For forty minutes he gazed at the screen, waiting for something to happen. He was still waiting twenty minutes later.
He fast-forwarded the remainder of the tape then slumped back wearily.
Nothing. Just an endless shot of his desk and computer. No words appearing mysteriously on the screen. No paper pumping from the printer with newly created chapters on.
Nothing.
He sucked in a deep breath.
The phenomenon, for want of a better word, seemed to happen more often at night. In the dead of night when he was sleeping.
He decided to set up the camcorder again. It was already after midnight.
Whatever he imagined he might record on film, he might have a better chance of getting in the small hours.
He checked another battery for power then attached it to the camcorder and headed back out to the office where he went through the same procedure as before. He trained the lens on his desk, peering through the viewfinder like a scientist squinting through a microscope at some newly discovered organism.
Then he pressed the record button and slipped quietly down the stairs.
It was 1.17 a.m.
MOVING PICTURES
Ward woke at 8.45 the next morning. He was lying on the sofa, still fully clothed, the television burbling in the background.
He could remember little of the previous night. Checking the camcorder the first time. Coming back inside the house. That was about it.
He had no idea what time he’d fallen asleep. Or blacked out. Whatever the hell he had done.
He got to his feet and wandered through to the downstairs bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. It did little to clear his head but he could at least see a little better by the time he emerged.
With a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, Ward made his way to the back door, let himself out and made for the office. He ran up the stairs.
Sheets of paper had spilled from the printer. The screen still had words on it.
He swallowed hard and crossed to the camcorder.
The tape was still. There was nothing but blackness when he looked through the viewfmder.
He clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.
What time had the camcorder battery run out? How much did he have on tape?
Thirty
minutes? An hour? Had the unblinking eye of the camera caught what he wanted?
There was only one way to find out.
However, before he made his way back inside the house, he crossed to the desk, sat down and carefully numbered each newly printed page. There were over two hundred and fifty. The manuscript must be close to completion.
Ward wished he knew how close.
Helen Duncan sniffed back more tears and shook her head uncomprehending!/.
Doyle and Mel hung back, wondering whether or not to approach the woman who stood motionless inside the stable. She was gazing at a bay that was tossing its head agitatediy. Occasionally kicking out with one powerful hind leg.
‘What kind of people are they?’ Helen Duncan said finally.
‘What I want to know is how the hell did they get inside the stables to do this?’ Mel murmured quietly.
Doyle merely shook his head, his eyes fixed on the bay.
Both of its ears had been hacked off. The mane and coat around them were
matted with dried blood. Flies buzzed around the horse, attracted both by the excrement in the stall but also by the open wounds.
‘An animal that size isn’t just going to stand there while its fucking ears are cut off, is it?’ Doyle mused. They must have sedated it.’
Helen Duncan clapped ironically. ‘You should have been a detective, Mr Doyle,’
she said.
‘When was the last time you were in here, Mrs Duncan?’ Mel asked.
Two days ago,’ Helen Duncan said, her voice catching. ‘Christ, you’re meant to know where I’ve been, I can’t move a fucking muscle without one of you following me.’ She rounded angrily on the two bodyguards. ‘Why did you let this happen?’
‘We had no way of stopping it,’ Mel answered.
‘Someone breaks into my stables and cuts the ears off one of my horses and you can’t stop them. What makes you so sure you’ll be able to stop them when they come after myself and my husband?’
The horse whinneyed as if in agreement.
‘You’d better check the others,’ Doyle said. There were two more horses in the stable. A grey and a chestnut.
Helen wiped her face hurriedly then moved to each stall in turn. The other two animals seemed unharmed although both were understandably skittish. The grey in particular tossed its head wildly as Helen reached out to touch its muzzle.
‘I’ll call the vet,’ she said.‘He’ll have to look at them. Just to be sure.
They could have been given poison or anything.’
‘You’re lucky they didn’t kill them,’ Mel offered.
They did it to show how close they can get if they want to,’ Doyle said. ‘How far’s the stable from the house? Two hundred yards? Less? This was a warning.’
Helen Duncan glared at Doyle then stalked out of the stable and headed back towards the house.
Mel hesitated a moment then hurried after her.
Doyle remained in the stable, walking slowly back and forth between the stalls, peering intermittently at the bay. Or, more specifically at the bloodied stumps of torn flesh where its ears used to be.
He waited a moment longer then left the stable and walked slowly around the red-brick house. Beyond, the fields and hills stretched away into the distance. He could also see the maze towards the bottom of the long garden. As he looked, his eyes narrowed.
‘Mel,’ he said into his microphone.
There was a crackle of static. ‘What is it?’ she asked, her voice clear in his earpiece.
‘I’m going to walk around the grounds again.There’s something I want to check out.’
He lit up a cigarette and began to stroll towards the maze.
BELFAST:
Declan Leary slid down in the driver’s seat and turned up the heater, blowing more warm air into the car. The clock on the dashboard showed 5.09 a.m.
The sky was grey and smeared with banks of grubby clouds that promised more of the drizzle that had been falling since dawn first hauled itself reluctantly into the sky.
Leary watched as George Mcswain stopped the milk float, got out and took two bottles from the back of the vehicle. Mcswain hurried up the short path to the front step of the house and left the bottles then returned. He wrote something on a notepad then clambered back into the float and drove on, the engine making its familiar droning sound.
Glass clinked against glass as the float moved over several speed bumps.
Mcswain stopped the vehicle again and placed the required number of pints at the doors of each house.
Leary reached towards the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of his own. It was Lucozade. He
swigged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
One or two people were on the streets. On their way to work at this ungodly
hour of the morning, Leary imagined. But, for the most part, Mcswain was alone as he manoeuvred along the narrow streets of the Woodvale area of the city.
Leary had been tracking him for the last two days. It had been easier than he’d thought. Once he’d found his
