Read an Excerpt
...On leaving the pub he closed the door behind him and was immediately
enveloped in damp watery blackness. The mist had come down while he had
been inside and was even now clinging softly to his clothes and nestling
into his beard. He switched on the flashlight but it was nearly useless,
barely illuminating the wall of the nearest outhouse less than ten feet
away.
Picking out the beaten track with his light he began to walk northwards,
trying to ignore the shadows which he imagined were tracking along beside
him.
The mist enveloped him totally, cutting off all sound so that he was
walking in a vast, damp greyness, only the outline of the path to keep him
on the straight and narrow. As he walked, his mind churned over what he had
found in the pub.
He wouldn't believe that it had been a domestic incident. The couple had
argued, of course they had - what couple doesn't argue from time to time.
But there had been genuine affection there. Even Duncan, with his limited
viewpoint on relationships, had been able to see that. And it had been a
domestic tiff, why had Jim been caught in the radio room?
It just didn't add up.
He found it far easier, if a lot more disturbing, to believe that a maniac
was at large, one who had killed Jim and abducted the women. But for what
reason? There he was stuck. And how would a maniac manage to abduct both
women - especially when they were both strong willed? Another thought
struck him, one which made him stop in his tracks, the flashlight shaking
in time with his trembling hands.
What if the woman were dead as well? What if the killer had hidden their
bodies? Or what if there were two killers?
He sat off again at a faster pace, noticing that the fog was thickening.
Two minutes later he was standing outside John Jeffries' farmhouse,
listening for any noise, anything at all that would tell him that he was
not alone.
The building was in darkness, no visible signs of life. With his first
sweep of the flashlight he had seen that the front door was wide open and
that one thing, more than anything else which may have seemed wrong, had
made him stop.
John Jeffries was a distrustful man, always double locking all the doors
before venturing out from his house, even if he was only going to the barn
to milk the cow. For his door to be open was an ominous sign.
Duncan couldn't decide on the best course of action. Should he go in, and
possibly find a body or should he make speed for the lighthouse and safety?
He found that he couldn't abandon the farmer, no matter how objectionable
he might be. Trying to keep his light steady, he headed for the door.
The door led straight into the main room, a large spacious room with a low,
heavily timbered ceiling. He swung his light around, catching a glimpse of
himself, wide eyed in the mirror, but there was no other movement. The
heavy old fashioned furniture loomed darkly in the shadows - shadows which
seemed to creep along the walls, stalking him.
He was about to turn and check the kitchen when his left foot hit something
heavy on the floor, something soft which moved several inches before
resting against his shoe.
He turned the light downwards to the rug at his feet and retched as he saw
what was lying there, almost bringing up the raw whisky, feeling it burn up
his throat as his eyes took in the horror.
It was a forearm, a human forearm, roughly torn from the rest of the limb
so that the loose flesh hung from the elbow in ragged edges. A small amount
of blood, no more than a thimble full, puddled beneath it, velvety black in
his flashlight....
