Hanging Hill - Mo Hayder [154]
They set off along the path towards the farm. Zoë went in front, her back straight, the big torch beam flittering through the trees that bent around the path, the branches overhead. To the left this forest stretched as far as Hanging Hill, and to the right it continued for almost a mile, then on the outskirts of Bath began to give way to houses, playing fields, a rugby club, its spectral white goal posts rising above the hedge line. As the trees thinned out, the women stopped. Zoë switched off the dragon light and they stood in silence surveying what lay in front of them. The fields were paler than the woods, the dried remains of the dead crops like a mist hovering above the land. Here and there were dotted the shadows of broken machinery and burned-out car carcasses. At the far end the dark shapes of the old decaying silage bales were outlined against the horizon, silent and still as sleeping beasts. Beyond them, invisible to the uninitiated, was the drop into the quarry.
Zoë fished out the phone and dialled the number again. This time the noise was much louder. There wasn’t any question where it was coming from. The other side of the silage. The quarry where Pollock’s house was.
46
The moon broke free from its cloud cover as they crossed the farm and for a moment it was so bright they seemed to be under a giant spotlight. Two lonely figures casting long blue shadows where they walked, feet shushing the dead corn. They came through the gate at the top of the quarry and slowly, using their hands to steady themselves against the trees, joined the zigzag path, which meandered through thick trees down the cliff edge. At the foot of the path they paused. The valley floor stretched away, serene and motionless. To their right was the house. It was in darkness, but the moonlight picked out its shape and reflected off the broken windows in the top floor.
Zoë dialled Nial again. There was a pause, then it clicked through. This time the noise was so close it made them both jump. It was coming from the house, floating out across the frigid air like a plea. It rang five, six times, and went into answerphone.
‘Come on,’ she mouthed. ‘Come on.’
They went, single file, heads lowered. The house stood with its back just a few yards from the quarry wall – as if it had fallen from the top and landed there, miraculously upright. It was rendered and roofed, but since Zoë was last here it had been used by the meths addicts and now it had the feel of something built by the army as a training range, with its doorways stripped to the brick, a great pool of weed-pocked rainwater on the cracked concrete it stood on. Everything had been covered with graffiti – even the quarry wall behind it. There were a few grilles on the windows, but most had been wrenched off and scattered on the ground to rot.
The women got to the side of the house, and squatted, their backs to the filthy wall, while Zoë dialled the number again. They held their breath, listening. The ringing was coming from inside the house, at ground level, somewhere near the back. Zoë cut the call and pushed the phone into her pocket. She held her breath and listened again. This time she heard something else, coming from the same place inside the house. The noise, the rhythmic noise they’d heard on the phone. Like something soft being banged against glass.
She wiped her forehead. ‘Christ. Christ.’
‘Hey,’ Sally whispered suddenly. ‘We’ve got to keep going.’
Zoë shot her a look. Sally’s eyes were clear, and her face was remarkably composed. Zoë got some strength from her expression. She took a moment, then nodded. She picked up the hammer and torch. ‘Come on.’
Together they moved along the edge of the house, stopping at the corner, just ten inches from the front door. Zoë leaned her head back against the wall, took a few deep breaths, then swivelled, put her head into the doorway. She jerked back.
‘Anything?’
She shook her head. ‘But I can’t see properly,’ she murmured. ‘It’s too dark. I’ve got to use this.’ She licked