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the pockmarks of woodworm. Shadowy, so that the figure at the top of the
stairs was a silhouette again, his arrogant features fading back into the
darkness.
There was a roaring in Andy Dark's ears; it could have been the distant angry
sea. A stench that reminded him of rotting seaweed. He lurched, clutched at
the stair-rail to steady himself, his stomach rolling like it might have done
on board a ship floundering in tempestuous seas; the captain up there on the
bridge. We're sinking, we're all going down with the ship. Let's drown with
dignity, not panicking like bilge rats.
Going on up, the man at the top turning as if to lead the way, his ungainly
bulk moving surprisingly gracefully.
'Andy,' said Carol in a frightened whisper, 'we shouldn't have come here, we
should have heeded Thelma's warning.'
Now they were standing on a stone balcony that jutted out at the back of the
big house which had once been a castle, floating in a white swirling mist.
And somewhere far down below they heard the lapping and splashing of water.
FOURTEEN
Muffin was back close at Roy Bean's heels, so close that at times she
threatened to obstruct his difficult progress through the swampy ground.
Angrily he kicked back at her, heard her whimper but she did not move away,
just cringed.
'Stupid bitch,' he grunted. 'You're supposed to be working the rough,
searching for a scent like those bloody police dogs are.' Strangely, the
Alsatians had gone quiet. Perhaps they were trained to work silently. Or else
they were acting strangely, too.
Hell, this fog was thicker than ever and yet you could hear the sea pounding
the coastline like it hadn't done since that disastrous week of the Fastnet
yacht race some years ago. It was crazy, a raging sea but here in Droy Wood
you experienced the kind of feeling old-time mariners must have had when they
were becalmed. The wind's never going to blow again, you're here for the rest
of your life and there isn't much of that left now.
The gamekeeper struggled in a patch of soft ground, the thick springy grass
beneath his feet giving him the impression that it was floating on water, that
at any second it might tip up and throw him into a deep pool. Muffin was
wallowing, almost swimming, snorting the way she always did when she retrieved
a shot bird off the water. It hadn't been as wet as this the other day.
Christ, it was always swampy in here but this was ridiculous, frightening if
you thought too much about it.
No longer was it easy to keep the men directly on either side of you in sight.
Not just because the mist was appreciably thicker but now they were in the
densest part of the wood where they were forced to detour impassable barriers
such as bogs and impenetrable patches of brambles. Even if the syndicate
demanded to shoot the wood the beaters wouldn't stand for it, Roy Bean
reflected. And neither would 1.1 never want to set foot in this fucking place
again.
He had given up urging the spaniel forward. She had a stubborn streak in her
and she'd made up her mind not to range from her master's side. Any other
time, anywhere else, she would have had a thrashing. Bloody dog!
He paused for a moment. Perhaps he wasn't as fit as he thought, he rarely got
out of breath. The stink in here didn't help, a mixture of decaying trees,
marsh vapours and rotting seaweed drifting in from the sea. He glanced about
him; there was nobody in sight at this very moment, he could not even hear the
other searchers splashing and cursing. It gave you a funny feeling like
suddenly everybody else had left and you were abandoned here, hadn't a clue
which way to go. Once you lost your sense of direction in thick fog you didn't
find it again unless by chance you stumbled upon a recognisable landmark. And
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here in the wood everywhere looked the same, every stunted tree like the next
one. But at least today you could hear the sea, knew that if it was on the
left then the road had to be on your right. Well, at least it should be. He
shuddered.
Roy Bean set off again, an urgency about his movements now, a disregard for
the water that slopped over the tops of his Wellington boots. He should have
worn waders but how the hell were you to know that the fucking place was going
to flood?
Muffin stopped, cowered and whined. Oh Jesus Christ, not only are you refusing
to work but now you bleedin' well don't want to do anything! He lifted his ash
stick threateningly and at that moment the spaniel gave a short sharp bark,
the way she warned him when there was a trespasser somewhere close by on the
game preserves; except that now it was a yelp of fear, ears fiat back on her
liver and white head, tail curled down between her hind legs.
He was about to strike her when a movement distracted him, an eddying of the
fog up ahead of him, revealing an outline then closing back over it again. One
of the searchers must have gone too far, realised his mistake and come back,
was trying to locate the line again. Silly bugger, if you were beating for me
on shooting days you'd get a cursing. That's how beaters get shot, buggering
about all over the place.
'Oi!' Roy's shout was strangely subdued, muffled. 'Over here, mate.'
The fog rolled away from the other once more, and as it swirled the spaniel
gave another bark, jumped and ran in the opposite direction, splashing,
swimming; fleeing in sheer canine terror.
But Roy Bean scarcely noticed the departure of his dog as he was afforded a
clear view of the man ahead of him, aware that the other man was stark naked,
that the features were familiar, identical with those plastered on walls and
telegraph poles all over the village. Instant recognition, mind-blowing shock.
Oh my God, it's him. Foster/ Hundreds of bloody searchers and it has to be me
who finds him. Not wanting to believe his eyes. It was some trick of the mist
or his imagination playing him up.
Bean shouted again. 'Oi, the bugger's here. Oi, you lot, where the fuck are
you?'
His words seemed to .bounce off the wall of fog at him. That sea was making so
much noise that nobody could hear him. If only they'd let me bring the gun but
all I've got is a bloody stick.
James Foster was smiling. There was something wrong with his throat, like it
had been cut, only it couldn't have been or else he wouldn't be standing there
now. The bugger's only dangerous to women. What's happened to that nature
conservancy bloke and the decoy copper then?
Foster turned, began to walk slowly into the mist.
'Oi,' the gamekeeper began to move after him. 'Oi, you.
There's hundreds of police here. You're surrounded, you can't get away.'
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