Relics by Shaun Hutson Page B

he walked.
    Ahead of him, Constable Mark Buchanan moved sure-footedly through the trees, occasionally holding back a branch for his superior. He let go of one a little too early and it swung back and hit Wallace across the chest. The constable apologized but Wallace merely dismissed the incident, smiling when he saw the look of fear on Buchanan’s face. The junior man was about twenty-eight, two years younger than Wallace. He was thin and gangling with a pale complexion which made him appear as though he were permanently ill.
    ‘I wouldn’t have called you out normally, “sir,’ he said, apologetically, as they approached the clearing. ‘But I think this is important.’
    As they reached the clearing, Wallace saw two more uniformed men standing by a gnarled oak tree. He recognized them as Greene and Denton. One of them was holding a large black dustbin bag and looking up into the branches of the tree, his face grim. The other was merely staring into space as if looking at something which only he could see. Both men snapped upright as Wallace entered the clearing.
    ‘So what have you got?’ he said to Buchanan, finally taking the unlit cigarette from his mouth.
    The constable motioned to the lower branches of the tree and Wallace looked up.
    The goat, at least what remained of it, looked little more than an empty husk. The stomach cavity had been slit open and the internal organs removed. Wallace saw those lying in a reeking pile close by. Flies were already feasting on the congealed mess. For a moment. Wallace wondered why the dead animal looked so sickly pink in colour, then he realized with disgust that it had been flayed. Every last piece of fur had been stripped away, exposing the wasted muscles beneath. What drew his attention most was the stump of the neck. A piece of bone shone whitely through the blackened gore.
    ‘Where’s the head?’ he asked.
    Greene stepped forward and opened the dustbin bag, allowing his superior to look inside. The stench which rose from within was unbelievable.
    The head lay in the bottom of the bag, one horn broken, the eye sockets choked with thick clots of blood.
    Both eyes had been removed.
    Wallace coughed, then nodded, and Greene closed the bag.
    ‘It’s not the first time this has happened,’ Buchanan told him. ‘In the last two months we’ve had reports from two local farmers saying that they’ve lost livestock, mostly goats and sheep. So far six have turned up, all of them skinned and gutted. Five of those we’ve found in this wood.’
    ‘Did the others have their eyes torn out like this one?’ the inspector asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of the black bag.
    The constable nodded.
    ‘It’s not just livestock, though,’ Buchanan continued. ‘A number of household pets like cats and dogs have been reported missing too, but we haven’t found any of them yet.’
    ‘Could it be kids, Inspector?’ asked Greene.
    ‘It’s possible,’ Wallace said reflectively. ‘But I can’t think of many kids capable of doing something like this to animals. Not animals as big as goats or sheep anyway.’ He sighed. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure, whoever did it doesn’t work for the bloody RSPCA.’ He glanced up at the butchered goat once more. ‘Were the other carcasses as easy to find as this one? It looks like whoever did it wanted it to be found.’
    ‘They were all found in or around this clearing,’ Buchanan told him.
    Wallace stroked his chin thoughtfully.
    ‘Bury it,’ he said. ‘Get rid of the carcass and the head and . . . those.’ He nodded in the direction of the intestines, still partially covered with dead leaves. ‘Six in two months, eh?’ he said, quietly, reaching for his lighter. He tried again to light his cigarette but still could raise only sparks from the recalcitrant flint. He pocketed the lighter again, looking irritably at the unlit cigarette.
    ‘I’m going to drive out to Dexter Grange, have a word with the bloke who owns the