‘What is it, sir?’ the clerk yelled over his shoulder.
‘Pedal like blazes.’
Madden drove his car across the gravelled area to the entrance and left it parked beside the van. Hastening on foot down the road to where the workmen were assembled, he saw that they were knocking off for the day, gathering their tools – picks and shovels, mostly – and putting moveable signs in place. His own hurried approach had not gone unnoticed, and as he came up, one of their number, evidently the foreman, a brawny figure with a thick black moustache, came a few steps forward to meet him.
‘Madden’s my name. I was with that party of police that went by. I dare say you noticed them.’ Madden held out his hand.
‘Harrigan,’ the other responded. He shook Madden’s hand. ‘Aye, I saw ’em.’ He spoke with an Irish accent, his tone wary.
‘We’re looking for the man who was driving that car.’ Madden pointed behind him towards the distant corner of the parking area, now almost invisible in the dying light. ‘You can’t see it very well, but it’s there. A black Ford. Did any of you notice him when he arrived? Did you see where he went?’
He scanned the faces of the men who had gathered around while he was speaking. Most of them were rough, none was particularly friendly.
‘What do they want him for, then, this bloke?’
The question came from one younger than the rest. He had blue eyes and fair curly hair. Stubble coated his cheeks.
‘Murder,’ Madden replied bluntly. He looked the foreman squarely in the eye.
‘Jaysus!’ Harrigan paled, and the men about him began to mutter. The atmosphere had changed.
‘I reckon I saw him,’ the foreman said. He was planted in front of Madden, his arms folded. “Twas about an hour ago. He went up the path there.’
Madden followed the direction of his pointing finger.
‘Is that Wood Way?’
‘I reckon so.’ Harrigan nodded.
‘Where does it go?’
‘To the Downs.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s farms there, too. On t’other side of the ridge. And a village. Oak Green.’
‘Have you seen anyone else?’
‘Going up the path, you mean?’
Madden nodded.
‘A bloke we know called Sam Watkin went over there earlier. It was around two o’clock. That’s his van you left your car by.’
‘Anyone else?’
Harrigan thought. ‘Don’t reckon so.’ He shrugged again.
With a nod of thanks, Madden turned to leave. He’d decided to wait in the trees by the parking lot, where he could keep an eye on the Ford. But as he moved off he heard the men muttering among themselves.
‘Except Nell,’ a voice said, louder than the rest.
Madden stopped where he was. He turned.
‘Who’s Nell?’ he asked in a low tone.
‘Just a lass.’ It was the same curly-haired young man who had spoken earlier. ‘She lives over in Oak Green. Takes the bus back from school every day. She was here just a minute ago. We had a word with her.’
‘Are you telling me she went up the path?’
The young man paled at the look on his questioner’s face. He nodded.
‘My God!’ Madden stood stunned. ‘He’s after the girl.’
‘What do you say?’ It was Harrigan who responded first. He stared at Madden. ‘Who’s after Nell?’
‘That man. He’s a killer.’ Madden seized his arm. ‘Listen to me now. I can’t stay…
He turned even as he spoke and begun to run down the road away from them, shouting over his shoulder as he did so.
‘The police are coming. You must wait for them. Tell them Lang’s up in the woods. Lang… do you hear me? Tell them about the girl. Tell them!’
But he was already out of earshot and too far off to hear the single word that was Harrigan’s only response.
‘Jaysus!’
33
Madden raced up the hill, peering into the woods on either side of the path, looking for any sign of life in their dark depths; listening for any sound. In an agony of mind at the thought of the savage act that might be taking place within a stone’s throw of where he was, under cover of the deepening dusk, he called out the girl’s name as he ran.
‘Nell… Nell…’
He was hoping to disturb her assailant if they were near, but tormented by the fear that he was already too late: that the horror he had come on at Brookham was even now being re-enacted.
Out of breath by the time he reached the top of the hill, he paused, heart pumping, to take in the wide sweep of country beyond whose outlines were still visible in spite of the dying light.
Before him, the path ran straight as an arrow down the slope, heading for the distant Downs, themselves hidden from view by the clinging mist. To his left were the lights of a village, which he took to be Oak Green, and to his right, some distance off the path, and separated from it by a hawthorn hedge, a farmhouse with darkened windows. Nothing stirred in the fields: the countryside seemed deserted.
He set off again, jogging down the hill, looking left and right, but after only a few steps he paused, arrested by the sight of an object lying on the path ahead of him. It was some way off still, but he could just make out its white shape in the gathering dusk. Gripped by a sense of foreboding, he ran flat out down the slope, but even before he reached it he knew that his fears had been realized.
Gasping, he picked up the white school hat with its characteristic ribbon. The elastic beneath the brim was broken.
‘Nell!’ In desperation he shouted out her name again. ‘Nell!’
There was no answer. But in a silence broken only by the sound of his own heavy breathing, he heard a faint noise coming from the other side of the hedge and realized after listening hard for several moments that it was a dog’s whine.
‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ He called out again, and this time was rewarded by a bark.
Madden tore at the hedge, which at first seemed impenetrable, until he discovered a gap in the dense foliage nearby. Plunging through it, he found himself in an apple orchard; beyond was what looked like the brick wall of a kitchen garden. It had a gate in it.
Again he heard the dog’s whine, this time mingled with a man’s groan. It was coming from the garden. Madden raced across the orchard and went through the open gate, almost tripping and falling as his foot caught on something. Looking back, he saw a hand reaching up and realized that a man was trying to drag himself out of an old compost pit beside the path. A dog crouched by the lip, whimpering.
‘Wait!’
Madden turned to help him, and as he hauled the man from the pit by his arms he saw that his head was wet with blood. But it was his stomach that he clutched as Madden laid him groaning on the ground. Distressed by the scene, the dog, an old Labrador bitch, growled and bared her teeth.
‘There, now…’ Madden calmed her, and then drew her to lie by the injured man, who was still holding his stomach. Pulling open the old army greatcoat he wore, Madden discovered a spreading stain on his shirt.
‘Lie still,’ he urged him.
But the man tried to resist, pushing himself up. ‘Not me… not me,’ he gasped, struggling to rise, while the
