Deadly Animals, page 29
Aunt Maxie sobbed when he said this, and the boy squeezed her hand. ‘The night I got away, he took my collar off and I let him lead me upstairs then out. I was so glad to be out. I didn’t fight back. He was too big and strong, and I needed all my strength to escape, if I could. My eyes were everywhere, trying to find a way out, to run but there wasn’t just then. One shout and I know he would’ve killed me to keep me quiet.’
‘Did he say anything then?’ asked Lines.
‘Yes,’ said Keith. ‘He said it was time I met the pack.’ He scrunched the coverlet in his fists then relaxed. ‘There was a driveway and I looked down it and I recognised where I was . . . ’
Delahaye’s eyes were bright. ‘Where?’
‘I can’t remember the name of the street right now but it’s the one with the old library on it and those maisonettes on the cliffs . . . ’
‘Leach Green Lane,’ said DC Lines.
‘Yes! That’s it!’ said Keith. ‘And then I got into the car . . . ’
‘Car?’ asked Delahaye.
‘Yes, he was going to take me out in a car,’ said Keith. ‘I don’t know the make of it, but it was very shiny, a purple or dark red, I think. I sort of hunched over, facing the window so he couldn’t see me slipping the cuffs off. Then he started to drive up into the hills. He didn’t say anything the whole time.’
‘He trusted you,’ said Delahaye, impressed.
‘If he did then I don’t know why,’ said Keith. He was obviously tired and his words slurred a little. ‘But I knew if I stayed calm and quiet, he’d be the same. When I managed to remove the cuffs, I looked out of the window to find we were approaching tall gates, and the barking of dogs.’ Keith swallowed with a dry click. ‘He stopped outside a scrapyard. Marlowe & Son, the sign said it was.’
Delahaye knew exactly the place the boy talked about. ‘We know it,’ he said.
Keith swallowed with a dry click so he took another sip of water. ‘When I heard those dogs howling, I panicked and I opened the door as soon as the car stopped and started running. I just ran and ran. I knew he’d become the Wolf King and catch me but I had to try.’ Tears fell down the boy’s cheeks and Aunt Maxie swiped a tissue from a box and dabbed his face. He looked exhausted now.
‘Thank you, Keith,’ said Delahaye. ‘You’ve be—’
Keith was shouting. ‘I know his name! I remember his name!’
‘Tell me,’ said Delahaye.
‘It’s Nathaniel!’ Keith said. ‘Nathaniel Marlowe!’
Chapter Seventy-Six
6.27 p.m.
I
N THE CID OFFICE, THE entire squad listened to Keith Magaw’s taped interview in silence. When it had concluded, Delahaye switched the machine off, and they sat there for a moment, pondering what they had heard with a mix of shock, disbelief and a great deal of horror.
DCI Brooks sighed hard. He shook his head. ‘Kids killing kids? It’s like . . . Lord of the Flies.’
‘Can we really believe that a teenager would kill little boys like that?’ asked DI Perrin.
‘Ava as Miss Misty gave us the clue months ago when she mentioned Mary Bell in passing. Bell was eleven,’ said Delahaye. ‘And Jean Grenier of St Severs was a teenager, fourteen no less, when he committed his crimes. We said it even then that although kids killing kids is rare, it does happen.’
Considering all they knew, and what they’d just learned, there were no protocols or regulations for a case like this. Right from the start, they’d been flailing around in the mire.
‘It’s not a coincidence. Coleman sold the farm cheap to Marlowe. And I bet you its guard dogs are Banlock Shepherds,’ said Lines.
‘It isn’t a coincidence,’ said Delahaye. ‘Because I’m sure Nicholas Marlowe is the mysterious “Jip” as he was known then, the young man who had worked for Neville Coleman at Banlock Farm. Nick had fallen in love with Neville’s daughter, Tiss, and Nathaniel is their son.’
‘Neville Coleman’s grandson,’ said Lines.
‘We need to bring the Marlowes in now,’ said Delahaye. He couldn’t keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘Before they abscond like bloody Bob Aster.’
‘All right, DS Delahaye. But no warrants . . . yet,’ said DCI Brooks. ‘We’ll make coordinated visits to the Marlowe residence and scrapyard, as well as the boy’s school. We’ll make it seem like routine inquiries. If the father knows what the son is doing, and is protecting him, we don’t want to spook them into making a run for it, as you rightly say.’
Olivia Gibson, meanwhile, had found no references to a boy with odd eyes in witness statements or interview transcripts, but did find the distinction referenced in Delahaye’s notes of his conversation with Harry Marshall concerning Neville Coleman and his daughter Tisiphone. She found the name Nathaniel in the notes of his interview with the Shelton boys when he’d asked them about the game Wolf: ‘Last year, the big kids found us but he let us go,’ Tom had said, and Rob had added, ‘Karl and Nathaniel.’ Nathaniel.
Right there – hidden in plain sight. Not an old paedophile or irritable ice-cream man, but another child. Surrounded by other schoolchildren, a predatory child wouldn’t be noticed – a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
On hearing that the CID squad were looking for a teenaged killer called Nathaniel Marlowe, a sheepish and apologetic police constable who was on the team operating the telephone lines admitted he’d taken a call from a member of the public very early that morning. ‘He was a young man who insisted the murderer was a sixteen-year-old boy named Nathaniel Marlowe,’ said the red-faced officer to the exasperated detectives. ‘I thought it was a crank call, Sarge, you know, a lad just trying to get another lad into trouble for a prank. I didn’t know! He said something about finding the lair . . . ’
‘Fucking hell!’ Delahaye snapped and the whole office fell silent. He rarely lost his temper but when he did it was a shock. ‘Please tell me you took his name?’
The PC shifted uncomfortably. ‘Erm, John . . . something . . . ’
‘John Something?’ Delahaye had to check-chain his rage before he’d do or say something he might not regret. ‘Did he say where he’d found the lair?’ he demanded.
‘I’m so sorry, no. I told him to grow up and put the phone down on him . . . ’
‘Shit!’ Delahaye swung his coat on. ‘Let’s get a move on. Time’s running out and we have no bloody idea if this John Something alerted the Marlowes in finding that bloody dungeon.’
Colmers Farm Secondary School was closed but WDC Gibson was blessed to find a teacher working late who helped her look through the fifth year attendance registers. Her inquiries yielded quick results: Nathaniel Marlowe had been absent for the past week. The teacher said Nathaniel’s terrible head injury after his accident at the scrapyard the year before had given him regular debilitating migraines so his absences were attributed to these: ‘And he always brings in a note from his father to explain why first day back,’ said the teacher had added. ‘He’s all right, isn’t he? He’s such a good lad.’
It wasn’t hard to find the Marlowe residence in Rubery after a vehicle check relayed that Mr Nicholas Marlowe owned a maroon Fiat Dino, and a blue Ford van. The property was known as Russet Lodge – the red house.
Delahaye and Lines drove to Marlowe & Son Breakers Yard. The tiny snowflakes that swirled in the air, too restless to settle, reminded the detectives of the pulviplume floating around Banlock Farm. It was freezing cold and dark. Houses and flats glittered with Christmas decorations, and Rubery Village sparkled with festive lights.
They could hear dogs barking in the near distance as they parked by the junkyard gates, and a man approached them. Delahaye showed him his warrant card and the man, Minty, took them into the house. When Delahaye asked to see Nicholas Marlowe, Minty shrugged.
‘He hasn’t been in all day,’ he said. ‘He’s usually in before me. I’ve had to feed the dogs today and that’s most unusual.’
‘Would he ordinarily ring to let you know he wouldn’t be in?’ asked Lines.
‘Always,’ said Minty. ‘Our van’s not here either. Boss might’ve gone off to an auction or to deliver a part somewhere, but he always lets us know.’
Another man came into the house: who introduced himself as Tim. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Just routine inquiries,’ said Delahaye.
‘Concerning what?’ Tim asked.
‘Concerning his son, Nathaniel,’ said Delahaye.
‘What’s he done then?’ asked Tim. ‘He’s a good lad.’
DC Lines’s radio crackled at his hip and he stepped outside to answer it.
‘Nathaniel hasn’t been at school for a week,’ said Delahaye.
‘That’s rubbish,’ said Minty. ‘He’s come here every day this week with his uniform on. After school, he’s here to feed the dogs and walk ’em along them back hills.’
‘Has he been here today?’ Delahaye asked, and Minty shook his head, confused. Delahaye tried a different tactic.
‘How has Nathaniel been since his accident last year?? Since he had his head injury?’ Delahaye asked. The two men exchanged a glance.
‘Well, he’s not the kid we used to know,’ said Minty.
‘His temper was really bad for a while,’ said Tim. ‘He’d turn very suddenly, the way the dogs can. He never used to get angry quick, did he?’ Minty shook his head. ‘But then it’s gone as quick as it came, and he’ll be all right for a while, as if nothing’s wrong.’
‘Was his father afraid of him?’ asked Delahaye. He saw both men were fiercely loyal to the Marlowes but there was genuine concern for father and son.
Tim shuffled his feet and nodded. ‘Nathaniel’s attacked his dad a few times.’
‘Boss has had to punch him to put him down,’ said Minty. ‘Lock him up until it was over. Not to be cruel, like; just to stop him.’
‘But the past year, Nick said Nathaniel had calmed down, he seemed to have found a way to control his temper.’ Tim suddenly stared at Delahaye with dreadful realisation, a dawning so awful the man’s skin leached white.
‘Do either of you know that Nathaniel isn’t even supposed to be here with his father?’ said Delahaye. ‘That as a toddler he was adopted by a couple in Staffordshire? How did his father get him back? Do you know?’
Tim glanced at Minty who said, ‘Me and Nick found out where the boy lived . . . ’
‘How?’ asked Delahaye.
‘It wasn’t easy and it took a while. It took a lot of money too, a hefty couple of backhanders to the right people in the know. The system was easier to corrupt then, I dunno. Anyway, after a year, we tracked the couple down and we waited in a van for days for the right opportunity, but there never seemed to be an ideal time. Then his adoptive mom took him to the park. I chatted her up while little Nathaniel was mucking about on a swing. Nick grabbed him and ran. By the time she realised what was happening, Nathaniel was already in the van with his dad. His adoptive mother couldn’t identify Nick but the police questioned him about it, him being the dad and all. It was in the news as a child snatch, but they used the boy’s new name in the reports. Nathaniel never answered to the new name. Nick hid him at my mom’s house in Redditch for a few months until the furore died down. He was living in Alvechurch at the time and had just bought this place. He was always paranoid that Nathaniel would be taken from him again so the boy wasn’t registered with a local doctor or dentist. If he needed either, Nick just booked an appointment with a practice far from where they were living. He bought Russet Lodge a year later.’
‘You told me when Nick took him from the park, Nathaniel didn’t make any noise,’ said Tim.
‘That’s right. He didn’t scream or cry. It was as if he knew he was back with his dad,’ said Minty. ‘As soon as the lad saw Nick’s dogs, well, that was it. He became our lovely little boy, happy to be with us. I know it was never all right, I know it was wrong what we did, but they’re father and son.’
‘How did Nick get Banlock Shepherds?’ asked Delahaye.
‘His girlfriend Tiss, Nathaniel’s mom, brought him some puppies the night she was killed,’ said Minty. ‘It was on the way back she had the accident. That’s why he blamed himself.’
And why Neville Coleman blamed him too, Delahaye thought.
‘You know, after the police raided the farm, Nick went back and buried the dogs that were killed,’ said Minty. ‘And he buried the old man’s favourite next to Tiss and her mother. His three graces he calls them.’
‘Is there any place you can think of where Nick would go if the authorities knew Nathaniel was here?’ Delahaye asked.
‘I’ll make a list of every property Nick owns and every friend who might take them in,’ said Minty.
Delahaye was about to thank him when he heard Steve Lines shout from outside. ‘Sarge!’
The frightened urgency was so unlike Steve that Delahaye ran to the back door of the house to find his partner confronting a pack of giant dogs. The animals sat on old tyres, on the patio, on the roofs of the adjacent outbuildings, their hackles ridged, yet completely silent, their eyes focused on the tall detective. Delahaye counted around thirty animals, all large, feral, and dangerous. Lines wouldn’t stand a chance if one attacked him let alone if all of them pounced.
‘Banlock Shepherds,’ Delahaye whispered.
‘They’ve never done this before,’ murmured Minty at the detective’s shoulder. He turned to Tim. ‘You know how Nathaniel does it.’
Tim stood beside the frozen Lines, cupped his hands over his mouth and made a single husky bark. The dogs immediately fled; they spilled off their perches, streamed around the corner and were gone.
Steve’s face was white, his eyes frightened. Minty handed him a flask-cup of tea. Tim walked around to make sure the dogs were away from the house.
‘Gibson and Perrin are at the Marlowe residence,’ Lines said, his teeth chattering. ‘No one’s home: it’s locked up and there’re no vehicles in the driveway – just a bike. It looks like the Marlowes have done a runner.’
Delahaye patted his partner’s shoulder and, on a whim, turned to ask Minty, ‘Was Mr Marlowe known by another name . . . like a nickname?’
Tim answered: ‘Yeah, he used to be known as Jip but he hated it.’
A long, drawn-out howl sounded from beyond the hulks of twisted metal and the gaunt remains of the Ferris wheel. The entire pack joined in an echoing, mournful chorus, the only honest song of farewell.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
7.30 p.m.
S
NOW MADE HORIZONS DISAPPEAR, SHORING up the landscape with porcelain walls tall as the sky; flawless walls to write on. Little Adam tucked his head into his scarf, and trudged towards John’s house. There was twinkling tinsel in every window, and some windows even had real electric lights on their displayed Christmas trees. Even though he could’ve just waited until the blizzard waned, he’d wanted to go out in the dark, in the snow, by himself. He’d been grounded since his parents had found out about his stint as a vandal though he’d never tell them he’d been Harry Ca Nab. He’d just pop the Christmas card through the letter box and return home slowly, taking his time through the deserted, silent street so as to enjoy his brief new freedom.
He posted the card then plodded back to the road, his head bent; the snow smattering his cheeks with fleecy kisses. He stopped at the junction when he heard something large, fast and heavy advancing behind him. He turned to see what it could be, but it hit him so hard he was rendered unconscious before he ever got a look at it.
* * *
John picked up the card from the doormat, opened it and saw it was from Little Adam. In his slippers, he rushed to the front door to catch him before he left. The snow fell in insouciant spirals, and for a moment, John didn’t know what he was witnessing.
And then he did see.
The Wolf was hunched over Little Adam. Blood had fanned across the white like thrown ink. It was big, its grubby white fur raggedy; and stained teeth gleamed in its bald skull with demon-set ears. It rested its weight on the boy’s chest, looking into the closed, pale face, and John saw how its eyes reflected the snow in gold discs – because it was wearing sunglasses, the vintage ones he’d seen Nathaniel wear in the summer. Seeing them made him lose his temper and override his fear because although it was monster, it was just a boy too.
‘GET OFF HIM YOU FUCKIN’ FUCKER!’ John bellowed.
The Wolf raised its ugly head as if bored. John saw the human chin then the human mouth, which ruched into a wide snarl and revealed strong sharp teeth.
‘We know who you are!’ John said. He was shaking with so much rage and terror he thought he might explode. ‘We know where you live.’
It growled; a rumble John felt through his feet, but it had been John’s shout that made doors fly open and indignant people wander out to see what was going on. The beast leaped over Little Adam and, instead of attacking John, bounded off into the silent white night.
