Salt Lane Page 19

  She bounced up, but by now the girl was already metres ahead, a dim shape disappearing into the gathering darkness. There was no way that Cupidi could catch her now.

  She stood in the middle of the lane panting for a second. Then looked around. ‘Jill,’ she shouted.

  After a minute of chaos and shouting, everything was suddenly quiet.

  ‘Jill?’

  No answer.

  She should make the call, get back to the field and see if there was anyone left there.

  A dog started barking again, loudly.

  When she reached the caravans, still out of breath, the lights were all on and there was no one in any of them. Empty plates had been piled in a sink. Blankets lay discarded on the floor. A cigarette still burned in an ashtray.

  ‘Jill?’ Again, louder.

  And then, suddenly, the screaming started; inchoate, wordless, terrified. It was Ferriter’s voice.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  She ran to the sound of screaming.

  It seemed to be coming from the far side of the field, from the direction she had seen Ferriter running towards minutes earlier.

  Her progress across the meadow seemed impossibly slow; she stumbled across the hummocky land, lungs already aching from her sprint to try and catch the girl.

  Ahead, a pair of mallards rose, startled, quacking, flapping into the air. Something had disturbed them.

  As she reached what she thought was the edge of the field, she saw it curved away further to the right. At the far side, the land was hedgeless. Against the broad horizon the figures of two men were silhouetted against the dark blue evening, one plump, the other thin. They were shouting at each other, or at someone down below.

  She ran faster; though marshy, the ground was more even underfoot.

  When the yelling stopped, briefly, she heard the dog barking and snarling. It was down in the ditch where the men were looking. ‘Christ.’

  There was the sound of frantic splashing. And then the screaming started again.

  The noise covered Cupidi’s approach. About twenty metres away she began to be able to make out that this field ended in a ditch, much like the one they had found Hilary Keen’s body in. Panting hard now, a stitch starting to burn in her left side, she could see that the two men looking down into the water were on opposite sides of it, one closer to Cupidi, the other in the next field.

  And now, from the left, she caught sight of someone else running towards the men.

  A woman. A sensibly dressed, Hunter wellies and olive-green gilet kind of countrywoman. Absurdly English.

  She was speeding alongside the far side of the water towards the commotion. Cupidi didn’t have time to wonder what she was doing.

  Out of sight, Ferriter’s voice came again, ‘Help me!’ But Cupidi was still frustratingly far away from the slope to see down into it.

  ‘Jill,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m coming.’

  The fatter man on the far side looked up, saw her approaching, shouted urgently down into the ditch.

  Cupidi tripped, fell.

  When she got up, the man who had seen her was scampering away. The second man, now covered from head to foot in dark mud, was desperately trying to scramble up the side of the slope, finding it impossible to get a hold on the wet bank.

  He must have tried to jump the ditch to get away, she realised.

  She was up again now, running towards where she had heard Ferriter’s pleading coming from.

  The other woman reached the place first. She paused at the top. Cupidi could see shock in her eyes. ‘Call it off,’ the woman shouted. ‘Call the bloody thing off.’

  And then the woman plunged downwards, feet first, out of sight, slithering down the steep slope and knocking the escaping man backwards, into the water.

  The dog had its jaws clamped on Ferriter’s calf. It was shaking its head methodically from side to side as the police officer tried in vain to kick it off.

  Ferriter’s head thrashed sideways. She was trapped halfway up the opposite bank, trying to escape the dog, which was also scrambling for a foothold.

  It looked like some kind of mastiff. Large, floppy-jawed, it seemed unbothered by Ferriter’s attempts to struggle free, or by the mud it was caked in. Ferriter’s other foot was below the water; but each time she bent her leg to try and kick the dog away, she slithered downwards to the surface of the water, losing what little purchase she had. Instead she began desperately to try to push the dog’s head off with her hands, still yelling in pain as she did so.

  ‘I’m coming,’ Cupidi shouted.

  Next to them the other man was struggling to get back up the steep bank. Cupidi leaped feet first into the dank water below her.

  It was a mistake; she was too far from Ferriter. The bottom of the ditch was soft, giving way under her. She realised why attempting to cross here had been such a poor move for the escaping men – and for Ferriter, who had presumably been chasing them. It was a natural trap. As she tried to move in Ferriter’s direction, her feet stuck in the sludge, ooze sucking at her shoes.

  Ferriter caught her eye as she flailed towards her. She was desperate, in pain and exhausted from struggling with the animal. The dog’s spittle flew from its gums as it shook its head.

  Next to her, gasping for breath, was the other man, face black with silt.

  The other woman had known what to expect. Instead of jumping like Cupidi had, she had slithered down the bank on her backside.

  Now, with the kind of decisiveness you rarely saw from members of the public, she launched herself in a tackle onto the dog’s body, her arms around the mastiff’s chest.

  As Cupidi was edging closer, one slow step after another, she heard the woman order, ‘Bend your leg.’

  With her free arm she slapped Ferriter’s thigh. ‘Bend it,’ she hollered.

  Shocked, Ferriter bent her right leg – the one the dog was not latched on to.

  The woman barely had time to take a breath before she and the dog disappeared under the water’s dark surface.

  ‘Hold on!’ Cupidi shouted to Ferriter, who now understood what the woman was trying to do.

  Ferriter nodded, grimacing. Meanwhile the man she had been chasing was halfway back up the slope.

  Cupidi lunged out, caught the runaway’s ankle and tugged. With nothing to grab on to, the man came tumbling back down easily.

  ‘Christ,’ screamed Ferriter. The dog had finally released her. She straightened again.

  Using her good leg and her arms, she tugged herself along the bank, away from where the dog had been holding her.

  The woman’s face emerged from the water.

  Took a breath.

  Submerged again. From below the water came a desperate kicking, frothing the dark surface.

  Came up again for a second time.

  Then suddenly everything was calm.

  Under the water, out of sight, the woman let go of the dog and it floated slowly to the surface, pale coat matted wet, lifeless now.

  The woman stood dripping, dark hair across her face.

  Ferriter began shivering.

  The runaway stared, shocked, turned. Realising he was still free, he started trying to wade along the silted watercourse, one slow step after another.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, stop,’ said Cupidi.

  The man took another heavy foot forward. And another.

  Cupidi reached inside her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. The screen was dead, the device ruined. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said.

  Cupidi wanted to ask the woman who had saved Ferriter what she was doing here, to thank her for what she had done, but the man was still splashing away down the trench so she set off painfully slowly after him.

  It was comical, this slow-motion chase through the sludge. He was only three or four paces away, and with each absurd step, she was gaining on him. He was heavier, she realised. His feet sank deeper than hers, and took more energy to dislodge. She had the edge over him.

  ‘Please
,’ she called. ‘For God’s sake stop. You’re going nowhere. This is exhausting.’

  He hesitated, but then took another slow step. But what would happen when she got closer? Would the advantage be back with him when they were next to each other? He looked stronger. There was no time to think. She had to catch him.

  As they reached what first looked like a bend in the watercourse, she realised they were at a T-junction. Another wider ditch lay ahead of them. The water seemed to have suddenly deepened. It was above her belly. The banks were steeper and it would be even harder for either of them to climb out, but the deeper water would make it lighter for him.

  But it meant she could swim. Kicking off her shoes, she started to move towards him.

  He looked round and then, just as abruptly, disappeared below the water, a look of panic on his face.

  A hand surfaced, splashed, then sank again.

  He couldn’t swim, she realised. The clothes he wore had pulled him under.

  ‘Christ,’ she said.

  She paused to pull off her sodden jacket, but it caught on her watch. She tugged again, heard a ripping sound. It would be ruined anyway. Her watch as well, she guessed.

  His hand emerged again from below the surface, then his head, then he sank again.

  She counted to ten slowly, threw the shredded jacket onto the bank, took a deep breath and dived into the black cold water.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Eyes shut, her fingers found the fugitive low down in the brown water and she grabbed him, at arm’s length, taking hold of some material. His trousers she guessed.

  Panicking, he struggled and kicked, hitting her hard on the shin. He was strong, she had to give him that.

  She was being pulled down in the water with him, but she had deliberately filled her lungs; he had already been half a minute underwater. He was frightened; she was not. He would tire, she knew that.

  He did eventually; his limbs loosened. With a heave, she dragged his head to the surface. He gasped for oxygen, sucking in water as he did so, bursting into a fit of coughs.

  The bank was close, but it took an age to get to it, manoeuvring his reluctant weight. When she did, she paused for breath, one arm grabbing a handful of reeds.

  ‘Jill,’ she called.

  ‘Sarge,’ she shouted back. She was just out of sight around the corner of the ditch.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sort of. Fuckin’ dog.’

  ‘Got a phone?’

  She had one arm around the suspect’s neck, the other held his wrist in an armlock. The man turned to try to look at her; the side of his face was streaked with dark mud. Cupidi raised the arm at his back just an inch; enough to cause him a pain.

  ‘Shit. It got a bit wet, Sarge.’

  ‘I’ll bet it did. Can you move?’

  ‘Sort of,’ she said again.

  ‘That woman there?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s just helping me up the bank now.’ Cupidi could hear the sound of scrambling. At least Ferriter was safe.

  ‘Let’s hope she’s got a phone, otherwise we’re up shit creek,’ she said.

  ‘Ha very ha.’

  It was getting dark now; the sky above them was a deep blue. She turned to the man, rasping in her headlock.

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  The man gasped something; she realised she was probably holding him a little too tightly, but right then she didn’t feel like loosening her grip.

  ‘Can she get to a phone?’ Cupidi called. ‘We’re going to need backup.’

  There was a noise above her head and the woman appeared on the bank. Cupidi had to twist her neck to see her. The woman was short, had straw-coloured hair and wore a man’s checked shirt. ‘I’m very sorry to say your colleague has been hurt by that bloody dog,’ she said in a rosy-cheeked English accent.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Had to kill the dog, I’m afraid,’ she said, as if a little shocked by what she’d done.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Cupidi said. ‘Do you have a phone?’

  ‘In the house, yes.’

  Cupidi wondered how long she could physically hold the suspect for. His strength would be coming back to him soon.

  ‘How far is the house?

  ‘Ten minutes. Five if I run.’

  ‘We need police. And ambulance. My name is Sergeant Cupidi.’

  ‘Will you be OK? With him?’

  Cupidi was propped at the side of the ditch, shivering a little, covered in mud, pondweed in her hair, with her arm around a muscular man half her age who had tried to injure or even kill her colleague. ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Righto.’ The woman disappeared from view again.

  ‘What happened?’ called Ferriter.

  ‘I think we are on to something.’

  ‘No kidding,’ said Ferriter. ‘My bloody leg. You got him?’

  ‘Yes. I’m holding on to him by his neck.’

  ‘Give it a squeeze from me.’

  Something rustled in the reeds on the far bank. Cupidi hoped it was a vole, not a rat. ‘Bleeding much?’

  ‘Not too much. I fuckin’ hate dogs, that’s all. Always have done. I can move my foot a little. That’s good, isn’t it? I think it’s OK. Ow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tried to stand up.’

  ‘Don’t then.’

  The man was wriggling slowly, pushing away from her. She pulled the arm up his back a little more; it would hurt. He wheezed in pain.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He stopped moving. Grunted again.

  ‘If I loosen my grip on your neck, don’t try anything,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She slacked off her grip a fraction. ‘Name?’

  He said, ‘Can’t breathe.’

  Reluctantly she relaxed her left arm a little more.

  ‘OK. Now,’ she said.

  ‘My hand,’ he said. ‘You’re breaking my hand.’ He spoke with an accent.

  ‘Tell me your name,’ she said.

  It was quiet now. There were crickets singing in the grass around them. Vapour trails turned pink against the darkening sky above.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘My name…’

  ‘I didn’t hear,’ she said.

  And then, maybe because she was tired, maybe because he was much stronger than her, he shifted suddenly and she found she could do nothing to halt his momentum. Jerking his right arm from her grasp wasn’t as hard as it should have been; her skin was still slippery from the water.

  To compensate, she tightened her left arm on his throat, but she couldn’t hold him. Spinning round, he lifted his right arm and went straight for her face with his fingertips.

  It all happened in a second. She raised a knee, to try and connect with his groin, but it was already too late. He was in motion. She was cold and tired now. Her kneecap connected with his hip instead.

  And he was clawing at her face now, fingers closing on her eye.

  Her head was back against the muddy bank with nowhere to go. To protect herself, she had no choice but to let go, hoping she could get a better grip on him once her hands were free.

  With a splash, he fell back into the water.

  She raised her other leg, attempting to kick him into the deep again. This time she would let him bloody drown.

  But a second time he dodged her, twisting his body back the way they had come, towards where she had left Ferriter.

  He found what had eluded him earlier – something to grip on the opposite bank, a loose root – and by the time she reached him he was already hauling himself up the slope.

  She grabbed the same root herself and, limbs aching, pulled herself up after him.

  By the time she made it to the top he was close to the bend in the field, flailing arms as he ran back towards the caravans.

  ‘I saved your bloody life,’ she muttered to herself.

  She stood unsteadily, limbs aching, and considered running after him, but he would already be
a long way off. There was no point. Instead she walked up the ditch to Ferriter.

  She was on the other side of the bank from her now, sitting up in the grass in the disappearing light. Her legs were smeared with mud and blood. ‘Was that him, running away?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You let him go?’

  ‘Well, not on purpose, obviously.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Ferriter said, exhausted. ‘What a joke.’

  Soon the unlikely woman in wellingtons came trotting back along the opposite bank. She had a bottle of water and bandages with her.

  She stopped and looked at her across the sewer. ‘What happened to the other…?’

  ‘He got away,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. ‘And you’re bleeding.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Cupidi looked down. Her sodden blouse had blotches of red on it. She put her filthy hand up to her face, where the man had clawed at her skin, and when she brought it down again it had blood on it.

  The woman threw a small orange package across the stream. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘It’s a dressing. It’s meant for horses, but it’ll be fine. It’ll stop the bleeding, anyway.’

  ‘Horses?’ said Cupidi.

  ‘They bleed just the same,’ said the woman. ‘Just hold it on the wound.’

  ‘Is that what you’re using on her?’

  ‘It’s sterile, that’s the main thing,’ she said. She was kneeling now, washing Ferriter’s cuts with the bottle of water. ‘How’s the leg? Not broken or anything, is it?’

  ‘She won’t have to shoot you then,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘What?’ said the woman.

  ‘Sorry. Not funny. What were you doing here, anyway?’ asked Cupidi.

  ‘Here? This is my land.’

  ‘And the men in the caravans?’

  ‘They were renting off me,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately. Just for a few weeks. They come and go, this time of year. Nothing but bloody bother.’

  ‘Cash in hand?’

  The woman tore open one of the packets with her teeth. ‘Am I in trouble?’ she asked, looking anxiously from one to the other.

  The first car arrived, blue lights flashing, then two more.

  The third had a man in custody in the back. ‘Recognise this one?’ called the copper in the back seat with him. She had seen his hand as it had clawed towards her eye.