Дэвид Муди - Strangers

Travelling had initially broadened Mark’s horizons and had made many of the people he’d left behind seem infuriatingly blinkered and self-obsessed. Being away from the town for so long, though, had also made him feel unexpectedly protective of the place. All his mates on the force thought he was out of his mind when he’d accepted the posting and come back here, but he knew what he was doing.

The crimes which had recently been committed in and around the town were unprecedented in their number and ferocity. The killings were wanton, brazen, indiscriminate, and apparently motiveless. He was glad they’d got that slimy fucker Scott Griffiths locked up in the cells. Cocky bastard. Hamilton had had his eye on that one since they’d first met at Ken Potter’s house. Sergeant Ross felt the same about him, he knew he did. There was something about Griffiths which just didn’t ring true. There was no denying he was a suspect. More to the point, right now he was the only suspect.

PC Hamilton walked down the high street, making a point of acknowledging all the faces he knew, and making even more of a point of acknowledging the few he didn’t. He stopped and talked to several folks, letting them drive the conversations, reassuring them that everything possible was being done when the topic of conversation inevitably strayed towards recent events, going as far as to discreetly tell one or two of them that they did, in fact, have someone in custody.

In reality, this morning’s foot patrol was little more than an impromptu public relations exercise. Thussock didn’t particularly need much policing at this time on a Monday, but Sergeant Ross had taken great pains to stress the importance of maintaining a visible presence until they were able to go public about Scott Griffiths.

PC Hamilton was thirsty. One of the things he liked most about foot patrols like this was the freedom. In uniform he could come up with a viable reason to go just about anywhere, and right now Mary’s café was calling to him. Mary McLeod could gossip with the best of them and she was always willing to share anything she’d heard on the grapevine. If she knew how he’d used the titbits she’d inadvertently dropped into conversation before now she’d have been mortified, of course, so he kept things light and informal. To Mary, PC Hamilton was still the snotty nosed little kid she used to have to shoo away from outside the café with his mates in the school holidays.

He made a beeline for the café, figuring that even if Mary didn’t have any information for him today, she’d almost certainly have a mug of tea and maybe even a bacon sandwich if he played his cards right. His stomach growled at the prospect of food. He’d been on his feet since they’d brought the suspect in for questioning, and he’d likely be out a few hours longer yet. He needed sustenance.

Strange.

The café was closed. The lights were off inside.

If there was one thing he knew about Mary McLeod, it was that she never closed the café. Running the place was more than a job to her; since her husband Derek had died it had become a way of life. She lived alone now and relied on her regular customers for company more than income.

Was she ill? Worse, was she… ?

His frustration quickly gave way to something more serious. Given everything that had happened over the last few days, Mark feared for Mary’s safety. Griffiths had fought with Graham McBride outside the chemist opposite. What if she’d seen them? What if Griffiths had caught her watching and done something to her? Hamilton hadn’t been on duty last night when McBride had been found. He didn’t know if anyone had seen Mary since. He cupped his hands around his eyes to see in through the window but it was too dark inside. He knocked the door then tried the handle. It was open.

‘Mary? Mary, you in? It’s PC Hamilton. It’s Mark…’

Nothing. He took a few steps inside and called out for her again. The place was deathly silent. He looked hopefully at the beaded curtain through which she always loved to make her dramatic entrances, but it just shifted with the breeze from the open door.

Wait. What was that?

He was sure he could hear movement in the back of the café and he went through to the kitchen. No sign of anyone. He knocked on the door between the private and business parts of the building – kept shut as always – then pressed his ear against it. There was definitely something in there… he could hear a faint scraping, scrabbling noise.

He pushed the door open and had barely taken a step forward when Mary’s yappy little dog – Horace, he thought its name was, or was it Milly? – came running at him. It swerved between his legs and pelted past, whimpering rather than barking. Hardly a guard dog, it was little more than a tiny, highly-strung ball of fluff which generated a lot of noise and shit and served no other purpose. His girlfriend Meryl called it Mary’s rat on a rope whenever they saw her out walking it in town.

The dog’s unusual behaviour heightened PC Hamilton’s concern. He noticed it had clawed deep grooves into the very bottom of the door in its desperation to get out.

‘Mary?’ he called out again. ‘Mary, are you here? Is everything okay?’

He went deeper into her living area – her small private kitchen space built on the other side of the café pantry – then stopped. The place smelled awful, truly rank. His pulse began to race. She was dead, he was sure of it now. He’d seen the bodies of a couple of the other victims and the memory of their brutal and senseless mutilation was seared onto his retinas, all he could see. He’d been one of the first on the scene when those kids had found what was left of Ken Potter on the tracks, and he’d been there when Angela Pietrszkiewicz had been found too. She’d been stripped to the waist… violated… He prepared himself to find another body here, then panicked. What if the killer’s still here? He leant against a wall and steadied himself. Wait, it’s okay… the guy from Redditch is in the cells…

PC Hamilton trod in something moist and he froze as it squelched beneath his boot, fearing the worst. The smell hit him before he was able to reach across to the curtains and let in some light. Dog shit. Gross. He gagged. Bodies he could just about cope with, but the smell of dog shit got him every time. And the floor was covered in it, scattershot diarrhoea courtesy of that vile little creature he’d just let out. He kicked off his boots rather than risk treading shit through the rest of the house, then picked his way through the canine minefield. Christ, why did people bother with dogs? Meryl had a cat, and as much as he despised the needy little fucker, at least it always took itself outside to crap then buried the evidence afterwards.

‘Mary?’ he shouted again. He edged down her short hallway then looked into the living room. The curtains were open. No Mary. More importantly, no body.

Upstairs.

He climbed the steps slowly, his sock-clad footsteps making little noise. He tried to think of as many possible explanations for the situation as he could: Mary’s just overslept, she’s ill, she’s had a heart attack, she’s fallen out of bed and broken something, she’s just not here… He focused on those slightly more palatable options and tried to block out the idea of finding her like Angela Pietrszkiewicz yesterday, covered in blood, with every last shred of dignity barbarically stripped away.

Onto the landing. Still nothing but silence. He worked his way along, room by room. The bathroom was empty, as was the back bedroom. The door to Mary’s room was ajar. He took a deep breath then knocked and pushed it open. ‘Mary?’

He didn’t look until he had to, not knowing what he was going to find.