The Trail Killer

Twelve

Following the bizarre telephone conversation which had taken place, Bryan had flopped down onto the settee and had yet to lift himself back off it. There was little need to - the whisky decanter and glass were right there within easy reach on the coffee table before him. So much was going through his head, a gale-like swirl. Most particularly, where the hell was Melanie?

Finally, a full forty minutes since she'd left, the Renault hatchback flashed back into vision through the bay windows. He considered actually getting off his backside, confronting her out in the garage. Something held him back though. A weariness both mental and physical of nature. The decapacitating effect of half a bottle's worth of single malt. A combination of both.

Her approach was sound-tracked by a successive banging of doors, finally the swoosh of limbs, the audible hiss of breath.

"Didn't even cross your mind to clean up these peas then."

She was in the doorway behind him, her words directed to the back of his head.

"Might have known it," she added.

Still he didn't twist his neck towards her. "Where have you been, Melanie?"

"Nowhere."

"Well you must have been somewhere."

She paused a moment, as if she were considering telling him. In the end she decided against it however, changed the subject instead.

"What did you talk about then, you and Shivay?"

"Can't tell you." He finally shuffled himself round to her. "Why do you care so much anyway?"

But she just turned, stepped away. A few moments later, he heard the pop of a wine cork from the kitchen.

After pouring himself some more whisky, he lifted his glass in silent toast.

Looked like dinner was going to take liquid form for both of them.

*

Gooch's press call at the entrance steps proved timely enough for the national broadcasters to hastily put together reports for their evening bulletins.

And thus it was that the fuchsia-toned, double-chinned face of the inspector was beamed into millions of homes. So too his words of pride at the swift efficiency of his officers, and his solemn assurance that unaccompanied women could once more enjoy the natural beauty of the Cranwell Tors without worry.

Though not a man normally noted for acts of generosity, the successful resolution to the highest-profile case of his career was cause for celebration. With money from Gooch's own pocket, an officer had been tasked with a visit to the local Co-op: a couple of crates of best bitter for the gentlemen, a bottle of white wine for the ladies. Shields was not the sort to conform to tired chauvinistic stereotypes however, and instead popped open a beer.

The celebrations took place in the CID room, the guests numbering a dozen or so. Other than Gooch, Bridcutt and Shields, there was Sergeant Hodge, WPC Hunter and assorted other uniformed officers who'd had some direct role in investigations. Not everyone was officially off-duty, but given the enormity of the occasion it would have taken a particularly odious superior officer not to have turned a blind eye.

It didn't take long for noise levels to begin to rise and for the whole thing to resemble some raucous, late-evening pub scene - albeit it one featuring desks and Macintosh computers and filing cabinets, the framed crest of the Wynmouthshire constabulary on the wall.

Though not entirely anti-social, neither was Shields ever the life and soul of any party she attended. She preferred more intimate social occasions - three or four friends around the table of some dimly-lit pub or restaurant. She just felt more at her ease like that.