Return of the Werewolf
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1976-04-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: The Black Hill werewolf, Philip Owen, has been dead for a year, and there have been no further outrages. Until now, that is, and the new maulings coincide with the disappearance from his grave of Philip Owen's body. Gordon Hall, the man who caught Owen a year before, returns to the Black Hill to help with the search, and when Owen's body is found, he realises that there is a new werewolf loose.
Publisher: Black Hill Books

Return of the Werewolf - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1977 - 2010

Published by Black Hill Books, October 2010

ISBN : 978-1-907846-069

First Published by New English Library (NEL) April 1977.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

The End

CHAPTER ONE

THE hill mist which had been gathering steadily all day began to thicken with the coming of night. It drifted down the fir covered slopes mingling with the darkness, bringing with it a dampness which was only too familiar to this desolate range of Shropshire/Welsh border hills. Wood pigeons which had remained late in the fields, stuffing their crops to bursting point with the remnants of last month's harvest, clattered hurriedly to roost in the tall pine thickets. Instinct told them that it was unwise to be abroad after nightfall. An age-old atmosphere seemed to linger on the slopes of the Black Hill. If one listened carefully, perhaps one would still hear the ring of steel upon steel, anguished cries of the wounded as English and Welsh armies engaged in battle, and perhaps even further back than that when man first stalked his prey with bow and arrow and club. Those were the days when wolves hunted these hills, their howling striking fear into the hearts of brave men. Another howl. Surely not in the imagination this time. After all it was less than a year ago since the last wolf was killed here.

Llanadevy churchyard stood at the foot of the Black Hill. Much of it was overgrown, the long grass now beginning to turn brown with the first frosts of autumn. Rows of tombstones stretched up towards the very edge of the wood. Many were moss-covered, the lettering illegible. All had a headstone of some sort. Except one. An unmarked grave. Just an oblong of soil with weeds already starting to grow on it. Untended. Unvisited. No vase of flowers.

Another grave stood by the side of it. This one had a new headstone with neat lettering carved in the marble. Beneath the date: BLODWYN OWEN. Nothing else. Fresh flowers. The grass neatly trimmed back from it.

Somewhere an owl hooted. A rabbit which had been feeding on some freshly cut flowers paused and its ears pricked up. It detected some sound which was foreign to this deserted graveyard during the nocturnal hours. It hesitated. Then it hopped through the hedge back into the wood. It was taking no chances.

Finally the gloomy darkness closed in. Starlings twittered as they jostled for roosting places in the rhododendron bushes which screened the Norman church.

The fog became thicker. The rabbit ventured out of the wood again. It listened. That sound came to its' ears. Deep rasping breathing coming from the very heart of those rhododendrons. The rabbit drew back again. Somebody - or something - was there. Just waiting.

Behind the Black Hill the moon rose, a deep orange ball barely discernible through the thick grey vapour. As the hours went by, it turned to silver, its light penetrating the fog and casting an eerie luminous glow over the surrounding countryside. Every quarter of an hour the muffled chimes of the clock in the steeple denoted the passing of the night hours.

Once again the rabbit emerged. It could still hear those wheezing breaths, now becoming more of a snuffling sound like some wild beast from the past which had picked up a scent and was determined to follow it over moor and mountain until it finally made its kill.

The rabbit hopped back again, this time seeking the shelter of its burrow. It sensed death. Something that it was incapable of understanding. Evil!

There was a movement now from within the bushes. A cracking of twigs and snapping of branches. Whatever was forcing its way through the dense shrubs was powerful and moved with a purpose in mind. Every heavy step was deliberate. It emerged into the open, paused, and then with measured steps headed toward the multitude of graves. The fog thickened and hid its features. Only a shape. Misshapen. Shambling. Snuffling. Searching. Male or female? Man or beast? It was impossible to tell. Stooping to read the names on the graves. It stopped in front of Blodwyn Owen's last resting place and everything became deathly quiet. Even the rasping breathing appeared to still.

It moved again. Just a lurch this time which brought it alongside the unmarked grave. It seemed uncertain at first and then as if having made up its mind it began to scratch at the soft earth. Hands - no – claws! Large sharp claws covered by rough hair. Now they were digging feverishly, throwing soil and stones everywhere. Occasionally this nocturnal intruder paused and its small red eyes glowed malevolently. Some soil had fallen on the marble slab on Blodwyn Owen's grave. Almost reverently it brushed it clear before proceeding with its task.

The night was still but the enshrouding fog dulled the clinking of falling stones and the soft thud of earth upon earth. Nothing else moved. The rabbit crouched deep down in its warren listening to these strange noises and the starlings in the rhododendrons huddled even closer together. Moisture dripped steadily from the leaves.

Claws scraped on wood. Wood that had once been highly polished but twelve months of lying in damp soil had dulled its sheen. The breathing of the digger was more laboured. Excited. Triumphant. Clumsily it slid down into the gaping hole that was the result of its efforts. The faint moonlight outlined the shape of a long wooden box. A coffin. Whose?

Claws burrowed beneath it, encircled it and secured a grip. Powerful muscles tensed and took the strain. Heaved. The coffin lifted. It began to rise upwards until it was resting with one end protruding from the grave.

The intruder in this once peaceful churchyard rested. Choking gurgling intakes of breath. Then the grip was changed and with a supreme effort the coffin was hoisted above the ground where it slid down and rested at the bottom of the heap of excavated soil.

The monstrous ungainly shape clambered up after it, the efforts of the past quarter of an hour having taken its toll of even such strength as this. Another rest was necessary, crouching on all fours, yet knowing that there was no time to be lost.

Claws scraped on wood again, this time with a cracking and splitting. Lengths were flung carelessly in all directions. A piece landed on the adjoining grave and once more operations were suspended whilst it was removed.

The lid of the coffin was gone. Within lay a damp and rotting shroud wrapped neatly around the corpse. A stench of death mingled with the clammy atmosphere. Another rasp of triumph. Claws grasped greedily, dragging the body from the coffin, leaving shreds of the shroud behind on the sharp splinters of broken wood.

Red eyes glowed again with satisfaction. The task was almost completed. The corpse was lifted on to broad hairy shoulders. Muscles flexed as the point of balance was established and then with those same measured steps corpse and bearer were swallowed up by the swirling fog.

The rabbit trembled as it heard the heavy footsteps passing over its warren and heading up the steep hillside towards the deep woods.

Dick Morris made his way rather unenthusiastically towards the overgrown churchyard. He was in his late sixties, tall, but stooped with the effects of a lifetime of rheumatism. The vicar had said that the churchyard must be tidied up before winter set in and to him the vicar's word was law. Without the kindly robust Reverend Sharpe, he would have neither a roof over his head nor even a pittance of a wage to supplement his meagre pension. A verger's job was a hard one at times. He particularly hated scything weeds and digging graves. Fortunately there had been no deaths in Llanadevy these past few months. Maybe the Good Lord would see his way clear to spare him and the villagers for a few more weeks yet. Winter was always the worst time for dying. It was the damp that was to blame. That was when bronchitis turned to pneumonia. He noted the changing of the leaf and grimaced. It would not be long now.

The fog was clearing fast as the sunshine flooded the dew-covered countryside. Only the upper regions of the Black Hill still remained covered. Dick Morris looked down at the gleaming blade of his sickle. It was razor-sharp. The job should not take too long. The briars and weeds would fall easily beneath his accomplished swing.

Then he saw the mound of fresh earth spilling over on to the narrow path, the broken coffin lying on its side and fragments of shroud fluttering in the slight breeze.

'My God!' his face became ashen and the sickle fell to the ground. 'Oh, my God! It can't be. No. Surely not. Not again!'

Curiosity compelled him to move forward in spite of his abject terror. He wanted to turn and run. Flee. Not only from this churchyard but away from this cursed place altogether.

He peered into the gaping hole. Empty. Grave-robbers. But no. They would never touch that grave. In fact no mortal would venture into this churchyard during the hours of darkness!

He started to back away. It was then that his keen eyes alighted on the footprints. Footprints? Claw-marks! There was no mistaking them. The soft earth was covered with them. He did not need to stoop down in order to identify them. Everybody around the Black Hill knew what wolf-prints looked like! They had seen enough of them during the previous year.

He broke into a run forgetting his rheumatic pains in his eagerness to be away from the dreaded graveyard.

'He's risen from the grave!' only the phlegm in his throat prevented him from screaming aloud. 'He's back! The werewolf had risen from the grave!'

'It's impossible!' the Reverend Sharpe's normally ruddy complexion paled as he looked down into the open grave. 'I refuse to believe it! In the name of God such a creature could not exist!'

'Well it did once,' PC Winter, the burly officer who upheld the law in Llanadevy, pushed his helmet up on to the back of his head and tightened his lips. 'Well, almost. A maniacal sex-killer in actual fact. That was what he was termed at the inquest. It was you who fought against the opinion of the villagers to get him buried here, vicar.'

'Yes, yes, I know that,' the vicar replied impatiently. 'But the boy was not evil himself. I had known him since he was a child. Mentally retarded of course. Something must have happened to his brain to turn him into ... what he was.'

'You try convincing the folks round here of that,' Winter pulled at his moustache. 'Look how your congregation has diminished since all this happened.'

'They have used it as an excuse to skip church services,' Sharpe retorted angrily. 'They have chosen to turn their backs on their Maker.'

'Well there's no doubt about it,' the constable went on. 'He's not in there anymore. Somehow or other he's got out. Whether by himself or not remains to be seen. I'm afraid I shall have to report this to my superiors who no doubt will inform Scotland Yard. The whole case may have to be reopened.'

'Utter nonsense!' the Reverend Sharpe muttered. It is publicity which the Church can well do without. For some reason or other somebody has stolen the body of Philip Owen. Grave robbers.'

'Those prints,' the policeman pointed to the claw marks in the damp earth. 'There's no getting away from them vicar. No matter what you say!'

By midday the local detective force had erected screens around the opened grave. Detective-Sergeant Oliver from Ludlow and his team of CID experts began their investigations.

'There's no doubt about it,' Oliver straightened up at last and shook his head. 'The grave was opened from the top. Somebody - or something - dug down, lifted the coffin out, smashed it open and carried the body off into the woods. The tracks are plain enough going through the trees there. We won't even need dogs to track it.'

Leaving two officers to continue examining the grave and coffin. Detective-Sergeant Oliver, PC Winter and another constable from nearby Craven Arms set off on the trail that led amongst the firs.

'At least we'll know where it's hiding out,' Oliver rubbed his hands in anticipation at being able to telephone the Yard and inform them that the matter was already cleared up. 'Maybe we ought to arm ourselves first!'

The three of them stopped as this thought occurred to them.

'Never mind,' Oliver was reluctant to let the trail go cold. 'At least we can take a look.'

They set off again following the large wolf prints through the thickets. The ground was soft which made their task that much easier. It was also rising steeply slowing their pace down.

'Strewth!' PC Winter panted. 'This guy is sure a glutton for punishment. We can't be far off Anthony's Quarry now.'

As they rounded the next bend they saw the disused slate quarry in front of them. The huge mounds of broken slate were covered in weeds, gorse and broom. No work had been carried out here since long before the war.

'That's done it!' PC Winter groaned. 'The ground's too hard from here onwards to show any tracks. We've lost him, Sarge. Our best plan is to go back down the forestry roads rather than fight our way through all that undergrowth.'

In silence they set off the way that the Llanadevy policeman had indicated. Any hopes they might have had of solving the mystery of the resurrected Shropshire Werewolf were now dashed.

They walked slowly. The mist had cleared altogether now and below them they had a panoramic view of the Clun valley. Sheep grazed peacefully on the hillsides and smoke drifted up from the scattered farms.

'That's the Owen farmstead,' Winter pointed. 'That's where the Werewolf came from in the first place. Old Gwynne Owen, his dad, still lives on there. The mother died of heart failure when she caught a glimpse of her wolf-like son. 'I'm surprised the old man didn't up and leave. He didn't though. They reckon he's a bit queer in the head himself these days. Doesn't talk to nobody. He's got a youth living there. Practically runs the farm for him. They just keep to themselves. Guess I'll have to go round and tell old Gwynne what's happened now though.'

He shook his head not relishing the task.

CHAPTER TWO

'HE'S back!' the whisper ran from shop to shop down the main street in Clun. The bastard's back. I seed him stop for petrol at the garage. There's no mistakin' 'im. Looks just the same as he allus did!'

'Who?' a short stocky man butted in on the conversation in the greengrocer's shop. The Werewolf?'

'Don't talk like a pratt!' one of the men clustered in the group at the far end of the counter turned round with an expression of fear and disgust on his face. 'You won't see 'im by daylight, friend. Only when the moon's full. Then he'll be on the prowl lookin' for young girls, sheep, anythin'. Rapin', killin' …'

'Shut up!' the greengrocer broke away from the gossip and turned to meet his latest customer. 'We're not talkin' about the Werewolf, Jim. We were just discussing Gordon Hall. He's back man! Here in Clun. About ten minutes ago. He's come back!'

'Never!'

'It's right. Never thought we'd set eyes on him again. What's brought him back here?'

'The Werewolf o' course!'

'Maybe 'e is the bloody Werewolf!'

Laughter followed yet it held no mirth. The townsfolk of Clun were uneasy at the sudden reappearance of Gordon Hall, the bearded journalist who held the shooting rights of the Black Hill. Although it was he who had been responsible for ridding them of the horrific legendary beast only a year ago, they associated his return with the opened grave that had brought reporters and police flocking to disturb their quiet little town in the Shropshire/Welsh border hills once more. Perhaps Hall had put a curse on them!

'I expect he's only come here to see what's going on,' the greengrocer added. 'He never did anybody any harm.'

'You just go and walk up on 'is shoot and let 'im catch yer disturbin' his pheasants,' the stocky man said with conviction.

'When you gets 'is boot up yer arse, you come and tell me if 'e did yer any 'arm or not!'

The group broke up as more customers filtered into the little shop, yet there was an uneasiness in the town which, if they cast their minds back, had lasted ever since that fateful day when Gordon Hall discovered the Werewolf, in the shape of Philip Owen, lying dead in one of his fox-snares. It was as though somebody had lit a slow burning fuse. And before long there was going to be one hell of an explosion. There was no doubt about it. Trouble was brewing once more around the Black Hill!

Gordon Hall drove straight up out of Clun following the narrow winding lanes that led to the 600 acres of forestry commission plantations known as the Black Hill. There was a ruthlessness about this man which was at once apparent to everybody who met him. He had a thick black beard on his handsome face, and hair which fell below his collar and rested on the shoulders of his camouflaged combat jacket. His cavalry-twill trousers were tucked neatly into olive-green shooting boots. On the seat at his side there was a well filled cartridge belt. His double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun lay on the floor behind.

Gordon Hall was both hard and tough; once a hunter of both game and women. However only comparatively recently the hardness of his face had relaxed a little. Perhaps it was due to married life, a forsaking of his old ways, and the fact that his wife to whom he had been married for less than six months, was now pregnant. The bitterness towards life in general which had branded him throughout the years had left its mark upon him though. The lines on his face should not have been as pronounced as they were at thirty-five. Maybe the wife who had left him more than four years ago was responsible for that. He had hoped that he might forget. But perhaps that was too much to ask.

The car completed the last steep climb and then the road levelled out. Ahead of him lay the entrance gate to the Black Hill. It was open as if the woodlands had been awaiting his return these past months.

He changed down, eased the car gently off the road and switched off the engine. A yellow Labrador dog which had been lying asleep on the back seat suddenly stood up, stretched, and wagged its tail. This was Remus, Hall's faithful shooting companion, ageing but still active. The dog sensed that it was back in familiar territory. Maybe it even remembered the Werewolf. If so the memory of all that had happened in their terrible struggle to overthrow a terrible foe did not mar its eagerness to be abroad in these pine woods once more. Not for Remus the confines of a suburban garden with maybe a stroll in a recreation park at weekends if his master was not too busy to take him. He sniffed the air through the half-open window and whined in anticipation of reacquainting himself with these beautiful woods once more.

Gordon Hall got out of the car and opened the back door for Remus to leap out. The journalist's nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath of the sharp air. It was good to be back in spite of his memories. There was - well, something about the place that one could not explain. It was like home. Whatever happened, one had to go back eventually.

The hill had many moods. Today it was serene with a couple of buzzards floating way above him in the blue sky, their ragged moth-like wings scarcely moving. The farms below. Two in particular. He found his eyes drawn irresistibly towards them. Owen's place. He wondered what had happened to the old man. Would he be welcome if old Gwynne was still living there? And the other place. Vic Gunn's. His thoughts turned to Margaret. She still thrilled him although it had been a long time since he had last set eyes on her. Their affair had not been just another sexual adventure. He had loved her. Deep down he still did. Probably he would have married her if ... if it hadn't been for the Werewolf. Still, it was the Werewolf who had brought them together in the first place. So really it had all cancelled itself out in the end.

He knew full well that he would not be welcome at Gunn's farm. He reached in the car for his binoculars and focused them on the small whitewashed farmhouse. It looked as spick and span as ever. There was no sign of life. He had hoped for just a glimpse of Margaret. Perhaps it was as well that she was not in sight. His thoughts turned back to his wife. The old days were gone for ever. He put his binoculars back in the car.

As he assembled his gun and fastened his cartridge-belt he could not help thinking about the Werewolf again. He had read it all in the papers the day before yesterday and, he could still see those headlines, BODY SNATCHERS TAKE WEREWOLF'S BODY. Several journalists had expounded their various theories. The Werewolf was on the prowl again! Where would he strike next? Who would be his first victim?

It was not the sudden return of the Werewolf which had altogether motivated Gordon Hall's visit to the Black Hill after almost a year's absence. Perhaps it had brought back a longing to set foot in those border hills again but he vowed that in no way would he become mixed up in the present events. Possibly some devil-worshippers had stolen Philip Owen's body believing that it would add potency to their vile rites. Whatever it was it was no concern of his. He would keep well away from everybody.

He walked down the grassy rides. A wood pigeon winging its way back to roost suddenly spotted a movement amongst the plantations far below it. A man and a dog. It swerved and jinked. It saw a puff of smoke but never heard the report of the shot as it folded its wings and plummeted earthwards.

Gordon Hall had not lost any of his old skills during the time in which he had been away.

Gwynne Owen never even looked up when the knock came on the door. His eyes were fixed on the glowing coals in the grate. There was no telling what he saw in them. Blodwyn. Philip. The knocking came again. Once more he ignored it, reaching for a spill with which to light his stubby pipe. It mattered not these days who came and went.

There was a click as the latch on the huge kitchen door was lifted and the face of PC Winter of Llanadevy looked in.

'Oh ... uh ... Gwynne,' he looked embarrassed at finding the old farmer hunched over the fire ignoring him. 'I ... uh ... could I have a word with you a minute?'

Gwynne Owen nodded without turning his head. Winter stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He walked over to the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace and lowered himself into it.

'I … something's happened at the churchyard,' the policeman stammered as he twirled his fingers and looked down at the floor. There's … somebody's opened up one of the graves. Taken the body.'

'What!' Gwynne Owen jerked up suddenly taking interest, the film over his eyes disappearing instantly. 'A grave ... not Blodwyn's?'

'No,' Winter reassured him. 'Philip's.'

'Philip's,' Gwynne Owen's relief was obvious. 'Oh … oh … I … see.'

'They took the body,' the policeman went on. 'We followed the tracks up into the Black Hill. Lost them up by Anthony's Quarry.'

'So they didn't kill him after all,' the old man managed a watery smile. 'I never did believe he was dead. Even at the funeral when I watched 'em filling the grave in. You don't kill Werewolves that easy.'

'Mr Hall said he was dead because he'd fallen into running water.' Winter decided to humour him. 'He said the only ways in which a werewolf could be destroyed are by running water, a silver bullet or ...'

'Hall!' Gwynne Owen's eyes blazed with anger at the very mention of the journalist's name. 'He killed Philip. He killed my son. Blodwyn too. He's a harbinger of death. None of it would have come about if it hadn't been for him. You remember what I used to tell you about the Black Dogs. Well, he's like that. Wherever he goes death will follow. Mark my words!'

'I just wanted to tell you what had happened,' PC Winter stood up and made as if to leave. 'The press are there now. It'll all be in the papers tomorrow. I didn't want you to read it before …'

'I never read the papers,' Gwynne Owen snapped. 'Lies. They're nothing but lies anyway.'

'We're doing all we can,' Winter moved to the door. 'I'll let you know if we come up with anything. By the way, where's the lad you've got working for you now.'

'Tom,' Gwynne turned back to the fire. 'Tom Davies? He's out tending the sheep. Should be back soon. Wait. I think that's him out in the yard. Must've got done quickly today.'

Footsteps could be heard in the porch and then the door swung open.

A youth stood framed in the doorway. He was in his late 'teens and was dressed in overalls and Wellington boots. His red hair was long and matted. His freckled face would have been handsome had it not been for the buck-teeth which protruded even when his smooth mouth was closed. He was of powerful build and his muscles rippled as he moved.

'Oh ... I'm sorry,' he began to step back outside again. 'I didn't know yuh had a visitor, Gwynne.'

'Don't go, lad,' PC Winter smiled. 'I was just asking about you.'

Tom Davies came back into the room. His movements were confident. Arrogant. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the policeman.

'Yeah? ' he drawled sticking his thumbs into his belt John Wayne-style.

'A grave's been opened in the churchyard,' PC Winter said. 'And the body's been stolen. Philip Owen's body.'

'Philip?' the other's eyebrows raised. 'Oh, you mean Gwynne's son. The one that -'

'Yes,' Winter nodded.

'What'd anyone want to steal a body for? I thought them things only happened on films. I saw a movie about it once. Burke and Hare. Two fellers who -'

'Yes, yes,' Winter snapped. 'I know all about those two. Anyway Philip Owen's body has been taken and I can't tell you any more than that.'

'You helped to kill the Werewolf didn't you?' There was a look of what might have been admiration on Tom Davies' face.

'You might say I helped,' the Llanadevy policeman replied with pride. At least he might as well glean some credit from Gordon Hall's efforts. 'I was certainly in at …' He looked down at Gwynne Owen and checked himself, 'the kill.'

'Where do you come from?' PC Winter quickly changed the conversation. 'You're not from around these parts.'

'Birmingham,' the youth muttered. 'Never seen a sheep in me life hardly until I come here. Seen Mr Owen's advert in the Evening Mail and decided I'd like to get to know a bit about the countryside. Came straight from school. Got no parents so I'd got a home to come to as well as a job.'

'He's doing all right too,' Gwynne Owen said, 'Doin' a real fine job. Took to it like a duck to water. Make a good stockman in years to come. Mebbe sooner.'

'Well, I'll be getting back,' Winter moved towards the door. 'Like I said I'll let you know if anything turns up.'

It was two evenings after the policeman's visit to the Owen farmstead that Gordon Hall made his way back towards his car after his first foray of the season on the Black Hill. In the netting of his game-bag rested a couple of wood pigeons, a rabbit and a cock pheasant resplendent in its fine plumage.

It had indeed been a satisfying day. It was good to be about with the gun again and Remus trotting at his heels. He regretted those wasted months. He would certainly come again the following week. He did not altogether relish the 70 mile drive back to his home in the Midlands but …

He was interrupted by a whine and a bark from Remus. The dog had run on ahead of him as soon as they came into sight of the parked car. Now Remus was sniffing at something on the side of the path.

'What is it boy?' Gordon walked up to him, slipping the safety catch off his gun just in case his dog had scented a rabbit in the nearby patch of dying bracken. 'There's nothing there. There's... My God!'

He recognised only too well those prints in the mud. They were identical to the tracks he had followed last year on several occasions when they had sought to hunt down the Werewolf!

'Christ!' he knelt down to examine them more closely. 'These certainly weren't here when we arrived!'

CHAPTER THREE

GORDON Hall straightened up with a look of amazement on his handsome bearded face. There was no doubt about it. Those prints were exactly the same as the ones which he had seen during those terrible weeks when the Shropshire Werewolf was on the rampage.

'It's incredible!' he breathed. 'Philip Owen's body disappearing from the grave ... and now this!'

Remus whined and looked uneasily about him. Gordon felt shivers running up and down his spine. Dusk was already turning to darkness. He moved towards his car, unlocking the doors and experiencing a sense of urgency to be away from the Black Hill before night closed in.

As he let Remus in and laid his gun on the floor by the back seat he noticed something else. A series of deep scratches were gouged down the offside rear wing of his car. He bent and studied them. It was as though he had backed the vehicle carelessly into a barbed wire fence. The marks were even, scoring the paintwork in parallel lines. Three of them. Almost as though they had been done deliberately. Something in the soft earth behind the car caught his eye. More claw prints.

'Hell's bells!' he muttered softly. 'The Werewolf's been prowling around the car. He's scratched the paintwork, almost as though he wanted me to know that he'd been here!'

In the nearest conifer thicket some twenty yards away a twig cracked. Roosting wood pigeons clustered together uneasily in the branches. Something moved. Possibly a fox, or a badger, or ...

Gordon Hall was taking no chances. In his past encounters with the mythical beast he had learnt the futility of a shotgun even at close range. Quickly he lowered himself into the driving seat. The engine purred into life at the first touch of the starter, the wheels churning up the mud as he reversed back out into the narrow lane. Powerful twin headlights cut through the blackness showing him the fringe of the massive wood. A rabbit hopped to safety out of the beams. Nothing else moved.

From a cluster of larch trees a pair of eyes watched malevolently until the network of narrow lanes had swallowed up the speeding vehicle.

Jean Hall was small and slim with fair hair. Attractive too, with deep blue eyes and ready smile. However as she busied herself preparing some food in readiness for Gordon's return she could not help feeling slightly uneasy. She was used to her husband being away from home. His job demanded that frequently. Yet tonight it was somehow different. She had read the papers and seen the latest television news. The stolen Llanadevy corpse was still in the headlines. She knew also about Gordon's fight against the Werewolf the previous year. It all sounded too horrible to be true. Yet she knew that it was. And there he was, back in the thick of it again! Every few minutes she glanced at the clock. Each time a car turned off the main road into the avenue she paused to listen. She had learned to recognise the sound of his engine, the squeal of tyres as he took the corner too fast. Car after car but not Gordon's. Ten o'clock. She was getting worried by now. Then she heaved a deep sigh of relief as the screech of tortured rubber came to her ears.

Gordon Hall kissed his wife as he came in through the back door. She smiled as he hung the rabbit, pigeons and the cock pheasant in the larder.

'You've had a good day then?' she asked and began to lay the table.

'Not bad,' he grinned and went back outside again to feed Remus. After that he unloaded his gear from the car, cleaned his gun, and changed into his sports jacket and flannels. By then the meal was served and they sat down together to eat.

'There's something on your mind,' Jean had perceptively noted the constant furrowing of his brow as he ate and his general air of preoccupation.

'Not really,' he said unconvincingly.

'Well I say there is,' she began clearing away the plates and made some coffee. 'It's that Llanadevy business that's been in the news these last few days isn't it?'

'I haven't been anywhere near Llanadevy,' he replied truthfully. 'Furthermore I've neither seen nor spoken to any of the locals.'

'Maybe not,' she fixed him with piercing blue eyes. 'But something's happened today and it's no good you trying to deny it. I've come to know you well enough these past months to realise when something's troubling you.'

He sighed deeply. He knew that he would never be able to keep anything from this woman.

'It's the Werewolf,' he said. 'He's on the loose again no matter what anybody might say. They can pass it off as devil-worshippers, body-snatchers or whatever they like, but the damned thing's running again. His claw-prints were all round my car and he's even left his mark on the paintwork. There can be no doubt about it whatsoever!'

'Oh my God!' she breathed. 'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely!' he squeezed her hand. 'There can be no other possible explanation for what I've seen today.'

'And, and what are you going to do about it?' she scarcely dared ask the question.

'Well I'm not going to get mixed up with those villagers again.' He began filling his pipe, 'or the law or the press for that matter. On the other hand I'm not going to have this creature drive me away from my shoot. For the moment I'm just going to play it as it comes.'

It was a very worried Jean Hall who began to wash the dishes. A spasm of kicking within her womb reminded her that a difficult time lay ahead of her over the next few months. The Werewolf wasn't going to make it any easier.

The Lurker had lived in Clun ever since he was a boy. Everybody knew him by that pseudonym. Even the law. They tolerated him. Indeed it was easier than trying to catch him returning from the fields and coverts on moonlit nights with a bag of poached rabbits and hares.

He had lived in the same tumbledown cottage by the river since the day he was born. He was powerfully built, his skin engrained with dirt, for the only time that he came into contact with water was when he plunged his arm down into the flowing current to grab an unsuspecting trout. His hair was long and greasy although not many people knew this because he was seldom seen without his tattered cap on, even indoors. Occasionally he shaved but most of the time a black stubble blended with the filth on his face.

After his parents were laid to rest he carried on as before, existing in a dwelling that stank of stale cooking and urine, sleeping on a dilapidated sofa in preference to grimy bedclothes.

Lazy. Shifty. Slinking down the streets in the same way that he would do along some hedgerow where he had no right to be, looking furtively over his shoulder the whole time.

He had few possessions. Mostly they were connected with his trade. Rabbit-snares, long-nets, and a folding .410 shotgun which fitted neatly into the large 'hare' pocket in the lining of his ankle-length overcoat.

The Lurker had only one friend, a butcher who called at his cottage once or twice a week, always after dark, and purchased the game which the poacher always had hanging in the coal shed for him.

'Hall's back,' the Lurker told his buyer one night as the two of them sat drinking a bottle of whisky the butcher had provided. 'I seed 'im last night. Stood and watched 'im from the woods. Scarcely twenty yards away 'e was. I'd've loved to 'ave given 'im a barrel with little Bess. Finished the bastard for good. It's goin' to make it difficult up on the Hill with 'im snoopin' around again!'

'Don't do anything rash!' a look of consternation showed on the butcher's face. He knew that the other was oft times given to terrible rages when he acted on blind impulse. That'd be murder. You'd never see the outside of a prison again.'

'They'd 'ave to ketch me furst,' the whisky was beginning to take its effect on the Lurker. 'The Lurker's done a lot 'o things in 'is time that nobody 'as suspected 'im of. Take it from me, I could snuff that bugger and nobody'd ever be able to prove it wuz me!'

'I need some ducks,' the other decided to turn the conversation away from Gordon Hall. 'Big fat 'uns. Mallards. Can do with 'em for the night after tomorrow.'

'I'll get 'em,' the Lurker laughed loudly. 'From that pool on Black Hill. Hall's fucking ducks! I shall enjoy that. Full moon too. Shouldn't be too much of a problem.'

'You watch out for this 'ere Werewolf,' a look of concern, even fear, crossed the butcher's face. They say 'e's roamin' agin.'

'Don't you worry none about 'im,' the poacher closed one eye in a knowing wink. 'Me and 'im's got a lot in common. We ain't likely to tangle with each other.'

Roosting birds moved uneasily in the entwining branches of the Forestry Commission thickets. They knew they were safe from prowling foxes but the stealthy footsteps beneath belonged to no fellow inhabitant of the forest.

The moon flooded the Black Hill with its ethereal light, casting shadows that were more sinister than total blackness. There was complete silence except for the occasional cracking of a twig and low branches being brushed aside.

Two mallards fed on the small pool, swimming in and out of the shadows cast by the surrounding fir trees. There was grain to be found in the shallows again. They neither knew nor cared how it had come there.

They too heard something approaching through the trees. A couple of quacks to warn each other and they paddled out towards the middle where the water was deeper. No fox could reach them there.

Everything went quiet again. An ominous stillness settled over the woods once more. It was as though birds and beasts were waiting for something to happen. Except the two mallards. They had food. Nothing else mattered.

Two slivers of flame. Followed by a double sharp report so close together that it might have been a single shot. The ducks on the water crumpled and slid over with their white bellies uppermost, bright orange legs shining brightly in the moonlight. Bottle green heads were stained with a patch of spreading crimson. Not so much as a flutter of feathers. Acrid powder smoke drifted across the pool in the still atmosphere. Death had been instantaneous.

The huge form of the Lurker emerged from the trees. His features were hidden beneath a growth of unusually long stubble and the shadow cast across his face by his cap. The need for caution was gone for the present. Carefully he extracted the spent cases from his twin-barrelled .410 and dropped them into his pocket. The evidence of his nefarious act would be taken home with him.

Without hesitating he waded out into the pool. The icy water came over the tops of his wellington boots but he scarcely noticed the discomfort. Greedy hands snatched for the two dead ducks and dropped them into the pocket together with the gun.

Standing there with the icy waters up to his thighs he looked up at the full moon above him. It had always held a fascination for him. It governed his moods, his very life. He laughed softly to himself. Tonight was a night for killing. It would be a shame to go home just yet.

Wal Morris was angry. The hands on his wristwatch showed that it was barely midnight as he hurtled his Mini along the narrow lanes which led past the Black Hill. His speedometer registered 40 mph. Much too fast but his seething fury would not allow him to drive any slower. His headlights were superfluous. The full moon would have been sufficient to show him the way home.

His father's hill-farm was less than a mile from the big woods. He had not expected to be home from the dance at Ludlow before 2 am at the earliest. His young handsome face clouded over as memories of the pretty blonde girl he had dated up earlier in the evening came rushing back to him. He had set it all up in his own mind. Leave the dance with her about midnight. Park in some nice quiet lane on the way back to her place. Both of them on the back seat. He knew full well that she had plenty to offer him between those shapely thighs of hers. Then this rough looking bastard had turned up. Started to get nasty when he found her dancing with Wal. He said she had no right to be at the dance on her own anyway and promptly dragged her away with him. OK so every bird was entitled to have a 'steady'. But that didn't mean she couldn't have it away with somebody else on the odd occasion. Christ! He'd only wanted her for one night. That stupid ignorant sod could do what he liked to her after that. Silly bitch! Now the hardness in his trousers had softened and all he felt was anger. He jammed his foot down even further on the accelerator.

The Black Hill loomed up on his left. He could see the tall pines silhouetted against the moonlit sky looking like a silver wonderland. The track veering off to the left through the trees showed up in his headlights.

Something moved out of the shadows, shambling on to the hard surface directly in his path. His foot stamped down hard on the brake pedal instinctively. Rubber screeched. The tyres skidded on loose gravel as he fought to control the car.

'What the hell ... !'

The ungainly form was clear of the shadows now, standing in a patch of bright moonlight. A hairy countenance, large slavering jaws, yellow fangs, eyes that glowed red. Crouching on all fours.

Wal felt the Mini turning sideways, mounting the steep grassy bank, front wheel spinning uselessly in the air and then plunging backwards.

Fortunately for him his neck snapped before the car had finally rolled to a standstill and the Werewolf began clawing frantically at the heap of twisted metal.

CHAPTER FOUR

'GOD in heaven!' PC Winter's stomach rose in revolt at the sight which lay before him. Joe Morris, the boy's father, sat in the parked police Mini-van beside Vic Gunn who had first discovered the overturned car on his way to feed his sheep.

Joe's wrecked Mini blocked the narrow lane. The roof was caved in and all the windows were smashed. The body, now totally unrecognisable, lay on the grassy bank. Beyond it, wedged securely in the thick hawthorn hedge, was the driver's door.

The Llanadevy policeman's gaze returned to the heap of bloody flesh. The head was twisted grotesquely. The eyes were gone, just empty torn sockets remaining. Crows or ravens probably. A once-in-a-lifetime tit-bit for them. There was no mouth. Instead a torn slit from ear to ear where it had been wrenched apart with incredible force. The throat. Shreds of flesh exposing a jugular vein had long ceased pumping the blood which had turned the grass a dark brown colour in the immediate vicinity. Tattered clothing was strewn everywhere. The genitals had gone too. Some hawk had no doubt breakfasted royally.

Everywhere those same familiar claw-marks. They had slopped in and out of the pool of blood whilst it was still warm and fresh, leaving the imprints upon the bridle path which led back into the heart of the Black Hill.

PC Winter was grateful that he did not have to touch anything.

'Perhaps you'd ring Sergeant Oliver for me,' his voice was husky as he turned to Vic Gunn. 'I'll hang on here until they send somebody out.'

The dapper Detective Chief-Inspector Ford replaced the telephone on the desk in his office at Scotland Yard and looked across at his assistant Detective-Sergeant Bayley.

'Well?' Bayley, a slow moving yet determined and dedicated police officer knew only too well what that half hour telephone call had been about. He also knew that before very much longer both of them would be heading back to the Shropshire/Welsh border hills. Rumour had it throughout the Force that it was through Bayley's perseverance and attention to detail that most of the cases with which his superior had been credited, had been solved. He knew only too well that his chief would not go anywhere without him.

'The Werewolf of course,' Ford sighed. 'I knew the moment that body disappeared that it wouldn't be long before we were recalled to Llanadevy. I didn't think it would be quite like this though. Not only has the thing risen from the grave but it's also going round the countryside murdering people. A farmer's son was found horribly mutilated this morning. I think that both of us know better than to scoff at legendary myths by now.'

Bayley nodded.

'I'll ring my wife and tell her we shall be away for a few days,' he said.

There's somebody else you can ring too,' Ford smiled wanly. 'I think we could use Gordon Hall's help again. After all it was largely due to him that we got the Werewolf last time.'

Jean Hall listened apprehensively as Gordon talked to Scotland Yard on the telephone. Her worst fears had been realised. This was the call to arms.

'All right,' Gordon agreed. 'I'll come in on it with you. There's only one snag though. My wife's expecting a baby. I don't want to be away overnight if I can help it. Yes, yes, I realise that one or two moonlit vigils might be called for but I'd prefer to travel daily. OK then, I'll see you down there tomorrow.'

'I knew as much,' Jean turned away to hide the fact that she was on the verge of tears. 'Why, oh why, does it have to be you? The brains of Scotland Yard have to call on my husband. Can't they manage without you?'

Gordon came up behind her and slipped his arms around her, kissing the nape of her neck.

'I'm sorry love,' he murmured. 'I don't want to get mixed up in it any more than you want me to. But somebody's got to get the Werewolf. I did it last time and I'll do it again, God willing. The thing has got to be put down once and for all.'

It was drizzling and a hill-mist threatened to cover the Black Hill when Gordon Hall arrived at the Llanadevy police station the next morning.

'Good of you to come, Hall,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford shook the journalist by the hand. 'I think you know everybody here. Detective-Sergeant Bayley, Sergeant Oliver, PC Winter.'

They all nodded. Each of them remembered the last time when they had gathered together in this small office. Their thoughts turned to those whose lives had been taken by the nightmare creature which they were now being called upon to track down for a second time. Peter Pike. Jennifer Hughes. They had died needlessly and horribly.

'I don't think I need to go into too much detail briefing you,' Ford spoke to the assembly. 'You are all conversant with the current happenings. This creature which we had presumed dead is now risen from the grave. It is evident that its body was resurrected by a like beast. The marks on the outside of the coffin show that it was prised open by the claws of some wild beast! Therefore, gentlemen, we can safely assume that we are dealing with two Werewolves!'

'Holy Mother!' Gordon Hall pursed his lips. 'Then where is the second one?'

'Presumably with the first,' Ford was a master of sarcasm. Find one and we find them both!'

Gordon Hall told them about his recent experience when the Werewolf had been prowling around his parked car. They listened in stunned silence.

'There's only one thing,' the journalist concluded, 'and it has only just dawned on me this very second. The Werewolf appeared by my car during the time whilst I was away shooting. Now I left before it was properly dark. So the creature was abroad in daylight! Legend has it, and we ourselves know from previous encounters, that this monster can only undergo its change during the hours of darkness. So now we are faced with one that rampages by day!'

There was a stunned silence.

'This would appear to be even more complicated than before,' Ford murmured. 'We cannot even be guided by the old legends. In no way shall we be able to predict the movements of our foes. I think though that we had better begin where we left off last time, at the home of Philip Owen. After all that's where it all began.'

Gwynne Owen was chopping firewood in the yard behind the house when the sleek Rover driven by Detective-Sergeant Bayley drew up alongside him. He straightened up slowly, turned, and scowled when he recognised Gordon Hall.

The four of them got out of the car. Still Gwynne Owen said nothing.

'We're sorry to trouble you again, Mr Owen,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford began, 'but as you know we are once again in the midst of a … er … manhunt. We thought that perhaps -'

'You'll find out nothin' here,' Gwynne Owen kicked aimlessly at a chunk of wood. 'We've seen our troubles here. Ain't we ever goin' to get any peace?'

'We hope to bring you that peace just as soon as we can, Mr Owen,' the Yard man went on. 'But these hills will never rest whilst there is a homicidal maniac at large.'

'You killed my Philip!' the old farmer's bony finger pointed at Gordon Hall. 'You think I'm goin' to forget that?'

Gordon shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He wished that they had never come here. Surely no clue to the whereabouts of the Werewolf (he still thought of it as a single creature) could be gleaned from this old man whose mind had been affected by the terrible events in which he had found himself involved.

The detectives were about to climb back into the car when they heard footsteps coming from behind the big barn and next second the brawny Tom Davies appeared on the scene.

'That's Tom Davies,' PC Winter whispered to his superiors. 'He lives here. Looks after the sheep.'

'Good morning,' Ford walked over to the youth who had stopped and was staring at them. 'We're police officers.'

'Chasin' the old Werewolf I suppose,' the youth grinned. 'Yuh don't really believe all that bloody rubbish do you?'

'We're keeping an open mind.' Ford's voice was terse and he at once took a dislike to old Gwynne Owen's arrogant assistant. 'We wondered if you might have seen anything up on the fields.'

'Sheep mostly,' the other grinned cheekily. 'A few rabbits, crows, pigeons.'

The policeman turned on his heel, an angry expression on his face.

'Hey!' Tom Davies appeared to realise that he'd gone too far with his arrogance. 'Maybe I can help you catch this here Werewolf!'

'Oh,' Ford stopped. 'You can, can you? What d'you know about it then?'

'Well, nothin' really,' Davies scratched his head. 'But mebbe I could keep my eyes open for you. Take a look around. See if I can find out where he's hidin' out.'

'You do that,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford's expression relaxed somewhat. 'We'll call on you if we need you, son. In the meantime if you see anything suspicious, no matter how unimportant it may seem to you, get in touch with us at once.'

'Cheeky sod!' Ford muttered to the others as they drove off. 'He might be of use all the same. In the meantime we'll call on Vic Gunn.'

Gordon Hall felt uneasy at his words. He had no wish to meet up with the taciturn farmer whom he had crossed swords with on their last meeting. Nevertheless it seemed inevitable that their paths would cross again.

Vic Gunn nodded sullenly as the four of them trooped into his kitchen. Margaret, still as fair and lovely as the last time Gordon had seen her, blushed slightly as she set eyes on the journalist. Gordon knew that her heart would be pounding as wildly as his. The old longing was still there. But would they be able to resist each other this time?

'It was just the same as it always was,' Vic mumbled in reply to the Scotland Yard man's question. 'The sight of young Morris lying there beside his car. Torn to shreds. Ripped open. No different from last time. It's the same creature all right!'

'Well, we've got to start somewhere,' Ford accepted the cup of tea which Margaret Gunn handed to him. 'Last time if you remember we tried to draw the Black Hill with the hounds. All that happened was that they got on the scent of foxes and the whole exercise was useless. However this time we're up against something slightly different. From information received it would seem that there are two Werewolves and that they can make the change from man to beast by day. Therefore our chances of finding them on the Hill are that much greater. I would like to organise a full scale search tomorrow in liaison with Mr Hall here and as many locals as can be mustered. Could you organise the farmers for me, Mr Gunn?'

'I suppose so,' Vic Gunn never showed much enthusiasm over such things. Most of all, though, he did not like the idea of having Gordon Hall in the vicinity again. 'I can get a few of them together. What time d'you want to start?'

'As early as possible,' the Yard man rose to his feet. 'Half past nine provided this damned hill-fog doesn't come down again. There'll be no point going out if we can't see where we are going I must stress that we are dealing with a dangerous enemy. All the mythical laws governing it now seem to have gone by the board. If it can operate by daylight then I don't see why a shotgun shouldn't stop it. Naturally I'd like to take the thing alive but we can't run any risks. I'm afraid it's going to be a case of shoot on sight!'

Vic Gunn followed the policemen out into the yard where their car was parked, standing chatting to them for a few moments. Margaret moved to the window where she could see them plainly. However there was only one of them in which she was interested. Gordon Hall. Her pulses raced and there was a familiar tingling in her lower regions. Then Vic was heading back towards the house and she quickly busied herself with chores at the other end of the room.

Gordon Hall left the Llanadevy police station shortly after four o'clock. Ford and Bayley would be engaged upon routine enquiries for the rest of the day and also make preparations for the large scale wolf-hunt planned for the next day.

The journalist had no other thought in his mind than to head back to the Midlands. Indeed he was looking forward to the relaxation of a long evening at home with Jean. However instead of turning left and taking the road back through Clungunford, he turned the steering wheel in the opposite direction, heading towards the Black Hill; and along the Gunn's farmhouse, yes but something more than that. Something which had suddenly become very erect inside his trousers. Something which brought home to him memories of the distant but not forgotten love.

Of course he would only drive past the farm. There would be no harm in that. He had plenty of time at his disposal. He would take the longer route home via Clun.

He saw the farm on his left. The muddy entrance. His eyes scanned the yard. It was empty. There was no sign of the mini pick-up truck belonged to Vic Gunn. Automatically the journalist's foot pressed down on the brake pedal, slowing the car down until finally it rolled to a halt on the wide grass verge.

He felt uncertain of himself. Tense. Once more he thought of Margaret. She would have need of a younger man just as she had done before. A man who would excite her. Satisfy her.

His feelings were beyond control now. Slowly he climbed out of the car and made his way in through the farm gateway.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARGARET Gunn could hardly believe her eyes when she saw Gordon Hall standing in the porch. Her expression was one of surprise ... yet something more than that even. Joy and ... fear.

'Gordon!' for one horrible moment she felt faint. 'Gordon ... you've ... come in.'

The journalist stepped into the large old-fashioned kitchen. His eyes automatically went to that part of the ceiling which still buckled in spite of having been replastered. He remembered the charge of buckshot which had caused that. The charge which might well have cut him in two had the Werewolf not put in a sudden appearance and diverted Vic Gunn's terrible rage.

Gordon lowered himself into a chair. His eyes took in Margaret noting her trim figure, small delightful breasts hidden only by a thin cotton blouse. As she seated herself her short skirt rode up an inch or two and his own hardness increased at the thought of that which had been his for a short time.

'Vic's away?' he couldn't keep the anxiety out of his voice.

'You know very well he is,' she smiled and her lips trembled. 'He's gone to help out at Morris' farm. They're in a terrible state over the boy ...'

Gordon did not want to discuss the Werewolf's latest victim at this moment. Just for a short spell he wanted to forget everything ... except Margaret Gunn.

'You're married now aren't you?' there was almost an accusing tone in her voice.

'Yes,' he replied. 'I'm married. Six months ago. Jean's expecting a baby.' Neither of them mentioned Margaret's baby which had died at birth. A boy who had resembled Gordon in looks. They could not forget but neither could they bring themselves to talk about it.

'You shouldn't be here,' she blushed again and glanced down at the quarried floor. 'You know damned well you shouldn't be here.'

'We were going away together once,' he fixed her with an unwavering stare. 'Just you and me. We never got round to it. Something went wrong.'

'It wouldn't have worked out,' she knew it was a lie. 'You can't up and leave just like that. There was too much at stake.'

'Maybe.' He stood up and walked over to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. 'But that doesn't alter the way two people feel.'

'I ... you shouldn't have come back,' he could feel her whole body trembling. 'You've got a wife and I've got a husband. There's too much involved. It's altogether too complicated.'

'That doesn't mean we have to break up two marriages,' the fingers of his left hand began to stroke her bare neck whilst his right slid beneath her arms and came to rest against one of those delicate breasts. 'You can't just forget people you love. No matter what situation you find yourself in.'

He leaned forward. His beard brushed her cheek but she made no move to draw away. Instead her face turned towards his, two lips parted in anticipation. He kissed her wildly and passionately, his tongue probing deep into her mouth. Her eyes closed, she quivered. He felt her left hand on his thigh, travelling upwards, inwards. Searching. Finding. The very contact, even through the material of his trousers, filled him with excitement. A desire to take this woman again as he had done before on several occasions.

'Is the view from the bedroom window still as beautiful?' he murmured, pulling her to her feet. She clung to him, pressing her body against his in sheer sexual desperation.

'You'd better come and see for yourself,' she replied turning from him for a moment to lock the kitchen door. Then, arms entwined around each other they made their way upstairs.

Gordon Hall found it difficult to believe that he was actually undressing Margaret Gunn again. Many times in his fantasies had he unfastened that bra to reveal her soft rounded breasts and slid her skirt and pants off laying bare the real beauty of her fully naked body. Yet it was no daydream. She lay back naked on the bed her eyes pleading with him to join her in nudity. He began to strip off.

At last he was wearing only a pair of navy blue briefs. In no way could they disguise what lay beneath. He towered above her, seeing her legs open slightly as if to tempt him still further.

Slowly, deliberately, he slid his trunks down. They fell to his ankles and he kicked them aside. Margaret reached out for him and he stepped closer so that he was within reach of her tender sensitive fingers. It was as though an electric current surged through him, starting right at the point of contact and then going to earth there a few seconds later.

With a sigh he rolled on to the bed alongside her, his tongue softly caressing her nipples. She snuggled closer to him and ran her fingers up and down his body sending shivers of warmth and comfort through him.

He rolled over in between her parted thighs. He almost laughed aloud as he remembered the inhibitions which she had shown on the first occasion when they had lain together. Now she was taking the initiative, rubbing herself against the tip of his throbbing desire, her bosom rising and falling with the excitement which it bringing her. No longer was he the master of the situation. She was teasing him by pulling him down to her lips and then as he anticipated a penetration pushing him back up again.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be led wherever she wanted him. Her body started to jerk, her legs windmilled wildly and then he felt himself being dragged deep inside her. A beautiful warmth enveloped him and they were rolling in harmony together on the bed, their minds oblivious to everything except their renewed passion for each other.

Afterwards they lay quietly together delighting in the nakedness and closeness of each other's body. It was different this time though. They did not talk of a future together, of ecstasy to be found in a permanent relationship.

Both of them were living for the present only. Perhaps they would make love together again one day when the opportunity presented itself. Perhaps not.

Very seldom did the Lurker operate during the daylight hours. It was not his way. He felt at a strong disadvantage in not having the darkness to cloak his nefarious activities. Yet sometimes it was necessary. Especially when he was snaring rabbits.

Snares had to be set by day. His keen and practised eye had to note the tracks leading from the woods to the fields where the rabbits ran. Not only that. He had to determine whether the runs were recent or not, the places where the coney paused before hopping through the rotting mesh to graze the lush green grass on the other side. It was far more difficult as the winter approached. No longer were there new shoots of bracken broken off by his quarry's frequent coming and goings to guide him. Even so to one of the Lurker's ability it offered no real obstacle. Even though he was unable to complete this task by night.

He glanced at the setting sun over the Radnorshire hills. He had roughly another hour left in which to set the remaining twenty snares. Fifty in all. Not a bad afternoon's work. He had an order for twenty rabbits to be collected on the next evening. He had never failed the butcher yet, but it was a risk all the same.

His vigil never relaxed as he went about his work. All the time his ears were picking up sounds that the average person would never even have heard. A hundred yards or more away a grey squirrel descended the trunk of a giant oak tree and foraged in the dying undergrowth after acorns. The poacher heard it and he could follow its movements with his ears as clearly as if he had been standing watching it.

The jays were silent today. That was a good thing. They were the watchdogs of the forest. If they started chattering then he would know there was somebody about. They rarely screeched when the Lurker was about. Mainly because they never saw or heard him.

He worked quickly and efficiently. His thoughts turned to Gordon Hall. He hated him even more than he did PC Winter. The policeman he held a grudge against simply because the man in the blue uniform represented the law. But with Hall it was different. The man was a ruthless swine. He showed no mercy towards poachers. The two lads from Clun who had appeared before the magistrates at Bishop's Castle had been doing nothing more than strolling on the Black Hill in the hope of a shot at the odd pigeon. Hall hadn't seen it that way. He'd rough-handled them and taken them down to the police station. It had cost them thirty pounds and their guns had been confiscated.

That was the type of man Gordon Hall was. The Lurker's hatred for him was deep. In fact he almost wished that the man in question would come strolling down the road. He chuckled at the thought and paused to caress the heavy catapult in his pocket. He had fetched many a pheasant down from its roost with that. Shot clean through the head at twenty paces. Hall would be an easy target. Straight between the eyes, the smooth round pebble burying itself deep in his skull.

With an effort the Lurker forced himself back to reality. Dusk was already falling and he would have to get a move on. Then at daybreak he would be back here to inspect the results of his work and to take the snares up again before somebody discovered them. He not only prided himself in his way of life but also in the fact that few people on whose land he poached ever suspected that he had been there at all.

Some thirty villagers and police officers were assembled outside the Llanadevy police station when Gordon Hall drove up the next morning shortly before half-past nine. The autumnal mist was already being dispelled by the rays of the morning sunshine on the peaks of the hills which surrounded the village.

'Looks like being a nice day,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford was in a good humour at the prospect of action.

'Needs to be,' Hall replied, letting Remus out of the back of the car and reaching inside for his gun. 'It's a bastard up there when it's wet.'

On foot the company set off. Gordon Hall fell into step with the two Scotland Yard men in the lead. Behind them almost every one of the farmers carried a gun of some description. Dogs of various breeds yapped and quarrelled amongst themselves. A casual onlooker might have been forgiven for thinking that he was witnessing a large shooting party sitting out for a day's sport. In some respects he would have been correct. Only this time the quarry was far more dangerous than the hunters.

'You'd better do the organising from here on,' Ford said to Gordon as they filed through the gateway which led to the forestry thickets of the Black Hill.

'It's a job to organise much at all in a place like this,' the journalist replied. 'The best we can do is to line out thirty yards apart and try and cover as much ground as we can. If anybody sees anything he fires a shot or if he isn't carrying a gun gives a shout. Then we'll all converge on that spot.'

The party began to space themselves out in a long straggling line. Vic Gunn was sullen. He hated the sight of Hall. More than that he rebelled at the thought of taking orders from him. Hell, he wasn't the fucking police! He fought to control himself. Maybe one day he'd get the chance to even the score with the bastard.

Tom Davies had no gun. Instead he carried a long ash stick bent into the shape of a shepherd's crook and a haversack containing his sandwiches was slung over his shoulder. He was no less arrogant than usual. He, too, disliked taking orders from anybody. He did not intend to obey any today either. He would please himself what he did. He was just curious to see how this rabble went about things. It was a break from his usual routine.

A whistle blew and they started to move off into the forest. Some of the dogs raced on ahead barking at the unexpected freedom. Owners yelled and cursed at them trying in vain to recall them. Tom Davies laughed aloud. Vic Gunn scowled.

Gordon Hall moved further over towards the flank with Remus trotting obediently at his heels. He knew that he would not do any good by keeping with the shouting, cursing majority. On his right were Ford and Bayley enjoying the rare experience of a long tramp in the hills. At least this case had some compensations.

The Lurker was well pleased with his morning. He had collected twenty-four rabbits out of his fifty snares. The sack slung over his shoulder grew increasingly heavier with every step he took and the necessity for brief rests was becoming more frequent. In the distance he could see Anthony's Quarry. Beyond that was the hidden track through the thickets which was a short cut down to Clun. He would be home by half past ten. He knew that in his younger days he would have been back in his cottage an hour ago. Lately though, a full scale rabbit-snaring foray was not accomplished so quickly. He knew that he was getting older.

Then he heard the barking of the dogs and the shouting below in the quarry. He pressed himself back into the trees. What the hell was going on? Whoever it was they were heading in his direction. Life had suddenly become very complicated for the Lurker.

Gordon Hall paused in the bottom of Anthony's Quarry waiting for the stragglers to catch up. He always felt uneasy in this place. It was damp and had an air of foreboding about it. The sun never fully penetrated to the depths of the old excavations. When out shooting he rarely came here. Not simply because of the ever present atmosphere of gloom but because wildlife never seemed to venture in here either.

As he stood there watching the approaching line of the search party he failed to see a pair of eyes watching him from the shelter of the shale and scrub far above him. Eyes that glinted with malevolence in those upper regions where the sun still shone.

CHAPTER SIX

'NOTHING doing so far, obviously,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford was breathing heavily after the steep climb up to Anthony's Quarry. Only Gordon Hall and Detective-Sergeant Bayley appeared to be unaffected by the rigours of the foray so far out of the small group which assembled in the shadows of these deep slate excavations. Men and dogs could be heard crashing through the undergrowth way down the slope.

'We'd better hang on here for a bit,' Ford said. 'Give everybody a chance to catch up. Things seem to have got a bit disorganised.'

The three of them, now joined by PC Winter, were grateful for the opportunity of a smoke. Pipes and cigarettes were produced.

At the very summit of the steepest shale slope, directly in line with where they stood, rested a huge boulder. Obviously it had been unearthed in the days when slate had been quarried here and being of no interest to the quarrymen it had remained on this precarious perch ever since. Moss had grown over it and its balance was preserved by a few slender broom trees which had grown up around it. It was from behind this that the pair of eyes filled with hatred regarded the men down below.

A small piece of shale rolled down the slope, gathering speed and loosened others on its way. A miniature avalanche, Hall looked up. Maybe a rabbit had been lying out on the upper slopes and had moved on when it noticed the party below, dislodging a few stones. Even a smaller creature. A mouse or a vole.

Something else caught his eye. A movement like a tree swaying slightly in the wind. Barely noticeable. He looked away but some sixth sense made him glance back again. Somewhere, something was wrong. His eyes scanned the hillside again trying to work out in his mind what it was that was out of character with the scene presented to him.

Everywhere was so still. What was it that had moved sufficiently to attract his attention?

'Look out!' he yelled the warning the moment it registered in his brain that five ton boulders are not susceptible to soft breezes. 'That boulder's coming down!'

Even as the journalist shouted the boulder began to topple. It leaned forward on the ledge where it had balanced in all weathers for almost half a century and then began to roll forward. It bounced. Rolled again. Bounced. Almost like a slow motion film. As it careered down the steep slope pieces of slate, stones and larger rocks followed in its wake.

'Run like hell!' Bayley snapped.

The four of them sprang into instant action. Those who had just appeared out of the trees below stood watching in horror. It was indeed fortunate that Gordon Hall had spotted the first sign of movement from behind the boulder otherwise he and the three policemen would have been buried alive beneath the rubble or else crushed to death as the large rock hit the bottom of Anthony's Quarry with unbelievable force.

They just made it to the trees in time with fragments of stone and slate showering down around their heels. The hillside rumbled as more slate moved and slid.

'My God!' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford was shaken. 'What the hell happened?'

'That avalanche was started,' Gordon Hall snapped. 'It was deliberately started in an attempt to wipe the four of us out. It nearly succeeded too.'

'The Werewolf?' Ford asked.

'Look. Up there!' All three of them turned to see a form, scrambling to safety through the gorse and broom. Following Gordon Hall's pointing finger they were just in time to see it turn and gaze back down at them.

'It's the Werewolf!' Bayley gasped.

The misshapen figure was poised on the skyline above them. Dropping down on to all fours it waved a paw in defiance. Its fangs were bared.

The crash of Hall's twelve-bore was deafening down in the quarry. More small pieces of slate were dislodged by the charge of No. 4 pellets which showered around the creature on the top of the quarry. Then it was gone. Loping off into the woods behind.

'Too far, I'm afraid,' Gordon Hall muttered, pausing to reload his gun. 'Even if I hit him he wouldn't feel it any more than if somebody was using a pea-shooter. Well that shot ought to bring everybody converging on the quarry and - then we'll have to set to systematically and try and track it down.'

'What yer shootin' at?' Tom Davies appeared out of a thicket on their left.

'Werewolf,' Hall snapped. 'We'll hang on until everybody's here and then we'll make a detour to bring us up behind the quarry and try to get on its trail.'

Within five minutes everybody was clambering over the slate and rock dislodged by the avalanche but it was a full quarter of an hour before they reached the place where they had last seen the creature.

'This type of terrain isn't good for tracks or scents,' Hall was busily trying to get Remus interested. 'I guess we'll just have to split up and carry on searching as before. One thing, though, we do know that the Werewolf isn't very far away this time!'

'There's blood here!' it was Tom Davies who made the discovery. Ford and Bayley rushed over to where the youth was pointing down to some drops of scarlet fluid which showed up plainly on the dull grey of the slate surface.

'Seems you hit him after all, Hall,' Bayley straightened up. 'Look, there's a trail of blood leading into that thicket there. The Werewolf can't be far away and he's wounded too!'

They set off, now less than ten yards apart. It was almost as if they sought safety in bunching together, Hall thought as he turned to look back at them. Obviously some of these hill-farmers would have welcomed any excuse to have turned round and gone back home. It was a pleasant way of spending a day, searching for a Werewolf that probably didn't exist anyway, but once it was proved that the creature was in the immediate vicinity it was a different matter altogether!

Suddenly two of the dogs whined and began to run forward. Three more followed them. Remus looked to his master for the signal to 'hi-loss' but Gordon Hall motioned to him to remain at heel. They were close to the Werewolf now judging by the eagerness with which the other dogs had bolted off on the scent and he wasn't going to have his faithful shooting companion maimed or killed if they succeeded in cornering the creature.

The dogs hurried towards a dense belt of conifers. Without hesitation they plunged into it. Gordon saw two more pools of blood on the ground. He eased the safety catch off his gun. He heard the clicking of hammers as more weapons were cocked. The men stood back. With the exception of Remus all dogs were in. It was only a question of time now.

Suddenly the air was filled with a terrific barking and snarling. One dog yelped in pain. More growling. A threshing of undergrowth.

'My God! They've got 'im!' Hall turned to the two Scotland Yard men. 'We'll have to go in there ourselves!'

The journalist ran forward ducking under the low branches of the outer trees. It was gloomy within for the conifers were planted close together and the sunlight only filtered through in places.

Ten yards further on he could see the dogs. There were ten or a dozen of them milling around. One had a torn ear which was bleeding. Yet there was no sign of the Werewolf. The dogs appeared to be fighting amongst themselves.

'Where is it?' Ford was at his shoulder. 'What's going on? Where's the Werewolf?'

Gordon Hall did not reply. He could not understand it. The collies and mongrels still fought, One in particular seemed to be holding the rest at bay. A cross between a sheepdog and an Alsatian. It had something lying at its feet which it was desperately trying to defend. Torn grey fur and mangled flesh and blood.

'It's ... it's a bloody rabbit!' Gordon Hall cried. 'They're all fighting over a rabbit!'

'What!' Ford stared. So did Bayley. Men came crashing through the undergrowth on hearing Hall's statement.

'A rabbit! Where'd they get that?'

The fighting broke out again and finally it was a terrier who nipped in, seized what was left of the coney and darted off somewhere to feast in peace. Men and dogs looked at each other.

'Well it was no rabbit you fired at up on top of the quarry,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford muttered.

'No,' Hall replied. 'That was our Werewolf right enough which only goes to prove how diabolically cunning the thing is. He dropped a rabbit deliberately to throw the dogs off the scent once he saw that his attempt to kill us had failed.'

'Just caught 'im like that!' Tom Davies snapped his fingers in the air. 'In trouble so he summons up a rabbit. Out of a bloody hat I suppose!'

Nobody answered him because nobody knew.

'Well, that's it for today,' Gordon Hall turned to make his way back to the ride. 'I guess we're just wasting our time by searching any more. Wherever the Werewolf was heading he's there by now. We'd better make our way back to Llanadevy. We can cut across Vic Gunn's fields. That's the shortest route from here.'

Vic Gunn scowled. He did not like Gordon Hall on his land at any time for any reason.

Twenty minutes later the party of searchers clambered over the five-barred gate on to Vic Gunn's topmost sheep field. The sun was warm. A flock of sheep grazing peacefully began to move away unhurriedly.

'Well they haven't caught a scent of any Werewolf,' Hall murmured to himself.

By now almost all the dogs were under control. Remus trotted steadily at Gordon's side. He too thought it was all rather disappointing and boring. A lovely day like this and all that they had found had been one dead rabbit. Not even a cock pheasant.

Suddenly his nose lifted into the air. A front paw was raised as he came to an abrupt halt.

'What is it boy?' Gordon Hall's upraised hand brought everybody to a standstill. Remus had found a scent alongside the tall straggling hawthorn hedge.

'A rabbit most likely,' Tom Davies guffawed. 'Another dead 'un probably, Mister Hall. Ain't we wasted enough time today? I've got work to do even if you ain't.'

'Shut up!' Gordon Hall snapped over his shoulder. 'It's no rabbit. He's pointing like he's never ever done before. Whatever it is, it's in this hedge!'

Once more safety catches and hammers clicked. Remus remained poised for possibly ten seconds and then with a sudden bound he leapt to the stools of the hedge disappearing into a bed of long grass and golden bracken. He began scratching at the ground with his paws.

'What's going on?' Gordon muttered parting the undergrowth in attempt to see what Remus was doing. 'Hey, boy, what's up?'

Remus was digging frantically at the bottom of a small hollow. Soil flew in all directions. Yet it was no rabbit burrow which he was attempting to dig out. He was standing on a rough rectangle of recently disturbed earth, the softness of it making his task that much easier.

'Somebody's been digging in here!' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford pushed his way to Gordon's side closely followed by Detective-Sergeant Bayley.

There's something fishy here,' the Yard man went on. 'Any suggestions Gunn?'

'Not a clue,' Vic Gunn stepped forward. 'I've not been up this corner of the field since lambing finished last spring.'

'Well somebody has,' Ford snapped. 'Whatever's buried down there has been buried deep. The dog won't be able to go much further. We'll need a spade.'

'I'll go down to the house and get one,' Vic offered with a puzzled expression on his face. 'It'll take me about quarter of an hour. You'll have to hang on.'

The search party sat down to wait. Gordon Hall called a reluctant Remus to heel. He did not want the dog to get into the habit of digging out rabbit burrows. Such practices are not conducive to good gundog training.

They sat down on the grass and watched Vic Gunn disappearing over the brow of the hill. After a few minutes Tom Davies stood up.

'Wal,' he looked at the two Scotland Yard men, 'I'll have to be goin' I'm afraid. There's stock to be fed and I can't sit around here all day whilst you lot dig holes and fill 'em in again.'

'We know where to find you if we want you,' Ford snapped, not bothering to look up at the youth. Tom Davies slouched away.

It was fully twenty minutes before Vic Gunn returned puffing and panting after his long climb up the hillside. A large spade was slung over his shoulder.

'Here,' one of the younger farmers stepped forward. 'Let me have a dig.'

The man climbed down into the hollow and at once began to scoop out great spadefuls of earth, flinging them on to the mound which Remus had already started to build. Everybody pressed forward eagerly. There was something eerie about the whole business. Every one of them experienced a sense of foreboding. Nothing good could come of it all.

Suddenly the spade wedged against something with a dull thud.

'Somethin' 'ere,' the digger exclaimed and bent down to clear the soil away from his hand. Next second he recoiled with a look of horror on his face, staggering back against the side of the hole. His eyes were wide with terror.

'There's ... there's ... a body in 'ere,' he yelled. 'An' it's all bin cut up into little pieces!'

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT took some seconds for the farmer's words to dawn on the watchers. Then, as one, they pushed forward, necks craning in an attempt to see down into the hole.

'I'm gettin' outa here,' the man threw his spade to one side and clawed feverishly at the sides of the hole. 'I ain't stoppin' down there ... with that!' Willing hands pulled him to the surface.

'Let me look,' Ford knelt on the brink of the excavations and peered down. Bayley and Gordon Hall joined him. PC Winter and Sergeant Oliver did their best to keep the rest of the party back.

'It's a body all right,' Ford breathed. 'And it's all been chopped up into small pieces. Look there's a hand, a foot, that must be the head still covered with soil in that corner.'

A smell of putrefying flesh assailed their nostrils.

'It certainly ain't fresh,' somebody commented. Several of them began to back away.

'Stand back,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford snapped. 'I'm going down there.'

He jumped down and paused for a second to regain his balance. There was an expression of eagerness on his face. Their day had not been wasted after all. He picked up his spade and began to scrape some of the soil back. The flesh on the dismembered hand and foot had decayed and in parts the bone was visible. He wrinkled his nose. Then he began prodding at the larger object still covered by earth. It rolled to one side. A gasp came from those above as they saw the torn sinews and broken neck bone. It was a head right enough.

More gently this time Ford began scraping. The remains of what had once been a human face was revealed. The lips had rotted away. Rows of uneven teeth grinned up at them. Empty eye sockets. Gaping nostrils.

'My God!' Gordon Hall gripped Bayley by the arm. 'Do you recognise who it is sarge? It's.., it's Philip Owen!'

The men surged forward again jostling each other in their attempts to look down on to the last rotting remains of the Shropshire Werewolf.

'It's him all right!' one of them muttered. 'There's no mistakin' the bastard even after he's bin buried a year and cut up like a joint o' meat into the bargain.'

Somebody began to vomit. Others drew back now that they had seen the full horror of it all.

'What's this?' Ford kicked something beneath the soil which clicked against the toe of his heavy walking boot. Whatever it was it was certainly not a part of the dismembered corpse. With the edge of his spade he began to clean the cloying soil from it. Steel scraped on steel.

'It's a meat cleaver!' the detective exclaimed. 'The blade's all buckled and twisted. This was what was used to hack the body up!'

'Hey!' Vic Gunn stepped forward, a look of amazement on his face. 'That's … that's my cleaver. Always kept it in the dairy. Noticed yesterday that it was missing. Thought maybe I'd put it somewhere and forgotten where I'd put it ...'

'Is that so?' there was a gleam in Ford's eyes as Gordon Hall helped him up out of the grave. A look that had boded ill for many a murderer in the past. 'Is that so, Mr Gunn?' 'Very interesting. Not only has the body been found on your land but your meat cleaver has been used to dismember it. I shall have to ask you to accompany us to Llanadevy police station.'

'What d'you mean?' the realisation of the police officer's words suddenly dawned on Vic Gunn. There was a note of panic in his voice. 'You don't think I bloody well cut 'im up do you?'

'I didn't say that,' Ford snapped. 'But naturally we shall have to ask you a few questions. Now, PC Winter, if you will remain oh guard here until we get the CID out.'

Ford and Bayley positioned themselves on either side of Vic Gunn with Sergeant Oliver walking behind. The rest of the farmers huddled together into a group conversing amongst themselves in low tones. Gordon Hall found himself standing alone, Remus looking up at him with a quizzical expression on his canine face.

Hall shook his head in bewilderment. Matters were becoming too complicated.

The Lurker grinned when he heard the van draw up outside his cottage shortly after darkness had fallen. He lumbered towards the door in anticipation of the knocking.

'Well.' there was a note of urgency in the butcher's face as he stepped over the threshold wrinkling his nose at the unsavoury aroma which greeted him. 'Did you get 'em?'

'Yep,' there was pride in the poacher's reply. 'Twenty-four o' the little bastards. Every one snared. Not one pellet amongst the lot of 'em.'

The butcher gazed at the hessian sack bulging with rabbit carcases which lay in the corner.

'Good,' he rubbed his bony hands together. 'The bloke's comin' for 'em in the morning. I'd better just count 'em to be sure.'

'Don't you trust me?' The Lurker's eyes narrowed and his heavy jaw jutted out. His huge fists clenched.

'No, no, it ain't that,' the other stepped back a pace in alarm. 'I know you wouldn't try to twist me Lurker but well … your arithmetic ain't what it used to be. You said so yerself.'

'Please yersen,' the Lurker grunted and shuffled back to his chair in front of the fire.

The butcher tipped the dead rabbits out into a heap on the floor. Then kneeling down he began dropping them back into the sack one at a time, counting aloud as he did so.

Twenty-one … twenty-two … twenty-three …' he stopped as he realised that there were no more. 'Hey, there's only twenty-three.'

'Never!' the Lurker turned round scowling. 'There's twenty-four I tell you.'

'Come and count 'em with me,' the butcher up-ended the sack and the rabbits tumbled over the floor once more.

With a curse the Lurker came over to him and together they began putting the dead coneys back into the sack again.

'Twenty-three!' there was triumph in the butcher's expression as he turned to his companion. 'See. What did I tell yer?'

'All right,' the poacher grunted. 'Twenty-three it is. There wuz twenty-four though. I'd swear to it. Where's the last one gone then?'

The other opened his wallet and began counting out some crumpled and taped pound notes. He failed to notice the look in the Lurker's eyes. It was possibly as well for him that he didn't.

'Where's Vic?' Margaret Gunn was surprised to see Gordon Hall arriving back at the farm on his own.

'He's down at the police station,' Hall replied stepping inside the kitchen. 'He may be some time.'

'Why? What on earth's going on?' she sensed that something had happened. 'What's Vic got to do with this business anyway?'

'We found the Werewolf,' he slipped a comforting arm around her waist and pulled her to him. 'The original one I mean. Philip Owen. Hacked to pieces and buried along the hedgerow in the top field by the Black Hill. The meat cleaver which had cut him up was buried with him. It was one from out of your dairy!'

'Oh no!' she cried pressing her face to his chest. 'How horrible. But - but surely they don't think that Vic could have ...'

'No', he kissed her on the forehead. 'Of course not. But they've got to start making investigations.'

He grimaced when he thought of Ford. The Yard man was prepared to suspect anybody and everybody. Vic Gunn would be just a number to him. And he would be treated as such.

'Where were you on the night of October 24th between sunset and sunrise?' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford looked tight-lipped across the desk at Vic Gunn.

'In bed,' Vic shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like this interrogation one little bit.

'You went to bed at eight o'clock then?' Only Ford's eyes betrayed the sarcasm behind his question.

'Er, no,' Vic felt his stomach muscles tightening. 'Of course not, nearer eleven I'd say.'

'What did you do between eight and eleven then?'

'Have to think - er - yes, I believe I did some repairs to machinery out in the barn.'

'Can you prove that you were there the whole time?'

'Well, no... my wife was in the house.'

'But that is of no consequence,' ford was drumming with his fingers on his knee and his whole attitude was one of self satisfaction. 'A body was taken from a grave on the night of October 24th. You have no alibi to your whereabouts at the time. That same body was found buried on your land today. Your cleaver was found in the hole with the mutilated body. Very interesting.'

'Surely to God you don't think I had anything to do with it?' Vic Gunn rose from his chair in desperation. 'Good God man! What about young Morris? There's a murderer at large. A Werewolf!'

'And where were you on the night of October 31st?' Ford's smile was glib.

'I went to a National Farmer's Union meeting at Knighton,' the farmer retorted.

'Did anybody accompany you?'

'No, I went alone.'

'So therefore you would pass by the spot where Morris was found on the road adjoining the Black Hill?'

'Yes, but ... '

'I'm afraid Mr Gunn,' Chief Detective-Inspector Ford turned to Bayley, 'I shall have to detain you for a while whilst we make further enquiries.'

'You mean - ' Yic gasped, 'You mean you're going to lock me up?'

Detective Sergeant Bayley's hand fell on his shoulder.

'They want me down at the police station,' Margaret Gunn's face was white as she replaced the receiver and turned to face Gordon Hall. 'They won't say what it is but there's something wrong. I know it.'

'I'll run you down,' Gordon stood up. 'Don't worry. We both know that Vic isn't to blame for what happened to Philip Owen's body. But the fact remains that the Werewolf is still free and unless I miss my guess he'll strike again before very long!'

When Gordon and Margaret arrived at the Llanadevy police station PC Winter and the CID officers had returned from the hills also. Darkness had already fallen.

Vic Gunn was sitting in a small room with Bayley and Sergeant Oliver. His face was white and he looked distraught.

'Ah, Mrs Gunn,' Ford followed them in through the door. 'I'm afraid I'll have to detain your husband overnight. Certain questions have to be answered and until they have been ...'

Ominously, he left the sentence unfinished.

'Then I'd like to stay here,' Margaret was determined.

'Well, ... um ...'

'My wife will be only too happy to put Mrs Gunn up overnight,' PC Winter stated.

Gunn's farm was in total darkness. There was an air of desolation about it. The old collie, which had always been allowed the freedom of the place ever since it was a pup, was disturbed. It sensed something unusual. Even when its owners went visiting in the evenings the porch light was always left on.

The dog's ears pricked up. Footsteps. Coming down the lane and turning in through the gateway. It whined softly and moved to the side of the big hay barn. Then a low growl began deep down in its throat and its hackles started to rise.

A fetid smell reached its nostrils. Like stale sweat and urine. The footsteps were closer now, sounding more like a rake being dragged over rough ground. Wheezing breaths. Pausing every so often.

The collie began to edge forwards on its stomach. The sky was overcast and everywhere was pitch black. It would have to rely on scent.

Closer now. Five yards away. Something big. Smelling of evil! The dog trembled. Its tail crept between its legs. Yet loyalty to Vic and Margaret would not allow it to flee. It knew it had to defend the house. It leapt into the air, fangs seeking some fleshy throat into which they could sink deeply. Then it came into contact with a mass of rough hair and skin that was tougher than leather. It bit but made no impression. An answering growl. A sudden rush of air that heralded a mighty stunning blow sent it spinning senseless to the ground. Grunting. Shuffling. Razor-sharp claws located the still form and then began ripping ruthlessly.

The back door was unlocked. Those same wicked claws still dripping with canine blood pushed it open. Red eyes glowed in the darkness with hate and lust.

The Werewolf moved remarkably stealthily for one so cumbersome. Without hesitation it headed for the stairs and began mounting them a step at a time. Scarcely even a wheeze.

The bedroom door swung back noiselessly. The creature paused. Gloating. Vic Gunn was at the police station. It knew that much. That was a pity. Another prey had been denied it. But the girl would be here. Defenceless. A terrible death, but something else first!

Claws groped at the bed. Eyes glowed again with lust. Something was wrong. Sheets and pillows neatly arranged. The bed was empty. The woman was not here!

Uncontrollable rage surged over the creature. Sharp claws ripped indiscriminately. Sheets were torn to shreds. Furniture overturned and slashed. Back downstairs again. Crockery was smashed. Chairs splintered. Dying embers glowed in the grate. A small coal shovel stood in the hearth. Clumsily the Werewolf picked it up. It was awkward to handle. Deep down into the remnants of the fire. Embers that burned with new life were scattered to all four corners of the room. A smell of smouldering. Then flames began to lick hungrily at the furniture.

With a snarl the Werewolf lurched out into the frosty night air.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BY dawn Gunn's farm was nothing more than a, smouldering ruin, but the rafters were still burning.

A figure made its way down the lane. Tom Davies. He did not hurry. He could see that the need for urgency was past. Nobody could have seen the blaze. The Black Hill would have screened it from Llanadevy. Had he or Gwynne Owen chanced to look out they would no doubt have noticed it. But they never looked out after nightfall.

He could hear a car coming in the distance. Slowing up at all the bends. He wondered idly who it might be. It didn't matter. They couldn't do much anyway. He saw the dog. It was virtually ripped in half, its bowels strewn across the yard. Serve the bastard right. It had nipped his heels more than once. Chased cars too.

He heard the car slowing up and turning into the yard. Gordon Hall. The bastard was early this morning.

'What happened?' the journalist leapt out of his car leaving the engine running.

'Looks like a fire,' the youth stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaned nonchalantly up against the wall of the cowshed.

'You must have seen it from your place,' Hall felt like slapping him across the face.

'Didn't look,' Davies replied.

Suddenly Gordon Hall noticed the dead sheepdog. In a trice he was on his knees beside it. The mutilations were only too familiar. So too were the bloody claw marks in the soft mud round about.

'The Werewolf,' Hall snarled. 'This is his work. He's been here in the night!'

'I'll leave you to it then,' Tom Davies straightened up and began to walk back towards the lane. 'Nothin' anybody can do here now.'

Vic and Margaret Gunn, the Scotland Yard officials and PC Winter listened aghast as Gordon Hall related what he had found at the farm.

'It's very fortunate that the two of them spent the night here,' Gordon concluded, 'otherwise,' he tactfully did not go on.

'But why,' Margaret sobbed. 'Why? What have we done to deserve the attentions of such a nightmarish creature? Oh, poor old Bunty! Our home. Our belongings, everything. What are we going to do?'

'I'm sure we can arrange accommodation for you in the meantime,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford was sympathetic for once. 'I'm not going to hold you here any longer Mr Gunn. It is quite obvious that a dangerous foe is amidst us. Possibly living right here in this very village. I must ask you not to leave the district though.'

'We aren't likely to do that,' Vic Gunn replied. 'But where we're going to go beats me.'

'I'll have a word with Dick Morris and his wife,' PC Winter suggested. 'Naturally they're very grief-stricken after the loss of their son. They've got a fairly large farmhouse too. I'm sure they would be only too pleased for you to stay there.'

Ford nodded his agreement and the constable left the room to make the necessary arrangements.

'Now,' the Yard man lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, 'the case has altered considerably. We now know that there is after all only one Werewolf. Only ever has been in fact. He stole the body of Philip Owen from the churchyard, and after mutilating it, buried it up on Gunn's field where but for the keen nose of Mr Hall's dog it would have gone unnoticed. Why? He killed young Morris. Why? He visited and burned down the Gunn farmstead. Why? If we knew the answer to those questions we should have little difficulty in tracing him.'

The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver.

'Yes, yes. Alright. I'll talk to you at midday. Yes, here at Llanadevy police station.'

He replaced the receiver.

'That was the Press again,' he sighed. 'I will have to make a statement to them today again. I'm afraid they're becoming rather impatient though. Again I shall have to report that we've made no progress although we are following several leads. Likewise the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard will be expecting me to 'phone him this afternoon. Somehow, gentlemen, we've got to get this Werewolf - quickly.'

As the meeting broke up PC Winter returned to say that Mr and Mrs Morris would be only too pleased to have Vic and Margaret for as long as they cared to stay.

'I'll run you over there,' Gordon volunteered.

Vic Gunn nodded his thanks. Maybe this guy Hall wasn't such a bad feller as he had thought all along.

As the three of them walked outside to where Gordon's car was parked, a man who had been watching from across the road stepped back into the shelter of the porch of the 'Red Lion'. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a narrow line.

The Lurker had never hated any man quite so much as he hated Gordon Hall.

By the following day all the hotels in Clun, Knighton and as far afield as Shrewsbury and Ludlow were fully booked with hopeful journalists and sensation-seekers. The Werewolf had now become of national interest.

The influx of people brought personal concern to Gordon Hall. No longer was his beloved Black Hill a sanctuary for wildlife in general whilst providing him with some good shooting. Disturbance was rife. People wandered up there at all times of the day and night, trespassing on the adjoining farmland as well.

Still Gordon continued to make the daily round trip of 140 miles. Autumn slipped unobtrusively into winter and with November came the first fall of snow turning the Shropshire/Welsh hills into a white wonderland.

The Werewolf appeared to have gone to ground. Even the snow showed no signs of his activities and the full moon came and went uneventfully.

'Logically I suppose I should return to London and leave the matter in the hands of the local Force,' Ford sighed one afternoon when Gordon Hall called in at the murder headquarters at Llanadevy, 'but you remember what happened last time. The Assistant Commissioner seems happy for me to stay on here. Both he and I feel that sometime the Werewolf will strike again. Perhaps then he will make a slip which will lead to his downfall. Perhaps after Christmas I shall be tempted to return. Who knows?'

The renovation of Gunn's farmhouse was well under way by December. Indeed they had hopes of moving back in by the end of January. Life in the hills returned almost to normal. Except for the cloud of uncertainty and suspicion that hung over the tiny rural population of Llanadevy. Few people ventured far afield after dark. People glanced uneasily about them as they went about their daily tasks. They remembered how the seemingly harmless exterior of Philip Owen had hidden the personality of a dangerous wild beast. None trusted even their oldest and closest friends. The longer the Werewolf remained inactive the greater the tension became. The slow burning fuse was lit. It was just a question of when the explosion would come.

For the Lurker the advent of Christmas meant the demands on his wares reached a peak. Prices were at their highest. Every night that he did not set forth on a poaching expedition was a loss of revenue.

The December full moon shone between the scudding snow clouds as he slipped away from his cottage and taking advantage of every available patch of shadow and cover, headed in the direction of the Black Hill.

The old Ford Prefect crawled slowly through the lanes. As it topped the rise and the two occupants saw the snowy outline of the Black Hill a mile or so ahead of them, the driver switched off the lights. The whiteness of the recent light fall of snow and the light from the full moon beyond the Hurst Wood enabled them to see the countryside around them quite clearly.

Both of them were in their late twenties, the one tall and lean, the other much shorter and carrying more weight than was good for him. They wore white sweaters with woollen hats to match. Both had moustaches and long hair. A definite breed. Outdoor workers to whom the elements meant nothing. On the back seat of the vehicle lay two twelve-bore shotguns. Fully loaded.

The tall one was driving, his companion scanning the fields to left and right the whole time. On the floor at their feet lay a dead hare, the blood from the ugly wound in its head seeping into the worn carpet.

'Sod all about tonight,' he muttered to the driver. 'One fucking hare in two hours. You'd think the fields would be full of 'em.'

'Huh!' the other grunted. 'Reckon we'd do worse than give the Black Hill a try. When I was a kid there used to be plenty o' pheasants roostin' in the Cwm Wood. A night like this you'd be able to see 'em up in the trees.'

'Never liked that bloody place,' his companion muttered. 'Used to keep clear of it. Tales about them there Black Dogs. Gives you the creeps. Now there's all this business about the ruddy Werewolf. I don't like the place one bit, Reuben.'

'Bleedin' nonsense,' Reuben laughed. 'Some bloody loony with a kink. If 'e's about we got guns ain't we? Blow the bastard's guts out. Don't start gettin' windy Frank. We come out to get some shootin' tonight We'll look a right couple o' twits goin' home with one bloody hare between us.'

Frank lapsed into a sullen silence. He knew it was futile to argue. Reuben was the boss on forays of this sort and if he said they were going on to the Black Hill then that's where they were going.

A few minutes later the tyres crunched on the crisp snow just inside the main entrance to the Forestry Commission thickets, and came to a stop.

'Right,' Reuben opened his door and got out. 'Come on Frank. It's too bleedin' cold to 'ang about.'

There was complete silence all round them as they set off.

'There's bloody nothin' here,' said Frank, trying to think of any excuse to return to the car.

'Give it a fuckin' chance,' Reuben snarled in a hoarse whisper. 'We ain't gone more'n a couple o' hundred yards yet. We gotta get right down to the Cwm before we see owt. And quit yappin' or we bloody well won't see nothin'.'

Frank eased the safety catch forward on his gun. He felt more secure like that. All the same he kept glancing behind him every few yards. He had no intention of being taken by surprise.

The Lurker moved soundlessly through the tall trees in the Cwm Wood, testing the snow in front of him with his foot at each step before putting his full weight on it. He could not take the chance of any twigs cracking. They would sound like pistol shots on a night such as this.

In his 'hare' pocket a cock and hen pheasant lay in a crumpled ball of feathers. They had been gleaned from the Hurst Wood on the steep climb up from Clun. Two shots. Two kills. His eye was as good as ever and Little Bess never let him down. Maybe someone would have heard the shots. But that did not matter. The Lurker never lingered long in one place after he had fired, whether he hit or missed. That was the secret of how he had kept out of the clutches of the law for so long. Keep on the move.

He saw the cock pheasant huddled in the topmost branches of the gigantic beech tree, pressed back against the trunk. A less experienced eye would have missed it and the bird would have remained thus until the danger was past.

He grinned. A gift from the gods. The moonlight flashed on the smooth steel barrels of the .410 as they centred on the roosting pheasant. A pause to steady himself. Barely a touch on the hair trigger. A sharp crack. A cloud of feathers and then the bird thudded down into the soft snow beneath.

The Lurker bent down and picked it up. A fine specimen. It joined the others in the deep pocket. He moved on.

'That was a shot!' Frank who was in the lead down the narrow path pulled up abruptly and Reuben cannoned into him.

'Of course it was a bloody shot!' Reuben hissed. 'We ain't the only ones at this game. Somebody' knockin' the pheasants out of the Cwm Wood, blast 'em. Ain't no use in goin' there now. Reckon we might as well head back up towards them sheep fields we passed. It's a good place to pick up a hare or two.'

'Bloody hares,' his companion muttered as they began to retrace their steps. 'I thought we came here after pheasants.'

'Aw wrap up!'

Even Reuben's enthusiasm was waning.

Something moved deep into the thickets as they gained the brow of the hill. Silence underfoot but branches were being brushed to one side.

'What's that?' Frank swung round, his gun at the ready.

'Badger ... or a fox.'

'Badgers and foxes don't 'ave to push branches aside.'

They were both uneasy now. Then they saw the snow covered fields beyond the boundary fence.

'What's up with them sheep?' Frank pointed with the barrels of his gun to the far corner of the first field where a dozen or so ewes were frantically trying to break through the thick hedge. Their distressed cries were now filling the night air.

'Maybe a dog's roamin' about.' Reuben's explanation lacked conviction. They both knew it.

Suddenly Frank seized him by the arm.

'There!' his whisper was hoarse.' 'Agin this near hedge. Some guy's killin' a bloody sheep. Oh my God! See 'is face Frank. It's the bleedin' Werewolf 'isself!'

CHAPTER NINE

THE two men froze with terror. Less than thirty yards away a scene was being enacted which threatened to blast their sanity to the point of no return. It was the Werewolf all right. Thick matted hair covered a huge body which crouched on all fours beside the carcase of a dead sheep. All around the snow was stained with fresh blood as wicked claws ripped and tore at the creature's belly with demoniacal fury. A face that glanced alternately at the full moon above and back at the inhuman mutilation.

Entrails were scattered. The ewe's throat was torn and the blood still pumped freely. Again the Werewolf delved deep pulling out still more entrails which it scattered round about.

'We ... gotta ... get away.' Frank turned his head and began to throw up.

'We could shoot the bastard,' Reuben half raised his gun, thought better of it, and lowered it again. 'Might turn on us if we didn't kill it. C'mon. Back to the car.'

Keeping low in case the fearful beast should happen to notice them they set off at a run. Several times they slipped on the snowy ridges, picking themselves up, ignoring their cuts and bruises, their panic mounting by the second.

Yet there was no pursuit. Either the Werewolf preferred sheep's flesh or else it had not been aware of their presence. The freezing night air tortured their lungs, their breath coming in great gulps, vomiting as they ran.

Their sighs of relief were audible as they at last saw the Ford Prefect standing motionless just off the narrow road.

'Made it!' Frank began to laugh hysterically. 'We beat the bastard!'

'What's this?' With a cry of dismay Reuben dropped to his knees aghast in front of the car. His panic began to rise again. All four tyres had been slashed to ribbons and the vehicle was resting on its wheel rims.

'Some bastard's slashed the tyres,' he shook his fist in the air in uncontrollable rage.

'The Werewolf,' Frank looked nervously about him. 'He done it to hold us here. So's we couldn't escape!'

'Rubbish!' the other snarled. 'How could he? He's up on the bloody fields. A mile away. Maybe more.'

'He coulda done it on the way up,' Frank argued.

Reuben did not reply. Anything was a possibility on this night of madness and terror.

'Well we can't use the car,' he tried to pull himself together. 'That's a certainty. We can't stop here either. There's only one thing for it Shanks's!'

They were too tired to run any further. Only the memory of what lay upon those fields gave them the strength to do anything at all. Using their guns as walking sticks they staggered back along the narrow lanes. Stumbling and falling again. Clutching at each other for support. Constantly glancing behind them.

Fortunately it was downhill all the way into Clun. Mostly they had to walk on the grass at the side of the road in order to keep their balance. The church clock struck 3 am as they passed by it taking the road on the left.

There's a car coming towards us,' Frank said as his ears picked up the sound of a powerful engine in the distance.

Reuben did not reply. Under normal circumstances when they were mooching along the lanes on foot at night, in the hope of the odd shot in an adjoining field, they would dive into a ditch or hedgerow at the first hint of any approaching vehicle. Tonight they could not have cared less. They had escaped the Werewolf and that was all that mattered:

The oncoming headlights dazzled them, forcing them to shield their eyes with their hands, pressing themselves back into the hedge at the same time. The car approached them, slowed down as it drew level and then stopped.

They could see now that it was a Minivan. Luminous lettering on the side read 'POLICE'. Both doors opened. Two uniformed men jumped out.

'Aye, aye,' the nearest one growled coming towards them. 'What have we here? A couple of poachers on the prowl after their Christmas dinner. Come on lads, in you get. We've a few questions we want to ask you down at the station!'

'Everything happens at once,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford and Detective-Sergeant Bayley, clad in their overcoats, were on the point of leaving Llanadevy police station the next morning just as Gordon Hall arrived.

'Something's turned up I take it?' Hall sensed an air of excitement

'You bet it has,' Ford motioned to him to sit in the back of the car with them. 'One of our vans picked up a couple of very scared poachers in the early hours of this morning. They told some tale about having seen the Werewolf on a field up by the Black Hill devouring a sheep. Before we had a chance to check on it that Tom Davies fellow came down to report it. Then there's the poacher's car. When they got back to it the tyres had all been slashed. Footprints around it. Not claw prints.'

'Strewth!' Gordon whistled. 'It's been an eventful night then.'

'You can say that again,' Ford rubbed his hands together as Bayley let in the clutch and they moved off. 'We'd better check these poachers out first. I've 'phoned for the CID to begin work on both the mutilated sheep and the footprints by the car.'

Reuben Neale and Frank Cole looked very sorry for themselves. Seated together in the office adjoining Clun Police Station, with Sergeant Oliver and another uniformed constable keeping watch over them, their bravado was at its lowest ebb. Gordon Hall glowered at them. He had no use for poachers, particularly on his own shoot.

'So you heard a shot did you?' the Scotland Yard man raised his eyebrows as he read through their statements. 'What time? Where?'

'Musta bin just after midnight,' Reuben mumbled. 'Down by the Cwm wood. Somebody else poachin'.'

'Interesting,' Ford turned to Sergeant Oliver. 'Any idea who that might have been, sergeant?'

Sergeant Oliver and PC Winter exchanged a knowing glance.

'Yes sir,' the sergeant replied. 'We can only hazard a guess though. It could only have been one person. The Lurker.'

'The Lurker?'

'A local poacher, sir. Been at it all his life. Lives in a tumbledown cottage not far from here. Always on the prowl. Never been able to catch him though. He knows every blade of grass in the fields and every tree on the Black Hill. A cunning blighter.'

'Is that so?' Ford pursed his lips. 'It seems then that there were a lot of undesirable people about last night. I think that before we go and visit this Lurker we'd better take a look at the slashed tyres and the dead sheep. Charge these two men with night-poaching, sergeant. Also carrying loaded shotguns on a public highway after the hours of darkness. It carries a prison sentence incidentally.'

Neale and Cole started to tremble again as the Scotland Yard men, PC Winter and Gordon Hall left.

'Size ten wellington boots sir,' the CID man straightened up as Ford approached him. 'All over the place. He used a six-inch blade to slash the tyres. Was carrying a gun of small bore. You can see the imprint of the heel of the stock in the snow where he leaned it up against the fence here whilst he did the tyres.'

'Hmm,' Ford sized the situation up with his own sharp eyes. 'It certainly sounds like our friend the Lurker. Nevertheless we'd better take a look at the mutilated sheep first.'

Tom Davies was sawing logs in the yard of Gwynne Owen's farm when the police and Hall drove up. He looked up at them, paused for a moment, jerked a thumb in the direction of the upper fields and then continued with his chore.

'He doesn't seem much bothered,' Ford remarked as they began the ascent of the snowy hillside. 'I don't like that boy one little bit. I wonder where the old man is.'

'Seldom leaves the house at all nowadays sir,' PC Winter replied.

Eventually they came upon the bloody scene in a corner of the field bordering the Black Hill. A thin-faced CID constable was examining the carnage through the powerful lens of a magnifying glass.

'Holy Mother!' Detective-Sergeant Bayley breathed. 'Just like it used to be last time!'

The snow in the immediate area was splashed and stained with blood. Entrails lay all around.

'It was the Werewolf all right sir,' the CID man remarked. 'It took a strong pair of claws to do this. I followed the prints in the snow. They go across two fields and then down a hedgerow which was sheltered from the snow storm. No snow and hard ground so no more tracks.'

'He's a cunning devil all right,' Gordon Hall began filling his pipe. 'There's something very strange about this business though. Look at all these entrails lying about. That never happened last time.'

'What d'you mean?' Ford snapped.

'The Werewolf always ate 'em,' the journalist replied. 'Human or animal he rarely left any of the parts he enjoyed most - the intestines!'

'Maybe he's changed his habits then,' the other replied. 'Well I think our next step is to call on this Lurker chap. He's certainly got some explaining to do. At the very least he's going to find himself on charges of wilful damage and night-poaching.'

There's just one thing I want to know,' Gordon Hall said. 'What sort of noise did this Werewolf make last night?'

'I ... I've no idea,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford looked startled. 'What on earth's that got to do with it?'

'It's just that it's changed its eating habits and I was wondering if anything else had changed too,' the journalist replied.

'Well we can soon find that out,' Ford nodded to the others to make their way back to the car. 'We'll call in at the police station in Clun on our way to see the Lurker.'

Ford returned from the Clun police station and climbed back into the car.

'I've just spoken to Neale and Cole,' he said, 'and they're certain that it didn't make any sound at all whilst it ravaged the sheep.'

'There's a whole lot more to this than meets the eye,' Gordon Hall lit his pipe again. 'Still, let's hope the Lurker can throw some more light on it.'

The Lurker's cottage was the end one of a row that long ago would have been scheduled for demolition had it stood in an urban area. An eyesore to the township it was conveniently hidden away in a narrow lane leading off the main street. The brickwork was crumbling and several tiles had been blown off the roof, fragments of them lying in the strip of scrub garden which led up to the front door.

Ford rapped loudly. They waited. There was no movement from within. He knocked again, banging hard with his fist. Still no answer.

'Let's try the back,' he snapped.

The rear of the cottage was even more dilapidated than the front. A bare brick yard covered by moss and weeds. Paint peeled on all the windows but the pane was grimed with filth and it was impossible for them to see inside.

The Scotland Yard man tried the latch on the door. It lifted and the door grated backwards. With an effort he pushed it wide open.

'Come on,' he grunted.

'Hadn't we ought to get a warrant?' Bayley hung back.

'There's no time,' Ford muttered and followed by the others they filed inside. Their noses wrinkled at the smell.

'Christ!' Gordon Hall coughed. 'A proper old man's den.'

The ashes in the fireplace were long dead. An armchair stood in front of it, the stuffing spilling out of innumerable tears in the upholstery. Sacking on the floor. An old sofa.

The two Yard men went upstairs but came back down again almost immediately.

'You'd need gas masks to stop up there for long,' Ford said. 'One thing's certain. The Lurker's not at home. Let's take a look in that outhouse on the yard.'

The building in question had once been used as a coalhouse. Apart from a small pile of slack it contained nothing else. Ford used his cigarette lighter to enable him to see better in the gloomy interior.

'What's this?' he bent and picked something up from the floor. 'A pheasant's feather. Fresh too. No signs of these size ten wellington boots we want to have a look at. Nor a .410 gun, rabbit snares or any other poaching impedimenta. It looks as though he's cleared off on some poaching expedition. Well I guess I'll have to detail one of the CID men to keep a close watch on this place and nab him when he returns. Somehow I think this Lurker fellow is a key factor in all this Werewolf business.'

'Funny I've never come across him in all the time I've rented the shooting on the Black Hill,' Gordon mused. 'He's obviously been poaching it for years. He must have lain hidden within yards of me on some occasions and I've walked right by him. I guess I'd like to meet up with him too!'

'You will before long,' Ford was confident as they walked back to the car.

Gordon Hall had his doubts but he did not voice them. Perhaps the others had not noticed an atmosphere of desolation about the cottage. A kind of permanent abandonment had hung in the air. It was as though the Lurker had no intention of returning - ever.

CHAPTER TEN

THE Lurker had no intention whatsoever of returning to his cottage. He had made that decision as soon as the fit of rage during which he had slashed the tyres of the poachers' car had abated. He regretted what he had done. Yet he had been unable to prevent himself from carrying it out. He'd seen those two before riding round the lanes down by the Bedstone Estate shooting at sitting game from the car. They weren't poachers. They were armed hoodlums. Bastards! He had been tempted to blast them in the back when they had passed close by where he had been in the thickets. Possibly if it had been Gordon Hall he would have done. Those rats weren't worth taking the rap for. Hall, certainly. He'd never hated anybody like he'd hated Gordon Hall and they'd never even met. Maybe his hatred was due to the efficiency and ruthlessness of the man. It wasn't right that anybody could live in the city and yet be able to shoot and have a knowledge of woodcraft. He'd watched the journalist knock down a twisting jinking woodcock on the wing. Knew how to set snares too. The bastard had even found and removed some of his on occasions. Nobody had ever been able to spot where the Lurker's rabbit wires were sited before.

The Lurker was back at his cottage just as the first faint light was beginning to appear in the eastern sky. There was no time to be lost. He had to grab what he needed and be on his way.

His needs were simple. Snares and traps. The old waterproof coat. Some moth-eaten sweaters. Cartridges. Food? He had lived off the land for as long as he could remember. He would continue to do so for the rest of his days.

It was no aimless flight though. He knew where he was heading as he made his way back through the Hurst Wood. He liked the dawn. It was the best time of day. Few people seemed to realise it being content to lie abed until the sun was long up.

He sweated. Normally he did not move as swiftly as this. He liked to move cautiously and look about him. There was no time to do that now though. Rabbits bounded away in front of him unshot at. He had to be safely on the Black Hill before it was full light. He chuckled softly to himself as he visualised his destination. The cave up on the hillside above the old watercourse. Nobody ever went up there. There was nothing to go for anyway. It was steep. Mostly shale and scrub. It left no tracks either. Even when the fools had been searching for the Werewolf they hadn't looked up there.

The Lurker had spent a night in the cave once before about five years ago. That was when he had been poaching down at Bedstone. That crafty old gamekeeper had heard the shots and before long all the lanes were blocked by police. He could have made it across country all right but he knew that they would be watching his cottage. So he had holed up in the cave.

It had been real snug. Better even than that stuffy old cottage. Clear fresh water gushing just outside the entrance. Sheltered from the winds. A fire could be lit without danger of being seen. A rabbit warren directly above. A paradise in fact if you liked the life.

The Lurker wondered why he had never moved out there before. It would have been the sensible thing to have done. However now that it had been forced upon him he was glad.

He reached the bottom of the watercourse and paused to slake his thirst with the icy water. It tasted good.

For a moment his eyes alighted on a patch of dead bracken only a few yards away. He knew what lay beneath it and he was always careful to avoid the place. At some time, maybe even before he was born, somebody had attempted to make a small reservoir. Perhaps their intention had been to make a temporary store of water and to pipe it down to the cottages below in Llanadevy. Such technicalities were beyond the Lurker. Anyway they had dug the ground out and made a rectangle about eight feet long by five wide. The depth was fully ten feet. Perhaps then the scheme had been considered impracticable and the whole project had been abandoned. The hole had never been filled in. Sometimes after heavy rain two or three feet of water would form in the bottom before it gradually seeped away. Anybody or anything falling in had little hope of escaping without help. The Lurker had seen the rotting carcases of rabbits and hares in there. Once a dog. Even he shuddered at the prospect of finding himself lying in there.

He made the ascent up to the cave at the top with some difficulty for the watercourse was deep with moss in places and once or twice he slipped and was in danger of sliding right back down the hillside.

The cave had not changed over the years. It was dark inside but that did not worry him. In fact it was like returning home after a long absence. He dumped his bag of snares on the floor and rested the gun against the wall. Then reaching into that deep pocket he pulled out the three pheasants which had been the result of his night's work. With practised fingers he soon had them plucked. There were ample dry sticks lying about. Before many minutes he had a small fire going and the carcases roasting on a spit.

He was hungry. He would eat. He was tired too. Soon he would sleep. At the moment he had no plans. Things would work out for themselves. Of that he was confident.

'Well the Lurker hasn't returned to his hovel,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford announced to Gordon Hall and Detective-Sergeant Bayley the following day. 'That's two nights he's spent away now. He's holed up somewhere and the longer he stays away the more convinced I am that he's playing a key role in this case. I'm half inclined to organise another manhunt.'

'We'd never find him,' Gordon Hall asserted. 'He knows these hills better than any of us. It'd just be a waste of time.'

'What d'you suggest then?' the Yard man sighed.

'I think I'll have a poke around the Hill on my own,' Gordon replied. 'I reckon maybe if I could spend a night up there like I did last time then maybe I'd stand a chance of spotting the Lurker if he gets prowling about. Maybe if I could nail him at least it'd be a start towards finding the Werewolf.'

'OK,' Ford agreed. 'But I'd sooner you took somebody with you. PC Winter maybe. I don't want you to take unnecessary chances.'

'Fair enough,' Hall stood up. 'Well I'm pushing off back home now. My wife's complaining that she never sees anything of me. I'll be back here tomorrow afternoon prepared for an all-night vigil. There'll be enough moonlight for the next two or three nights for our purpose anyway.'

Gwynne Owen knew that his time was up. Since Blodwyn and Philip's death he had been nothing more than a zombie. The Living Dead. Suddenly in these last few weeks since the Werewolf had risen again the old farmer's conscience had begun to trouble him. It was all his fault. None of it need have happened if he had gone to the authorities in the first place when he had discovered Philip's strange tendencies. They would have taken the boy away and locked him up. Given him treatment. Maybe even cured him. Certainly Blodwyn would still be alive.

Now this! It wasn't often that he went outside and nosed around these days. Tom was capable of looking after everything. Yet he had done so. And consequently he had discovered the secret of the Werewolf! It was mind shattering. Only the fact that his brain had suffered so much enabled him to withstand this further mental strain.

Gwynne Owen knew what he would have to do. There was no alternative. He would have to make the walk down to Llanadevy. Talk to that sharp-tongued man from Scotland Yard. He probably wouldn't believe him and would pass it off as the ramblings of an old man whose mind was going. He had to make him understand though. Persuade him to come and see the evidence with his own eyes. Unless he managed to convince the detective more people were going to die. Soon. The Gunns, PC Winter, Gordon Hall. Even then it probably would not stop there. This new Werewolf had an even greater appetite for killing and carnage. Far more dangerous than its predecessor. It knew what it was doing and did not regret it afterwards.

Gwynne Owen rose to his feet. He had to hold on to the chair for support. His legs were unsteady but it wasn't that which made him wonder whether or not he could make it down to Llanadevy. It was the pains in his chest which worried him most of all. For the past few weeks they had only been spasmodic. Less violent than they were now. Today he was in agony. He could scarcely draw his breath. It wasn't dying that bothered him. That would be a welcome release. And he might even find Blodwyn somewhere. It was the thought that he might die before he had told them what he knew.

With an effort he made it out into the yard. His eyes were still as sharp as they had always been and up on the slopes above he could make out the dark shape of Tom against the whiteness of the snow. The boy was tending the sheep.

He shuffled down as far as the lane, pausing to rest for several minutes by the gate. The cold air made it even more difficult to breathe. He gave way to a violent coughing fit, bending double, every limb tortured by the spasms. A small spot of crimson showed up on the snow. That was something else which would kill him anyway within a matter of months. That didn't matter though. It gave him time. It was the pains that were his main concern.

He forced himself to move. Resting was only a temporary benefit. Once he reached Llanadevy nothing else mattered.

The packed snow in the lane made his task even more formidable. Twice he slipped and lay on his back for some time before being able to rise again. At one stage he thought that he would never make it. However after what seemed an eternity the village loomed up before him. People hurried about their business. People who feared the Werewolf but did not know what he knew.

He had to pause again on the pavement and hold on to the wall of a house for support. There was a red haze before his eyes and he thought that he was going to faint. But it passed off. There was a pounding like sledgehammer blows in his chest. His leg hurt where he had fallen. People looked at him inquisitively but none offered to help. After all he was the father who had begat a monster of evil. No society could accept him after that.

He saw the police station less than a hundred yards down the street. Two cars were parked outside. He recognised one as belonging to the Londoners.

He staggered on placing one foot in front of the other and strove to maintain his balance in between steps. Across the road. Cars hooting at him. He dragged himself up the steps and into the police station. There was a bell on the counter. He rang it and then sank gratefully down on to a nearby chair.

Nobody came. He could hear voices in the next room. A buzz of conversation. He ought to ring again but the effort to get up was too much for him. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Searing pain. Much, much worse now. His head throbbed. Come on you bastards before it's too late.

Heavy footsteps on the other side of the counter. PC Winter.

'Why, Mr Owen!' the constable began undoing the flap of the counter. 'You don't look at all well.'

Gwynne Owen opened his eyes. Everywhere was very dark as though night had already fallen and the lights had not been switched on.

'The Inspector from London,' he croaked, finding difficulty in speaking at all. 'Must see him.'

'I think you ought to see a doctor first,' the policeman bent over him, peering at him. 'I'll phone Doctor Jackson at once. Just relax - '

'No, no!' Gwynne forced himself into an upright position, clawing at the other's arm. 'No time. The Inspector please!'

'What's going on?' the door leading to the other room opened and the dapper figure of Detective Chief-Inspector Ford was framed in it.

'It's Mr Owen sir,' PC Winter stood back as the Scotland Yard man came across the room. 'He's asking for you sir, but I'm afraid he's not at all well. I'd better 'phone for the doctor.'

'Yes do that,' Ford said and bent down so that his face was close to the farmer's. 'Now what did you want to see me about?'

Gwynne Owen opened his mouth but no words would come. His lips moved. Just a croak. The room becoming darker by the second. He knew the detective was there but he could barely see him.

'The Werewolf ...' he managed to force a hoarse whisper out. 'The Werewolf ...'

'Yes, yes,' Ford rapped. 'What about him, Mr Owen?'

'He's …' it took a mammoth effort even to whisper now. 'The Werewolf is my son.'

Ford had difficulty in restraining his annoyance. He thought the other really had something important to tell him. He ought to have known better. He was just an old man for whom time was running out. Owen was back in the past again. He was telling them that Philip was the Werewolf.

'My son,' the farmer desperately clawed at the air, his face contorted with the agony which was causing him to writhe in the chair. 'My son he's the Werewolf will kill again my son ...'

The words died away in a gurgle and Gwynne Owen slumped back into the chair, his head lolling to one side.

Detective Chief-Inspector Ford stood up. At that moment Winter came back into the room.

'The doctor's on his way sir,' he stopped suddenly and his expression changed. 'He's - '

'I'm afraid he'll be too late,' Ford murmured. 'Gwynne Owen has just passed away. You'd better let that hired hand of his know.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

'D'YOU have to stay there overnight?' Jean Hall pleaded. 'Damn it all you've travelled there and back day after day. I've hardly seen anything of you for weeks. Now you're going to start stopping there at nights as well.'

'It'll only be this once,' Gordon promised. 'After tomorrow if we haven't got the Werewolf then I'm opting out. Anyway it isn't just the Werewolf I'm after. It's the Lurker. There's a personal issue at stake in his case anyway. He poaches my game.'

'Just this once then,' Jean tried to smile but she could not hide the trembling of her lower lip. 'And after that …'

'Home sweet home,' Gordon murmured as he kissed her. 'Werewolf or no Werewolf. Lurker or no Lurker.'

'Young Davies has taken it rather badly,' PC Winter told the two Scotland Yard men who were preparing to retire to their hotel for the evening. 'He broke down. Gave me quite a shock. Sobbed his heart out in the office. Had to give him a stiff brandy. Even then I couldn't get much sense out of him. He says he'll stop on at the farm on his own. Of course we'll have to try and trace Owen's next of kin and they'll have to sort it out with Davies.'

'I suppose the lad and the old man had grown pretty close living there all alone,' Ford replied. 'The poor old geezer had gone right round the bend. Must have been hard to live with.'

'Don't know how the hell I'm going to trace his relatives,' Winter furrowed his brow. 'Maybe Davies'll be able to help when he's calmed down a bit.'

The Lurker liked his new home. He began to wish even more that he had moved there earlier. Even years ago after his folks had passed away.

During the hours of daylight he had to lie low. There was always the chance of another police search party combing the hills. That wasn't the only danger though. A team of forestry workers were busily thinning one of the larch thickets about half a mile from the old watercourse. Throughout the day lorries were coming and going and chainsaws were whining. From the ledge above the hillside the Lurker had an excellent view of them. Lying there he could see without being seen. He watched them sawing the tree trunks into six-foot lengths and sharpening them to make fencing stakes. That was when the idea first came to him. He knew then how he would kill Gordon Hall.

The idea excited him. He would make preparations once the workmen had left. It just had to work. And above all it would be such a fitting end for the bastard. For once in his life he experienced a feeling of impatience. The foresters hung about after the last lorry had been loaded, brewing and drinking tea. They did not seem to be in any hurry at all to go home.

It was dusk before the last one finally left. Even then the Lurker did not move at once. Instead he lay there scanning the woods below him. He had to be absolutely certain that there was nobody about. He listened for the jays. They were silent. That was a good sign. Carefully he began the descent to lower ground.

The sky was clear and the stars were beginning to twinkle. There would be a hard frost tonight. Harder than any so far this winter. The elements did not worry the Lurker. Summer or winter he knew how to cope with them.

He made his way towards a pile of fencing stakes which were stacked neatly by the side of the Forestry Commission road. His fingers tested the sharpness of the pointed ends and he grinned. They were ideal for his purpose. Two at a time he began to carry them back towards the hillside, placing them close to the patch of bracken which hid the disused reservoir.

Six journeys he made in all and on the last one he brought with him a length of stout rope which the men had used for dragging the fallen trunks out of the wood. This he tied around the base of a large pine tree which stood nearby, testing the firmness of his knot with his full weight. It held. Then he tossed the loose end of the rope down into the muddy pit

He picked up the stakes one at a time and threw them in also, listening to them splash in the soft mud. He chuckled softly then he began to lower himself down after them. Tucked into his belt was a stout hammer which he had also borrowed from the felling site.

His boots sank into the bottom of the pit well above the ankles making it difficult to move about. It was very dark also but for most of his life he had learnt to move and work without seeing.

One by one he hammered the stakes into the ground with their sharpened ends pointing skywards. This made his task considerably more difficult. Had it not been for the softness of the mud it would have been virtually impossible. It took him about half an hour until they were positioned to his satisfaction and then taking the rope between his strong calloused hands he climbed back up on to firm ground.

He was not finished yet though. Once more he made the journey to the pile of stacked timber and returned the rope and hammer. He could not afford to risk anybody making a search of the surrounding woods for the missing equipment and discovering his secret.

The ascent to his cave took him much longer this time but he did not mind. All he had to do now was to wait. A day, a week, a month. It mattered not so long as Gordon Hall put in an appearance some time. When he did the end would only be a formality.

The Lurker's thoughts returned to a picture in a book which his father had once owned. The only book which the family had ever possessed. It had contained many illustrations which had been a good thing because neither he nor his parents had ever learned to read. One picture in particular had held his attention and remained with him throughout his life. The drawing was of some North American trappers. They had dug a deep pit with long sharp stakes embedded in the bottom. A huge bear was impaled upon them.

That was how he would kill Gordon Hall.

It was after dark when Vic Gunn drove up to the Owen farm. News had reached him of Gwynne Owen's death only an hour or so before and Dick Morris had suggested that they ought to call round and see how Tom Davies was faring. The house was in darkness as they parked in the yard.

'Better go and knock the door,' Morris grunted. 'If he don't answer it, t'ain't our worry.'

The two of them left the car and made their way across the icy surface to the rear porch. Vic's fist thudded on the door. They waited a few seconds and then he banged again.

'He ain't in,' Morris sighed. 'We'd better get back. Maybe we can run over agin in the mornin'.'

Just as they turned away they heard a movement from within. Heavy studded boots being dragged across a quarried floor. A bolt was drawn and the door creaked open. No light showed within but the glow from the moon rising above the Black Hill behind enabled them to see a silhouette that could only have been Tom Davies framed in the open door.

'Whatddyer want?' he growled. 'Who is it?'

'It's us, Tom,' Vic Gunn answered him. 'Vic Gunn and Dick Morris.'

'Whatyer come for?'

'We called round to see if you were all right. To see if we could help out at all.'

'There's nothin' yuh kin do here,' the door closed until they could no longer see the shape of the youth. 'Now piss off, the pair o' you. I got work to do.'

The door slammed. A bolt on the inside shot home.

'Well, what d'you make of that?' Vic Gunn was startled. 'He's always been arrogant but never like that.'

'Let 'im stew in 'is own juice I say,' Morris spat on the yard in disgust. 'Let's get back, Vic. The more I see o' this place the less I like it'

'What's that?' Margaret Gunn sat up in bed suddenly.

The moonlight was streaming through the chinks in the curtains and a glance at her watch on the bedside table showed her that it was 3.15 am. Something had woken her but she was unable to determine what it was. Vic was still sleeping, his breathing regular. She debated whether or not to wake him. On second thoughts she decided to listen for a while and see if the noise came again. Across the landing there was no movement from the Morris' bedroom. Outside an owl hooted. A nightjar called.

I must have imagined it, she decided. Perhaps dreamt it. She lay down again.

A faint scratching noise came from beneath the bedroom window in the farmyard below. One of the cats probably scratching at the back door and wanting to get inside. Well, that was real hard luck. The cats always stayed out at night, Margaret consoled her tender feelings. Perhaps if it had been their own house she might have relented.

Silence returned. She began to doze once more. The noise came again. She listened. A definite scratching. Determined. Then a sudden thought struck her. William, the black tomcat who had always slept in front of the kitchen hearth in their own home, had gone missing after the fire. She and Vic had searched all the outbuildings but there had been no trace of him. Could it be that some instinct had guided him here? Could he somehow know that Vic and Margaret were living at Morris' farm?

Stealthily she got out of bed and tiptoed to the window. There was no point in waking Vic. He was a heavy sleeper but once he was woken it took him ages to get back to sleep. She parted the curtains.

The yard below glistened and sparkled as the moonbeams played on the frozen snow. Everywhere was still. Nothing moved. She glanced down towards the kitchen door. The big rambling porch hid it from her view. If it was William scratching at the door then she would not be able to see him from upstairs.

She shivered beneath her flimsy nightdress. The bed looked so inviting and the temptation was to snuggle back alongside her man. If he wasn't prepared to do anything else tonight to satisfy her then at least he would keep her warm. A faint tingling sensation between her thighs reminded her of her desires before she had finally fallen into a fitful frustrated slumber.

The scratching was becoming more frantic now. In fact it was so loud that she wondered that it did not wake Dick and Mary Morris. She reached for her housecoat which was folded over the end of the bed and slipped it around her shoulders. One thing was certain. She would never go back to sleep until she had satisfied herself whether or not it was the missing William that was scratching at the door.

As she crossed the landing she could hear Dick Morris snoring. Apparently he too was no light sleeper either. The floor was cold to her bare feet and she wished she had remembered to put on her slippers. It wasn't worth going back for them now though.

The kitchen was warm in spite of the fact that the fire had long gone out. Stepping from mat to mat she avoided the cold flags. Then she was at the door, her fingers seeking and eventually finding the bolt. She tugged hard at it but it was rusty and refused to budge. With a muttered curse she used both hands. There came a loud clang and it shot back.

The scratching stopped now. Slowly she eased the door open and a silver beam of moonlight filtered across the room. She peered out. The yard was empty. There was no sign of William or any other cat for that matter.

'Stupid animal,' she muttered. 'I come down and open the door for him and now he's run off. Hiding round the corner I suppose. Well I can't go running round in the snow on a freezing night in bare feet. He'll just have to stop out.'

She was about to close the door when she noticed a pair of wellingtons standing in the porch. They belonged to Mary Morris. Margaret wished that they had not been there. Now she could not return to bed with a clear conscience.

She stepped out into the porch and put them on. They were icy to her feet and she winced. Then she moved out into the yard.

Nothing again. William certainly was not crouching alongside the wall. He could of course be hiding beneath those two hawthorn bushes, merging with the shadows.

'William,' Margaret called softly. 'Come on, William. Stop being silly. It's nice and warm in the kitchen. Come on, there's a good boy.'

There was a slight movement in the deepest shadows.

'Ah there you are,' she moved forward. 'Come on. Quickly now. I'm not stopping out all night. I ...'

Her words died away as she saw the shape materialising out of the darkness. Grotesque and hairy. Red eyes that glowed in triumph. Rising up from all fours to stand on its two hind legs.

Her scream died in a gurgle of sheer terror. She wanted to run but her limbs refused to obey the jumbled commands coming from her confused brain. Mentally and physically paralysed she saw the thing coming towards her. Shambling. Yellow fangs gleaming. Fetid breath on her face.

Then everything snapped and blackness closed in as her knees buckled. She slumped forward and crunched on to the crisp snow.

CHAPTER TWELVE

'SHE'S gone! My wife's gone. Disappeared,' Vic Gunn sat in the Llanadevy murder headquarters slumped in a chair and almost on the point of collapse. 'I tell you the Werewolf's got her. His tracks are all over the place in the snow!'

Detective Chief-Inspector Ford glanced up at the clock. It was 7 am and still dark. Subconsciously he toyed with the cord of his dressing gown. For once he looked far from dapper. Hair awry, unshaven, red rimmed eyes. Bayley too. Only PC Winter was properly clad and that was because he had only just come off night duty. Vic Gunn bore signs of having hastily dressed. Buttons were undone and he wore neither collar nor tie.

'We'll come back with you right away,' Ford poured himself another stiff whisky. Try and calm yourself Mr Gunn. How did your wife come to be kidnapped from your bed without you even being aware that she had left the house?'

'God knows!' Vic Gunn spread his hands wide. 'She just got up without waking me, went downstairs with only a nightdress and dressing gown on, put Mrs Morris' wellingtons on and went to … to …' he ended with a choking sob.

'Hypnosis?' suggested Bayley.

'Hmm,' Ford stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Well it's no good sitting here concocting theories. We'd better make a move. Mrs Gunn is in the hands of the most dangerous quarry we've ever pursued and we've no time to lose.'

It was just breaking daylight when the four of them arrived at Morris' farm. They made their way round to the rear of the house taking care not to walk amongst the set of footprints which led from the porch to the edge of the orchard.

'The tracks tell their own story,' Ford muttered after he had studied them for a few minutes. 'Mrs Gunn came downstairs without waking anybody and for some reason decided to go outside. The decision was obviously made on impulse otherwise she would have donned her own boots which are still in the hall instead of using the ones which stood in the porch. She walked along the side of the house and then headed directly towards the orchard. Here you can see the outline of her body where she collapsed in the snow. There's no signs of a struggle. You can see also where the Werewolf waited behind these bushes. The tracks go towards the fallen girl. She fainted of course. Look they're much deeper here. That's because he was carrying her. Headed towards the lane. Through that gap in the hedge. Then he kept to the nearside where there isn't any snow. No spoor at all now. No clue to which direction he took.'

'Oh God!' Vic Gunn shook his fists helplessly in the air. 'The fiend's taken her to some place so that he can ...'

'At least he didn't kill her,' Ford replied. 'With his other victims it has been a case of death on the spot. Not so this time. He's keeping her alive.'

'Yes,' the farmer groaned holding his head in anguish. 'He's taken her to a fate worse than death! What are we going to do? For God's sake man we've got to do something quick!'

'Every available police officer in the surrounding area will be brought in,' the Scotland Yard man led him back towards the house. 'Within the hour one of the largest manhunts in history will be under way.'

As Margaret Gunn regained consciousness the awful memory of what had happened in the orchard came flooding back to her. For a time she dare not open her eyes for fear of what she might see.

She knew that her hands and feet were bound securely. She was spreadeagled across a flat surface, ankles and wrists roped to some immovable object. A bed. That was what it was. A bed! Something else too. She was completely naked! She had been stripped of her flimsy night-attire.

Her eyelids flickered open gently and she braced her nerves for what she might see. A sigh of relief escaped her when she saw that she was in a room ... and she was alone. It was dark too. Except for the moonlight which streamed in through the single latticed window. She found that she could turn her head.

It was a bedroom of sorts. Very spartan. She was tied across the bed with only a musty-smelling mattress beneath her. An old fashioned dresser stood in the corner with a cracked mirror. Bare floorboards except for a frayed mat beneath the window. Peeling wallpaper.

She was not as cold as she would have expected to be. Maybe wherever she was they had a fire going somewhere and it had warmed the whole house through. Where was she? She could not figure it out. As consciousness returned she had expected to find herself in some foul-smelling wild beast's den. Instead she was a prisoner in a place of human habitation. It didn't add up. Where was the Werewolf? Why had he brought her here? She strained at the ropes which bound her. It was no good. Without help she stood no chance whatsoever of breaking free. She tried to work out how long it would be until daylight. Judging by the position of the moon through the window there were several hours to go until dawn. In that case she had not been unconscious long and could not be all that far from Morris' farm. But where was she?

Suddenly she heard footsteps coming up some stairs outside the room. Her heart began to pound again. She was on the verge of panic. Should she feign unconsciousness? There did not seem to be any point in prolonging her agony. If the Werewolf was going to kill her then the sooner he did it the better. The thought of rescue or escape did not cross her mind. She had already resigned herself to her fate. She just prayed that the end would be quick.

The door opened and someone or something stepped over the threshold. That part of the room was in shadow and she could not even see an outline of her visitor. Her eyes widened in terror. She could feel his eyes boring into her. Centred on her spread thighs. The moonlight would show him everything he wanted to see.

'So you've come round,' the voice was vaguely familiar but the surprise at not hearing a snuffling and grunting temporarily prevented her from trying to place it. 'Relax. We've got the whole night ahead of us and lot more besides.'

'Who ... who are … you?' her voice quavered.

He moved further into the room and stood directly in a patch of moonlight where she could see him clearly. Denims. Untidy long hair. Buck teeth. A leering grin.

'Tom Davies!' she gasped.

He chuckled, his gaze still focused on her lower regions.

'Yes,' he said. 'So now you know where you are. At Gwynne Owen's farm. Or rather mine now!'

'But … but …' it just had to be a nightmare, 'the Werewolf?'

He crossed to the dresser, tugged the drawer open and rummaged inside. Then grasping something he pulled it out and held it up for her to see. It looked like a large rug at first but then she noticed a pair of pointed ears and glass eyes that glinted crimson in the moonlight.

'There's your Werewolf,' he displayed it proudly, gloatingly. A genuine wolf-skin. Notice the claws. Steel. Very powerful. Cut you to ribbons with one slash.'

He waved them menacingly and laughed.

'See the blood on 'em,' his expression hardened. 'And they ain't finished yet. Not by a long way!'

'But why?' she breathed. Somehow Tom Davies was a much more frightening prospect than ever the Werewolf had been. He was mad. That was a certainty.

'Well,' he threw the wolf-skin into the corner and leaned his back against the wall, 'I guess I might as well tell you the whole story. You'll never get the chance to tell anybody else so it doesn't really matter.'

A sudden chill ran over Margaret's body. He was definitely going to kill her then.

'You lot are the murderers,' he snarled, his eyes blazing. 'All of you. You killed my brother Philip. My mother. And now my dad's died as a result of it all!'

'You … you’re ...' she whispered.

'Yes,' his fury was rising by the second. 'I'm Tom Owen. Gwynne's son. The halfwit of the family as they used to put it. Soon after I was born they sent me to live with an aunt in Birmingham. Brought me up she did. Then I went into a special home for a time. When I came out the aunt died and I found out who I was. By then it was too late. You lot had persecuted the Werewolf as you called him. Hounded him down. Killed him. Sent my dad round the bend. So I came back here. There was only one thing I wanted. To kill everybody who had a hand in my brother's death!'

'Young Morris never even knew Philip Owen,' Margaret interrupted, 'and you killed him!'

'I had to start somewhere,' he laughed. 'I wasn't going to make it too easy for 'em. I wanted 'em to tremble in their beds at night. Scared to go out after dark. And I've succeeded but I'm far from finished yet. I guess dad must have found out about me though. I had to leave the wolf-skin out in the barn one night after I got sheep's blood all over it. He must've found it. I guess that's what he went down to Llanadevy for. To tell these Scotland Yard dicks. He died first though. That's a sure sign that somebody is lookin' after me!'

'You'll never get away with it,' Margaret realised that it was hopeless to try and reason with him. 'They'll find you.'

'Not a chance,' he advanced to the side of the bed and began stroking her breasts with his rough hands. 'I've got me the best hidin' place in the whole world. They'll never find us there. Then I'm gonna get that Gordon Hall and rip his guts to ribbons. He's the guy responsible for everything that happened to my family!'

Margaret Gunn closed her eyes. She felt repulsed by Tom Owen's very touch. She wanted to vomit. Suddenly she realised that he was no longer in contact with her. She opened her eyes again and her stomach muscles contracted at the very sight which met her eyes.

The youth was stripping off. His shirt came over his head displaying a muscular matted torso. His trousers fell to his ankles and he kicked them away. Next his pants. A length of hard flesh throbbed and quivered, glistening with the moistness of desire. She bit her lip in anguish. So this was why he had kidnapped her and not killed her. He was going to ...

'Now just listen to me,' a forefinger travelled between her thighs, sinking up to the knuckle in her dryness, remaining there, probing. 'Just you listen to me if you know what's good for you. There's no reason for you to have to die at all. The others, yes. But not you. If you just play along with me we can go away to this quiet little place that I've got in mind …'

She held herself taut. She remembered the nightmare experience when Philip Owen had tried to rape her in' the bathroom. This was a thousand times worse. She could not even put up a struggle of any sort. Not that it would have been much good. Yet she still clung to the hope that she would live and be free again one day.

With an almost wolf-like snarl he fell upon her. His mouth opened to take her breasts and she flinched as those buck-teeth scraped her nipples. Then his lips sought hers. A huge tongue began forcing its way into her mouth. Dearly would she have loved to have bitten hard on it. Maybe even severed it. Instead she just lay there and submitted meekly to his every move.

His loins pressed against hers and she winced again as he jabbed against her with his hardness in an attempt to effect a penetration. He was far from experienced. Maybe he had never even been with a woman before.

'Damn you!' his fingers bit deep into her shoulders and he shook her bodily. 'You're not in the mood are you? You're wishing it was somebody else!'

'If you'd untie my hands,' she muttered, 'maybe I could help you to find what you want.'

'One hand,' his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'All right. One hand.' She despised herself for being a party to the relationship.

His fingers tore feverishly at the knots and then the pressure on her right wrist relaxed. It was numb.

'Go on,' he snarled. 'Put me in.'

Her flesh crawled as she reached down and came into contact with his member. She tried to imagine that it wasn't the one which had been exposed to her a few minutes earlier. That it was someone else's. Gordon Hall's. That made it not so terrible. She shut her eyes tightly once more and attempted to convince herself that it was the handsome bearded journalist who was lying inside her open thighs. That she was seducing him. Guiding him where she wanted him to go.

She gasped aloud as her vagina took the full length of his manhood and she snatched her hand quickly away, wiping it on the mattress by her side.

After that it was sheer torture. Tom Owen gave way to the full extent of his lust and it was as though a steam-driven piston had been unleashed inside her. The bed vibrated and the floorboards creaked. Fetid breath made her heave and it was with relief that she felt the warmth of his sperm shooting into her. Soon it would all be over.

For some minutes he just lay there totally spent. Then with an oath he backed off her, and began groping for his fallen clothes. She watched him dress. His lust was spent and now his thoughts were returning to revenge … and carnage!

He begun untying the rest of her bonds.

'We gotta fair way to go,' he grunted. 'You'd better put these on.'

He opened the drawer again and flung a pullover and slacks on to the bed. Probably once they had belonged to Philip Owen. The very thought of them against her skin made her feel sick. Yet she had already been defiled so what did it matter?

She began pulling them on. They were several sizes too large and smelled of mothballs. He handed her the wellington boots which she had been wearing when she was abducted.

'My God!' she recoiled at the sight of Tom Owen stepping back into his wolf-skin.

'Better this way,' he grinned evilly before the horrific mask hid his features. 'Somebody might see us. Don't matter if they do now.'

She followed him downstairs. The idea of making a run for it once they were outside crossed her mind but she dismissed it at once. He was too powerful and too fast. She would not get ten yards.

'Now see here,' it was almost as if he had read her thoughts. 'Don't try nothin', 'cause if you do ...'

He held up one of the steel claws covered with dry crusted blood.

She nodded.

'Good,' his voice was muffled and unrecognisable inside the skin. 'Let's go then.'

With surprising ease the artificial wolfs claw lifted the catch and they stepped out into the frosty moonlight night.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE Lurker slept little. Indeed he needed a lot less sleep than the average person. The moonlight held a strong fascination for him anyway and he had to resist the temptation to set forth on a poaching foray in the woods around. He consoled himself with the thought that he needed to kill less game now than at any other time during his life. He had only himself to feed. The butcher would have to look elsewhere for his supplies.

That was not the only reason he did not embark upon an expedition though. He could not afford to desert his observation post for a lengthy period. Gordon Hall would come. Of that he was certain. Maybe even at night. He had seen him shooting after dark before. No chance must be overlooked.

The old poacher could not visualise any difficulty in trapping the man he hated most of all. All he had to do was to show himself on the opposite side of that reservoir. Hall would come towards him. Of that he was certain. And if he didn't then he would throw him into the pit with his own bare hands!

He settled himself down to wait with his back to the entrance of the cave, the double-barrelled .410 resting between his knees. This was the time to savour life. To contemplate a killing.

The clinking of a small stone was the first hint that the old poacher had that there was anybody else in the immediate vicinity besides himself. It could have been a rabbit. But he knew that it wasn't. What puzzled him most was how anybody had managed to reach the slope above the cave. They certainly hadn't scaled the watercourse. Apart from the difficulties involved, he would have spotted them. They must have come down from the Forestry Commission plantation directly above. There was a way but it entailed travelling on hands and knees in places and then negotiating the steep climb down from the small plateau. One slip would mean a fall right to the bottom of the hillside. Almost a quarter of a mile. It would be a lucky man who got up and walked after that.

Another stone bounced down across the face of the cave and continued on its way down to the woods below. Footsteps crunching on gravel. Two sets. One very heavy. One light. Sliding a little. Fighting for balance. A shower of shale.

The Lurker did not move. He did not need to. He was positioned in the shadows anyway and whoever it was they would have to approach him along the ledge. He would see them before they saw him. He had two barrels, both loaded. Furthermore he never missed.

They came nearer. They were on the bend of the ledge now. Totally unsuspecting. They paused to regain their breath. He slid the gun forward, cradling the stock into the crook of his arm, easing the hammers back cautiously so that they did not click.

A thought crossed his mind. It must be Gordon Hall. He was the only one who might know his way here. If so then who had he brought with him? It mattered not. They would both die!

The barrels of the .410 were trained unwavering on the place where the two stealthy intruders must show themselves. A finger brushed against the hair trigger. First a shadow. A pause as though whoever it was sensed that all was not well. Then into view came the shambling monstrosity with its gleaming yellow fangs and eyes that glowed red. The fair haired girl hung back, eyes wide with fear.

The Lurker had not missed a shot for years. Mainly because he never fired at anything which he was not certain of killing. The high cost of cartridges enforced this discipline upon him. But now surprise and fear caused the gun barrels to lift slightly. Enough to clear the Werewolf's head. The finger which had hovered over the trigger tightened upon it with a grip of terror. A sharp crack and the gun lifted even higher with the recoil. That same finger caught the rear trigger. The second charge of shot hurtled harmlessly into the topmost branches of the nearest pine tree.

The Werewolf laughed horribly. It was all too easy. Somebody certainly was on his side. He advanced slowly. There was no need to rush. It was a moment to savour. A time for killing.

The Lurker retreated a few paces. Sufficiently to gain space and time in which to reverse his grip on the gun. Holding it by the barrels he swung it aloft above his head, wielding it like a club. So this was the infamous Werewolf. Well a broken skull would finish the creature as easily as a charge of shot! He brought the gun down with every ounce of strength he could muster breathing a deep sigh of satisfaction as the butt crashed on to the wolverine head.

Wood splintered. Nothing else. The poacher gaped in astonishment at his splintered weapon. His adversary merely shook its head and advanced another step, claws outstretched.

The Lurker cast the useless .410 to one side and heard it go slithering down the slope below. His knees bent and his arms flexed. He dropped into a fighting pose. As a young man he had boxed several times in this fashion. He was only too aware that his life depended on this bout.

He swung a punch the moment that the other was within range. A bone-jarring uppercut straight to the point of that hairy jaw. There was a crack. He fell back with an anguished howl. His knuckles were surely broken. Now he had no defence.

Claws reached out and grasped him by the shoulders pulling him forward. Hot breath fanned his face. The cycle was completed. He who had dealt out death on so many occasions was now himself looking it in the face. The Lurker struggled with the desperation of a doomed man. There was no escape. He struck out again with his left hand but the blow was feeble. A claw raked his face tearing the left eye from its socket and peeling the flesh from the cheek. Blood poured into his right eye blinding him. At last he accepted the inevitable. He stood there meekly and waited to die.

Nothing happened. He could hear the wheezing breaths of his adversary but the Werewolf made no attempt to move in for the kill. It was taunting him. Enjoying his suffering.

At last it struck the final blow. A sweeping claw gouged into the poacher's throat. The jugular vein was severed. Blood spouted high into the air, some of it splashed on to the Werewolf but most of it soaking into the filthy clothes of the Lurker. The poacher drowned in his own blood long before it had finished pumping. With a last gurgle he sank to his knees, pitched forward over the ledge and left a scarlet trail behind him on the snow as he rolled, gathering speed all the time, down to the foot of the hillside.

Tom Davies tugged off his face mask and gulped in great lungfuls of refreshing frosty air. He looked behind him for Margaret Gunn. She was lying prone on the ledge. For the second time that night she had fainted.

Almost with reverence he bent down, picked her up, and carried her into the cave. He laughed softly. The wolf was going to ground with its mate.

'For God's sake, man!' it was the first time that Detective Chief-Inspector Ford had witnessed the fury of Gordon Hall. 'She's now been missing for over twelve hours. Why the hell didn't you phone me this morning?'

'You couldn't have done anything,' the Scotland Yard man felt sheepish as he looked down at the floor beneath his desk. 'Everything's under control. There are scores of policemen carrying out house to house enquiries in Llanadevy, Clun, Clungunford and Clunton. Others are combing the countryside. I saw no reason to disturb you from a well-earned rest.'

'Rest be damned,' Hall snapped. 'The girl's life is in deadly danger. Every second we waste may mean the difference between life and death.' He paused to gain control of himself. 'How did Gwynne Owen die?'

'I haven't had the doctor's report yet,' Ford replied. 'But most certainly he died of a heart attack. In the office through there.'

'What was he doing here?' Gordon raised an eyebrow. 'I understood that he never went out of the house these days.'

'I guess he was just rambling,' Ford sighed. 'Walked all the way down from the farm just to see me.'

'Whatever for?'

'Oh, he was pretty gone in the head. Kept on saying "my son is the Werewolf".'

'My son is the Werewolf.' Hall frowned as he repeated the words slowly. 'My son is ... ' His fist crashed down on to the desk. 'My God, Ford! The word "is". Don't you realise its implication?'

'He was wandering,' the Yard man said. 'Living in the past. Believing Philip Owen was still alive and ravaging the countryside.'

'That's one explanation,' Gordon Hall leaned forward. The other is that he was trying to warn you. To tell you that his other son was the Werewolf!'

'Other son?' Ford started to laugh. 'He hadn't got another son. He -'

'That Davies youth,' the journalist snapped. 'You said he broke down when he heard the news of the old man's death. You've never thought to make enquiries concerning his background. None of us have ever queried him. It was so natural a situation that it just blended in with everything. Now suppose Tom Davies was Tom Owen!'

'Good Lord!' Ford pushed his chair back. 'We'd better check Gwynne's farm. I'll call Bayley.'

'I'll follow you down in my car,' Hall moved towards the door. 'I've got Remus with me. His nose is better than most dogs. Just in case we do have to do any tracking. I've brought the rifle with me today. Thought it might be more effective than the twelve bore.'

They spotted the wolf tracks in the snow outside Gwynne Owen's farm even before they got out of the cars.

'Heavens above,' Hall snapped. 'I was right. Let's check the house first although it's pretty obvious that he's not around here anymore.'

The three of them crowded into the tiny bedroom. The loose ropes over the bed posts and the damp stain on the mattress told their own story. Three men hardened to most things in life suddenly felt sick. Nobody spoke at first. Then anger mingled with their nausea.

'She's still alive and he's taken her up on to the Black Hill,' Gordon Hall's voice cut like a whiplash across the room.

'I'll get some men and tracker dogs,' Ford turned towards the door.

'Do what the hell you like,' Hall pushed past him and strode to the top of the stairs. 'I've got a dog and a rifle. I'm heading after the swine right now. You can either come with me or come later.'

'We're with you,' Ford signalled to Bayley to follow.

They paused in the farmyard for only as long as it took Gordon Hall to let Remus out of the back of his car and to reach for his Winchester 1903 Model .22 rifle from beneath the front seats. The journalist's hands were rock steady as he fed eight shells into the magazine. Only he knew the extent of his fury now. He knew what it was like to be filled with a desire to kill. Only the death of the Werewolf would satisfy his craving.

'Right. Let's go,' he cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm. Remus sniffed at the tracks and looked eagerly back at his master. 'Not much scent in snowy conditions but if the trail's as plain as this we'll be able to track him right to his lair.'

They began to climb up the hillside towards the conifer plantations that lay beyond.

'Pray God we'll be in time,' Gordon muttered to himself.

Almost an hour later they saw the tracks leave the Forestry Commission road and disappear into the dense thickets.

'We'll have to crawl on our hands and knees in there,' Ford pulled a wry face.

'Why ever didn't I think of it before?' Gordon Hall turned to Ford and Bayley. 'There's a cave up on a steep hillside. It's either a helluva climb down to it from here or we can make a detour and it's a helluva climb up. For my money I'd sooner take my chance with the latter. If you remember the last time we searched here we gave up at Anthony's Quarry when that dead rabbit confused the dogs. Not that the Werewolf would have been in the cave then but it's odds on that he is now!'

'Lead on,' Ford grunted. 'You know the lie of the land.'

Half an hour later they arrived at the foot of the steep shale slope.

'Something's rolled down!' Hall pointed with the barrel of his rifle at the trail of scuffed snow stained with blood that led down from the ledge far above them. 'Something or someone - Good God! Lying over there in those gorse bushes. A body!'

As they hastened towards the crumpled form Gordon's first fear was that the Werewolf had killed and mutilated Margaret and cast her down the slope. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the gory remains of a man whose features were totally unrecognisable.

'Strewth!' Ford grimaced. 'The Werewolf's certainly had him ... unless this is the Werewolf!'

'I'd say it was that poacher they call the Lurker,' Gordon Hall surmised. 'I've never met him and you couldn't recognise - that, but it isn't Tom Davies; or Owen. He's certainly got the mark of the Werewolf on him!'

'Up there!' Bayley's voice was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper.

The other two looked up above them. On that narrow ledge a figure was plainly visible. Crouching on all fours. Snarling down at them. Dried blood matted its thick hairy coat.

Behind the Werewolf in the entrance to the cave stood Margaret Gunn.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

'SHOOT it, Hall!' Ford breathed. 'For Christ's sake shoot the bloody thing!'

'Daren't risk it,' Gordon Hall lowered the rifle. 'Might hit the girl or else only wound it and it'd turn on her.'

'Stay where you are,' the muffled voice quite unrecognisable as belonging to Tom Owen floated down to them. 'Don't try coming up here. If you do I'll throw the girl down to you bit by bit.'

'He means it too,' Gordon Hall's face was white and the hands holding the rifle trembled.

'You can't get away,' Detective Chief-Inspector Ford cupped his hands and bellowed up the hillside. 'The whole countryside is swarming with police. You're surrounded. Give yourself up ... Tom Owen!'

'So you know,' the Werewolf's maniacal laughter floated down to them. 'Well it don't matter now. It won't do you any good. I've got the girl!'

'You can't stop up there forever,' Ford shouted back. 'There's no place else you can go, Owen.'

For some moments there was silence as though Tom Owen was frantically seeking some way by which he could yet foil them.

'OK,' he reared up on two legs seeming gigantic even at that distance. 'I'll do a deal. Hall for the girl!'

'My God!' the Scotland Yard man muttered. 'What a diabolical compromise.'

'I'll have to go through with it,' the journalist snapped. 'Anything just to get Margaret Gunn away from him. Even if …'

He did not finish. Already he was thinking of Jean and their unborn baby. It was a terrible decision to have to make. Yet he had no choice.

'OK, Owen,' he yelled. 'I agree. Let the girl go.'

'Not likely,' the reply was instantaneous. 'I don't trust you, Hall. Nor the police. You come up here. Unarmed. Then I'll let the girl go. I give you my word on that.'

'Which means nothing,' Hall was tight lipped as he pushed the rifle into Bayley's hands. 'I'm going up there. The rifle's loaded. We'll have to play it as it comes. Once Margaret's clear of him nothing else matters. If he gets me, well, that's just hard luck. You'll have to do your best to shoot him before he gets away into the woods.'

'All right, Owen,' he yelled. 'I'm coming up!'

Gordon Hall did not look back. Unhurriedly he began the steep climb, following the old watercourse, carefully negotiating every foothold.

Remus whined impatiently. He did not like his master going anywhere without him. Yet he knew that he would only be sent back if he attempted to follow. It was very hard to understand what was going on. All he knew was that an enemy waited on that ledge above. After a time he seemed to reach some canine decision and noticing that the two men were not paying any attention to him he slipped away unobtrusively into the trees.

'Gordon, don't!' Margaret screamed. 'Don't!'

A push from her kidnapper sent her sprawling back into the cave.

'Shut up!' he turned back to the ledge to watch Hall's approach. 'You're both gonna die. After that it doesn't matter.'

Gordon Hall was less than fifteen yards away now. He paused. It was steeper than he had anticipated. He was breathing heavily.

'You can let the girl go now,' he said.

'Not till you're up on this ledge,' the Werewolf replied. 'Once you're here she can go. '

Hall began to climb again. Far below him the two detectives watched every move anxiously. Of Remus there was no sign.

Now Gordon Hall was on the ledge. Only a few feet separated him from his enemy. They regarded each other, both their hearts filled with hate.

'Why don't you take that outfit off, Owen?' Hall jeered. 'You look like something out of a comic opera!'

The Werewolf did not reply.

'OK, let the girl go now,' the journalist went on. 'Then we can settle things man to man. Not that I think you're much of a man.'

'You must be joking,' Tom Owen laughed. 'You don't really think I'm going to turn her loose, do you? She's as bad as you are. We've mated once and after I've torn your guts out and thrown 'em to the crows, I'm gonna do it again. I can hold those cops off with her. They'll do as I say.'

'You're crazy,' Gordon saw Margaret crouching on the floor of the cave and gave her an encouraging smile. 'Give yourself up...'

Only his sharp reflexes enabled him to dodge the first blow from a bloodstained steel claw. He ducked and retreated a foot or so. Tom Owen laughed.

'You've got it comin' to yuh, Hall,' he sneered. 'You strangled my brother with a fox snare. Now I'm gonna get these claws round your neck and twist your fucking head right off.'

Gordon felt the rush of air from the next blow as he swayed backwards but as he struggled to regain his balance he slipped. His feet slid on some loose shale chippings and next second he was lying flat on his back at the creature's feet.

'Like I said,' Tom Owen snarled. 'You got it comin' to you.'

Massive claws were poised to strike. Gordon Hall closed his eyes. There was no way out now. A rifle cracked and the whining slug ricocheted off the rock face a full yard above the killer. Bayley was no marksman.

A sudden growling filled the air. Then a huge bundle of yellow snarling fury sprang from the rocks above the cave like an avenging angel making an eleventh hour intervention. Remus had arrived. With terrific impact he landed on the Werewolf's shoulders.

The death blow missed Gordon Hall by a matter of inches. His attacker swayed momentarily off balance on that narrow ledge. Remus had surprise on his side. In straight combat he would have been ripped to pieces in a matter of seconds. Tom Owen swayed precariously. Gordon Hall's two hands came round, secured a grip on a hairy ankle and heaved with all his might.

The Werewolf swayed and then lost his balance. Just in time Remus fell back on to the safety of the ledge. The blood crazed killer was not so fortunate. He tottered in the opposite direction ... into space!

The journalist leapt up as he saw his enemy disappear over the ledge. Margaret Gunn and Remus were at his side. All three of them looked down, their feelings a mixture of horror and relief.

'Oh my God!' Margaret started to sob uncontrollably. 'Thank God it's all over!'

But it was not over yet. The Werewolf fell and slithered for fully twenty yards on the surface of frozen snow. Jagged stones ripped shreds of the thick furry skin away. Then somehow those claws secured a hold. He managed to check his fall. He lay there. Looked above and below him. He began to move carefully downwards, picking his way, searching out footholds.

Detective-Sergeant Bayley was shooting again. Snow kicked up all around the Werewolf. It began to clamber downwards with greater urgency.

'It … it'll get away!' Margaret cried in horror as the bullets still did not find their mark.

'No!' Gordon hissed. 'He's hit!'

It was true enough. The fleeing killer suddenly stumbled and fell. Rolled over. Blood stained the snow. It staggered up again. Almost at the foot of the hill. Another bullet hit it Now it was bent double. Scrambling forward on all fours less than twenty yards from the two policemen, it trod on the mangled body of the Lurker in its flight.

'Give it another! ' Ford yelled.

Bayley raised the rifle again. A sharp click. The magazine was empty!

The Werewolf turned with a snarl. The blood was running freely from the wound in its side. Like the beast he had portrayed for so long, Tom Owen's instincts urged him to crawl to the deepest woods to die. Under no circumstances would he fall into the hands of the law.

He loped away. The darkness of the deep woods seemed to beckon him. He was becoming weaker by the second. It would need a supreme effort to make it.

Into the bracken. Almost there. Then the ground opened up to receive him. Falling. A dull thud. Silence.

It was quarter of an hour before Gordon Hall, Margaret Gunn and Remus reached the safety of the lower ground. Ford and Bayley were standing amidst the clump of bracken looking down at something. There was an expression of amazement and horror on both their faces.

'Incredible,' Ford muttered.

'What's up?' Hall pushed through the undergrowth to join them. The friendly but firm arm of Bayley barred Margaret's way.

'I wouldn't look if I were you, Mrs Gunn,' he said.

Gordon peered down into the deep muddy pit that had once been intended as a reservoir. Yet even the murky gloom could not hide the scene below from him.

'What in the name of ...!' he gasped.

Three sharp pointed stakes had impaled the Werewolf. The points red with fresh blood had pierced his chest and stomach, protruding at least six inches out of his broad back, suspending him in mid-air. Much of the wolf-skin and Tom Owen's own clothing beneath had been torn to shreds. Patches of bare bloody skin were exposed.

'Look at the skin,' Hall breathed. 'His own I mean. It's like ... stubble. Hairy.'

'What d'you mean?' Ford asked. 'I can see it's not like ordinary skin but surely …'

'Something we'll never know,' Gordon Hall turned away. 'Maybe it wasn't altogether make-believe on his part. Autosuggestion perhaps …'

'This pit,' the Yard man scratched his head. 'It's horrific. Like a trap for a wild animal. Who could have made it like this? Owen blundered right into it. Didn't seem to know it was there ... '

'Maybe he didn't,' Gordon's eyes fell upon the huddled mutilated form of the Lurker lying less than ten yards away. 'There's an awful lot to this business that we'll never know. These two have been prowling the hills for a long time but whether or not there was any, link between them …'

He slipped an arm around Margaret's waist. Her head rested on his shoulder.

'I guess it's all over now,' he kissed her lightly. 'We can all go home.'

'Is it ... really all over?' she whispered.

'Well now that we've accounted for the original Werewolf's brother,' he laughed softly, 'I don't think there's much chance of another one springing up!'

Margaret Gunn wished that she could share Gordon Hall's confidence. She remembered the darkest hours. That room. The mating. Had Tom Owen been just a sex-crazed killer with an obsession for revenge or … had he been a real Werewolf?

Maybe, as Hall had said, they would never find out. On the other hand maybe they would. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the first book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2011.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

The next book will be :

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

"Malaya was about to fall to the Japanese, and a group of nurses had been taken prisoner by the notorious Colonel Sika. 'Jungle' Carter knew they faced sadistic torture, even a hideous death. It was up to him and his band of Chinese guerillas to rescue them from Sika's clutches - but in a hostile jungle where the heat and fever caused nearly as many deaths as the fighting itself, it would be a desperate and bloody struggle."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.