"I don't know anything about that, sir."

"Fucking typical. No one talking to anyone. I'm going, but you stay with her, no matter what. In the house. Not in the car. No shifts. You're on all night until I come back or someone comes to relieve you. Stay in the house."

The policeman nodded. Beth looked like she was going to argue, but Coleridge shook his head. She shut her mouth and stepped back.

"You want to go and wash up?" she said to the first policeman. He had some vomit on his uniform and shoes, but there was worse than a little puke to worry about.

"Sorry about your bushes."

"Rain'll get it. Don't worry. Come in, get out of the dark."

The dark didn't usually bother her, but it was creepy in a way it never had been. Before, it had been a comfort, hiding her from the world. Now it was a barrier. If she needed to get through it tonight, she couldn't. Not without help.

"Come on. I'll put the kettle on. Go through to the kitchen."

Coleridge took the other man outsidea"within the circle of lighta"and spoke to him for a while. Giving orders, she didn't doubt.

She made tea. She'd worry about the dead deer when she had time. For tonight she needed to sleep, and these men could watch over her just as well as Coleridge. Maybe better. She had nothing vested in them, but Coleridge was the only person aside from her who had any idea what was going on.

Coleridge called her to the door.

"Anything, anything at all. Call me straight away."

"You've got other things to worry about tonight. I'll be fine."

"I'm sure you will," he said, but she was a bullshitter herself. The lie was sweet, just the same.

"I'm sorry, Beth. I hate this."

He looked genuinely torn up. Like he was about to blow off his job to stay with her.

She was afraid. Terrified, even. But she wasn't going to do that to him. He had a job to do, and so did she. In the morning. She saw what she had to do now, and he couldn't help her with it.

Maybe they'd find this man, this Gregory Sawyer, and it would all go away. But as she stood by the front door, Coleridge before her, solid and reassuring, a mutilated deer on the doorstep, she knew it wouldn't end like that. There was something more going on. Something supernatural. It wasn't for Coleridge to fix. He might believe, but he'd never feel it. He'd never feel the cold of the dead or see the wounds they carried on as spirits. He'd never know what it felt like to have his head cut off. She prayed he never would, because she realized right then that she liked him.

It was better that he was gone until she'd done what she needed to do.

She didn't know why, but she tiptoed up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Come back, OK? Whatever happens, make sure you come back."

He blushed, which was cute in a way that lit his face up, even with another murder on his mind.

He looked like he was going to say something, but he just nodded. Then he turned around and got in his car.

Beth watched for a minute and shut the door quietly, reluctantly, behind him.

Part Four.

The Hanged Man.

Chapter Forty-Three.

Monday 17th November.

Coleridge got in the car and checked the clock. It rolled 'round to midnight and a new day.

He started the car, shifted into the most comfortable position he could, and swung around toward Norwich. He hadn't made it a hundred yards down the road before his phone rang. He pulled to the shoulder and took the call.

"Coleridge."

"Yes."

"I'm going to kill your wife," said the man on the other end.

"You're welcome to her," Coleridge said, but his blood ran cold. He was very aware of his heart, struggling to pump blood through clogged arteries. His heart beat harder, and he felt his face flushing, but he kept his voice even. "Didn't like her when we were married, and that's not changed since the divorce. Maybe I like her a little better now, but not by much."

"You think that'll work?"

"What?"

"Being clever."

"I ain't never been called clever, but I bet you get called a cunt. A lot."

"I'm going to take her head."

"Just out of morbid curiosity, what are you doing with all these heads? Bowling?"

"I'm going to kill you after I kill your wife."

"I'm about overdue, I'd say. How about we try a different game?"

"The next time you see me, I'll be using your head as a puppet. I think I'll make you lick Elizabeth's cunt. How'd you like that?"

"To be honest, I wouldn't mind. She might, though. I don't like to presume, you know. But still, as I'm guessing you're not the type to hand yourself in, you might be dead by then. You threaten my wife, I don't care much. Me? I'm not so especially smart I'd miss my head. But Beth? Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" The man laughed, and Coleridge's spine turned to ice. But he didn't back off. You couldn't. Get hold of a bastard like this in a fight, the last thing you wanted to do was let him go. That's when they hit you with something hard.

"Yeah. Fuck you. Tell you what, I'll meet you. Why don't you tell me where you are? I'll come right over. We'll settle it like men."

"You make me laugh, Coleridge. I haven't laughed for...a long time. Maybe I'll just cut off your feet."

"Keep 'em with all the heads? I hope you've got plenty of pegs."

"I'm impressed. You keep coming. Keep on, Coleridge. Keep on driving. Drive away. Take some time to live. Until tonight. I'll come back. Say your goodbyes."

"You're sweet. A psycho. But sweet."

"Tonight, Coleridge, I'm going to take your feet. Then I'm going to take your head from your neck and make you watch me fuck Elizabeth's heart while it still beats in her chest."

"That's good, that is. I haven't heard that one before. I tell you what. I'll meet you there. Tonight. I guess I know where, right?"

The man laughed one more time before he hung up.

Coleridge didn't see anything funny. He put the phone back in his jacket with shaking hands. He put them on the wheel and breathed hard until the dancing stars faded away. Then he put the car into gear and drove.

He had the day. After that, maybe he'd be dead. But while he had the day he was fucked if he was going to waste it blubbing like a baby.

Chapter Forty-Four.

Coleridge checked his watch. Five minutes past twelve in the morning. When did "tonight" officially start? Daylight didn't count. He had until dark. Fucking lunatic. Could have given him a time, something to work toward. As it was he had until dark. That was all he could be sure of.

Middle of November? Dark about 4:30, maybe 5:00. Maybe it counted as dark if there were heavy clouds. 4 PM. Be sure. Back to Beth's by then. Bring an armed response unit?

He toyed with the idea for a while, but then he thought about what Beth had said. He wasn't a man but someone who could walk with ghosts.

"Walk with ghosts, Coleridge?"

He was going loony himself.

He drove silently, thinking. There wasn't anyone to talk to anyway, and he wasn't the best of company.

He wasn't really sure what he was thinking about. It was kind of like sleeping while his brain went for a walk.

No point in guns. No point in handcuffs.

Was he thinking about trying to take him in?

No. Hard as it was, and he'd never had to make that kind of decision, but no. No way.

So was he thinking of killing him?

That was harder. A direct question he didn't want to answer. But if he wasn't thinking of taking him in, what was the alternative? If he was a man, some kind of serial killer, maybe he would've done the right thing. Brought in some back up. Some hard young cops with rifles and no conscience.

Was there any chance the killer was a man?

Gregory Sawyer?

Seemed like it was a night for hard questions. The kind of questions where there weren't any right answers, only wrong ones, and those'd have to do.

The only way he could answer that was if he believed Beth. Believed her totally. He was considering not trying to arrest a man who'd killed seven civilians and one policeman. A policeman he knew, even if it was only in passing.

Did he believe Beth? Believe enough to take a man's life, because that was what he was thinking, wasn't it?

He didn't think straight with an empty stomach. It was a big question, and it needed some energy behind it to find an answer.

But the phone rang before he could find something to eat, and the answer found him.

Chapter Forty-Five.

The phone rang again. Coleridge didn't want to stop driving, because he was hungry, and every minute he spent driving burned more energy, so he picked up and wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, on his way to the local station.

"Coleridge."

"Where the fuck have you been?" Mooney asked.

"Beth's."

"Everyone in the world's been trying to get hold of you and you've been sniffing around some piece of ass? The boss is baying for your blood."

"No reception. No telephone. What am I supposed to do?"

He swerved 'round a corner and dropped the phone. He could hear Mooney whining from the floor. A light rain had started. The roads were slick and it was stupid to be talking on the phone and trying to drive on the black country pavement.

Coleridge pulled over and heaved himself to one side so he could reach the phone in the passenger's foot well.

"Mooney, stop bitching, for God's sake. What's going on?"

Mooney swore under his breath.

"Sawyer?"

"Yeah. We got him. Fucking charnel house."

"Charnel? That's a hell of a word, just past midnight."

"You can have it. Use it next time you're playing scrabble with Beth."