Дэвид Муди - Strangers

Barry knocked the door again. Still nothing. ‘This don’t make sense. He was spitting feathers on the phone.’

‘Shall I just start unloading? I’ll shift all his stuff round the back. Get us back in his good books.’

‘Good idea, Scotty. You get to it. I’ll keep trying.’

The driveway continued up the side of the house and, at the far end of the drive, Scott saw that a section of fence was missing. There was a pile of old rotten panels there too, dumped out of view behind Potter’s heap of a car. He went through the gap in the fence, wondering why Potter hadn’t answered. He might have fallen asleep as Barry suggested, all the exertion of his vociferous complaining tiring him out. He might have been out walking his dog (if he had one), or visiting a neighbour (though he didn’t seem to have any of those either). After the noise and bluster of earlier, his non-appearance was irritating more than concerning.

At the back of the house was an ugly concrete patio which hadn’t been touched in years. It was covered with mottled, ground-in dirt, dotted with patches of moss and persistent weeds which had patiently forced their way up through the narrowest of cracks. Potter obviously wasn’t particularly interested in maintaining his property to any great extent. Judging by the state of the rest of the house, he was only fixing the fence because it had collapsed.

Scott looked at every place he saw with builder’s eyes. Maybe if he could get on the right side of Potter he could give him his details and quote for some of the immediate repairs which needed doing? From the outside décor and style, he thought the house was probably built in the twenties or thirties. There was a large patch of rendering missing from around one of the windows, and an equally large damp patch under the eaves of the roof (which sagged in the middle somewhat).

‘Mr Potter?’ he shouted, looking in through a back window. ‘You here, Mr Potter?’

The interior decoration looked as dated as everything else. The sitting room floor was cluttered with piles of newspapers and stacks of books, all centred around a grubby, well-worn armchair which was angled towards a TV so old Scott thought it looked steam-driven. He rapped his knuckles on the glass and shouted again.

When Scott turned around, he noticed something strange in one of the flowerbeds. In contrast to the house itself, the rest of Potter’s garden was reasonably well-tended. The lawn had recently been mowed and the beds were a riot of colour, and that made it harder to understand why he could see what he was seeing. It was a bare foot, toes pointing upwards. He took a step forward then hesitated, uneasy. Had Potter had an accident out here?

‘Scott, I don’t know where the hell he’s—’ Barry started to say, stepping through the hole in the fence. He stopped speaking when he saw it. ‘What the hell’s that?’

The two men walked further down the garden together in silence. The body in the flowerbed was definitely not Kenneth Potter. It was a young girl, and it was clear even from a distance that she was dead. Scott didn’t get too close because he didn’t need to. He could tell from her ice-white skin, her frozen expression and her unblinking eyes that she was gone. For several seconds all he could do was stare deep into those eyes, unable to look away.

From where they were both standing, a large Rhododendron bush obscured much of the girl’s body, covering her chest down to her feet. Barry moved slightly, trying to get a better view, but not sure if he should. He leant down and moved part of the bush away, immediately wishing he hadn’t. ‘Jesus…’ he said. ‘Bloody hell…’ He staggered back, tripping over the straps of a discarded rucksack and ending up on his backside on the grass, scrambling away. Scott helped him up.

‘You know her?’

‘Never seen her before.’

Scott looked back at the house, half expecting Ken Potter to appear, gunning for the two of them. The mad bastard must have done this girl in, then made a run for it.

‘What the hell happened?’ Barry said, still backing-up.

Scott moved around to see what Barry had seen. He kept his eyes on the girl’s face, and it felt for a moment as if he and the corpse were the only two things left in the world. He looked down at her feet – one wedged in the mud, still wearing a thick hiking sock, the naked toes of the other still pointing skywards – then at her legs. And then, much as he didn’t want to, much as he knew he shouldn’t, he lifted his eyes further.

Fuck.

It was hard to make out exactly what he was looking at. He didn’t mean to stare, but it was impossible to look away. Between the girl’s pale white thighs was a mass of blood, torn tissue and pubic hair. Still wet. Glistening. Maybe still warm. It looked like blood had gushed, not trickled, from her horrific eviscerations. There were pools of it in the flower bed, crimson puddles under her buttocks. And yet, despite having crushed the plants where she’d fallen, there were no immediately obvious signs of a struggle. The blood was strangely contained.

Scott walked away from the corpse, his head spinning. ‘We need to call the police,’ he said, tapping his pockets and checking for his phone. He’d left it in the truck. He turned to go fetch it.

‘Where you going?’ Barry asked.

‘Phone. In the truck.’

Barry followed him, not wanting to be left alone with the dead girl. ‘Wait… Ken wouldn’t have done this.’

‘Then who did?’ Scott demanded, grabbing his phone from the glovebox. He checked the screen. No signal. No surprise.

‘No, no… this isn’t right… He’s panicked, is all. Someone else did this and Ken’s found her and panicked.’

Scott shook his head and tried the phone anyway. Christ, why hadn’t he spent more time thinking about the practicalities of dragging his family to the ends of the Earth like this? Shitty phone coverage, fuel stations about half a tank apart, blood-soaked bodies dumped in forests and retired school teacher’s back gardens… He went back towards the house. ‘I’ll try the landline.’

‘What if Ken’s in there?’

‘Then you can talk to him. He’s your mate.’

Scott tried the back door. It was unlocked. He opened it but paused before going inside. If he hadn’t had Barry with him, he thought he might have just got back in the truck, driven away and pleaded ignorance later.

‘Anyone here? Mr Potter… you in?’

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, a room as antiquated and untidy as the rest of the house. Strange. There was a half-drunk mug of tea on the counter and an unfinished sandwich, just a couple of bites taken. He touched the side of the cup and it was still warm. Had Ken Potter simply decided to kill that girl right in the middle of his lunch? And there was only one drink and one plate of food… had she turned up unannounced? Had he murdered her on a whim?

‘Ken,’ Barry shouted, his voice echoing. ‘You here, Ken?’

‘I reckon he’s long gone.’

‘I’ll phone for help,’ Barry said, squeezing past and going out into the hallway. He looked around constantly as he picked up the telephone and called the police. Scott followed him out and listened to the empty house around them. He was sure they were alone. Potter had clearly done what he’d done then made a run for it. Strange, then, that he hadn’t taken his car.

‘Well?’ Scott said as Barry replaced the receiver.

‘Sergeant Ross says he’s on way. Says he’s stuck dealing with something else first. We best wait in the truck. Don’t want to be takin’ any chances.’

It was more than an hour before the police arrived. Barry knew each of the men in uniform personally. Sergeant Dan Ross was clearly in charge – older than the others, grey haired, and, it seemed, in no mood to take any crap. With him was PC Mark Hamilton, half the sergeant’s age, but just as professional, and PC Craig Phillips, an altogether more relaxed officer. He remained with the two men in Potter’s cluttered living room while the others secured the scene and waited for back-up to arrive. Barry excused himself and went to the toilet leaving Scott with PC Phillips.