The body of Denny Nicholson was already crawling with flies, though the sun had barely been up an hour. Inside the house the only remains of Amelia Nicholson were shreds of a dress and a casually discarded foot. Gwen Nicholson’s unmutilated body lay at the bottom of the stairs. There was no sign of a wound or any sexual interference with the corpse.
By nine-thirty Zeal was swarming with police, and the shock of the incident registered on every face in the street. Though there were conflicting reports as to the state of the bodies there was no doubt of the brutality of the murders. Especially the child, dismembered presumably. Her body taken away by her killer for God knows what purpose.
The Murder Squad set up a Unit at ‘The Tall Man’, while house to house interviews were conducted throughout the village. Nothing came immediately to light. No strangers seen in the locality; no more suspicious behaviour from anyone than was normal for a poacher or a bent building merchant. It was Enid Blatter, she of the ample bust and the motherly manner, who mentioned that she hadn’t seen Thorn Garrow for over twenty-four hours.
They found him where his killer had left him, the worse for a few hours of picking. Worms at his head and gulls at his legs. The flesh of his shins, where his trousers had slid out of his boots, was pecked to the bone. When he was dug up families of refugee lice scurried from his ears.
The atmosphere in the hotel that night was subdued. In the bar Detective Sergeant Gissing, down from London to head the investigation, had found a willing ear in Ron Milton. He was
glad to be conversing with a fellow Londoner, and Milton kept them both in Scotch and water for the best part of three hours.
‘Twenty years in the force,’ Gissing kept repeating, ‘and I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Which wasn’t strictly true. There’d been that whore (or selected highlights thereof) he’d found in a suitcase at Euston’s left luggage department, a good decade ago. And the addict who’d taken it upon himself to hypnotise a polar bear at London Zoo: he’d been a sight for sore eyes when they dredged him out of the pool. He’d seen a good deal, had Stanley Gissing –
‘But this . . . never seen anything like it,’ he insisted. ‘Fair made me want to puke.’
Ron wasn’t quite sure why he listened to Gissing; it was just something to while the night away. Ron, who’d been a radical in his younger days, had never liked policemen much, and there was some quirky satisfaction to be had from getting this self-satisfied prat pissed out of his tiny skull.
‘He’s a fucking lunatic,’ Gissing said, ‘you can take my word for it. We’ll have him easy. A man like that isn’t in control, you see. Doesn’t bother to cover his tracks, doesn’t even care if he lives or dies. God knows, any man who can tear a seven-year-old girl to shreds like that, he’s on the verge of going bang. Seen ’em.’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh yes. Seen ’em weep like children, blood all over ’em like they was just out of the abattoir, and tears on their faces. Pathetic.’
‘So, you’ll have him.’
‘Like that,’ said Gissing, and snapped his fingers. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily, ‘Sure as God made little apples, we’ll have him.’ He glanced at his watch and then at the empty glass.
Ron made no further offers of refills.
‘Well,’ said Gissing,’ I must be getting back to town. Put in my report.’
He swayed to the door and left Milton to the bill.
Rawhead watched Gissing’s car crawl out of the village and along the north road, the headlights making very little impression on the night. The noise of the engine made Rawhead nervous though, as it over-revved up the hill past the Nicholson Farm. It roared and coughed like no beast he had encountered before, and somehow the homo sapiens had control of it. If the Kingdom was
to be taken back from the usurpers, sooner or later he would have to best one of these beasts. Rawhead swallowed his fear and prepared for the confrontation.