound of movement. He must have followed a different path, she thought. He would hope to trick her by getting ahead of her and cutting her off from the car. She stood quite still and listened again, but there was silence.

She was more frightened then than she had been when he was right behind her, tearing at her trouser leg with his knife. From the dune where she stood, catching her breath, she could see her car, ordinary and familiar on the grass. It seemed such a short distance away. She supposed she should creep towards it, keeping below the skyline, playing the same game as he was, so he would not know where she was either. But suddenly panic took over and she ran towards the orange car at fulltilt. She might even have started screaming again. She wanted only to be away from the place and the man who was following her. She thought when she reached the short, cropped grass of the carpark that the nightmare was over. There was nothing then between her and safety. It was only when she was nearly at the car, with several yards to go, already feeling in her pocket for her keys, that a man stepped out of the shadow of the Mini. He caught her in his arms and her screams echoed over the quiet and empty landscape.

On the way to Brinkbonnie Ramsay said nothing. After the shared elation of the Incident Room he seemed to close in on himself and shut Hunter off. He was deep in concentrated thought and Hunter sensed a lack of confidence.

He’s losing his nerve, Hunter thought. He’s not up to the job. That was the trouble with these small-town men. So little happened in the rural divisions that when there was some action they didn’t have a clue how to do the thing properly. Perhaps it was time to put in for a transfer to Newcastle Central before he turned into one of them.

Just outside Brinkbonnie they were given the information that a young policeman had seen Mary’s car at an accident on the Otterbridge Road, and they knew they were going in the right direction. Hunter cheered under his breath, but Ramsay would not allow himself to be optimistic. On the edge of the village he made Hunter slow down. He did not want the people there frightened by speeding cars and sirens. On the lane they went faster again and saw the Mini immediately, parked just beyond the carpark attendant’s hut.

“No sign of Laidlaw,” Hunter said. Ramsay’s silence was irritating him. What was the matter with the man? The thing was nearly over. Still Ramsay said nothing.

“Shall I drive on up the track and look for his car?” Hunter asked.

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “Drive on. But if we don’t find it soon, park. We must find the woman. That’s the important thing.”

The track was dry and rutted and Hunter was driving slowly. There was no sign of a car and he could sense his superior’s tension and impatience.

“This is impossible,” Ramsay said irritably. “The car could be anywhere behind those bushes. We’ll need to look on foot.”

Hunter drove on, unsure of what the inspector wanted him to do.

“Stop,” Ramsay said suddenly. “Stop here. Something’s wrong. We must find Mary Raven.” He felt that they had been deceived.

They got out of the car and stood in the frosty silence. Hunter shut the car doors and the noise was loud and shocking.

“Where do we start?” Hunter asked. He had none of Ramsay’s sense of foreboding. “They could be anywhere.” He imagined them lying together in some hollow in the dunes, a pornographic fantasy of sex in the open air. He stood in the moonlight and grinned at the idea.

“You cross the dunes to the beach,” Ramsay said. “I’ll walk back to her car.”

“What do you want me to do if I see her?”

“Nothing,” Ramsay said sharply. “ Not if she’s on her own. Wait until he finds her.”

“Shall I radio for help?”

“No,” Ramsay said. “I’ll do it. But by the time they all get here it’ll be too late.”

The first scream surprised them both. Hunter was only a few yards from the car. He began to run through the dunes towards the beach, swearing at the spikes of marram grass that scratched his hands and the sand that filled his shoes. Ramsay stood and listened, then walked quickly back towards the carpark entrance, his shadow long behind him.

When Mary Raven hurtled down the sand bank and into his arms, he felt only relief. He held her, trying to calm her as she sobbed, awkward at first, then remembering what it was like to hold a woman in his arms. At first she was hysterical in her terror. She tried to pull away from him, tearing at his face with her fingernails and kicking his legs with her heavy boots. Then she recognised him.

“He tried to kill me,” she sobbed. “He had a knife and he tried to kill me. It couldn’t have been Max. Max would never have done a thing like that.”

“No,” Ramsay said, his arms still around her shoulder, trying to stop her trembling. “ It wasn’t Max.”

From the main road they heard the sirens of police cars coming to assist them, and as they came to the end of the track, Hunter emerged from the nearest dune, his hand bleeding, his face triumphant, with his prisoner.

“Too late as usual,” he said, nodding towards the flashing blue lights. It would do no harm, this, he thought. It might mean a promotion if Ramsay didn’t take all the credit.

“Where’s the knife?” Ramsay asked.

“He dropped it in the dunes.” He looked towards the reinforcements. “ They’ll find it.”

“Well, then,” Ramsay said. “You’d better get him back to Otterbridge.”

James Laidlaw looked strangely young without his spectacles. In the half light of the dunes Mary had mistaken him for Max and Ramsay could see how that was possible. James had lost all desire to fight. When they opened the back door of the police car for him, he got in without a word. He sat upright, a respectable figure. He was still wearing a suit. A policewoman who had taken Mary to her car was wrapping her in a rug, pouring tea from a flask.

Hunter was about to drive away when Ramsay tapped on the window. Hunter opened it with hostility, expecting another command or rebuke.

“Well done,” Ramsay said. “That was a good arrest.”