S. J. Bolton - Blood Harvest

S. J. Bolton

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First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright S.J. Bolton 2010

S.J. Bolton has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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ISBNs 9780593064115 (hb) 9780593064122 (tpb)

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For the Coopers, who built their big, shiny new house
on the crest of a moor

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher (18441900)

Shes been watching us for a while now.

Go on, Tom.

Sometimes its like shes always there, behind a pile of stones, in the shadow at the bottom of the tower, under one of the old graves. Shes good at hiding.

She must be.

Sometimes she gets very close, before you have any idea. Youll be thinking about something else when one of her voices jumps out at you and, for a second, she catches you out. She really makes you think its your brother, or your mum, hiding round the corner.

Then you realize its not?

No, its not. Its her. The girl with the voices. But the minute you turn your head, shes gone. If youre really quick you might catch a glimpse of her. Usually, though, theres nothing there, everythings just as it was, except...

Except what?

Except now, its like the worlds keeping a secret. And theres that feeling in the pit of your stomach, the one that says, shes here again. Shes watching.

S. J. Bolton was born in Lancashire. She is the author of two previous critically acclaimed novels, Sacrifice and Awakening, out now in paperback. Sacrifice was nominated for the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First novel and, in France, for the prestigious Prix Polar SNCF Award. The Blood Harvest is her third novel. She lives near Oxford with her husband and young son.

For more information about the author and her books, visit her website at www.sjbolton.com

Also by S. J. Bolton

Sacrifice
Awakening

For more information on S. J. Bolton and her books, see her website at
www.sjbolton.com

3 November

I T HAD HAPPENED , THEN ; WHAT ONLY HINDSIGHT COULD HAVE told him hed been dreading. It was almost a relief, in a way, knowing the worst was over, that he didnt have to pretend any more. Maybe now he could stop acting like this was an ordinary town, that these were normal people. Harry took a deep breath, and learned that death smells of drains, of damp soil and of heavy-duty plastic.

The skull, less than six feet away, looked tiny. As though if he held it in his palm, his fingers might almost close around it. Almost worse than the skull was the hand. It lay half hidden in the mud, its bones barely held together by connective tissue, as though trying to crawl out of the ground. The strong artificial light flickered like a strobe and, for a second, the hand seemed to be moving.

On the plastic sheet above Harrys head the rain sounded like gunfire. The wind so high on the moors was close to gale force and the makeshift walls of the police tent couldnt hope to hold it back completely. When hed parked his car, not three minutes earlier, it had been 3.17 a.m. Night didnt get any darker than this. Harry realized hed closed his eyes.

Detective Chief Superintendent Rushtons hand was still on his arm, although the two of them had reached the edge of the inner cordon. They wouldnt be allowed any further. Six other people were in the tent with them, all wearing the same white, hooded overalls and Wellington boots that Harry and Rushton had just put on.

Harry could feel himself shaking. His eyes still closed, he could hear the steady, insistent drumbeat of rain on the roof of the tent. He could still see that hand. Feeling himself sway, he opened his eyes and almost overbalanced.

Back a bit, Harry, said Rushton. Stay on the mat, please. Harry did what he was told. His body seemed to have grown too big for itself; the borrowed boots were impossibly tight, his clothes were clinging, the bones in his head felt too thin. The sound of the wind and the rain went on, like the soundtrack of a cheap movie. Too much light, too much noise, for the middle of the night.

The skull had rolled away from its torso. Harry could see a ribcage, so small, still wearing clothes, tiny buttons gleaming under the lights. Where are the others? he asked.

DCS Rushton inclined his head and then guided him across the aluminium chequer plating that had been laid like stepping-stones over the mud. They were following the line of the church wall. Mind where you go, lad, Rushton said. Whole areas a bloody mess. There, can you see?

They stopped at the far edge of the inner cordon. The second corpse was still intact, but looked no bigger than the first. It lay face-down in the mud. One tiny wellington boot covered its left foot.

The third ones by the wall, said Rushton. Hard to see, half- hidden by the stones.

Another child? asked Harry. Loose PVC flaps on the tent were banging in the wind and he had to half-shout to make himself heard.

Looks like it, agreed Rushton. His glasses were speckled with rain. He hadnt wiped them since entering the tent. Maybe he was grateful not to see too clearly. You can see where the wall came down? he went on.