Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

So Tina told no-one about the fox. It was only days later, when its significance was all too obvious, that she even remembered it.

And by then it was too late.

Two things happened over the next twenty-four hours. Of the two, it was the first that had most people talking. At any other time this was an event that would have been a source of scandalized gossip, subject to endless tellings and retellings before it became absorbed into Manham folklore, a chapter of village history to be chuckled and tutted over for decades. As it was, it was to have repercussions that were far more serious than any physical injuries it caused.

In a confrontation that many thought was years overdue, Ben Anders and Carl Brenner had a fight.

It was partly drink, and partly animosity, and partly the pressures of recent days. The two men had never made any pretence of liking each other, and the unnatural tensions in the village had the effect of rubbing raw far slighter grievances than theirs. It was almost closing time at the Lamb. Ben had just ordered a whisky to finish, after what he admitted was a pint or two more than normal. He'd had a hellish day at the nature reserve, having to give first aid to a birdwatcher who'd had a heart attack in the heat, as well as coping with the usual crises of the tourist season. When Carl Brenner came into the pub, 'cocky and full of himself', as Ben later put it, he'd turned his back, determined not to give a bad day a worse end by letting himself be goaded.

It didn't quite work out that way.

Brenner hadn't come in just for a drink. Fired up over Scarsdale's call to arms the night before, this was both a recruitment drive and an announcement of intent. With him was Dale Brenner, a swarthy cousin unlike him in looks, but a brother in habit and temperament. They were part of a larger group who, under Scarsdale's urging, had taken it upon themselves to patrol the village, day and night. 'Because the police are doing fuck all, so we've got to sort this bastard out ourselves,' was how Brenner put it, echoing the reverend's sentiment, if not his language.

At first Ben remained silent as the Brenners tried to drum up more volunteers. But then Carl, emboldened by alcohol and his new-found mission, made the mistake of confronting him directly.

'So what about you, Anders?'

'What about me?'

'You with us or not?'

Ben slowly finished his whisky before answering. 'So you're going to sort this bastard out, are you?'

'That's right. You got a problem with that?'

'Only one. How do you know he isn't one of you?'

Never blessed with the sharpest of minds, that had obviously never occurred to Brenner. 'In fact, how do we know it isn't you?' Ben demanded. 'Digging holes, setting traps. Sounds right up your street.'

He admitted later that he was merely baiting the other man, didn't stop to think what a dangerous accusation it was. And it pushed Brenner further than he might otherwise have gone.

'Fuck off, Anders! The police know I had nothing to do with it!'

'This the same police you said a minute ago were doing fuck all? And you want me to join you? Jesus,' Ben sneered, letting his contempt show. 'Stick to poaching. It's all you're good for.'

'At least I've got an alibi! What about you?'

Ben levelled a finger at him. 'Watch it, Brenner.'

'Why? Have you or haven't you?'

'I'm warning you…'

Bolstered by the presence of his cousin, Brenner didn't back down as he usually did. 'So fucking what? I'm getting sick of you throwing your weight around. And you were quick enough to stick up for your doctor mate last week, weren't you? Where was he when Lyn went missing?'

'So now you're saying we both did it?'

'Prove you didn't!'

'I don't have to prove anything to you, Brenner,' Ben said, his tenuous grip on his temper slipping. 'So why don't you and the rest of your vigilante heroes take your pathetic patrol and shove it up your arse?'

They glared at each other. Brenner broke first. 'Come on,' he said to his cousin, and it almost ended there. But, unable to leave without an attempt to save face, he couldn't resist one final jibe, 'Fucking coward,' he spat as he turned to leave.

That was the point when Ben's good intentions went out of the window. And so, very nearly, did Carl Brenner.

The fight that followed was short-lived. There were enough men in the pub to jump in before it got too far out of hand, which was probably just as well for Ben. Brenner by himself posed no threat, but as big as he was Ben might have struggled to take on his cousin as well. By the time they were dragged apart a table and several chairs had been smashed, and it would be several weeks before Brenner could look at himself again in a shaving mirror – far less shave – without wincing. Ben himself didn't emerge unscathed, suffering various cuts and bruises and dislocating one of his knuckles. All of which, he claimed, were well worth it.

But the truly serious damage wouldn't emerge for several more days.

I wasn't there when the fight happened. I had cooked a meal for Jenny, who was staying the night, and Manham's problems had gone from my mind. In fact, I was probably one of the last people to hear about it, as first thing the following morning I went to continue the grim task waiting for me at the mortuary.

Since Lyn Metcalf's body had been found, Henry had again been standing in for me while I went to the lab. I was doing my best to rush back in time for evening surgery, but the additional workload was taking its toll on him. He was looking tired, even though he'd reduced surgery hours to a bare minimum, running it almost on a skeleton basis when I wasn't there.

I felt guilty, but at least it wouldn't be for much longer. Another half-day at the lab and I would have done as much as I could. I was still waiting for most of the test results, but so far Lyn Metcalf's remains had yielded a similar story to those of Sally Palmer. There had been no real surprises, except the question of why the first victim's face had been so badly battered while that of the second had been left untouched. Also, with the decomposition less advanced, some of Lyn Metcalf's fingernails had still remained on the body. They'd been broken and torn, and the forensic lab had found hemp fibres attached to some of them. Rope, in other words. Whatever else had been done to her, it seemed she'd been tied up.

Other than the wound that had opened her throat and the horrific mutilation, Lyn's injuries had been mainly superficial cuts. Only the one to her throat had left its mark on the bone. Like the one I'd found on Sally Palmer, it had been caused by a large, sharp blade. Probably a hunting knife, and almost certainly the same one, although at this stage there was no way of proving that for certain. But it wasn't serrated. Which left me no wiser as to why the two women had been killed with one weapon, while another had been used on the dog.

I was still worrying at it as I went into the waiting area after the last patient had left. The evening surgery had been quiet, with barely half the number of patients as normal. Either people were loath to worry about more trivial complaints in the face of the larger tragedy, or there was another, even less palatable reason why so many had decided to avoid their doctor. Or one of them, at least. Requests to see Henry were higher than they had been for years, more and more people apparently preferring to wait rather than see me.

But I was too taken up by Jenny and my work at the lab to worry about it.

Janice was tidying the waiting room when I went in, straightening the mismatched old chairs and restacking the dog-eared magazines.

'Quiet night,' I said.

She picked a child's puzzle off the floor and put it back in the wooden box with the other toys. 'Better than a room full of sniffles and hypochondriacs.'