Page 130 of Worse Than Murder
‘This flash is buggered. You’re not going to get anything from this. I’m going to have to go back home to pick up a new one.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Gill asks.
‘I dropped my flash down the stairs,’ Brian says, giving a ‘oops’ smile.
‘I’m coming back up,’ Louise calls out. ‘I’m getting cramp here.’
‘We’ll have an officer posted outside. Tomorrow morning, we’ll get a full team down here and a decent set of lights,’ Gill says.
‘My plans for tonight have been buggered up anyway. So much for date night,’ Louise says, dusting herself down.
Gill turns to Alan. ‘Call Claire. She was moaning earlier that Geraint is on nights and she’s alone in the house. She can babysit the body. But tell her to keep her mouth shut. This goes no further.’
* * *
‘Alison, sorry, did I wake you?’ Claire asks. She’s in her bedroom, mobile tucked into the crick of her neck while she changes from her pyjamas into her uniform.
‘No. I was in the bath. What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had a call from Stokes. You’ll never guess what’s been found in the basement of Nature’s Diner.’
Claire looks at her Apple Watch. It’s three minutes past midnight. She’s pleased she’s not alone in the house. She hates Geraint working nights while she’s stuck at home on her own, but right now, she wishes she was in bed rather than sitting in a parked car outside Nature’s Diner keeping an eye on the place. Sally, very kindly, has given her a flask of coffee and a selection of cakes. Claire had hoped they’d see her through the night, but she scoffed the lot in under an hour and the coffee has almost gone, too. It’s going to be a long night. Surely, she could have sat in the restaurant, rather than a cramped car?
She looks around at her surroundings, lit up brilliantly by the huge moon in the cloudless sky. It’s peaceful, relaxing, inspiring, marred only by the fact that Claire is now desperately in need of a pee.
She climbs out of the car and looks around her. Philip pointed out where the CCTV cameras are, so she trots off into the woods to find a private spot behind a tree. She can’t get there quickly enough.
Claire is a good five minutes, squatting in the woods. She walks back, guided by the light of the moon and stops dead at the police car. The driver’s door is wide open. She knows for a fact she closed it, because she quietly clicked it into place so as not to wake anyone in the restaurant, particularly the cute dogs.
She looks around but there’s nobody there. It’s as quiet as the grave. She can hear her own heart beating in her chest. If someone approached the car, she would have heard them as they’d likely have broken a dried twig underfoot. She leans down into the car, picks up the radio and is about to call in when she’d grabbed from behind. A hand is placed over her mouth, and she’s dragged out of the car. She tries to fight back, scrambling with the gloved hand, but it’s no use. Her oxygen supply is being cut off. Her vision is blurring and she’s struggling to breathe. Whoever has got hold of her is much stronger than she is. As Claire passes out, all she can think about is the damage being done to her unborn baby.
* * *
It’s easy to break into the restaurant. The door leading into the kitchen is still damaged from the last attempt. The intruder walks, calmly, noiselessly, through the utility room, into the kitchen, up the steps into the restaurant, through the dining area, then down the stairs to the basement. The wall has half been taken down, revealing the true back of the building. On the floor are broken bricks, instruments the crime scene investigators have left behind and a set of ladders.
She places the ladder against the broken wall and ascends. Once at the top, she peers over and into the dark abyss below. Shining a torch from her jacket pocket, the body is revealed to her for the first time in almost thirty years. There is Jack Pemberton, looking up, as if pleading to be let out. He’s mummified. His face is leathered and worn. He looks like a hideous Halloween figure, something from an old horror film. Their eyes lock. Real human eyes against hollowed dead ones.
From her backpack, she takes out a plastic petrol canister, unscrews the lid and pours it into the hole. From her pocket, she takes a box of matches, strikes one, and tosses it inside. She watches as the dry clothes catch fire. The flames lick high.
She jumps down from the ladder, runs into the restaurant and back the way she came in, out into the open night air.
* * *
I can’t sleep. Nothing unusual there. I’m trying to think of something; to slot a piece into place, but I don’t know which piece, or into which puzzle it’s supposed to fit. It also doesn’t help that the curtains haven’t been closed properly and the sodding light from the moon is shining through the gap.
Adele is snoozing beside me, mouth agape, snoring gently. She was asleep within minutes of getting into bed. Lucky cow.
I get out of bed. I need darkness to be able to sleep. Maybe I should buy an eye mask. I peel back the curtains to look out at the clear night sky. I have never seen the moon so big before in my life. It’s huge. I could almost reach out and touch it.
I’m about to close the curtain when something catches my eye. I look down and see a figure in dark clothing running from the side of the restaurant towards the woods. Before they enter, they stop and look back, and I get a full glimpse of their face.
‘What the fu…?’ My words are cut off by the sound of the smoke alarm.
I look around, take in Adele’s sleeping form, and run out of the room. At the top of the stairs, I look down and see whispers of smoke gently float in from the restaurant below.
‘Fuck!’
This makes no sense. Why? Why would she do this?
