Written In Blood

21

21

It was a walk of a little over five minutes from the police station to her gran’s, and Melissa spent it thinking not only about what she had overheard, but also about recent events in the village. She could not believe how quickly the atmosphere had changed; always before, Oakhurst, even at night, had seemed a pleasant and peaceful place, almost idyllic. Now there was a sense of unease in the air, it made her look around constantly and walk more quickly than she would have normally.

The lights were out, a sure sign her gran had gone to bed, when she got to her destination. She could have knocked, Melissa was sure it would not be a problem, but she hated the thought of getting her gran up, especially when she knew how much of an effort it would be for her.

Since she couldn’t talk over what was troubling her, Melissa headed for the pub; it wasn’t as good as a chat with her gran, but she hoped a few drinks would relax her, and put the conversation she had overheard from her mind, at least for a short while. She found the pub crowded, as though everyone in the village over the age of eighteen had come in for a drink, including a number of people who were just about never seen there, and assumed news of the two murders had reached them all and they were there in the hopes of learning something about the situation.

On her way to the bar she saw Oliver Ryder, he was in a corner with his house-mates, knocking back shots as if he was trying to make up for lost time. While she waited for her drink to arrive, Melissa watched Oliver; she had not yet shaken the presentiment of trouble inspired by the conversation she had overheard between Oliver and her superior, and she wanted to know if Oliver was plotting that trouble.

Before she could slip along the bar to a position where she could listen in on what Oliver was saying, she was distracted by a loud conversation Mitchell was having with some of the others at the bar.

“...kilt them girls,” Terry Dickens, who had the thickest accent in the village, and was fond of pointing out that his family had been farming in Oakhurst for more than fifteen generations, said. “Who were it?” he wanted to know.

“Zack Wild,” Mitchell answered the farmer after draining half his lager in one long swallow.

“Who’s tha’?”

The question made Melissa wonder how many people in the village, or how few to be more accurate, knew who Zack Wild was. She had always thought Oakhurst a friendly and welcoming village, but the day’s events made it hard for her to believe that – it seemed that only about half the residents knew the name of their newest neighbour, and only a fraction of those who did knew anything about him beyond his name.

“He’s the guy bought the Henshaw Cottage a few months back.”

“What makes you think it’s him?”

Melissa didn’t have to see the speaker to know that the question came from Rod Baylor – his accent was not as prominent as Terry Dickens’, but his voice was still easily recognisable.

“I don’t think it’s him, I know it is,” Mitchell snapped angrily, unable to stop himself overreacting after the worst day he could remember. Draining his glass, he slammed it down on the bar and called for another.

The answer failed to satisfy the mechanic, who asked another question the moment he heard it. “How d’you know? Just because he found the girl, don’t mean he killed her,” Rod Baylor said. “If anything, I’d say that makes it less likely he killed them.”

“That’s not all I’ve got on him,” Mitchell said, stung into revealing more than he intended. “He didn’t just find Georgina Ryder, and her body was where just about nobody goes, he’s the last person to see Lucy Goulding – she went to see him yesterday afternoon, and he followed her down the road after she left his place. Plus he’s got scratches on his arm, fresh ones, no more’n a day old. He claims he got them in his garden, but I’m sure they came from Lucy.”

“So you’ve decided this Wild guy’s guilty ‘cause he’s a fitness nut who chose a scenic route for his morning run, and ‘cause after Lucy left his place, he took the only road that leads from his place to the village, or even from his place to town.” This time it was clear as day that the mechanic thought Mitchell wrong. “You’re clutching at straws, Lewis.”

“The hell I am,” Mitchell snatched up his second pint and began gulping it down as quickly as he had the first. “He’s the killer.”

“Then why ain’t you got him in custody? All of youse is here, ‘cepting the inspector; if you had someone in custody, one of you’d be at the station, keeping watch, or driving him to the station in town. If you’re so sure he’s the one kilt them girls, why ain’t you arrested him?”

Mitchell glared angrily at the mechanic, and when he didn’t back down said, “We did arrest him, and we questioned him for hours, but his lawyer, some fancy b***h, probably from London, forced us to let him go ‘cause we ain’t got enough evidence to charge him yet.”

“If you ain’t got enough evidence to charge him, how in hell can you be sure it’s him? Mebbe the killer’s someone else, and you’re leaving him free to ‘tack other girls ‘cause you’ve already decided this Wild guy’s guilty.”

“Come off it, Rod,” Jack Peters, landlord of The Village Green, said as he poured drink after drink to meet the demands of his larger than usual crowd. “If it’s not this Wild, who in hell could it be? You’re not really trying to suggest it could be one of us, are you? We all know one another,” he gestured around the pub. “If one of us was a killer, we’d know about it. Wild’s the only stranger ‘round here, it’s got to be ‘im. If you’ve not got the evidence to charge ‘im yet, Lewis, you’d best find it, and soon, before he attacks anyone else.”

“Believe me, Jack, I know that,” Mitchell said. “I should get something I can use from either the post-mortem or the forensics team, then I’ll nail him.”

Melissa was a little disturbed by how willing her friends and neighbours seemed to be to believe that Zack Wild was responsible for the two murders that had occurred. Not knowing the man seemed to be all they needed to think him capable of killing not one but two girls. It was only a small comfort to her that of all the people in the village, Rod Baylor was not willing to make Zack Wild a murderer simply because he was a stranger.

She had hoped to find some relaxation in a quiet drink at the pub, while she tried to work out what to do about the conversation she had overheard. That now seemed impossible since it was clear that the sole topic of conversation was the murders, and that was the last thing she wanted to listen to.

Finishing her drink, she left so she could head home, in the hope of getting some peace there.