The Tomb (Scarrett & Kramer Book 3)

by Neil Carstairs

  “Isn’t this a bonus,” he said. “The pretty one survives. I take it the ugly one is still down there?”

  Daisy turned her head away. He laughed. She listened with a broken heart as Miro said to the men with him. “Check along the shoreline for his body. Fifty metres in either direction. Give it half-an-hour, and if he hasn’t surfaced, we know he’s still down there in the car. There weren’t any other witnesses so no need to call the emergency services. Okay?”

  Grunts and mutters of agreement reached Daisy’s ears. Miro grasped her chin and turned her face towards him. “And as for you, it’s time we got properly acquainted. Do you prefer whips or leather straps?”

  Daisy spat at him. Miro dodged to one side, his smile disappearing.

  “Bitch,” he said, and slapped her.

  Daisy welcomed the darkness that claimed her.

  ***

  Geordie lay in the shallow waters of the loch shore, sheltered by a rock outcrop, and watched the men carry an unconscious Daisy to a waiting car. He held onto the rock with his left hand, in his right he held his hunting knife. Dragged to the bottom of the loch, Geordie’s last thought as the creature hauled him towards its mouth, landed on the knife. He reached it and sawed through a tentacle wrapped around his chest. The creature thrashed in agony, sending a plume of silt rolling through the freezing water. His lungs burning, Geordie started on the tentacle that still trapped his left leg. Two cuts and the beast released him.

  Fresh air never tasted so good as he broke surface way to the left of Daisy. He wanted to reach her but saw the vehicles up on the road spilling out armed men and knew he had no chance of getting to Daisy in time. He stayed in the shallows, body numb from the cold water and struggling to hold the knife as they dragged Daisy from the loch. Geordie knew what Miro was telling his men. Search the bank. He edged away from them, keeping his movements as gentle as possible to stop unwanted ripples.

  Geordie found refuge under an overhanging mass of heather. He heard two men tramp past and a minute or two later walk back. Counting to one hundred, Geordie eased out and continued away from them until he reached a small beach made up of dark grey sand. Another check and he crawled out of the water, the strength in his limbs lost to the effects of the chill water. Geordie forced his way forward, aiming for a patch of long grass. No-one spotted him, Miro’s men couldn’t be bothered to walk this far down to see if a body had washed ashore.

  Darkness drifted at the edge of Geordie’s vision, and the slow thought that he should go to sleep wandered its way into his consciousness. He forced his eyes open. Enough. Move your arse, now. He edged up the bank, leaving a slick trail of water and silt in his wake. At the crest, where the ground levelled out he saw the road. Geordie raised himself up. All clear. With his eyes fixed on the far verge, Geordie made a stumbling sprint across the asphalt. Grass, heather and a drainage ditch welcomed him as he fell back to earth. He rolled into the ditch, out of sight of the road.

  He lay still again. Staring up at the sky, his body shivering. Need to get warm. Rolling onto his side, Geordie looked at the next obstacle. The hillside rose at somewhere near forty-five degrees to a line of pine trees about thirty metres from his hiding place. Geordie flexed his fingers around the hilt of the hunting knife. He wiggled his toes in his waterlogged shoes and wished he could be lying on a beach somewhere hot and not in a boggy Scottish drain.

  He began the painstaking crawl up the hillside, stopping every few metres to check the road and the loch shore. The lazy bastards that Miro left to patrol the shoreline for his body never came into view. A couple of cars drove by, but whoever sat in them never thought to look up for a wet-through Englishman. That gave him energy, enough to get to his feet and run the last ten metres until he fell into the wood with relief.

  Geordie never gave his body a chance to rest. He could feel the last shreds of warmth leaving him and needed to do something about it. He stripped his clothing off and felt both better and worse for it. Better because the soaking material could no longer leach his body heat away, worse because the wind blew through the trees and the chill it carried cut him to the marrow. Another look down at the road, and he stepped out of the trees, using the knife to cut handfuls of the long grass down to ground level. When he had enough, Geordie returned to the wood. He rubbed the grass across his skin, the action both drying him and warming him with the friction of vegetation on his flesh. Feeling a little better, Geordie squeezed water from his clothes. Twisting the fabric as best he could with his uncooperative hands to get the worst of the wet out. He dressed again.

  Staying within the treeline, Geordie paralleled the road. The guards never showed up, and for once Geordie thought that the useless pricks had a use after all. He had a couple of choices, neither of them very inviting. Walk back to town or find a kind local to give him some help. But the locals could be in the pay of Miro. It’s what Geordie would do. Make sure your neighbours are on your side. Did Miro think the same way or would the arrogance he showed to Geordie extend to everyone else in these parts?

  Only one way to find out. The cottage came into view after Geordie crested another in a seemingly never-ending chain of folds in the land. He knelt, rubbing his hands together as he examined the property. A two-storey structure built from local stone, it had a thatched roof, a vegetable garden and a rusting camper van parked on the far side. As Geordie moved closer, he saw lights on in the kitchen and a figure moving across the window. Geordie gave it another five minutes, resting in the field next to the cottage until he assumed that only one person was home right now.

  Stop pissing around and get on with it.

  Geordie put an inane grin on his face as he knocked on the door. A window gave him enough of a reflection to know what he would do if he opened the door right now. Slam it shut and call the police.

  The woman who opened it looked about eighty, with grey hair tied in a bun and a well-lined face. She put a hand to her mouth as her gaze moved from his head to his toes and back.

  “Hello,” Geordie said. “I’ve had a spot of bother with the loch and wonder if I could get myself a hot drink.”

  “Och, you’re English, I should have known.” The old woman said, with a smile. “Take ye’self around the back. I’ll no’ have you ruining my carpets with those shoes.”

  Geordie followed a moss covered stone path to the back door. By the time he arrived, she had a kettle on the go and a rolling pin in her hand. “Just to let ye know I can take care of myself when I want to.”

  Geordie held up his hands. “I need to get warm.”

  “Then ye’ll have to take those wet things off won’t you.”

  They waited, the kettle coming to the boil, and Geordie expecting her to direct him somewhere to undress. When she didn’t, he said, “Here?”

  “Why not?”

  “Um, because you’re in here.”

  She laughed. “And we haven’t been introduced. Shona MacKenzie.”

  “Geordie,” he said, shaking the offered hand.

  “Geordie? What kind of name is that?” Shona waggled the rolling pin in his direction.

  “Well, it’s Derek, actually, but everyone calls me Geordie because of my accent.”

  Shona turned away. “Ye can get undressed here. I’ll fetch a bathrobe. It belonged to my late husband, but it should fit ye.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” Geordie said.

  “I don’t get much excitement anymore,” Shona told him, leaving Geordie to undress in peace.

  Forty-five minutes later, wrapped in a blue dressing gown and feeling much better with a mug of coffee and a couple of wee drams of Scotch whisky inside him, Geordie listened to the ringing tone of what he hoped would be the last of six phone calls. Shona’s phone bill would be high this quarter, as the time it took to track down the one person in Scotland Geordie thought could help him took way longer than expected. Now, however, he waited for this call to be picked up with his fingers crossed.

  “Hello?”

 
“Is that John McGrath?” Geordie asked.

  “Aye, who’s this?”

  “You’ll know me as Geordie. I’m a friend of Ben Scarrett’s. We met a few months back at a country house in the south of England.”

  McGrath sighed. “Don’t tell me. This isn’t a social call, is it?”

  Geordie almost laughed at the resignation in McGrath’s voice. “No, it’s not, and I’d ask that you don’t hang up on me until I’ve explained as much as I can over the phone.”

  “I’m getting married in three days,” McGrath said without giving Geordie a chance to start. “It took me months to get back in Lorna’s good books after Ben roped me in to help you out last time. Whatever you want the answer is no, especially if it involves a man who has come back from the dead.”

  “No dead men as far as I know,” Geordie said. “Kidnapping, murder and a loch monster as big as a bus that tried to drown me, but no dead men.”

  “Jesus, you people live the weirdest of lives.” McGrath must have stepped outside because Geordie heard the blustery sound of wind blowing.

  “Can you talk?”

  “I can now,” McGrath’s voice lowered. “Lorna’s in the house, and if she knew what this call was about she’d throw a fit.”

  “I need you to come and pick me up, and on the way, buy me some new clothes.”

  “Just like that?” McGrath said. “Aren’t you people able to look after yourselves?”

  “That’s the problem,” Geordie said. “I’m alive, but everyone thinks I’m dead, and it’s better if it stays that way. Ben told me you were a stand-up guy, and after what happened at Chequers I’m with him on that one. All I need is a loan of your credit card and a lift to somewhere a little less dangerous.”

  “Not much then,” McGrath said in resignation.

  “Can you help?”

  “I’m starting three weeks leave. Wedding in three days followed by a honeymoon in the Maldives.”

  “Nice,” Geordie said. “I’ll only need you for half a day, if that.”

  “Lorna’s gonna kill me.”

  “So you’ll help?”

  “Aye, I’ll help. Though God knows why.”

  “Because you’re a stand-up guy,” Geordie said.

  “I won’t be standing up if Lorna finds out.”

  “She won’t,” Geordie said. “Tell her you’re off to buy a surprise wedding gift for her.”

  “That’ll make her suspicious.” McGrath laughed. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll see if I can avoid the fastest divorce in Scottish history.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hugo Dawson walked around the barn, making sure his heels made hard, deliberate clicks as he circled the prisoner. The young man sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, his hands bound and a hood over his head. They’d kept him like that for two hours now, not talking to him, making sure he knew he had company. Part of Dawson wanted to extend the time and make the guy under the hood sweat some more, but he needed answers to a raft of questions and so indicated to Jason Buhl that the hood should now come off.

  The guy looked to be in his early twenties, good looking with a few day’s growth of beard. He squeezed his eyelids together as Dawson stopped a couple of paces in front of him. Dawson waited for the guy’s eyes to get used to the light. When he finally looked up, Dawson said, “My name is Hugo. If you tell me your name, we can make our conversation a little easier.”

  No answer. The guy turned his head away and stared off into one corner.

  Dawson put his hands in his pockets and tried to be as casual as he could. “Look, my guys saved your life. The least you could do is introduce yourself.”

  The guy sighed and said, in accented English, “Can you take these restraints off my wrists.”

  “If you tell me your name.” Dawson motioned to Buhl to be ready to cut the plastic ties.

  “Ramon.”

  Buhl cut the ties, and Ramon rubbed his wrists to get circulation back into his hands.

  “Would you like a drink of water?” Buhl asked.

  Ramon nodded. Dawson watched him as Buhl brought a glass over. The young man drank it all down without pause and passed the glass back to Buhl. He didn’t notice that the DSI agent wore flesh coloured plastic gloves as he walked away.

  “So, Ramon, let’s get a few things straight. We know you are part of a team who came here to kill a little girl. We also know, thanks to security camera footage, that you were involved in the murder of three police officers and a civilian in a town called Lavonia.”

  At the mention of the dead cops, Ramon looked up. He didn’t speak, but Dawson saw the reaction and made a note of it.

  “But here’s what I don’t understand,” Dawson continued. “My guys say your friends were about to cut your heart out. Now, I don’t know about you, but those aren’t the kind of friends I’d want. Am I right so far?”

  Ramon shrugged. Dawson gave him time to think as Buhl returned. The agent nodded, and Dawson smiled and said, “One other thing. Thanks for giving us your fingerprints on the glass. We can compare them with prints lifted from the motel rooms in Lavonia, so don’t try and con us that you weren’t there.”

  Ramon seemed to sag into the chair. Dawson walked around him, keeping each pace to an even time. When he completed the full circle, he said, “We know you hired vehicles from the airport at Toccoa. Where did the others go?”

  “Others?” Ramon asked. “What others?”

  Dawson sighed. “We were getting on so well, Ramon, please don’t insult me with stupid questions.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about?” Ramon said.

  “The woman,” Dawson said. “And another man who met you at the airfield.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that.” Ramon smiled as if he’d supplied the best answer in class.

  “Three dead cops and a dead waitress,” Dawson said. “You and the woman are the only people left alive from the gang that did the shooting. You know that Georgia has the death penalty. I’m sure the prosecutors will demand it, and get it, because you’re guilty as charged.”

  That got a reaction. Ramon flinched as if Dawson had struck him. “What?” Dawson asked.

  “It was Yancha who shot the police and the woman at the motel. Not Itzel.”

  “Who’s Itzel?” Dawson asked. “The woman?”

  “Yes,” Ramon looked at Buhl and Dawson as if gauging how much he should say. “I was in the diner. Itzel in her room. Yancha did the shooting.”

  “And what about the cop who followed you?”

  “That was Yancha again. He asked the goddess for help, and she sent a golem to protect us.”

  “Are you telling me you and Itzel are innocent?” Dawson asked, with a note of disbelief.

  “Yes.” Ramon nodded. “Yes.”

  “And what about Boston?”

  “The man in the river? That was Yancha again.”

  Dawson frowned. “What man in the river? I was talking about the Museum of Fine Art and your robbery that resulted in the death of a museum director.”

  Ramon’s mouth dropped open as he realised his mistake. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “If you want to help us, and stay away from the death penalty, then tell us where Itzel and the other man are.”

  “I don’t know,” Ramon said, this time with a glance to Buhl for support. “I am honest with you. I think Itzel may be in danger.”

  “Oh?” Dawson raised his eyebrows. “You expect us to believe that? I believe you are stringing us along. From what we’ve seen on security footage, Itzel is the one in charge. If you help us, I’ll make sure the prosecutor knows. Itzel can get the death penalty, and you will go to prison.”

  “No.” Ramon jumped from the chair. Dawson took a half step back as the younger man came towards him. Buhl stepped in, catching Ramon in an arm lock and driving him to the concrete floor of the barn. Ramon struggled, his face grinding against the hard surface.

  “Relax, Ramon,” Buhl said, in
to his ear. “Relax and tell us what the problem is.”

  “Itzel didn’t kill the police or the waitress.”

  “Okay.” Buhl lifted Ramon up and dumped him back in the chair.

  “You like Itzel, don’t you?” Dawson asked.

  Ramon nodded, rubbing his shoulder where Buhl had stretched the muscles and tendons to breaking point. “If I help you, will you protect her as well?”

  “If I can,” Dawson said. “But only if the help you give us brings an end to all this.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Ramon. He thought for a moment and said, “She is with the High Priest. They are going to the Place of Retribution. It will all end there.”

  High Priest? Place of Retribution? Dawson exchanged a look of bewilderment with Buhl, before he said to Ramon, “What will end?”

  “The world,” Ramon said.

  Dawson stepped back from Ramon as Bob Pruitt came into the barn. The retired General met Pruitt halfway.

  “We’ve found their car,” Pruitt said. “Parked up in woodland a couple of miles away. I recovered these phones.”

  Pruitt showed Dawson four smartphones in a paper bag. “They’re all locked,” Pruitt said. “I can get them over to headquarters so the IT guys can break them.”

  “Not yet,” Dawson said. He took the bag from Pruitt. “Wait here.”

  Dawson walked back to Ramon. The prisoner eyed the bag like he thought it contained bad news. In a way, it did. Dawson reached down and tipped the phones onto the floor, not so far that it would do any damage, but they rattled and slid across the concrete and drew Ramon’s attention to them.

  “Any of these yours?” Dawson asked.

  Ramon nodded. He nudged one with his foot. “This one.”

  “Would you like to call Itzel?” Dawson asked. “Tell her what’s happened. Tell her there’s an offer on the table if she hands herself in.”

  “You’re lying,” Ramon said.

  “Nope.” Dawson walked away. When he reached Pruitt, Dawson turned and said, “Call her.”