A Heart in the Right Place

by Heide Goody

  “Who?”

  “Pumbaa, isn’t it? I mean it’s smiling, but it’s smiling horribly. Like it’s about to make a kebab out of my innards.”

  Tony got out. “There’s a wild boar in The Lion King?”

  “Um. Yes?” said Nick. He wasn’t so sure now he came to think about it.

  “Tusks,” said Tony.

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming.”

  “No, I mean they’re tusks, not horns,” said Tony.

  Nick slid out of his seat. When he stood he realised the gates from the bridge were on the roof of the car, still intact, still joined together by the chain.

  “We carried them a distance, didn’t we?” said Tony.

  With the gates on top, the car looked like a battered, metallic butterfly, the gates its large silvery wings. Tony dragged them off, with little regard for what remained of the Cadillac’s paintwork, dumping them by the side of the road.

  Pickles jumped out of the car. Instead of barking at the suspicious boars to drive them off, she tried making friends with a protracted routine of sniffing and barking.

  Nick looked at the vehicle blocking the road. It had chains on its wheels for traction in the mud of the forest and a long extending arm with a complicated-looking mechanism on the end of it.

  THE MANITOBA DX HARVESTER read a plaque on the arm. “Some sort of tree-chopping-thingy?” wondered Nick.

  “Could be,” said Tony.

  Nick climbed up into the cab.

  39

  Finn had no difficulty following the path the car had taken, even as the light faded. There was a trail of flattened gorse bushes down the side of the mountain. Once she reached the bottom the ground was softer, so the tyre marks showed up clearly. Her broken arm was a nuisance, but Finn knew she was more than capable of finishing the mission before she worried about that.

  The full Moon was visible above the woods ahead and her thoughts instantly turned to the instructions Adam had brought with him, which she now carried. They were clear and they were unambiguous.

  When she’d been given the job, she had briefly wondered what Mr Argyll wanted with this Oz guy’s heart. Mr Argyll was a powerful figure in organised crime, a man with connections and deals with drug lords, people traffickers, arms smugglers and terrorists of every flavour. He was also a legitimate businessman of no small order. He owned shops and hotels, car washes and nail salons on both sides of the Irish Sea. She heard he owned a private plane and two helicopters. The man was, in short, rich. If he needed a heart for a transplant then he would have been able to buy one. Tissue match or whatever, Finn was confident he could buy one from Africa or Asia, or wherever it was black market organs came from. He wouldn’t need to send his top killer and a logistics nerd running around the UK after some scruffy guy in a damned Cadillac.

  Oddly, with the new information gained from Adam’s instructions, things made more sense, not less. Finn didn’t need background information and extra motivation to get a job done; nonetheless it felt good to know the truth.

  Of course, she still didn’t know what Mr Argyll intended to do with the werewolf’s heart once he got it.

  40

  Nick felt much safer in the logging vehicle’s cab, above the boars circling with interest. Yeah, they looked all cute and cuddly – okay, not actually cuddly: cute and bristly – but he’d definitely seen a film in which a guy got eaten by wild boars. And he’d definitely heard in a film something about pigs being able to eat a man entirely in, like, ten minutes or something. Definitely pigs; not piranhas. He was certainly happier up in the cab.

  “You coming to have a look, dad?” he called.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” shouted Tony from the car. “I want to have a look at that letter.”

  “What letter?”

  Tony was not listening.

  Nick scanned the controls in front of him. He’d never been inside a fighter plane cockpit, but he was willing to bet this thing was more complicated. Two computer screens were embedded in the dashboard, and the seat was flanked by joystick controls. An endless array of buttons covered every surface, including the joysticks. There were even buttons on the buttons. A big green one with On/Off seemed like an obvious one to try. He pressed it, just to see what would happen. He was shocked when the engine turned over with a shudder and burst into life. He gave one of the joysticks an experimental tweak: the boom in front swung across towards the pile of logs.

  “Clear the logs. Drive on out,” he whispered to himself.

  He grabbed the other joystick: it moved the boom up and down. Nick also found a button for extending the boom arm. Maybe he could topple the pile of logs. He extended the arm as far as it would go, but the computer screen burst into life, flashing red and displaying the message AUTOMATIC CUT-OUT APPLIED. Nick sighed. He un-telescoped the boom and tried some other controls. He swung the boom into a tree, and—

  “Dad! Look!”

  The machine on the boom’s tip clamped the tree and sawed through the trunk. One computer screen displayed a set of numbers. Nick lifted his hands away from the controls and watched in awe as the machine held an entire tree at the end of the boom.

  “Wow,” he murmured. It was like uprooting daisies with his fingers – using a giant robot arm instead of his fingers and a whole fir tree instead of daisy.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. He hesitated before trying another, smaller joystick. The entire vehicle surged forward, at something well below walking pace; probably just as well given the severed tree was still dangling from the end of the boom. Perhaps he and Tony could escape by cutting a new path through the forest. But it would take hours, and the light of day was effectively gone. He turned off the engine and climbed down from the cab.

  Tony was leaning over the roof of the car. “No good?”

  “Not if we want to get through any time before dawn,” said Nick. “I think we’re going to have to walk round.”

  His dad gave him a look. “A walk? In the woods? At night in Scotland? Have you any idea what the night time temperatures are like in the Scottish Highlands?”

  Nick gave the heaviest of sighs and recalled where they should have been by this time: at their little cabin on the Moray Firth. The mental image of their wonderful weekend away was more vivid and bright than the biggest HD TV in the world. The two of them, indulging in the finest hamper goodies, sipping Talisker like mature gentlemen; perhaps sat on the veranda in cosy deckchairs and looking out over the water. And, yes, in his vision, it might have been a cold night but there would have been a roaring fire. Not actually on the veranda – that wouldn’t work – but in a chimenea, or the hearth inside. Or maybe even a fire pit which the two of them had dug with their manly hands or, failing that, Tony’s folding trowel. Whatever, they should be having that perfect moment: two men at peace with the world and themselves; luxuriating in their perfect father-son relationship. Not stuck in a dark wood with a busted up car, no way out, a corpse in their boot, a hungry pack of boars circling them, and a psycho killer on their tail. It couldn’t get much worse. There’d have to be rabid dogs or … or zombies to make this situation worse.

  “This letter,” said Tony. He had a ragged sheet spread over the car roof.

  “What letter?” asked Nick. He realised it was the screwed up bit of paper he’d picked up in Oz’s house; the one the man in the toilets had shown such an interest in. “Is it important? I only took it to help start a fire.”

  “Listen. It’s signed off by someone called Col. That woman mentioned someone called Col. Their handler or something.”

  “This is fascinating backstory, dad, but I think we ought to –”

  “Listen, will you!” He focused on the letter. “Dear Mr Bingley, I trust this letter finds you in good health. We’ve undertaken a review of the current arrangement. Our mutual employer remains grateful for the years of service you have offered, during which you have managed your condition to good effect. The comprehensive care package provided for your mother an
d the pension you have been given are tokens of that gratitude.

  “As you know, our employer needs to consider the issue of succession planning and has decided the time has come to recruit a suitable replacement. The new candidate will absorb your condition in the manner laid out in our discussion papers, and based on the materials your mother was kind enough to provide for us. A team will be visiting you shortly to collect the necessary materials. Your full co-operation would be appreciated, as our employer is keen that the transition should be managed smoothly.” Tony passed the letter back to Nick. “Signed Col.”

  Nick read the words himself. Nope. They still didn’t make any sense.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked eventually.

  Tony shook his head. “I have no idea what Oz did for them. I’m guessing it wasn’t good. The only thing we can really take from this is the necessary materials mentioned refers to Oz’s heart. That’s what the guy said when I … when I stabbed him.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “There was an old woman living in that house. That would be Oz’s mom. The way I read it, her care was being paid for by this mutual employer chap. Sounds awfully like a euphemism for a crime lord – you know: some kingpin.”

  “No one uses that phrase anymore, dad.”

  “Point is, there was a price to be paid. And it sounds to me like it was Oz’s heart. From what you’ve told me about how you found him, it seems like he didn’t want them to have it.”

  “Oh, wow!” Nick suddenly got it. “He threw himself on top of his entire toolkit to mess up his internal organs?”

  “Worked, didn’t it?”

  “God, yeah,” said Nick.

  “These tablets must be related to the condition mentioned,” said Tony, holding up the bottle. “Argentum nitricum. I never heard of it.”

  Nick pulled out his phone. “Not a great signal, but let’s try a quick search.” He waited long seconds for the browser to return results. “Huh. It’s homeopathic silver nitrate. Used for gastric problems.”

  “Is homeopathy the one that’s a loads of codswallop?”

  “Now, don’t be intolerant, dad. People put a lot of faith in homeopathy.”

  “People put a lot of faith in the government. Doesn’t mean it’s going to do them any good. I’m a rational fellow and no one’s going to tell me medicine that’s been diluted ten thousand times until there’s nothing there but water actually works. It’s up there with God, the Easter bunny and horoscopes.”

  “Oz obviously thought it worked,” said Nick.

  “Yeah. Look, we’re clearly tangled up in something nasty that we don’t really understand. Why don’t we use your phone to call the police? We’ll just have to come clean about the body in the boot.”

  “And the guy you stabbed in the service station,” added Nick. He couldn’t imagine the conversation going well. One dead body might be explained away, two looked extremely careless.

  “What if there’s another way?” said Tony slowly.

  “Go on.”

  He pointed at the letter. “We’ve got Col’s phone number there.”

  “We give that to the police?”

  “No. What if we call him? Tell him where Oz is and ask him to call off his crazy killer woman.”

  Nick considered. “I mean, it couldn’t make things worse, could it? They’re already on our tail. We’re just putting them straight on some issues.”

  “Exactly.”

  Nick dialled the number and put it on loudspeaker.

  “Hello?” came an Irish accent.

  “Ah, hello,” said Nick, feeling the peculiar urge to drop into a cod Irish accent himself. He quashed the urged and focused on sounding as English as possible. “You don’t know me, but—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Yes. You don’t know me, but I think perhaps you’ve got some people chasing me because they think I’m Oz Bingley.”

  There was a brief pause. “Continue,” said the voice.

  “Do you know who Oz is? Am I talking to the right person?”

  There was another pause. “I said, continue.”

  “Well, what you probably don’t know is: Oz is dead. I think he killed himself.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “I have it here,” said Nick. “With me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I wanted to do a sort of trade.” He scrunched up his face. “No – not a trade. We really don’t want anything. Just to be on our way.”

  “We?”

  “My dad and me. We’re just on holiday. Well, a weekend break. But this body…”

  “You have the body of Oz Bingley.”

  “Yes, indeed, and I’d be very happy to make it available to you. But could you please get those people to stop chasing me? You know: the woman?”

  There was a pause, a long pause. Nick swiped his phone screen to check the call was still in progress and hadn’t been cut off.

  “Let me have your co-ordinates,” the voice said eventually.

  “Co-ordinates? Well, we’re by the old Kirkwood sausage farm in Dalwhinnie—”

  “Sausage farm? Are you pulling my feckin leg now?”

  “No, no, not at all, sir. There’s this farm in the wood and—”

  “Co-ordinates.”

  “I don’t have the co-ordinates. I don’t have a map.”

  “Don’t you have a smartphone? You’ll be able to find your GPS co-ordinates.”

  Nick took a few moments to locate the right screen. He relayed the co-ordinates to Col. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” said Col. “By the way, how did you get this number?”

  “It was on a letter Oz had,” said Nick. Tony caught his eye, shaking his head and making cutting motions across his throat.

  “Okay so. I’ll sort everything. Don’t you worry now.”

  “So, we’re free to go when we—”

  “My men will meet you at the … sausage farm.”

  “Right, right, but then we’re good after that? We can—”

  There was click on the line and the call ended.

  41

  Finn maintained a steady jog alongside a river she could hear beyond a screen of trees. Her shoulder ached, tensed from holding her broken arm in place. Adam’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She slowed to a walk and fished it out with her good arm. It was Col.

  “Yes?”

  “Finn, it’s Col.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was hoping to speak with Adam.”

  Finn made no reply. It hadn’t been a question.

  “Is he there?” he asked.

  “No, he’s dead.”

  “Did you…?”

  “No. There was a vehicle crash and he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.”

  “Jaysus. Where now?”

  “In a wood. No witnesses. We’re in the countryside, near a place called Dalwhinnie. I’m still tracking the target.”

  “Which brings me neatly to my question. How did you and Adam identify the target you’re following?”

  “Adam talked to the guy. Said he confirmed who he was and showed him some ID. We were having doubts before that.”

  “For good reason, it seems. That’s not Oz you’re following.”

  “What?”

  “Oz is dead.”

  “Oh. Interesting,” said Finn. “So, I have a question for you. Now he’s dead, can you confirm Oz – codename Lupo – was a werewolf?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That information was not supposed to be shared with you,” said Col slowly.

  “Not an answer.”

  “No, it’s not.” Col fell silent a moment. “The guy who phoned me – some gobshite called Nick who said you were chasing him – is holed up in a local farmhouse. He said he’s got Oz’s body. I told him I’m sending my men to collect the body, then let them go free.”

  “Are we?”

  “Sure, and why would
we? I want you to locate these people and kill them.”

  “And the body?”

  “Do nothing with it. This whole operation is a mess already. I’m coming to collect within the hour.”

  “You’re nearby?”

  “Nope, but we will be soon enough.”

  42

  The car was back at the farmhouse. It hadn’t so been much driven there as rolled back down the slope. It appeared to be terminally damaged, and listed at a strange angle. Remarkably, they hadn’t hit any boars on the way down, in spite of them milling around in even greater numbers. Pickles ran about, yipping in excitement and dodging the wild pigs; although they seemed nervous of her. Nick discovered it was impossible to keep them all in sight. Once he was out of the car, he sidled away from those he could see; only to find others bumping the back of his knees. Nick squealed.

  “You don’t have to join in with the noises,” said Tony.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “That woman will be here soon. We don’t need to make it any easier for her to find us.”

  “Col said he was going to call her off.”

  Tony made a unconvinced noise. “I think we need to consider the possibility Col was being economical with the truth. A night-time walk through the woods is looking more and more attractive. Perhaps we should hijack that log-cutter machine.”

  “It was slower than a mobility scooter.”

  “So you will be after two hours of night-hiking. Now, let’s get this body.” He popped the boot.

  “Fagh!” He wafted the smell from his nose. The dank and meaty smell, not quite rotten, but certainly not enticing to human nostrils drew the boars and the dog closer. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Do we need to move it?” said Nick.

  “They want the body. They don’t want your car. This vehicle is either coming with us, or needs disposing of.”

  “Disposing of?” Nick’s voice rose with emotion. “You don’t mean…?”

  “It’s just a bloody car, Nick. Now grab a hold. I’ll let you choose which end.”