Who Dares Wins Read online

  “So what?” the cop said. “He got up and walked off?”

  The comment made Dorring think of something and he gazed down at the sand. A set of naked feet led to it from the sea. That was Dorring carrying the body there. Another set of trainer prints left it from another side. That was him leaving to go back to the cottage after placing his trainers back on. Then at the top of the rough sand was a pair of desert boots. Size ten, if Dorring wasn’t mistaken. He’d seen plenty of them before.

  “This is a bloody laugh!” Stevie exclaimed as Dorring gazed about the beach. “Is this some kind of joke? Did you put him up to it?”

  He was facing Mo. With her eyes concentrated on Dorring, she shook her head.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Dorring insisted in a calm voice. “I pulled a body from the water. A man. His throat had been cut. He’d been mutilated. Then he’d been thrown into the water. He was here.”

  “Well he bloody well is’nay now.”

  “Then we need to search the area. You need to put out a description of the body.”

  “What for? A walking corpse? You’re bloody daft, man.”

  Dorring gazed at Stevie with every ounce of solemnity that he had.

  “I’m telling you,” he said calmly, “I found a dead body. Someone has come and taken it. Look, there’s footsteps leading away. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

  Stevie turned to Mo and said, “Is he on drugs?”

  “Nay,” she replied. “Well, not last night.”

  “Then what is this? Gettin’ your own back for yesterday at the pub?”

  “The man said he saw a body,” Mo said with a shrug.

  “But you never saw it?”

  “No. But why would he lie?”

  Dorring felt the hairs on his neck go up and realized he had to walk away before he broke Stevie’s teeth. So he followed the boot prints all the way up the beach to a bank at the end. It was covered over in trees and bracken. A gap opened in the middle of a thick bramble bush. The footprints went into it. Dorring climbed up the bank, using the roots of the trees to pull himself to the top.

  When he’d climbed it, he came to a wooden fence with a vast field stretching beyond it. The field was plowed at the end closest to the beach, but fifty yards further up a steady hill that flowed down towards the sea, he saw the ubiquitous plastic tunnels filled with violet flowers.

  Back at the fence, a dirt track led along it in either direction. The footprints were sunk into the mud of the track. Dorring continued to follow them along until they stopped. Right before a set of tire prints.

  When Stevie caught up with him, Dorring was kneeling beside the prints. Like the desert boots, he recognized them. Had seen them before and felt certain of what they were. It was a wide tire, the type used by pickups. Possibly the type of vehicle used by a farmer or agricultural worker. He glanced up the hill at the tunnels flapping in the wind.

  “What’re you doing now?” Stevie asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Dorring retorted, swiveling his head so that his gray eyes met the gangly form of Stevie. “I’m doing your job.”

  “Now you listen here, ya English bastard,” Stevie almost spat at him.

  Dorring gazed back down at the track and ignored him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Stevie well enough. He could see the cop’s hand as it hovered over his sidearm.

  “I said listen!” Stevie shouted out and he lunged forward.

  Reaching a bony hand out, he went to grab Dorring’s shoulder. But Dorring was too fast for him. He jerked his body to the side and Stevie’s grasping hand missed completely. He lost his balance and for the second time in two days went reeling forward. Dorring grabbed him and stood up sharply, twisting Stevie around so that he had him from behind. The cop struggled in his arms, but it was a futile attempt. There was no way Dorring would lose his grip on him. He was like a python around a baby lamb.

  “Calm down,” Dorring said in a placid voice.

  Stevie flipped his head back and tried to butt him. Dorring expected this and kept his face out of range.

  “Calm down,” Dorring repeated.

  “Fuck you,” Stevie snarled.

  Then he did something that Dorring feared. He went for the gun. Dorring let him go, throwing him forward as he did, and had his own hand on the gun before Stevie knew what was happening. The next minute, the cop was standing opposite Dorring with his fingers grasping at thin air beside his belt. He was surprised to find the gun no longer there.

  He was even more surprised when he saw it in the hand of Dorring.

  “Now listen to me carefully,” Dorring growled, the pistol down at his side, barrel pointed at the earth. “There’s a murderer on your island. He’s very dangerous and he’s stalking people. I’ve seen him before. Seen his work. You need to speak with Conner Jones. Go see him and be very careful.”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on!?” Mo cried out behind them.

  Dorring dashed his eyes in her direction. She was walking up the dirt track towards them.

  “He’s got ma bloody gun!” Stevie cried out like a child telling on his older brother. Then turning back to Dorring, he said, “You’re under arrest.”

  “What for?” Dorring asked.

  “For assaulting a police officer.”

  “I didn’t assault you.”

  “Ya fuckin’ did!” Then turning back to Mo, he added, “He did.”

  “Come on, Stevie,” she said. “If he’d o’ assaulted you, you’d look battered, man. There’s not a scratch on ya.”

  “He’s got ma gun!”

  Mo turned to Dorring.

  “Give the boy his wee gun back, Alex,” she said.

  Dorring took the magazine out of it. He didn’t trust that Stevie had a good enough control over his rage. He held the clip in his left hand and offered the gun back with his right.

  Stevie snatched the gun and clipped it to his belt. Then his wrathful eyes turned back to Dorring.

  “The clip now!” he snapped.

  “No way,” Dorring said. Then turning to Mo, he added, “I’m not giving a man who clearly hates me his bullets back.”

  Mo came up to Stevie and placed a soft hand on his arm.

  “I’ll bring them over a little later,” she said as softly as her touch. “Okay?”

  His bent and twisted face turned away from Dorring and softened upon gazing at the blonde haired girl, her gentle eyes gazing into him. It was clear that he found her unbelievably attractive and that part of his hostility to Dorring was based on nothing more than jealousy. It was that jealousy that Dorring didn’t trust. Like Cain killing Abel over his belief that God loved his brother more, it led time and time again to murder.

  Stevie was about to say something, but his radio went.

  “Stevie!” it said. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Who’s this?” he said into the receiver.

  “It’s fire captain Hastings,” came back.

  “What’s up, Fred?”

  “We’ve got a major issue on our hands.”

  “What issue?”

  “It’s old Bob Chalmers’ place.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s on fire, son. So get your ass oot here.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” Stevie grumbled as he placed the radio back on his shirt. Then turning to Dorring, he said wrathfully, “I could’ve done without this shite.”

  He stomped off back up the dirt track towards the beach and then to his squad car on the road.

  “Mo?” Dorring said as the two of them watched the sulky cop go.

  “Yes?”

  “Why do the cops here have guns?”

  “Something to do with the Lord bein’ able to set the law on it. Some age old custom that can’t be interfered with from Parliament.”

  “Why’d they even need guns?”

  “To protect us, of course.”

  Dorring turned to Mo with a bewildered expression. She was being serious. The answer bothered her not on
e bit. So he decided not to press it and merely placed the clip in his pocket.

  “Why’d you have ahold of him, anyway?” she asked while Dorring went back to kneeling beside the tracks and gazing out to where they led away.

  “He got rough with me,” he answered while his eyes followed the tread down the dirt track. “Tried to pull the gun too. I wasn’t going to let him.”

  “Well, you should take it easy. After all, you are a visitor here.”

  Dorring shook his head. “I found a dead man,” he said, “and no one appears to want to take it seriously.”

  “I’m takin’ it seriously,” she said, placing a hand upon his shoulder.

  “You didn’t look like you believed me,” he said.

  “I was scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yeah. Your behavior reminded me of something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll get cross if I tell you.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  He looked up at her from the track with an earnest expression that did its best to lower her guard. He looked so handsome in that moment that she couldn’t help smiling.

  “Well,” she said, “it reminded me o’ my brah.”

  “Your brah?”

  “Yes.”

  “What part of me finding a dead body reminded you of your brother?”

  “Not that part. Just the way you were trying to convince Stevie. An’ the way he wasn’t believing you an’ you were gettin’ frustrated with him. It reminded me o’ my brah.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Dorring said.

  “An’ that’s why it’ll make you cross if I explain.”

  “I promised it wouldn’t.”

  “You swear?”

  “Cross my heart.” He crossed his fingers over his chest to make the point.

  It made her smile.

  “Okay, well…” She paused suddenly and glanced up the field towards the tunnels as if someone had called to her. Then a few seconds later, she turned back to Dorring and continued, “Ma brah wasn’t right in the heed. Used to say things like they was real when they weren’t. Ma family hid him away on the mainland. Ne’er got him treated. Just tried to calm him down when he was at his worst. He got better as he got older. But it was always there just below the surface. That’s why it reminded me of that. Him comin’ oot with something crazy an’ them tryin’ to convince him it’s all in his heed.”

  “And where is he now?” Dorring asked.

  Her face went instantly sad and her eyes gazed out to sea.

  “He’s dead,” she said blankly.

  Dorring stood up from the tire tracks and placed his arms around her. Her own arms wrapped around him and she plunged her face into his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Mo,” he said. “I didn’t mean to remind you of such things.”

  “It’s okay,” she whimpered.

  The tire marks led out to a road. The two of them followed them the length of the dirt track. Where it met the country lane, muddy tire marks went off in multiple directions. It was clear that the dirt track was well used by farming vehicles. So no lead there.

  They went back to the car and Mo drove them to the cottage. When they got inside, she reheated the half cooked breakfast and they ate together in silence. Then when the meal was finished, Dorring stood up and went over to his boots, placing them on his feet.

  “Going somewhere?” Mo asked.

  “To see someone,” Dorring replied.

  “Who?”

  “Just a man.”

  “You want me to come?”

  “No. You stay here.”

  “I’ve got a shift on at the pub in a couple of hours. We could make love again and then I’ll drive you into town.”

  “Honestly,” Dorring said. “I’ll walk.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and twisted her little mouth up.

  “Why all the secrecy?” she asked.

  “No reason.”

  Dorring grabbed his coat and came to her where she sat on the end of the bed. Leaning down, he took her head in his hands and brought his lips to her for a kiss.

  Then he let her go, grabbed his rucksack and placed it over his shoulders. He went to leave, but Mo called him back as he reached the door.

  “You forgettin’ something?” she said.

  He said nothing and merely frowned.

  “Stevie’s bullets.”

  “Ah! Of course.”

  Dorring took the clip from his back pocket and tossed it over to her. Then he left.

  10

  The fire was close.

  Coming up the ridge of a hill, Dorring saw smoke rising up and joining the gray sky where it all became one. When he reached the top of the hill, he saw that it was coming from the other side of an area of thick woodland.

  So that’s where he headed.

  Inside the wood, the gray sky blocked out much of the sun’s light, so that Dorring stepped through a world of shadow. Every so often, grouse would fly up out of the bracken and the silent forest would come alive for a few seconds as they fluttered off through the trees.

  Eventually, he made it to the edge. It was beside a field that sloped down to a road. On the other side of this was the fire. Dorring took a set of binoculars from his bag and placed them to his eyes.

  Flames and smoke streamed upwards from a cottage, its thatched roof ablaze. At the back of the property was a barn and this, too, was in flames. Dorring heard a terrible sound, a shrieking scream that he instantly recognized as the sound of horses. They were trapped in the flaming barn and their terrible screams echoed in the valley.

  Firefighters were hosing down both buildings. But there was only one engine and four men, and their vehicle and equipment looked like most things Dorring had seen on the island: outdated. With two men on each hose, one pointed at the house and the other on the barn, they struggled to keep the flames back.

  On the road outside the property, Constable Stevie stood alongside a knot of locals who had clearly come to inquire about their neighbor’s fire, their cars parked in a line up the road. Some of them had rolled their sleeves up and were helping the firemen, running the machines on the engine and helping keep the hoses under control. Others merely stood in the road with Stevie, gazing up at the bright, shimmering light of the fire.

  Then Dorring saw someone else.

  A car he recognized pulled up and the woman with the mole got out. She immediately walked up to Stevie and by the respectful look on his face when talking to her, Dorring gathered that she had been telling the truth yesterday: she was a cop. And Stevie’s superior by the looks of it.

  Dorring couldn’t help keeping his gaze fixed to her. She turned to the flaming buildings and stood watching, hands on hips, her frizzy red hair blowing in the wind like wisps of fiery cotton. She reminded him of someone and the thought bit into his heart with an agonizing hardness.

  Dorring continued to watch it all for a while longer before packing away the binoculars and resuming his stroll beside the edge of the forest. When the trees ceased, he walked along a bridleway that sloped down a vale of open fields. As expected, most of them were filled with plastic tunnels fluttering in the wind.

  When he reached town, it was fairly busy with people doing their shopping. He decided against sneaking about in the many back alleys of the place. Didn’t want any more hooded figures attacking him. So he stayed in the open.

  As Dorring walked along the narrow cobbled streets, the locals would stop their chat for the sole purpose of staring at the stranger while he went past. At a butcher shop, they even went so far as to make their way to the window, where they pressed up against the glass. Behind them, the butcher stood with his bloodied apron and large carving knife, glaring at Dorring through a curtain of hanging sausages.

  Down a side street, he found a barbershop and went inside. The bell rang and an old man sweeping hair off the checkered floor turned to him from his broom.

  He, too, narrowed his eyes.

 
; “You’re that sstranger,” he said in a lisping voice.

  “Does that mean I can’t get a haircut and a shave?”

  “Nope. It just means that it’ll be nice to have new company for once.”

  Relieved, Dorring took a seat in a leather barber’s chair. It was pretty old and when the barber pulled the lever at the rear, it leaned back with a juddering movement that almost threw Dorring out of it. The barber then came behind him and his reflection stared into Dorring’s eyes from the mirror.

  “Sso what’ll it be?” he asked.

  “A shave and then a trim. Nothing too extreme.”

  “Then I shall do my best not to be too extreme.”

  The barber smiled when he said this. He had no teeth. It explained the lisp.

  Going to a small basin in the corner, he mixed up a bowl of shaving foam, blending water and powder. This was real old style. Even the brush that he used to lather the foam onto Dorring’s thick stubbled cheeks was bone handled, and the Englishman couldn’t help admiring the collection of cutthroat razors the barber kept above the mirror.

  “So where ya from?” the old man asked as he finished applying the foam.

  “London.”

  “The big ssmog, they used to call it,” the barber remarked.

  “It’s cleaner now.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  The barber, having finished with the foam, placed the bowl in the sink and picked a razor from the collection above the mirror. Then he clipped a thick length of leather to his waist and began running the razor up and down it. Back and forth. Flipping the blade over at the end of each pass and slapping it back down along the leather. Then when he was satisfied with the sharpness, checking it on a callused thumb, he began clearing away the foam and the stubble in expert swipes, wiping it on his apron each time. Dorring kept very still all the way through. Especially when the blade reached his throat. He began to recall his time on the island so far. The hooded man in the alleyway. The bad cop taking his passport. The countless eyes that watched him whenever they could. The body in the water. The same mutilations as fourteen years ago in Helmand. Kevin’s message. A killer on the island. A dangerous killer.

  So Dorring didn’t open up the conversation again until the barber got to his hair, the razor safely away in the sink with the bowl and the brush.