The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  I pressed an ear to the inner door. The only sound was that of my heart thudding against my rib cage.

  With one fist clenched, I rubbed the sweating palm of my other hand on my jeans, grasped the door handle, squeezed it gently, and pushed open the door, muscles taut, ready for whatever I might find on the other side.

  Again, nothing. No sign of Karen or anyone else in the sitting room. The gas fire hissed. Its feeble light cast an eerie glow across the hearth, pushing back the darkness. An open book lay on the small occasional table near an armchair.

  Still holding onto the door handle, I relaxed slightly.

  Somewhere in the distance, a car backfired.

  My muscles convulsed, a reflex action, and I jerked the door toward me, banging my head on the wooden frame. Breaking through that grim silence, the sound was like a thunderclap echoing through the rooms.

  That was so fucking dumb.

  I forced my muscles to relax and steadied myself against the door. I had to stay calm, not let my nerves get the better of me.

  I waited, listening intently for any possible reaction to the sound.

  Nothing. The darkness pressed in around me, brooding and silent.

  I let go of the door, crept across the sitting room, and checked out the other rooms through the open doorways, the kitchen to the left and the ensuite bedroom to the right.

  In the kitchen, the fluorescent glow of a street lamp, filtered by the semi-opaque blinds lent a dull jaundiced sheen to the metal pans dangling from a hanging rack by the window. Over in the far corner, the refrigerator purred. All else was silent.

  The soft tread of my shoes on the parquet floor was the only other sound as I crept over to the bedroom doorway and checked the room for signs of movement. A double bed stood against the far wall flanked on both sides by matching bedside cabinets. A bank of wardrobes ran along the length of the room on the wall opposite the window and, at the other end of them, the open door to the bathroom. In the half-light, the large pieces of furniture appeared like dark slumbering beasts crouching in the shadows, silent and still.

  But where was Karen? At this time of evening, she should be here, in her quarters.

  I made my way back to the outer passage and followed it into the central reception area. The night-light cast a dim amber glow around the room, giving it a strange sombre look.

  I was halfway across the room, heading towards the bar.

  A scream rang out.

  Behind me.

  A long high wailing sound cut through the dead dense silence, reverberating around the building, and echoing back from the nearby walls.

  I spun around towards it.

  Towards the stairs.

  And watched in horror as Karen, appearing from the darkness like a wraith, her mouth open and screaming, fell towards me, tumbling down the stairs in a broken heap and landing with a dull thud and the pistol crack of snapping bone onto the wooden floor below.

  "Karen!" I cried out and ran towards her.

  She tried to raise herself, pushing herself from the floor with one hand, her face a mask of pain. She shrieked again, a piercing sound that ripped through the room.

  I dropped to my knees and reached out to her.

  "Look out!"

  The warning came too late. A dim shape emerged from the darkness and a boot struck me in the stomach, sending me sprawling across the floor. Searing pain shot through my body and I lay winded as a dark figure brushed past me and headed for the back door, disappearing from sight.

  Fighting back the pain and with one hand clutching my bruised stomach muscles, I pulled myself across the floor towards Karen.

  I reached her and she tried to push herself up on one elbow but cried out again and fell back to the floor. "Oh, God. I think my leg's broken."

  "Don't try to move." I dug into my jeans pocket for my mobile and dialled the emergency services.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Lowe said, "Don't try to move."

  I pushed myself to my feet and stepped back as he dropped to his knees at Karen's side. His face was ashen.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  He had been the first to arrive, quickly followed by Nathan and two constables.

  Karen's face twisted in pain. "It's my leg." She lay with her head on my folded up coat, her leg bent beneath her at an odd angle.

  Lowe ran a practised eye over her prone form and winced when he saw the position of the limb.

  "The ambulance is on its way," I offered.

  Behind me, Nathan gave out directions to his men, sending them to check out the building for signs of disturbance. He joined us as Karen was relating what had happened and nodded a greeting. I ignored it and turned away. I wasn't feeling well disposed towards him.

  "I heard a noise," Karen said. "All the guests were away. I went to check and found the back door open."

  "It had been forced," I interjected.

  Lowe acknowledged my input.

  In between sobs of pain, Karen managed to recount how she had heard a sound from the reception and gone to take a look around. Finding nothing untoward and about to return to her room, she had spotted the guest register on the reception desk. "I never leave it there," she said. "I always keep it under the counter."

  Nathan went to the desk and examined the register as Karen continued.

  She explained how, hearing a noise from upstairs where the guest rooms are, she had gone to investigate.

  "I took a look around the upper floor. Everything seemed okay, so I made my way back. He must have heard me and been waiting in the recess at the top of the stairs." She tried to move her leg and cried out in pain.

  Lowe winced again and said, "It's best to stay still till the medics have checked you out." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her brow.

  Karen went on. "I was pushed from behind. And the next thing I knew, I was at the bottom of the stairs. That's when I saw Mikey. I tried to warn him."

  At that moment, we were interrupted by the sound of a siren and, minutes later, a couple of paramedics were kneeling over Karen, shooing us away.

  I stood to one side, helpless, looking on as they checked her respiration and pulse, prompting her for details of injuries.

  Officers and medics carried on with their duties around me and in the midst of all that activity, I stood transfixed, unable to tear my gaze from the prostate figure at my feet. The initial shock of the attack was wearing off and, as the implications and consequences of what had happened filtered through to my conscious mind, something else stirred and grew in me; a cold hard anger. It took hold of me and increased by degrees until I was gripped by a rage that set my whole body trembling.

  How dare some anonymous piece of trash hurt a person I loved with such casual indifference. I wanted to lash out, hurt whoever had done this, smash everything within reach.

  "Mikey?" Nathan took hold of my arm. "Let's go talk in the office."

  The muscles in my arm went rigid at his touch and I recoiled, pulling away from him. I shook my head, unable to speak, still staring down at Karen.

  "She'll be okay," Nathan said. He took my arm again. "Come on. Let them do their job."

  I stiffened again but this time I let him lead me away. He guided me by the arm into the office behind the reception. My mind was whirring, full of strong conflicting emotions; rage, frustration, helplessness, fear. But mostly rage.

  "Here, Mikey. Sit here."

  I lowered myself in an armchair, my stomach muscles still bruised and sore, and gripped the arms of the chair, digging my fingers into the fabric, staring straight ahead without seeing anything. There was just that white hot rage.

  "Did you touch anything?"

  Did I touch anything? What sort of inane question was that? My closest friend had been attacked and badly hurt. Could have been killed. And I was being asked if I'd touched anything.

  I stared into the familiar face of the man I thought I had known, the man who had finally deceived me, and all that anger ex
ploded out of me. "What sort of fucking stupid question is that?"

  I knew how dumb this was, how inappropriate it was in the circumstances, but I couldn't stop myself. I was way beyond anger now.

  "My best friend is lying broken on the floor and you want to know if I touched anything? She could have been killed and you want to know if I touched anything? Of course I fucking did. Would you like a list?"

  "Calm down, Mikey. She's going to be all right. She has a broken leg and some cuts and bruises. But she's going to be okay."

  "Oh, really? She's going to be okay is she?" I was shouting now. "She's going to get over being assaulted in her own home is she? She's going to get over nearly being killed by some maniac is she?"

  He leaned toward me, a hand outstretched as though to touch me, but changed his mind and dropped the hand into his lap.

  He said, "I understand how upsetting this is. Karen is my friend too. But right now I need you to tell me what happened. The sooner we get the facts, the sooner we can get moving on this."

  "What the hell am I supposed to tell you that Karen hasn't already?

  "A description would help."

  "What? You think I had time to look him over while he was kicking the crap out of me? Really? You think maybe I had time to make a few notes while Karen lay there helpless and in pain?"

  "Listen to me, Mikey. Whoever did this went through the hotel register. The only conclusion I can draw from that is that he was looking for a specific room. And the register is open at the page displaying your details."

  "You're still saying this had something to do with me?"

  "You have to be connected somehow. To all these recent events. You need to have a good hard think about this. I need something to go on."

  He was looking to me for answers? My lip curled. "What the fuck is this? You're laying this on me? I'm the excuse for your incompetence am I?"

  "Calm down, Mikey. "The strain showed in his voice. He was struggling to keep an even tone but I didn't give a damn. I wasn't going to be used as a convenient scapegoat.

  "No I won't fucking calm down. He could have killed her. You're the one who's supposed to protect us. So what are you doing about it? How many more people have to die before you get your act together?"

  "This isn't helping. Come on, Mikey. Take a few deep breaths and calm yourself. Think about what happened and tell me as much as you can."

  "I don't know what happened. How many times do I have to tell you?"

  "Look, Mikey, you're upset. You're not thinking clearly. Maybe we can go through this again later. See if anything comes to mind."

  "Of course I'm fucking upset. Some of us still have feelings."

  "Okay, that's enough." He rose to his feet. "I'm going to drive you home. We can go through all this later when you've had a chance to think about it rationally."

  "Rationally? So now I'm being irrational? I've just witnessed my friend nearly being killed, and you're accusing me of being irrational?" I didn't wait for a response. Dismissing him with a wave of the hand, I followed his example and stood up. "You needn't bother giving me a lift thanks. I can find my own way home."

  "I'm trying to help you here, Mikey."

  "Why would you?"

  "Because we're friends and I'm concerned about you."

  That was the last straw. I'd had enough of his bullshit. And that was the one word he should not have used right then.

  "Friends?" I laughed, a low chuckle at first but slowly building until I was laughing out loud. "Friends?" I was mocking him now. "We're not friends, Nathan. We're ex-lovers. Not the same thing at all. You're just someone I once knew a long time ago. And now I'm not sure I know you any more."

  "Mikey?"

  He looked hurt but I didn't care. My anger was at an all-time high and I was on a roll.

  "Leave me be," I said, "and go home to your boyfriend. I'm sure he must be eagerly anticipating your return. I'm just sorry I ever got involved with you again."

  I didn't give him a chance to respond. It's not like there was much he could say anyway. No excuses.

  I turned on my heels and headed to the main door.

  Outside, I stopped at the top of the steps leading down from the terrace and stared out into the darkness, into the vast unknown. Only the cold unblinking stars stared back.

  The freezing night air bit through my sweater and sank into my flesh, chilling me to the bone and reminding me that my overcoat was lying on the reception floor.

  I wrapped my arms around my chest and tried to rub some warmth into my body while I pondered on all that had just happened. Much as I hated to admit it, Nathan was right, of course. Somehow I was involved in all this. I just wished I knew how.

  But nothing came to mind. Whoever was behind these murders was looking for something. And whoever it was thought I had it. And was desperate enough to kill and put lives at risk to get it.

  I cast my mind back over the past few days, thinking through everything I had seen and done, trying to bring to mind anything that might point to the identity of the murderer. But I drew a blank. Most of my time had been spent going through my father's papers and there was nothing there out of the ordinary.

  Behind me, the door creaked opened, bringing me back to the present.

  "You're going to need this." It was Nathan. He was holding my coat.

  I took it from him without speaking and put it on.

  He said, "I want to explain. About Brandon."

  I shook my head. "I don't want to know. It's your business. Your private affairs have nothing to do with me."

  "Mikey?"

  "I’m really not in the mood. I don't have time for this."

  I left him standing on the veranda and walked into the night.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It was a grey start to the day with rain clouds already scuttling in from the north, dampening my mood as well as the air.

  That morning, once I'd finished packing in readiness for the journey home, my priority had been to phone the hospital to check on Karen's condition. I used my official position to blag information from the ward sister, a cheery soul, who reassured me that Karen was comfortable, had slept well, and, apart from the broken leg and some bruising, had no other injuries and would be discharged later that day. I also learned that Lowe had spent the night at her bedside. Ever the knight in shining armour.

  Next, and with some apprehension, I called Nathan. After the verbal battering I'd given him the night before, I wasn't expecting a warm greeting. And I was right. He was cordial enough, despite the steely edge to his voice, but he wasn't in a conversational mood and kept me on the phone barely long enough to make an appointment.

  He was working at the Charwell station that day, not far from the hospital, so I would visit Karen first, rather than wait until she was back home, and then go on to see Nathan immediately afterwards.

  Taking my leave of Karen would be the easier of my two farewells. Saying goodbye to Nathan, later, would be harder and I wanted to get it over as soon as possible.

  Ostensibly, it was to be an official interview to go over the events of the previous night and make a formal statement. But I had some apologising to do too.

  Despite Nathan's final rejection, despite his less than candid disclosure about his relationship with Brandon Barwell, despite everything, I didn't want to leave on bad terms.

  Finding out about Barwell had angered me. And after last night, after all that had happened, I had lost it and exploded with anger. Not one of my better moments. Being angry about all that had happened between us on a personal level, maybe that could be justified. But questioning his abilities on a professional level, that was a whole different matter. As a professional myself, I should have known better. That had been wrong. And I needed to make amends.

  My only other task before leaving for London would be to return Jonas Wainwright's toolbox. I still had it in the boot of the Elan - something that had slipped my mind during the dramatic events of the past couple of days.


  I meant to return here briefly before setting off for London and as the drive back from Charwell would take me past his house at The Heights, I could drop it off on my way to town. It would be one less task to worry about before heading home.

  With nothing left to delay me, I heaved the two suitcases off the kitchen table and carried them out to the front of the house where the Elan was parked.

  Before locking the door behind me, and with some regret, I looked around the room that had been home for the past few days. Now, it was devoid of any signs of habitation. An empty sterile space. But, no doubt, it would soon be home to Nathan and Brandon and would have that lived-in look again, the cosy domestic centre of their shared lives together.

  I didn't want to think about it.

  Once I'd secured the door, I carried the cases to the Elan and packed them into the boot, pushing Jonas's toolbox to one side to make room.

  That's when I noticed the plastic carrier bag tucked into one corner.

  At first, I couldn't recall how it had got there and what it contained. It was a moment or so before I remembered. I'd filled two bags with old papers and odds and ends of stationery I'd found in my father's desk during my first visit to the vicarage. This one must have slipped down behind the spare wheel and I'd overlooked it.

  I yanked it out from its hiding place and rummaged around inside it. The papers appeared to be mostly old receipts and correspondence but among them were documents that warranted more scrutiny; they may well be of importance to my father's executors.

  Along with the papers, there were several other items of stationery; a stapler and two boxes of staples, a packet of rubber band plus a few loose ones, and several miscellaneous coins.

  And a computer memory stick.

  Puzzled, I took it out of the bag and stared at it, turning it over and over in my fingers. Why was a computer memory stick among my father's possessions? He didn't even have a computer. And what was it Giles Trivett had said? Something about hating all forms of modern technology. We had laughed about it. So what was this doing among his belongings? And what did it contain?