There was a row of cars outside the closed-for-weather garage. Lucas wasn’t a great driver, technically wasn’t a driver at all, but he’d learned more failing two tests than most people learned passing one, and he could identify a rear onside wheel no trouble. He looked round before checking the first car. The lane curved, so he couldn’t see the footpath gate, but nobody had appeared from that direction, and he could see nobody watching from the back windows of the few houses.
The snow was deeper here, as was usual in unregarded spaces. It had gathered almost as high as the wheel arch; still, the keys were there, first time of trying. Perhaps there was something to be said for small-town life; for its reliable beat. Still nobody in sight. If Lucas could get the car to start, if he could drive it as far as the road leading up to the High Street: things would get easier. It was a more occupied area. It stood to reason the road surfaces would be clearer, have more traction; that there’d be fewer murderers around. He cleared the windscreen with his arm, and caused a minor avalanche opening the car door. No alarms went off. He dropped the keys, scrabbled about, picked them up, and managed to insert one into the ignition. It trembled a little, but did the job: Emma was dead but the motor was alive. Now what? Now he urged the car into motion, and nearly killed it leaving its parking space.
Most of the tracks headed up into town: the sane, the obvious direction. The alternative was a no-through lane, its lack of access heralded by a traffic sign on the corner. A single set of tracks led that way, presumably belonging to someone from one of the few houses.
Still, Louisa hesitated.
Lucas knew the town, knew its shortcuts and footpaths. Maybe there was a way round here; a cutting between houses that led . . .
Led where? Fucking Narnia? Any shortcuts led straight to the High Street, so on she went, up the hill, all her muscles aching now, and her cheeks numb with frozen tears.
When Lars arrived at the barn, his arse felt like he’d been taming a kangaroo, not driving a car, but that thought vanished before he’d jerked to a halt. Cyril lay out in front of the barn, and had either drowned in his own blood or marinated himself in it before giving up the ghost. Lars remembered Frank not giving him a gun:
There was another body too, under a tree. This one looked relatively peaceful, but equally dead. The chances of it being an innocent passerby who’d got into it with Cyril over illicit barn usage were not high. The average rambler wouldn’t have given even a concussed Cyril trouble. Lars went through the body’s pockets, and found no phone, no ID, which more or less proved he was spook. A citizen generally had a wallet, and always a phone.
Snow was mashed up everywhere, and the place looked like a polar bear’s picnic spot. Lars scanned for recent presence, but couldn’t tell one set of bootprints from another. A whole bunch led round back of the barn, but they’d all been taking dumps round there. Aside from that, everything came up or down the main track to the road.
But he didn’t have time to work it all through. He’d left one corpse behind already, and there were pissed-off locals stomping round the area. . .
Lars had made worse exits from nastier places, but that didn’t mean he could afford to hang around now. Pull the bodies into the barn and burn the place; the car too. It would be on search-lists soon. Couldn’t be too careful.
He was dragging Cyril across the snow when Anton arrived.
The handkerchief he’d field-repaired his boot with was soaked through, and he’d lost all feeling in his toes. The part of his brain that kept a running tally was worrying at this: his head was going to look lopsided with half an ear missing, but losing toes was way more significant if he didn’t want to walk with a limp evermore.
But another part of his brain, the part in charge of telling him to man the fuck up, was calculating how much of a lead his quarry had.
Frank was approaching the end of the estuary path; could see the road leading up to the High Street. It was smothered in snow, the cars lining one side comically behatted and bewigged, but there were figures carrying buckets, liberally strewing sand over the road surface. The town was coming alive. He’d already passed a group of locals on the path through the trees; they’d eyed him suspiciously but he’d replied with the hard stare, and no fuss had been made. But his presence had been noted. And would be again once he stepped onto the streets.
Had to be done, though.
