On the other side of the fence a blurred meadow sloped downwards to some kind of riverlet before tilting upwards towards the distant trees. Away from the cloud of teargas, Purkiss found his breathing easier, the intense prickling in nose and eyes fading; but his eyelids remained swollen almost closed, and tears fragmented his vision every time he kept his eyes open for more than a few seconds. The retreating man multiplied before liquefying, over and over again.
Purkiss crawled clumsily over the fence, hooking and tearing his clothes on protruding wire. On the other side the meadow was marshy, the drainage poor. His feet sank into mud and mulch which threatened to drag him down as he hauled his way down the slope. Ahead of him the man appeared nimbler, unencumbered by either a weapon or impaired vision. He weaved and dodged, presenting an unsteady target.
Purkiss gauged the distance between them. Between fifty and a hundred yards, he estimated. He wasn’t certain what type of shotgun he was carrying, or what its exact specifications were, but he knew that at more than forty yards the spray pattern of the buckshot was going to be very broad indeed. His chances of doing any damage were limited.
He decided to risk a shot. Stopping, making sure his stance was steady, he raised the shotgun, aimed, pulled the trigger.
The man dived sideways, and for an instant Purkiss thought he’d got lucky, had caused a significant injury. But no, the man had risen again, was sprinting now, and Purkiss understood: the man had used the shot to gain useful information about how far Purkiss was behind him.
A spike of adrenaline loosened Purkiss’s limbs, drove him forwards so that he rode out the stitch in his side, the leadenness of the muddy ground sucking at his shoes. At the bottom of the slope the man had reached the creek — really a river bed with a desultory, unflowing overlay of water — and was wading through. The water slowed him enough to allow Purkiss to gain some ground, and as he closed the distance he reloaded and took aim and fired once more, still on the move.
He heard the shot speckle the surface of the water, heard a grunt from the man, but saw him crawl out the other side and resume his run. Purkiss saw a narrower stretch of the creek to his left, which would allow him to cross more quickly but meant he’d have to divert from the straight line he was following. He did a quick mental calculation, decided it was worth it, and peeled off to the left.
By fording the creek at this point, Purkiss put himself at an angle from the man, and on the other side he began to close the distance once more. The man had enormous stamina, was showing no signs of flagging, and also seemed to know where he was going. Purkiss thought that if he made it to the trees, he’d get away. The opportunities for camouflage were too great there.
Purkiss drew a breath in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, centring himself, noticing as he did so the rawness of the lining of his throat and nasal passages. He pictured himself as a spring, compressed and quivering on the point of release. Then he exploded forwards, putting all his concentration, all his energy, into a burst of speed he couldn’t sustain for any great length of time but which might allow him finally to catch up.
The man loomed nearer above him on the slope, but was almost at the trees. Purkiss put his head down, not concentrating on the man but rather on the action of his legs, one in front of the other. At the last minute he looked up through his slowly clearing vision, saw the man at the wooden fence marking the boundary of the meadow, twenty yards away, fifteen. The man had one leg over the fence, and turned the insectoid snout of his gas mask towards Purkiss.
Purkiss snarled like a berserker, raised the shotgun.
The man seized one of the horizontal planks of the fence, tore it free with the ripping sounds of wood splintering around nails, and swung it at Purkiss.
A ragged end slashed across Purkiss’s face, knocking him sideways. Pain exploded in his head and he fought to keep his balance, the shotgun barrel veering away.
The man had dropped off the fence and swung the length of wood in a backhand movement, catching Purkiss across the head again. The world tilted and Purkiss felt the gorge rise in his throat. He stepped towards the man, raising the shotgun once more, but he teetered crazily to one side and dropped to his knee. Through roiling waves of pain and disorientation he saw the man clear the fence, disappear into the woods.
Purkiss slumped forwards, his face making contact with the soggy, bristly ground. For long moments he inhaled the cloying, sweet smell of the wet earth, relishing its raw coolness.
No good. You’ve lost him. It’s no good.
He tried rising, failed once and dropped back, tried again. When he was confident his legs would support him, he leaned on the shotgun and studied the line of trees beyond the fence.
The man was either long gone, or rearming himself from a hidden stash. In neither case did it make any sense for Purkiss to stay there.
Feeling sick, both from the blow and with a sense of failure, of a missed opportunity, he began to make his unsteady way back across the meadow to the cottage.
Twenty-nine
The teargas had largely dissipated, but a lightly stinging haze remained, like a lingering, spiteful spirit. Purkiss picked his way across the yard between the bodies. He identified the three sons, all unstirring in death.
Near the door of the cottage, Dennis Arkwright lay on his back, Hannah crouched beside him, something in her hand. Arkwright’s chest was black with gore, and cavernous. His face was still, not twisted in agony.
Hannah glanced up, surveyed Purkiss, studying his head. Her eyes remained inflamed. ‘What happened?’
Purkiss touched the side of his head and face, felt stickiness. ‘He got away. I’m okay.’ He tipped his head at Arkwright. Hannah shook hers.
‘Died a few minutes ago.’
Purkiss squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.
‘There might be something, though.’ Hannah held up the object in her hand. It was her mobile phone. ‘Listen.’
She touched a key and a rough, ragged recording began to play. At first Purkiss thought it was obscured by static, until he realised he was listening to a dying man’s laboured breathing.
‘Shot… me…’
Hannah’s voice, low and urgent. ‘Tell me again. What you said in there. Who did you see when you were interrogating — torturing — those prisoners? Who was there?’
More rasping, then an explosion of a cough that seemed to go on for an entire minute.
‘Ah, God, that hurts.’
‘Talk to me, Arkwright.’ Hannah. ‘That name.’
‘Something…’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell you… something else.’
A wheeze, then his voice came back, a whisper now: ‘Hospital.’
‘I’ll get you to hospital. Just — ’
‘Hospital.’
A melange of scratchy, unidentifiable noises took over then. Hannah put the phone away.
‘That was all.’
‘Okay. Good thinking.’ Purkiss took out his own phone. He couldn’t hear sirens. ‘A place like this won’t have its own police station, but someone’s bound to have heard the shooting and phoned it in. They’ll be coming from Cambridge or somewhere.’
Vale answered. Purkiss said: ‘I’m at Arkwright’s address. He’s dead, and so are his three sons. I need you, Kasabian or whoever, to pull strings immediately and lock this place down. Keep the local police out, and send in only people Kasabian knows well and can trust.’