Kate tried to call via Messenger but it didn’t connect. So she recorded an audio message herself, panting her reply as she ran. ‘Craig! DON’T go to the bunkers! DON’T! I don’t think that text was from Talia. She’s been attacked. She’s going to be OK but whoever got her is coming after you too. STAY on the site and DON’T go anywhere near the bunkers! CALL ME as soon as you get this!’ She reeled off her mobile number, cursing herself for not taking the trouble to share it with them as soon as they’d all met up again.
She continued her race along the perimeter, dodging around trees and shrubs but staying in their shadows as much as she could. She could hear more sirens getting closer and pictured Suffolk’s finest now on full search and arrest mode, combing the site. Her behaviour now would seem at best erratic and at worst, downright guilty. She called Lucas but it went straight to voicemail. She left another short-of-breath message. ‘I’m out. The police are with Talia, but I got out of the bathroom window. Where are you? I’m heading for the bunkers on the beach. I think that’s where the killer’s sent Craig and Nikki. Please get there! Get there as soon as you can!’
And then, as if to provide the soundtrack to her escalating fear, there was a shrill, hooting alarm. Across the holiday village, all the outdoor speakers were relaying a strident repetitive hoot and the message: ‘THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. ALL HOLIDAYMAKERS MUST GO IMMEDIATELY TO THE SPORTS FIELD MUSTER POINT.’
The message went on, again and again, along with the chilling cold war–style hooting, and a cacophony of panic began to build in the air.
Kate had been mentally flailing around as she sprinted for the beach, clutching at straws, telling herself that no murderer could attack in broad daylight on a busy beach. But that beach would be emptying now. The Buntin’s holiday camp had its own speaker system on high poles set into stony stanchions; six of them across its designated beach area. As she reached the path, she was met by several families worriedly clambering up past her, clutching buckets and spades and inflatables. She did not see her friends among them.
The holidaymakers glanced at her but didn’t try to dissuade her from racing along the path to the shore. ‘It’s all a bloody false alarm, I’ll bet,’ muttered one dad.
And he was probably right, she realised. It was false alarm for everyone on this site today, except the ex-Bluecoats who should never have come back.
26
Backflip Barney was cycling around the stage in the children’s theatre at top speed, on a bicycle no bigger than a shoebox, to the shouts, cheers and gurgling laughter of forty or so children.
Ellie wanted to cry. What a hellish week this had been, and it didn’t look like it was going to improve any time soon. Nettie had run back into the theatre just in time to stand at the back with her and nod meaningfully. ‘They’re on their way,’ she said, close into Ellie’s ear. ‘They think it could be him. They asked me if he’d been here seven years ago, when Martin and that other dead Bluecoat were here, and I said yes. I’ve always thought he was dodgy.’
Ellie closed her eyes. She didn’t blame Nettie. This was all so scary and yes — Barney was a little suspicious, the way he acted. He was the classic awkward loner… all the more so because he was a good-looking young man, and should have been cocky and lapping up all the female attention. He didn’t do that, though. He kind of lurked, always slightly ill-at-ease unless he was on stage with all his glitter and props. The lights in his caravan were on at all hours. He didn’t really mix with anyone. She’d even heard that he had a horribly domineering mother managing his career and that really screamed ‘Norman Bates’, didn’t it? So yes… he was suspicious, if you thought that kind of behaviour meant dodgy.
So why, as he finished up his children’s show with uproarious applause from the delighted under-elevens, was she getting the instinct to warn him — to tell him to gather up his props and flee?
She heard the crackle of a two-way radio and saw Phil, the deputy chief of security, loitering in the lobby with two uniformed officers. They were being discreet, obviously. They weren’t about to rugby tackle Backflip Barney to the ground in front of a bunch of kids. She turned back and stared wretchedly at Barney, and at that very moment he looked at her and clocked her expression. She gave the tiniest shake of her head. He couldn’t have seen the police but maybe he was picking up that radio static. He finished his final bow and, sweeping up his miniature bike and a case of other props, he retreated at speed to the small dressing room just off the wings on stage right.
The second he’d disappeared, Phil and the officers walked swiftly through the audience, across the small, low stage and into the wings in pursuit.
‘CRACKERS!’ yelled Nettie, waving her hands. Half the audience turned away from goggling at the policemen and shouted, ‘CRACK! CRACK! CRACK”
‘SNAPPERS!’ yelled Ellie, grinning past her dismay for Barney. Her team yelled back, ‘SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!’
‘Time for BINGO!’ yelled Nettie. ‘Aunty Ellie’s just getting out the bingo cards and away we’ll go! Grab a pen, everyone!’
As the kids scrambled to get their pens, Ellie ran through to the backstage area to get the cards but also to find out what was going on. As soon as she arrived in the dim light of the wings she could hear the two-way radios going again.
‘He’s escaped out
