Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

'David, just think about it. They'll have properly equipped emergency teams, with insulin and everything else. What good are you going to do charging up there?'

The question pierced my frenzy. All the manic energy that had been driving me seemed to leak away. I looked stupidly at the insulin and syringes in my hands.

'I don't know.' My voice was hoarse.

Henry sighed. 'Put them back, David,' he said, gently.

I held out a moment longer, then did as he said.

He took my arm. 'Come and sit down. You look awful.'

I let him lead me to the chair, but didn't sit in it. 'I can't sit down. I need to do something.'

He was looking at me with concern. 'I know it's hard. But sometimes there just isn't anything you can do, no matter how much you might wish otherwise.'

My throat had constricted. I could feel tears pricking at my eyes. 'I want to be there. When they find her.'

Henry didn't speak for a moment. 'David…' He sounded reluctant. 'I know you don't want to hear this, but… well, don't you think you ought to prepare yourself?'

I felt as if something had punched me in the stomach. I couldn't breathe.

'I know how fond of her you are, but-'

'Don't say it.'

He nodded, tiredly. 'All right. Look, let me get you a drink.'

'I don't want a drink!' I stopped myself. 'I can't sit around and wait. I just can't.'

Henry looked helpless. 'I wish I knew what to say. I'm sorry.'

'Give me something to do. Anything.'

'There isn't anything. There's only one visit in the book, and-'

'Who is it?'

'Irene Williams, but it's not urgent. You'd be better off staying here-'

But I was already heading for the door. I went out without collecting the patient's notes, barely aware of the worried look Janice gave me. I had to keep moving, had to distract myself from the fact that Jenny's life was out of my hands. I tried to blank it from my mind as I drove to the small terraced cottage on the outskirts of the village where Irene Williams lived. A talkative woman in her seventies, she was waiting to have her arthritic hip replaced with stoic good humour. Normally I enjoyed visiting her, but this evening any small talk was beyond me.

'You're quiet. Cat got your tongue?' she asked as I wrote out her prescription.

'Just tired.' I saw I'd made the prescription out for insulin instead of painkillers. I screwed it up and wrote another.

She chuckled. 'Don't think I don't know what's wrong with you.'

I could only stare at her. She smiled, her false teeth the only youthful feature in her wizened face.

'You want to get a nice girl. That'd brighten you up a bit.'

It was all I could do not to run out.

Back in the safety of the Land Rover, I put my head on the steering wheel. I looked at my watch. Its fingers seemed to move with mocking slowness. It was still too soon to hear anything. I'd had enough experience of how the police worked to know they would probably still be talking, briefing the tactical teams and finalizing their plans.

I checked my mobile anyway. The signal fluttered weakly, but there was enough reception for any calls or messages to have reached me. Nothing. I stared through the windscreen at the village. It struck me then how much I hated Manham. I hated the flint buildings, hated the flat, waterlogged landscape. Hated the suspicion and resentment that crowded the attitudes of its inhabitants. Hated that a perverted killer had managed to live here unnoticed, until his sickness was ready to declare itself. Most of all, I hated the fact that it had given me Jenny and then taken her away again. See this? This is what your lives could have been like.

The almost feverish emotion faded as quickly as it came, leaving me sick and febrile in its wake. Dark clouds were blackening the sky like a spreading bruise as I started the car. There was nothing to do now but go back, and sit and wait for the phone call that terrified me. The thought of it was suffocating.

And then I remembered there was something else after all. That morning when I'd gone to see Scarsdale in the churchyard, Tom Mason had told me about his grandfather's bad back. It was a recurrent problem for the old man, the price of a lifetime spent stooped over other people's flowerbeds. Calling to see him would take up a few more minutes, provide another distraction until I could expect to hear from Mackenzie. With relief bordering on desperation, I turned the car around and headed for the Masons' house.

Old George and his grandson lived on the edge of the woods by the lake, in what had once been the lodge for Manham Hall. The family had been gardeners there for generations, and as a young man George had worked at the hall himself until it had been demolished after the war. Now the lodge was all that remained, a few acres of neatness and cultivation surviving among the encroaching woodland.

The gunmetal sheen of the lake was visible through the trees as I parked in the yard and went to knock on the door. It had a large, frosted glass panel that rattled slightly under my hand. When there was no answer I rapped again. As I waited the air vibrated with a rumble of thunder. I looked at the sky, surprised to notice how quickly the light had faded. The storm clouds rolling in overhead had brought a premature end to the day. It would be dark before much longer.

I belatedly realized something else. There were no lights on in the house, which there should have been if anyone was home. There were only the two of them, Tom's parents having died when he was a boy. So perhaps George had recovered enough to go to work after all. I started back towards the Land Rover, but only took a few paces before I stopped. Some awareness was nagging at me, a sense of something missed. The air seemed hushed with an eerie, pre-storm quiet. I looked around the yard, gripped by an uneasy feeling of imminence, that something was about to happen. Yet there was nothing I could see.

I jumped as something struck my bare arm. A fat raindrop had spattered on it. A moment later the sky was lit up by a flat sheet of lightning. For an instant everything was bleached to a dazzling white. In the pregnant silence that followed I became aware of a sound more felt than heard. It was drowned out a moment later by the bellicose crack of thunder, but I knew I hadn't imagined it. A low, almost subliminal hum that was all too familiar.

Flies.

And while recognition was dawning on me, several miles away, Mackenzie stood grim-faced, surrounded by cages of terrified birds and animals as a breathless police sergeant confirmed what he already knew.

'We've checked everywhere,' the man said. There's no-one here.'

It was difficult to pinpoint where the sound of flies had come from. But I knew it was from the house. The darkened windows stared blindly down at me, offering no help. I went to the nearest and peered through. Inside I could dimly make out a kitchen, but little else. I tried the next. A living room, the dead screen of a television set facing two worn armchairs.

I went to the door, raised my hand to knock again, then let it fall. If anyone had been going to answer they would have. I paused on the step, uncertain what to do.

But I knew what I'd heard. And I knew I couldn't ignore it. My hand went to the door handle. If it was locked the decision would have been made for me. I turned it.

The door opened.

I hesitated, knowing I shouldn't even be considering doing this. Then I caught the smell from inside the house. Fetid and faintly sweet, it was an odour I recognized only too well.

I pushed the door fully open onto a dim hallway. The smell was unmistakable now. Dry-mouthed, I took out my phone to call the police. It was no longer a question of jumping at shadows. Something – someone – had died in here. I'd actually started to dial before I realized there was no signal. The Mason house was in a dead zone. I swore, wondering how long I'd been out of touch, if Mackenzie had been trying to reach me.