“Yeah, fine, thanks.” He said. “Hey, I don’t suppose Vas is there is he?”
“Er, no. I’m afraid he’s not. I haven’t seen him for a few days. I tried to phone last night but there was no reply.” Again Miri felt a slight sense of guilt, pleased that Vas had not made it over to her place as it had given her and Sam the opportunity they needed. Then, immediately afterwards, she felt concern. “Why - haven’t you seen him either?”
“No, not since yesterday morning,” said Simon. “The thing is, he borrowed my scooter and I need it to get to work - I’m really late, so I was hoping he might be with you. Or better still, on his way back here.”
It occurred to Miri that Vas borrowing Simon’s scooter was an unusual thing for him to do. Indeed, Cambridge was a city full of bicycles and he either travelled everywhere on one of those or walked.
“No, sorry. Do you have any idea why he needed it? Your scooter I mean,” she asked.
“I don’t know, not really. He mentioned something about finding a cottage for you - somewhere outside of Cambridge, seemed to think it might help you get a jump on things. I didn’t realise you were thinking of moving.”
“Er, no. I’m not—” Then suddenly Miri had an awful premonition, instantly knowing where Vas had gone. Yet thinking on her feet, she quickly backtracked to substantiate what Simon had been led to understand. “Well, not really - but I’d consider it if I found the right place. Vas has been helping me loo—”
“Yeah. That’s great. Listen, sorry to cut you off, Miriam,” Simon interrupted, clearly disinterested, “but I really must be going. I’ll have to get the bus now—”
“Of course. I quite understand,” she said. Then, as an afterthought, Miri asked, “What colour’s your scooter? I’ll keep an eye out for it if you like.”
“Erm, thanks,” replied Simon, a little bemused. “It’s red - a red Vespa 125 - got to go - sorry!”
And with that he hung up.
However, Sam was already out of bed. He had caught the gist of the conversation and had come to the same conclusion as Miriam.
Vas had gone to Pemberton Woods in a bid to find Finch’s cottage. Worse still, he had left sometime yesterday and had not yet returned.
Instinct told Sam that Vas was in serious danger.
“What are you going to do?” Miri asked, unable to disguise the tremor of fear in her voice.
Sam looked at her determinedly, his face hard as stone as he pulled on his jeans.
“I’m going after him.” He said.
“Okay, then I’ll drive you,” replied Miri.
Sam regarded her for a moment, immediately knowing by her decisive demeanour she would not be dissuaded.
“Fine,” he said. “But we need to hurry.”
He was damned if he was going to let another friend die.
Chapter Nineteen
Both Sam and Miri were wearing coats and gloves to protect themselves from the chill, the ineffectual heater of the Mini nowhere near sufficient for the cold December morning.
Sam also had the Damascus Bowie knife tucked into the back of his jeans as they tore along the country roads en-route to Pemberton Woods.
However, neither of them knew where to start looking as the woods covered such a wide area. Vasily could be anywhere as, indeed, could Roger Finch.
With Miriam behind the wheel, Sam pored over the Ordnance Survey Map on his lap, trying to figure out the best place to begin.
Thinking logically, he attempted to figure out what someone living in a cottage in the woods might need, hoping that might give him a way of pinpointing a starting position.
Surely such a person would require food and supplies of some kind, which meant they would also need a vehicle.
Sam was talking out loud as he theorised this and Miri nodded her agreement whilst navigating the Mini along the winding roads at break-neck speed.
Using this assumption, it surely followed that in order for a vehicle to pass, there would need to be a road of some sort - or a path at the very least - wide enough to cater to even the smallest car.
However, expanding on this, anything other than a 4x4 would struggle to cope with the rough terrain - which Miri and Sam had witnessed for themselves on their past two visits.
So, armed with nothing other than this rather flimsy hypothesis, Sam began scouring the map for obvious roads or pathways leading into the woods.
Yet there was not a single track or bridle path to be seen and as Miri turned the Mini onto the road that led to Pemberton Village, they were beginning to lose faith. In fact, they were starting to think they might have to resort to combing the woods at random, in the hope of stumbling upon the cottage by chance.
By then, however, Vas might be dead. If, indeed, he was not already.
As they raced along the narrow lane, Sam was still examining the map, desperately searching for some clue that might lead him to his friend, when Miri suddenly jammed on the brakes causing him to slam his hands on the dashboard to prevent his head from smacking against it.
The little car skidded loudly along the damp tarmac, leaving two long, rubber trails in its wake, before it finally came to a halt some twenty feet down the road.
“Jesus!” Sam exclaimed, lifting his hands off the dash, his fingers very nearly buried in the cheap vinyl, “What the hell was that all about?”
“Sorry, chéri,” Miri replied, immediately shoving the car into reverse and propelling it backwards, “but I think I saw something which— yes, look, just there,” she said pointing, as the Mini arrived back at the spot at which she had braked.
Sam’s hopes leapt as he set eyes on the red Vespa, parked behind the hedge at the side of the road. It was a 125cc, exactly as Simon had described.
What is more, there was a concealed track to the side of it, leading from the road into the woods.
Had the scooter not been there, so visible with its bright red paintwork, then they would have undoubtedly missed the track altogether.
But thankfully Miri had spotted it.
Sam jumped out of the car and ran over to the scooter but upon closer inspection could see nothing more about it, or the crash helmet, which hung from a clip below the seat, to give him anymore clue as to Vasily’s whereabouts.
However, upon casting his gaze along the track, he could clearly make out a trail of deep footprints embedded in the mud which led directly into the trees a short distance beyond.
In his heart, Sam knew these footprints had been made by Vasily even though he had no definite proof. But instinct told him, if he followed them, they would take him to his friend.
Because surely they led to the cottage and Roger Finch.
***
Miriam was determined to go all the way with Sam, to follow the footprints and see where they might lead. But this time he was adamant. It was too dangerous and he refused to put her life at risk.
Instead, having discovered the keys in the crash helmet, he asked her to ride the Vespa back to Cambridge and park it near Vas’ college - where Simon might logically expect to find it.
Sam had no idea of what might follow, but if all went to plan, he and Vas would be leaving the woods together. In the event of either of them being injured, it would undoubtedly be better to have the Mini as a means of escape, not the scooter - but to leave it behind would be to leave evidence of their presence their.
What is more, if Finch happened to be dead at the time of their departure, then it would not be wise to leave anything which might implicate their involvement in his demise.
With the scooter parked back in Cambridge, no one would have any reason to suspect a thing and Simon would simply assume that Vas had been studying through the night at college again, as he had been known to do on occasion.
After some protest, Miri finally saw the sense of this reasoning and reluctantly agreed to do as Sam a
sked.
Pulling the crash helmet on, she lifted her chin so that he could fasten the strap for her, then handed him the car keys and the binoculars.
“Be careful, chéri,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “Come back to me safely - both of you.”
“We will. Don’t worry,” replied Sam. Yet all the tenderness that Miri had seen in Sam’s eyes the night before had now been replaced by a steely determination. Furthermore, as he readied himself for the task ahead, he seemed a completely different man from the one who had awoken in her bed.
That Sam, the one she loved, was gentle and kind, whereas the one she saw before her now was considerably more scary.
However, Miri realised that this was necessarily so and in some strange way it gave her solace - because this man was clearly a fighter - and, as such, gave her reason to believe that he would, indeed, come back to her.
Nonetheless, after saying ‘au revoir’, she kissed him once more then got on the scooter and rode away, her tears freezing like icicles as they streamed down her troubled face.
Sam watched her solemnly until she disappeared around the corner, then set off down the track in search of his best friend.
***
He followed the track for a good distance, all the time trailing the footprints which led ever deeper into the woods.
Yet Sam remained wary as he was now in his enemy’s domain.
Furthermore, Finch was of a military background, which meant he had combat training and knowledge of weapons and tactics. He had also proved himself to be utterly ruthless and devoid of morality, which served to make him all the more dangerous.
So it was only prudent to be cautious.
Nonetheless, the image of Finch carving the swastika into Claudette’s breasts as her bloodied corpse hung lifelessly from the tree, drove Sam onwards.
No matter the cost, he was absolutely determined that Finch would pay for his crimes.
With his mind set, Sam’s senses became increasingly heightened as he readied himself for what he might eventually find. The crack of every twig, the call of every bird; any sound that broke through the all enveloping silence, suddenly having far greater significance than normal.
Now and then, he would pause and study the surrounding area through the binoculars, hoping to spy something which would lead him to Vasily and the cottage. But, so far, no luck.
However, after he had been going for some time, Sam finally spotted the smoke from the chimney through the binoculars and a moment later set eyes on the cottage itself.
Keeping low and to the outer edge of the track, so as not to be seen, Sam moved closer; his movements stealthy and precise. When he was better placed, he used the glasses again to survey the area more thoroughly.
He could see no sign of life within the cottage and the outbuildings appeared to be deserted too. Yet a Land Rover was parked on the turning circle, which indicated that someone was in residence, as did the smoke billowing from the chimney.
However, as Sam scanned the ground immediately in front of the cottage, his eyes through the binoculars fell upon something laying in the middle of the hard packed mud on the turning circle.
At first he thought it was a dead animal of some kind; a small, furry creature, a rabbit maybe or a hare. But upon closer inspection he realised that it was a hat - the sort a Russian might wear - cossack in style.
Sam would have recognised it anywhere. Indeed, he had seen it many times before laying around the apartment he used to share with his best friend, for it was the hat Vasily had brought with him to England from Russia.
Furthermore, dried onto the compacted ground immediately before the crumpled hat, and directly after it, was a long red stain.
This led from the scruffy undergrowth of the property’s boundary, across the turning circle and up to the weathered front door of the cottage.
Sam knew this to be a drag line. Worse still, he knew it to be drawn from blood.
He also knew, along with the hat, that it belonged to Vasily.
***
Twenty four hours earlier, having been kicked unconscious by Finch, Vas had awoken some time later with blood from the nasty gash on his forehead dripping in his eyes and soaking his face.
He was also alarmed to find himself in just his underwear, gagged and tied to a chair in his attacker’s filthily shambolic kitchen.
The chair was a large pine carver and his wrists had been bound to its wooden arms with lengths of thin orange twine, wound around several times for added strength.
Both ankles had been tied to the chair legs in a similar fashion with no consideration to the severe injury caused by the gin trap. Indeed, the twine had been secured deliberately, and very painfully, around the open wound so that it sliced through the already chewed flesh of his right ankle. The blood seeping from it forming a shallow pool on the cold tiled floor.
To prevent him from crying out, Finch had fitted Vas with a fetish-style ball gag. It was extremely uncomfortable with thick leather straps that bit into his cheeks and buckled tightly at the back of his head. The hard P.V.C. ball stuffed firmly between his teeth, not only restricted his breathing but also forced his jaws wide and his tongue down to make him feel thoroughly nauseous. Yet he managed to suppress the instinct to vomit for fear of choking on his own puke.
Nevertheless, Vas tried to remain focussed as he studied his surroundings.
He could see his clothes hanging over another chair nearby; his new wellington boots, one with a jagged bite mark in it, discarded underneath.
The kitchen looked as though it had not be cleaned in years with aged brown cooking fat ingrained into the ancient Aga and unhygienic worktops that were coated with a visible layer of grease. There was also a pile of dirty dishes rotting on the grime smeared drainer.
Through the door, down a short hallway, Vas could also see the back of Finch’s head as he ate lunch whilst watching the television. What is more, the sound of Finch’s laughter carried loudly down the hall as he guffawed at some afternoon game show; clearly unconcerned by the prisoner bound naked in his kitchen.
Indeed, Finch watched T.V. for the rest of the afternoon without paying any mind to Vas whatsoever.
On one occasion he even ambled into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, yet he just went about his business as if no one else was there - even though Vas moaned loudly and wriggled frantically in the chair in the vain hope of persuading Finch to release him.
However, Finch simply made his drink without so much as a raised eyebrow.
Afterwards, he wandered back into the living room and resumed his position in front of the T.V., his prisoner of apparently no interest - at least not for the present.
Nevertheless, Vas suspected that would change soon enough and the dread of it was eating away at him - which he also presumed was his captor’s precise intention.
Indeed, by early evening, Finch finally wandered into the kitchen again. This time, however, he did walk over to where Vas was tied. Standing directly in front of him, he studied his prisoner for a moment, appraising him as a farmer might estimate livestock.
In turn, Vas felt like a piece of condemned meat; bound and gagged, very nearly naked with dried blood caked all down his face, utterly helpless to prevent whatever might follow.
“So,” Finch said at last, “You’ve had a few hours to think about things, time to consider your rather awkward predicament and to draw some fairly ominous conclusions I would imagine.”
Vas lifted his head wearily, terrified by the intensely vulnerable position he now found himself in as he stared at the ratty looking man before him.
“Yes,” Finch continued, “I can see by the fear in your eyes that you obviously have. Good. Well allow me to put an end to the uncertainty.”
Vas’ throat was dry as he tried to swallow, although the gag made it difficult.
“W
e have never met, but somehow you know me.” Finch said, “That much is clear. I don’t know how but you do. You are also on my property uninvited - sneaking around and snooping where you don’t belong.”
Vas shook his head but his captor paid no attention as he went on.
“The question is, why?”
Finch paused for a moment to consider this, stroking his scraggly ginger moustache contemplatively as he studied Vas more closely, wondering about something that had occurred to him earlier whilst watching T.V.
Since hearing on the news about the deaths of Merton and McCullough, his two army cohorts, Finch’s paranoia had increased significantly. Their murders could well have been merely a random act of violence but they could also have been targeted specifically - as could he - maybe as part of some vendetta for crimes they had all committed in the past.
And there had been many.
Yet, as unlikely as that was, it was an idea that Finch could just not shake.
“Might it be in connection with a couple of friends of mine who were murdered a few weeks back?” He said suddenly. “A certain Messrs Merton and McCullough?”
Vas froze for a moment, unable to disguise his surprise at the unexpected mention of those names. He frantically began shaking his head with denial but his eyes had already betrayed him and the truth was written all over his face.
“Ah,” Finch smiled, “I see that it is. Well then, let me put you out of your misery just in case you were in any doubt about what is going to happen next.”
Suddenly Vas was still, his heart beating ten to the dozen as he anxiously awaited the next words to be spoken, a terrible sense of foreboding crawling up his spine like a deadly tarantula.
“You will die here in this cottage,” Finch said, his voice matter-of-fact and disinterested as if it was already a foregone conclusion.
Vas recoiled in horror upon hearing his fate but the other man had not yet finished speaking.
“There is no one here who can save you - no one who can prevent this from happening. However, you can determine the amount of time it takes for you to die. I can make it very quick, with minimal suffering - not my first choice I grant you but an option nonetheless - or I can draw it out. In fact, I can make your departure from this world very slow and very painful indeed - and believe me, you will suffer very, very badly.”
Perfect Day Page 19
