Rat run, p.1
Rat Run, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Caro Ramsay
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Recent titles by Caro Ramsay
The Anderson and Costello series
ABSOLUTION
SINGING TO THE DEAD
DARK WATER
THE BLOOD OF CROWS
THE NIGHT HUNTER *
TEARS OF ANGELS *
RAT RUN *
* available from Severn House
RAT RUN
An Anderson and Costello Mystery
Caro Ramsay
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 by Caro Ramsay.
The right of Caro Ramsay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8619-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-720-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-781-3 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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PROLOGUE
Thursday 27 August 1992
Sue Melrose was bored. She closed the Daily Record and threw it on the floor. Pulling her long dark hair into a scrunchie, she looked out of the window, checking the weather. It was five o’clock and the sun was shining in the sky, making the tarmac steam and shimmer.
The world seemed a happier place for everybody else.
Just not for her.
Despite her own mood, her own frustration, the woods across the road looked green and inviting rather than the dark and threatening gloom of the previous week. Today had been a bloody awful day: waiting in for a roofer who did not appear; losing two fights – one with her mother, one with her husband. Why could they not understand that just once she wanted to get out the house, to eat a meal that somebody else had cooked, put on a nice dress and not get it covered in baby sick?
Just once.
But her mother had refused to watch the kids and Steven had refused to pay for a babysitter, suggesting instead that Sue take the boys out for a walk as he was going to work late.
‘Again,’ she snapped. And banged the phone down.
There was no point in asking the fat bitch next door to look after the boys – she’d rather ask Myra Hindley.
So Sue put on her new white sundress to cheer herself up. She then pulled the sunflower hat over Bobby’s blond curls. George was ready to go. At three years old, he was always ready to go anywhere. The dirtier the better. He was the sort of kid who wouldn’t keep clean for more than two seconds. Heidi was at the door, blonde tail wagging, tongue dancing out the side of her mouth. Steven normally took the dog to work, so Heidi was feeling abandoned too. And for what, or for whom? Sue had a suspicion there was somebody somewhere, undermining her marriage.
She slipped Bobby into his baby wrap, then wound the material round her waist and neck. He settled quickly. Sue combed her hair into long brown curls, picked up her keys and hummed a Carly Simon song to herself.
They were going to pick daisies in the wood.
Sue set out of 2A Altmore Road, the soles of her feet feeling the warmth of the tarmac through her flip-flops as she lifted George by the hand to swing him round. The wee boy spun on one toe, giggling his infectious Little Boy Blue laugh, the sunflowers on his hat dancing this way and that. Letting her dress float out, she spun with him, turning to face the row of cottages with their dark, disapproving faces. So she reversed the spin and headed into the trees, rebuffing her horrible neighbours – May the moaner and Andrew the henpecked hubby. Sue pitied their daughter, wee Lorna with her blonde ponytail, only five, never allowed in her own front door without taking her shoes off, yet they let her sit on the old pervert’s knee. He would be watching her now, from the obscurity behind the dirty windows of the big house.
The old guy was never out in the afternoon; his type preferred dawn and twilight. She had seen Andrew Gyle, the henpecked neighbour, go out earlier – going to chop wood, no doubt, but he’d be deep in the forest, nowhere near the Doon. Sue entered the chill of the trees by the gap in the hedge, turning immediately north, up the hill and away from the parade, away from the casual walkers. She had never been as far in as the huge hollow, the Devil’s Pulpit, but one day she’d get there and see for herself if it was a bottomless gateway to hell. Beyond that there was the hill by the Big House, and the ruins of the old church. God at the top and the Devil at the bottom; Sue trapped somewhere between.
But that was not for today. Today was for visiting the Doon, getting her good dress covered in mud and stained with grass. They would pick daisies and bluebells, make necklaces and hang them round Bobby’s neck. Sue joined George in his happy, skipping dance, losing herself in the thoughts of moving house. George’s fingers slipped from hers, Bobby snored gently. It was wet underfoot now, but it felt rather nice, liberating even, getting her feet damp and filthy. Oh for a house without neighbours, but Steven wouldn’t … she heard a noise, a quiet mewling from behind her. She turned round.
George wasn’t there.
The branches of the trees had locked overhead, blocking out the heat from the sun. The little sunlight that filtered through dappled the path, emphasizing its emptiness. She had not realized that the forest was so dense, so deep, and so black.
‘George?’ she called out, holding Bobby a little tighter.
No answer except the wind rustling the leaves above her head. A branch creaked. Bobby started to whimper. She cradled his head and set off back along the path, calling for George. Heidi was prancing back and forward along a track that was overgrown, her hackles up, ears pricked.
Sue stood quietly, trying to calm her heart. Just a moment ago, he had been right behind her. Now the lower leaves parted, lifting with the breeze, mocking her that they had taken her son. She turned at a rush of sound, expecting to see George’s beaming smile. The undergrowth wavered, and she ducked as a crow flew out, its wings clattering in the air.
Bobby started crying, Sue started shouting, stumbling back the way she had come, the twigs pulling her hair from their roots, and scratching her skin to bleeding.
Then she heard a yelp that translated to Mum as she relaxed. The foliage opened and George came stumbling out, covered in dirt, holding late bluebells in his podgy fists. A gift for his mum. She took them and kissed his cheek, letting go of her panic.
Hand in hand, they walked on to the Doon.
‘Sore Mummy,’ said George, prising her tight grip from his wrist.
‘Sorry Georgie.’ She relaxed her hold. ‘Look, you run on, get Mummy some more flowers.’ She could see the Doon now, a sunlight clearing less than ten feet ahead. George bumbled on and starting scrambling up the big stone, moss covered and curved like a claw, in the middle of the ruined wall. It was deathly quiet; the wind seemed to have died in the last few minu
It had been a long time since she had last been here. She couldn’t recall when, but remembered feeling happy, so that was quite a while ago. She undid the baby wrap and placed Bobby on a flat stone, in the sunshine. He gurgled immediately and kicked his chubby legs in the air. He opened up his fingers and started pulling at the little purple flowers that poked their heads through the moss.
Then he shoved them in his mouth.
Sue walked around, enjoying the sun and the birdsong, leaving Bobby sunbathing on the stone. George was climbing up the ruins, bum in the air, clumsy little shoes scraping on the wall. Heidi pricked her ears up, listening.
Sue closed her eyes, oblivious to her surroundings.
That was her first mistake.
Her second was to turn when somebody called her name.
ONE
Friday 21 August 2015
It had been raining for weeks. Even for a Scottish summer, this was ridiculous. The windows of 10 Altmore Road were splattered with transparent comets, obliterating the view across the road to the trees. The leaves danced in the wind, the whole forest swaying in a carefully choreographed routine, bending and oscillating before whiplashing back, each in sequence, like a Mexican wave.
It was twenty to six; the gentle light of dawn played on the horizon. The silhouette of Altmore Wood was undulating against the lightening sky. Lynda McMutrie had been awake most of the night, sitting looking out the front window, dressed in her flowered nightgown with her big blue cardie wrapped round her shoulders. Her feet, cosy in red slippers, were warm in front of the fire. An old Agatha Christie lay open on the arm of the chair, an empty bottle of vodka sat on the rug; the glass had rolled to rest against the hearth following the slope of the floor. The crowd of fake Capodimonte ornaments sitting on their dusty carpet on the mantelpiece looked down disapprovingly. Punch and Pantalone were contemptuous. The Blacksmith and the cherubs were reproachful. At least the lady of Lourdes was sympathetic. She knew life could be tough.
Drink was more persuasive than sleep, and sleep was an enemy. The noise of the rain on the roof tiles was a constant irritant; a sudden change of wind direction heralded a full volley on the window glass. Then Lynda was aware of the other noise – a whooshing, and a gentle roaring that crept into her ears. And into her head.
That was her first thought, as the noise was so clear.
Then she looked into the bottom of her glass, a more likely source of her hallucinations. Over the years she had suffered them all: chased by lions, eaten by spiders; once even humiliated at the Eurovision Song Contest. God, the relief when she had woken up from that one.
All due to the demon drink. But she didn’t think she was drunk now. Not by her standards.
She eased herself up in the chair, watching the gleaming sheets of water streaming down the road, like the first waves of an early tide racing up grey sand. All that water pouring from the sky.
She relaxed back, thinking about opening another bottle.
But that sound in her ears wasn’t for letting up. If anything it was getting louder.
And coming from inside the house. Frowning, she looked out the window, up at the dark sky, out to the woods, to the trees, at the cracked ceiling, at the bubbled wallpaper, and finally at the floor. The noise was coming from down there somewhere. She got up and walked unsteadily to the hall. Her arthritic hands on the back of the chair, then on the sideboard, on the door handle, on the table in the hall, then on the door that concealed the steps to the basement. She didn’t trust her knees or her balance these days. The noise crescendoed as soon as she opened the door. She tried the light switch. Nothing but a dry click. She reached out for the wooden handrail, grasping it tightly in her fingers. Feeling the edge of the old wooden steps, down one, two, three; reaching with her toes in their red slippers. Each foot playing catch-up with the other before she dropped another level. Hand over hand on the rail, crabbing her way into the downstairs space. A ninety-degree turn at the bottom, three more steps, then the sole of her foot was wet. The squelch of her bodyweight on the basement carpet gave her a fright.
Then she saw the photographs. Two of them warped and stained with water lying discarded on the bottom step. Both were photos of her first love, in his youth, tall and square-jawed; both pictures taken the day they had had their champagne picnic in the wood. Smiling, a little tearful, she eased herself down and picked them up gently, ignoring the pain in her thumb.
Then she slipped.
Or fell.
Or something.
Jennifer Lawson sat on the old pine chair, nursing the sore backside she had inflicted on herself at five that morning, falling asleep sitting on the loo. Tiredness had finally overcome the noise of the rain battering off the roof. Now she was looking out of the kitchen window of 8 Altmore Road. The rain seemed never-ending. But she was enjoying that rarest of moments; both her children were asleep. Simultaneously.
Gordy had finished eating and had stopped coughing for a moment, allowing him to succumb to his tiredness. Taking advantage of his wee brother being quiet, Robbie had promptly joined him in the land of slumber. With Douglas still dead to the world upstairs, so Jennifer was left awake, as wrung out as a wet rag. Hence the falling asleep on the toilet.
The darkness outside looked as light as it was going to get. She had two washings to go in the machine, another three basketfuls were still damp, and with Gordy being sick during the night there would be his cot cover strewn on the bathroom floor, stinking, and a trail of clothes on the stairs, or wherever she had taken him to try to stop him screaming. She turned her head, listening to the boiler making its loud but ineffectual roar. It had been on full all night but the chill hung in the air, a dampness that clung to the sheets and the clothes and the furniture. Nothing in this house dried out or warmed up. Jennifer looked up at the ceiling, expecting to see icicles hanging from the kitchen light, but it was the usual: dancing cobwebs. She heard her husband’s footsteps. It was ten to seven and he was up and about at last. Tiptoeing to the bottom of the stairs, she heard him talking on his mobile. She could only make out low mutterings, not the way he spoke to his staff at the bank. It was the way he used to talk to Jennifer.
She returned to the kitchen table, side-sweeping the dirty plates with her arms so she could rest her head and think about Gordy. He had been sick. His coverlet was stained with little specks of blood. Douglas said it was from the eczema on his fingers and toes. They looked sore, like tiny paper cuts, but when she had tried to examine them, Gordy had started his warp-factor screaming that woke Robbie, who promptly went red in the face and asked to go for a number two monkey as per page five of Painless Toilet Training. So Jennifer had spent the small hours of the morning stumbling round number 8 with one child or the other, cleaning this bit, feeding that bit, soothing the other bits. At some point, Gordy really turned up the volume and Douglas had stomped downstairs and asked politely if she wouldn’t mind making that kid ‘shut the fuck up’. Then he had felt guilty and put the kettle on. He had handed her a mug of milky tea when he knew she took hers black. He trudged back upstairs, muttering something about how he had an early start in the morning and needed some bloody sleep.
Today was another day, he might be in a better mood.
Nobody could ever say that Jennifer Lawson wasn’t an optimist.
Her husband appeared, looking lovely in his crisp designer suit, which was so at odds with his surroundings of old brown wallpaper, mismatched blue carpets and the second-hand black leather suite. He smelled of good aftershave. She smelled of stale sweat and baby sick. He placed his briefcase and laptop at the door, laid his bulky rucksack beside them, his computer and classic car magazines on top.
He could hardly wait to get out.
She could understand that.
