Panic! Pendennis, the bitten off nose was his trademark. He must have escaped. Was he still here?
Nick threw himself back against the open door, slamming it against the wall, darting glances left and right. What if Peter was still in the building? Hiding. Wasn't it likely? The body was still in one piece. Pendennis always stayed to cut them up.
He forced himself to look at the body. It wasn't just the nose. Both eyes had been gouged out. And—he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue—both ears were either missing or obscured by blood. Thoughts of Louise percolated to mind – that madman clamped to her ear. It had to be Pendennis. The ears, the nose . . .
And the hands. Both had been severed.
He vomited. Uncontrollably. Then ran, flapping his hands at light switches but not stopping if he missed, ducking at the slightest noise—real or imagined—running for his life, stumbling, tripping, throwing himself down the stairs. He had to get out. He had to get out now!
The front door wouldn't open. He dropped the imager, grabbed the door handle with both hands—turned, pulled, rattled and wrenched the door open. Running again, the wind cold against his face, gravel crunching beneath his feet. Not safe yet. He needed open spaces, people, streetlights. Pendennis could be anywhere—hiding in the house, the grounds, that shadow by the gate.
He flew across the road, not heeding the traffic, ran to the nearest streetlight and turned, breathing hard. No sign of Pendennis. Yet.
He activated his phone, shaking fingers pressing the buttons at his wrist. "Police," he said, his voice ragged. "Now! There's been a murder at Framlingham Hall."
He called Louise next. No answer. Shit! Shit! Shit! Was Pendennis already there? Was that where he'd come from?
A sudden noise made him jump. Something metallic being knocked over. The wind, a cat, Pendennis? He ran to the next street light. Keep moving. Keep visible. Maybe flag down a car?
Who'd stop for a wild arm-waving stranger? He wouldn't. Not at night.
On to the next street light. Then the next. Another call to Louise. Still no answer but he'd leave a message.
"Call me. Lock all your doors and windows. Don't answer your door to anyone. Pendennis has escaped."
He checked his watch. How long would the police take? Was that a siren?
Five minutes later the police arrived, lights flashing, siren wailing. He tried to flag them down but they drove past, stopping outside the Hall gate. He crossed over and ran towards them, calling. He had to warn them.
They were outside when he caught up to them. Two uniformed officers. Was that enough?
"Stop!" he shouted, slowing to a breathless halt. "He might still be in there."
"Who?" said the older of the two officers, eyeing Nick suspiciously.
"Pendennis," said Nick. "He's escaped."
The two policemen looked at each other. "Peter Pendennis?"
"Yes, Peter Pendennis. Look, there's a body in there with its nose ripped off. Who does that remind you of? And he's severed both hands. He must have been cutting the body up when I disturbed him. He might still be in there."
All three men turned to look at the house. It sat grey and silent, set back from the road and bathed in shadow.
The two policemen conferred. One went back to the vehicle. Hopefully to call for back up. The other switched on his lapel recorder.
"Now, sir, for the record, what's your name?"
Nick gave his statement, glancing towards the house whenever he thought he heard a sound or caught a flash of something moving out of the corner of his eye.
The other policemen called over from the car. "Nothing on the system about Pendennis breaking loose."
"Call Upper Heywood," said Nick. "They might not have missed him yet. And get a car over to Lower Hillside Farm, Mickleton. Check that Louise Callander's okay. Pendennis threatened her. He attacked her this afternoon."
Another shared glance between the two officers, followed by a click as the lapel recorder was turned off.
"I think you should show us the body first."
Great, thought Nick. They don't believe me. "Ring Upper Heywood. They'll confirm it. Or the A&E at Oxford General. They treated her."
A hand propelled him from behind. They were going to force him back into the house. Playing into Pendennis's hands, they were going to walk in unprepared.
"At least arm yourselves," he begged. "He could be anywhere."
The older policeman patted the baton strapped to his belt. "Don't worry, sir. Anyone gets out of order . . . we know what to do."
Even better, not only didn't they believe him but they were getting ready to take him round the back and play bad cop, bad cop on his ribs.
"I'm telling the truth!"
"Of course you are, sir."
They walked in silence. Nick pushed from behind into the lead, steering a course along the exact centre of the gravel drive, wary of every shrub and shadow. He skirted past his van, reached the open door and ushered the officers through.
"Second floor, turn left, second door on your right."
"We'll follow you."
Nick closed his eyes. He could be walking to his death. No one would care. The police would blame Pendennis. Our officers couldn't have foreseen the danger. A tragic turn of events for all concerned.
Not that it was much safer on the porch. Pendennis could be under the van, waiting for the police to move off.
He took a deep breath and pushed the front door wider. At least the lights were still on. He stepped though, his eyes zigzagging, trying to cover every inch of the hallway. Empty. Except for the imager he'd dropped earlier. He bent down to pick it up.
"Is that a camera?"
"Yes, it's mine. I dropped it earlier." He set it down on a windowsill and looked towards the stairs.
"The police are here," he shouted. "More are on their way."
"Come on," said the younger officer, nudging Nick in the back. "The sooner you show us this body the sooner you can get out of here."
Nick began the climb, trying to think positively. At least with the lights on, anyone hiding would cast a shadow. That thought took him to the first half-landing where another thought was waiting. What if Peter was hiding behind a door or perched on an upstairs banister waiting to jump on him from above.
Nick crouched instinctively, and looked up. Nothing.
"What's the matter?" said a voice from behind.
"Nothing," he lied. What was the point? They wouldn't take him seriously until they saw the body. Or Pendennis jumped them. Scenes from every horror film he'd ever watched, fluttered to mind. The hero walking into a trap. Deranged killer lurking in the shadows. Cue suspenseful music, cue unexpected death. What was the betting if he turned around now he'd find only one officer left? The other garrotted and whisked silently away, only to reappear in a future scene, cut up and flayed.
He'd never—ever—watch another horror film again.
He listened, straining to hear two footfalls following his.
Or was one Peter's?
He glanced back—he had to. Two policemen were in his wake.
For now.
Calm down. You're nearly there. All the lights are on. Pendennis'll be miles away by now.
Encouraging words. But one floor away was a mutilated body. Dozens of hiding places in between. And a crazed killer who could be hiding behind every door.
"Come on," urged a voice from behind. "We haven't got all night."
Nick ascended, swallowing hard, the first floor landing approaching, his eyes darted from side to side. Was that a shadow? Was that a footstep?
He hovered on the top stair then took off, grabbing onto the handrail and pulling himself across the landing and up onto the next flight of stairs, away from every door and hiding place, as quick as he could.
Then slowed. Deep breaths. Nearly there. One flight of stairs, one corridor and five doors to go. Another glance back. Still two policemen behind him. No crazed axe-man rushing at them from the shadows.
Yet.
More deep breaths. His mouth was dry and why had that window stopped banging? Had the wind dropped? Or had someone closed it?
A creak made him start. He looked up, trying to judge if it came from the attic or the landing above. Roof timbers settling or a floorboard shifting under a killer's bloodstained foot?
Calm down. One step at a time. Nearly there.
Up he went, hugging the wall, counting down the remaining steps. Nine, eight, seven. The landing looming, a moth fluttering around the bare light bulb at the head of the stairs. Three, two . . .
One.
He stopped. Every sense on alert – the slightest sound, the smallest movement.
The window banged.
He closed his eyes, one last deep breath and...
He was moving—swiftly, purposefully—along the corridor, jumping past the open doors, not pausing to think or breathe, just aiming for the other side of that doorway, that room.
He glanced inside as he leapt by. It was still there, lying on the floor. For one awful moment he'd expected to find it gone. But it wasn't.
"It's in there," he said, pointing into the room. "The vomit's mine."
It was a relief to be believed. Suddenly, action was taken. Back up was requested, CID, forensics. A car was sent to check on Louise. And, hopefully, Upper Heywood too. Within twenty minutes the Hall was alive with people and light and voices and away went the fear. Pendennis would be miles away by now.
Time dragged. Nick was put in the room across the corridor and told to wait, someone would interview him later. All his requests to be allowed to wait downstairs so he could check on his work were denied.
Great. Forty minutes ago he was on the verge of two major discoveries. Now, he was on the verge of none. The house crawling with heavy-handed coppers, poking into everything. What if someone pressed a reset button and cleared all his data?
Or had Pendennis already done that? Was that why he'd left the body? To lure Nick away so he could wipe all the data?
Shit! Shit! Shit!
The door opened. A man—plain clothes, early forties, sharp-featured—stepped inside. He reminded Nick of an old school teacher he'd once had. It was the glasses and the way he stared—a long, silent, appraising look as though he was looking deep into your soul and judging it flawed.
"DCI Marsh," said the man. "Are you ready to give a statement?"
Nick was more than ready. He waited for the lapel recorder to flash red then reeled off the events from the moment he entered the Hall that evening.
"Are you the owner of this property?"
"No, I'm from the University. We've been using the Hall."
"What for?"
Ah. This was not going in a good direction. One sniff of the word 'paranormal' and he'd be labelled a crackpot. The general public hadn't absorbed the huge advances that had been made in the last two years. Higher Dimensional Theory to them was still SHIFT and space travel. They didn't realise the extent of its application.
"Research," he said, hoping the interview could move elsewhere.
"Into what?"
"Astropsychology."
"Which is what in layman's terms?"
"The study of higher dimensional theory and its application to psychology."
There was a pause. If Marsh asked for an explanation of HDT he'd refer him to a textbook.
"Where does Framlingham Hall fit into that?"
Marsh was definitely like Nick's old teacher. He could never be deflected either.
"Look, I'm doing 'blue sky' research. I take an idea and run with it wherever it leads. This house is supposed to be haunted. I've been monitoring some of the rooms to see if there's a higher dimensional explanation."
He recognised the look. It may have been fleeting, but it was there. Who can trust a witness who sees ghosts for a living?
"And before you ask, I wasn't monitoring that room. You'll find my equipment in the room next door."
"Convenient. Did you recognise the victim?"
"No."
"You've never seen him before?"
"Never. Look, have you seen Louise Callander yet? Is she all right?"
"She is now. After two of my officers spent ten minutes reassuring her that Pendennis was still locked up."
"He is?"
Nick couldn't believe it. How . . .
And then another thought. Would Upper Heywood lie to protect their reputation? Stall the police until they'd got their stories straight? Or had someone sneaked Peter back in?
"Are you sure?" he asked. "Has anyone actually seen him?"
"We don't need to. Peter Pendennis is not part of this investigation."
"But it's his MO. The nose, everything."
Marsh shook his head. "The vic's too clean. Pendennis leaves his saliva over every body part. He licks them. This one's clean."
Nick swallowed. That was information he'd have been happier not knowing.
"And the body's intact," Marsh continued. "Peter likes to cut his up."
"He was interrupted."
The detective shook his head again. "That never bothered him before. That's how we caught him. We found him sitting on a basement floor with a severed head in his hands." He looked into the distance and clenched his fists. "He had its nose in his mouth, can you believe that? And he just looked at us. Didn't try to run or anything. Just looked up as though what was happening was the most normal thing in the world. And all the time his cheeks were going in and out as he sucked on that wretched girl's nose."
"Sucked?"
None of the holocasts had mentioned that. A stray synapse fired somewhere in Nick's brain. A connection. Something he'd read a long time ago. Rituals—Egyptian? Polynesian?—something to do with sucking the spirits of the dead out through their noses.
"And killers don't change their MO," said Marsh.
"Killers with MPD might. He's got twelve personalities so why not have twelve different MOs."
"You seem to know a lot about Peter Pendennis."
Back came the appraising stare.
"I was at Upper Heywood this afternoon. I saw him."
Marsh narrowed his eyes. "Do you often visit Mr. Pendennis?"
"No." Where was this going?
"My officers said you had a camera with you when you found the body. Were you taking pictures?"
"No! I was using it to see by. It's got night vision capabilities."
"Why not switch on a light?"
"I didn't want to risk losing the manifestation."
"You didn't want to risk losing the manifestation."
Marsh sounded like a cross-examining barrister echoing Nick's testimony to an incredulous jury. Nick squirmed. Okay, so all the other HDT researchers were out there doing sensible things with their imagers like helping develop stronger, lighter, cheaper alloys. And, yes, he was having fun, pointing his imagers at anything and everything he could think of. But that's what real scientists were supposed to do—to shine light where no one had ever thought to look before, to push, probe and question.
There was a knock at the door. A young man leaned into the room. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we've got an ID on the vic."
"Sergeant Kelly enters the room," said Marsh for the benefit of the recording. "Close the door, Mike. What have you got?"
The sergeant closed the door and read from a note pad. "Name's Vince Culley, twenty-nine, local man with two previous convictions for burglary. Petty, opportunist stuff. Probably after the cameras downstairs. They're easy to spot from outside."
A burglar? Nick hadn't considered his imagers a target. Though, thinking about it, he should have.
"So, if the cameras are downstairs," asked Marsh, "why was his body found up here?"
"The window was open in the room I found him in," said Nick. "It still is."
The sergeant shook his head. "Unlikely point of entry for our Vince. He's strictly a ground floor, brick-through-the-window type of crim. And we found a broken pane in a door at the back."
"So," said Marsh, eyeing Nick like a predator about to strike. "He breaks in downstairs to steal the cameras. You catch him at it. There's a chase."
Nick started to remonstrate. Marsh ignored him, raising his voice to drown out Nick's objections.
"You trap him in the room opposite. There's a fight. You hit him too hard, panic, then try to make it look like Pendennis. Is that how it happened?"
"Where's the blood?" Nick shouted, holding out his hands, showing his nails, gesturing to his clothes. "Whoever cut off his ears must be covered in the stuff."
"We'll check the bathrooms," said Marsh. "And the bins. If you cleaned yourself up we'll know."
An hour later was Nick was formally arrested and taken to the station at Summertown where he was scanned, DNA swabbed and had his fingernails cleaned. Then he was given a virtual lawyer, who explained his rights and talked him through the procedures. Don't say anything, don't sign anything and don't let them search your property. Probably the wisest words he'd heard all day.
A succession of detectives took it in turns to interview him. Nick sat through it all, biting his tongue. He'd tried the co-operative route and look where that had got him.
He was released at 9:00 am the next day without charge. No apology, no explanation, just a grudging, 'you can go,' from the desk sergeant.
Once outside, he called Louise. Had the police really spoken to her yesterday? They'd spun so many stories at him the previous night he didn't know what to believe.
The dial tone rang endlessly. Where the hell was she? He left another message then called a taxi. He'd pick up his van from the Hall then drive to Louise's.
The cold bit through his clothes. He wasn't dressed for being outside. He folded his arms and tried to squeeze some warmth into his chest. The taxi arrived, he climbed inside.
"Framlingham Hall," he said. "And turn the heater up as far as it'll go."
Streets flashed by. Inside, Nick rubbed his hands and replayed scenarios. What the hell was happening? Was Pendennis on the loose or paying a copycat? Some sick scheme to re-open his case?
And had the police impounded Nick's equipment? Had he lost all the data from the night before?
The taxi slowed as the Hall came into view. There was a police car blocking the entrance, a tape strung across the drive.
"Drive past," said Nick. "I'll get out around the corner."
The taxi dropped Nick off a block away. He cut down a side street and over to an alley that led to the back of Hall. There was a door in the long stone wall that ringed the Hall grounds. Nick slipped inside, out of sight of the police at the main entrance, and ran across the rough grass towards the back of the house.
Great, the grass was wet. He looked down at his trousers—soaked from the knees down. So much for looking inconspicuous. He made his way to the back door by the kitchen. The police had said Culley had broken a pane in the back door. Would anyone have fixed it overnight?
No one had. He stood by the door and listened. It didn't sound like anyone was inside. He slipped a hand through the broken pane, turned the key in the lock and gently opened the door.
He stepped through, closed the door behind him and tip-toed to the front of the house. Still no sounds of life within the Hall. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up, senses on high alert. The police must have gone, left a couple of officers to sit outside to keep the onlookers away.
Damn! He noticed the empty windowsill. He'd left one of the imagers there last night.
He ran to the front room. How much had they taken?
An array of imagers, monitors and processors filled one corner of the room. Were they all there? He counted them; walking around, checking they hadn't been damaged or reset. Only the one imager was missing.
He rummaged through one of the boxes looking for a blank data cube, found one and quickly inserted it into the main processor. The download began. He glanced to the window. Anyone walking by would see him. Were the two officers supposed to patrol the grounds?
He tapped his fingers on the top of the unit. Come on! A few more seconds . . .
The data cube ejected. He thrust it into a pocket. And stopped.
Curiosity. He was here, the data was here, the monitors were here. Okay, the data hadn't been fully processed yet. But the imager data would have been merged, enough for a composite picture. Could he wait another hour?
He ran to the side of the window, squatted down, peered back towards the gate. The police car was still there, nothing moving.
He checked his watch. Five minutes. That's all he'd risk.
He called up the files, sifted through the ones he could use and ran the programs. A composite scan of Pendennis's brain appeared on the screen. It was staggering. He viewed it from every plane, zooming in and out, flipping and rotating. Colours flared and sparked. He'd need more time to calibrate the results and run comparisons but the initial results . . .
So much mass. What was it—three, four times, the amount of higher dimensional matter you'd expect? Though what was normal? They'd sampled such an infinitesimal section of the human population, who could say what the normal ranges were?
But what a sight! It looked like the brain had been ripped in several places and then expanded. Was that evidence of additional matter—an outside source for the extra material—or was it part of the brain's natural healing process? An accretion of new matter like new bone being created at a fracture site?
He definitely needed John Bruce's brain scans. Had they arrived yet?
He rang the University computer, dialled into his office and checked his mail. Nothing from SHIFT. Maybe his usual contact was on holiday? He rang off and called up his home computer. He'd resend the request and tag on a couple of extra addresses. One of his contacts at SHIFT had to be at work.
There was a sound in the distance. Outside. Nick ducked down, tapped in the confirmation and sent the request to SHIFT. Time to leave. He could finish processing the data at home. He grabbed an imager—one of the full spectrum models—and stuffed it in his pocket. Who could tell when the police would release the rest?
He retraced his steps back to the Banbury road, wet-legged, a considerable bulge in one of his pockets, but exuding a practised and smiling innocence.
"Hi," he told the first policeman. "I've come to collect my van."
He showed his ID, waited to be photographed, finger scanned and cleared with HQ.
And then collected his van. He could feel the impatient stare of the two policemen burning into the back of his neck as he took his time, walking around the van, looking inside, underneath and checking the back. Images of the previous night were still fresh. If Pendennis had escaped yesterday and made his way to the Hall, what better mode of transport than hiding in Nick's van.
A car horn sounded from the gate. "Come on, we haven't got all day!"
Nick opened the driver side door and climbed inside. One more check of the back seats and he was away, waving goodbye to the police and Framlingham Hall. He tried Louise's number again. Still no answer. Was she avoiding him? Or worse?
He didn't want to think about worse. He'd go home, load the data, fire off the analysis programs and leave them running while he drove over to see her.
And maybe drive to Upper Heywood afterwards. Demand to see Pendennis and see how Ziegler reacted.
He parked outside his two-bedroomed terrace, slammed the car door shut and jogged the few yards through his almost non-existent front garden.
And stopped.
His front door was ajar. Had the police searched his house after all? He reached out a hand and pushed the door wider. He expected to see his belongings strewn all over the floor but the carpet was clear. He could see up the stairs to the landing and the hallway through to the kitchen at the back. Nothing looked out of place. No damage, no muddy boot prints from overzealous officers.
A more worrying thought. If not the police . . .
He crept inside. At least it was daylight. And there were people nearby. Houses on both sides, a street only yards away.
But would Pendennis care about that?
He glanced into the lounge, the same mess he'd left it in. But at least it was his mess. He turned back. The kitchen light was on. That was wrong. It had been daylight when he'd left yesterday. No reason for the light to be on at all.
He stepped back and grabbed an umbrella from the hall stand. Not exactly a baseball bat but at least it was something.
He edged closer, leaned back and pushed at the kitchen door with his foot, watched it slowly swing open, holding the umbrella two-handed in front of him like a Kendo staff.
He braced himself.
There was large saucepan on the kitchen table. It drew his eyes. He hadn't left it there. A burglar wouldn't have left it there . . .
It had to be a message. Someone playing a game with him. Take off the lid and look inside. Except the moment he did, he knew it wasn't going to be good. He didn't have any pets, but the children next door did. A little voice cried out for uncertainty. Let whatever it was inside that pan stay in whatever state it wanted to be. Alive, dead, undetermined.
He edged closer. Sniffed the air. No smell of freshly cooked meat, thank God. He reached out. Let his fingers hover a few millimetres above the lid. No heat.
He drew back. He'd call the police. Let them open it. Or was that what they wanted? They couldn't get a search warrant so they broke into his home and left this knowing that he'd be so freaked after last night that he'd have to call them. Then they'd have access. No need for a warrant as they'd been invited onto the property.
Was that how they worked?
Or was he being stupid, irrational? It was only a saucepan for Christ's sake! He couldn't leave it there forever.
He rose on the balls of his feet, reached out, ready to spring back in an instant.
He closed his fingers around the wooden button at the centre of the lid, took a deep breath and started to lift . . .
Inside, two hands were cupped in prayer. An eyeball nestled at their base. Maybe two. He'd dropped the lid and looked away by then. He turned, threw up what little he had left in his stomach, and fled.