THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE TWO

TWO

While I waited, I looked lovingly at the bottles of alcohol on the shelves, safe behind their bars. The wind had increased, roaring in straight across the North Sea and howling around the eaves. When I tapped the barometer, the needle dropped. It was also noticeably colder. The light faded rapidly and was soon pitch black. I could not help thinking of the woman out there, of her poor cold remains, and those last awful moments when she had known she was going to die.

I knew little of formalized psychiatry, but there was no doubt in my mind that who had done that to another human being was a madman - in the true sense of the word and possessing a madman's awful strength.

My thoughts mercifully interrupted by the sudden appearance of two dull yellow 'eyes' as a car approached the building up the gravel road.

It swung around the open parking space before the windows, its windscreen wipers struggling with the near horizontal squall. Car doors flew open, caught by the wind, and four figures in long black raincoats struggled to the porch way. Waiting until the last moment, I pulled the clubhouse door open.

In a flurry of rain and cold air, the four men, stamping and blowing, came in. I closed the door swiftly, needing to put some weight behind it, and turned.

Sergeant Allum's face, large and craggy, was shining with water, spots falling from the brim of his peaked cap with the black and white squares around the band. He slid off the chin strap, handkerchief ready to mop up.

Terence Roome's red hair was already ruffled as he slapped his wet hat against his hand. His face was grim.

"This is a terrible thing you are telling me. There can be no doubt in your mind that it's not an accident?"

I shook my head.

"You'll understand what I mean."

The sergeant scratched his nose.

"Right enough. Though it could not have been worse, what with the dark and rain. We won't be able to do much until the morning, but it wouldn't be right to leave the poor woman alone for another night."

He put his hand into his pocket and produced a bunch of keys.

"I got these from Greg on the way up. Thought maybe you could do with a drink."

I ran the back of my hand across my mouth.

"Bloody right, thanks for the thought."

Roome turned to the bar, unlocked the padlocked and pulled up the grille. We gathered around as he produced a full of unopened bottle of whisky from under the counter.

"I'll have this charged to the police - emergency issue."

He twisted off the cap, poured generous measures into five glasses, pushing them one by one towards us. There was no cheery toast. I felt the liquid burning its way down, stopping the movement of his guts that had been present since my eyes had fallen on what once been another's.

Roome set his glass down.

"We'd better get on with it, Sergeant, would you ask your men to bring the equipment from the car?"

Allum, big as he was, placed the glass delicately on the counter.

"Yes, sir, and thank you for the drink. Come on you two."

The young constables followed him to the door, the wind lashing the room again before they got the door shut behind them.

Roome splashed some more of the pale, straw-coloured liquid into their glasses and then looked squarely at me.

"There's one thing I don't understand."

I looked back at him quizzically.

"What?"

"You seemed terribly upset on the 'phone. You're not unused to the sight of blood - so why?"

Before replying, I threw the whisky down my throat.

"Not like this. I agree I have seen some s**t, mangled bodies, and things like that. But never seen a woman so violated before and..."

I faltered.

Not in this time-zone.

"It was all so f*****g awful. Her pathetic bits and pieces, everyday things lying around . . . And then the mess that was a body left just as it was used - except for the awful vandalism. That is the obscene part. f**k me, Terry, whoever had not been content to leave it at that, he went on..."

I lapsed into silence.

"Tell me how you came to find the body?"

I went through the brief events that led to the discovery. Roome listened attentively until I had finished.

"That sounds straightforward. I'll have to ask you to make a statement of course, and it might be necessary to take your fingerprints."

I nodded, not having the heart to tell him I had adermatoglyphia, an extremely rare genetic disorder that prevented the development of fingerprints.

Useful in my line of work.

Roome put his glass down.

"Come on then, let us get on with it.

We struggled across the course, coats ripping in the gale, the rain driving into our collars, sending cold rivulets down our shirts. The constables carried torches, the rain streaking white in the beams and reflecting from the glistening grass

On the fairway of the seventh, with the wind suddenly dropping in the shelter of the restless trees, we stopped.

Reluctantly, with the torch-beam playing nervously into the black abyss before us, I took the lead.

It did not take long. Something flashed in the beams. It was my two iron, still hanging in the wet branch.

I held the light on it but made no effort to go any further.

"There."

Roome pushed past with Allum, the constables following. They all gathered around the tree with their backs to me, but almost immediately one of the young men staggered away, body convulsing.

Roome came back.

"f**k me, you weren't kidding? It's f*****g terrible."

"What happens now?"

Roome shrugged into his coat.

"Not much. Allum is going to tie a canvas sheet over the area and the lads will stand guard. Nothing constructive we can do here tonight, and a lot of potential harm in blundering around in the dark."

He glanced at the scene over his shoulder.

"I'll telephone the Mainland and speak to East Suffolk Constabulary headquarters. But with the ferry's grounded because of the bloody U-Boats it is a not a great deal they can do. Tomorrow we'll deal with it ourselves."

I nodded and shuddered. "I can't believe the thought that somebody in our midst might have done this."

Roome never answered.

A sudden, uncharacteristic shout from Sergeant Allum, filled the night air. We all dashed to where he was standing, holding a rope, one end which was looped around a branch. He had been fixing the canvas shelter.

When we found him, we could not understand for a second why he was white face and distressed, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

In his light we saw the second rope, the one which had swung on to his face as he threw his up.

We all instinctively drew nearer in revulsion and disbelief.

The branches festooned with shiny, yellow-green ribbons. It was human viscera.