‘He’s not even keeping his eyes on the road. How can we possibly be related?’ Chris said. He pressed his foot on the pedal and shouted back. ‘Wait for me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Absolutely not. No way. Not going to happen. I am not picking the lock, no matter what you say,’ Chris said.
They were back at the place that Brian and Sam had now visited twice, once when trapped in the boot of the car. To Chris’s eyes, it was just as bleak and lonely as they’d described it – all empty outhouses, discarded farm equipment and silence. At 6.56 p.m. four members of the Misfits Club had cycled into the yard of the remote farmhouse.
‘Kind of eerie around here,’ Chris said.
Sam agreed. ‘Sort of place where you could scream and scream and nobody would ever hear you. Are we just going to stand around or are we actually going to do something?’
‘I’m not going to pick the lock,’ Chris said.
‘But I made a big speech back in the shed,’ Brian said. ‘About the club and doing it for us and lots of other stuff that I forget now, but it was a really good speech. You have to do it.’
Chris folded his arms tightly in a gesture of defiance. He was upset. He hadn’t even realized that they’d brought along his lock-picking kit until Sam produced it.
‘I don’t want you to pick the lock,’ Amelia said.
‘You don’t?’ Brian said.
Chris looked at her as if he didn’t quite believe it.
‘No, I want you to teach me how to do it,’ she said.
‘I don’t know . . . that sounds—’
‘Didn’t you promise to investigate crime, fight evil and put yourself in peril to right wrongdoings everywhere?’ Amelia said. ‘Forget Brian’s speech – that’s the Misfits Club promise.’
‘You’re using my own words against me?’ Chris said.
‘Yes, I learned them off by heart. They’re nice words, but unless you actually do what they say they mean nothing.’
Chris thought about it. Those words did mean something to him. Was he breaking the law if he—
‘Oh, for the love of . . . for once in your life, stop thinking and do something,’ Sam cried. ‘Why did you even bother to learn how to pick a lock if you think it’s wrong to pick a lock? It makes no sense.’
‘I’d just have to show you how to do it?’ Chris said to Amelia.
‘That’s all. But we really need to get going. I mean if Manuel and Bart turn up, and you’ve just been wasting time thinking about things—’
‘OK, OK, let’s start.’
It turned out that lock-picking wasn’t a skill that was easily taught. Amelia did her best, but it wasn’t working out. The more Chris spoke, doing his best to guide her through, the more irritated she became. He was standing too close to her, just over her shoulder, blocking her light and generally annoying her with his presence.
Sam was wandering around the perimeter of the house, checking again and again for another point of entry, but he hadn’t had any luck. Brian wasn’t much happier. When they’d arrived, he’d imagined that they’d pick the lock, get in and find the goods – whatever they might be – but here he was, just hanging about like an idiot. He’d had more fun waiting for a bus. His thoughts turned to the letter. Who could have sent it? He took it from his pocket and read it again. Stop investigating or else. Or else what?
He could guess.
‘You’re not doing it right. You have to . . . no, it has to be a more delicate touch than that, Amelia. You have to . . .’
Brian walked back to the milking parlour, checking that the bikes were well hidden for at least the third time. What was taking Chris and Amelia so long?
‘Oh, for goodness sake. You’re such a know-it-all, Chris,’ Amelia said.
‘Know-it-all? Know-it-all? If you just listened to me, we’d be in by now.’
‘You make out that it’s so easy. If it’s so easy, then why don’t you show me how it’s done?’ Amelia said.
She flung the tools on the ground and stormed off across the yard.
‘I will show you,’ Chris huffed.
He picked the gadgets up and began working on the lock immediately. Amelia joined Brian, who was smirking. He’d been dealing with Chris’s perfectionist ways for years.
‘See how annoying he can be?’ Brian said.
‘Is he picking the lock?’ Amelia asked. Her back was to the farmhouse.
‘Yeah, he is.’
‘See, I told you I’d persuade him to do it.’
‘But . . . you mean, you tricked him into . . .’
Amelia didn’t reply. She just smiled.
‘Well done, Chris,’ Sam said, less than five minutes later.
The front door was open. They were in. Chris stood in the doorway, looking smug.
‘See, told you it was easy,’ he said.
‘You were right,’ Amelia said. ‘Sorry I doubted you.’
‘Oh, well, don’t worry about . . . I, er . . . It’s all forgotten. Let’s go in.’
When Sam and Brian had finished slapping him on the back, hoping the praise would be enough to make him forget that he didn’t want to do what he’d just done, the four of them stepped into the filthy old hallway.
The last thing Chris wanted was to go into the house. Apart from the possibility of infections and dirt, there was also the chance of severe injury or death. He’d told them all a thousand times before that venturing into creepy houses was likely to end badly, but it was too silent outside. Far too silent to stay out there by himself, so he followed them in and pulled the front door shut behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Alex Lambert, the ringleader of the thieves, Lionel and Burt’s boss, didn’t like the person on the other end of the telephone. Lambert considered him to be obnoxious, but, unfortunately, when it came to doing business like this, you often had to deal with obnoxious people.
Cornelius Figg, Ireland’s richest man, had been shouting down the telephone since he’d grabbed it from Plunkett Healy almost two minutes earlier.
‘This was supposed to have been delivered by now,’ Figg roared. ‘My Barney is practically in tears.’
‘Please don’t use any names, one-five-four-two. There’s been a delay, but we’ll have it with you in a couple of hours.’
Lambert didn’t like it when people lost their tempers. It showed a lack of control, and when you were out of control you made mistakes.
‘Make sure that it is. I’ve put a lot of money your way over the years, but that gravy train will come to a stop if you mess this up.’
‘It’ll be delivered.’
Figg’s temper ran out of steam. ‘Is it, you know, dangerous?’
What do you think? Lambert felt like saying.
‘One of my workers almost lost a hand.’
‘Right, good. Dangerous enough, then,’ Figg said. He seemed thoughtful for a moment, before his anger boiled up again. ‘Do what you’re paid to do and do it properly.’
Lambert ended the call.
‘Who was that?’ Lionel asked.
I’m working with morons, Lambert thought. A smarter man than Lionel – which, in Lambert’s opinion, was nearly every man who had ever existed – would have realized that it had to be Cornelius Figg on the phone. Lionel needed everything explained to him.
There were only two positive things that Lambert could say about Lionel. The first was that he was smarter than his brother, Burt. Not much of an achievement admittedly, since Burt had once been outsmarted by a fly. He’d been trying to kill the insect when it had escaped through a window. Burt had followed it, forgetting his flat was on the second floor, and had plummeted to the ground, breaking both ankles and his left arm. The fly was unharmed. The second positive thing was that Lionel, and indeed Burt, were extremely loyal. They’d always do what they were told to do and they rarely questioned orders. They didn’t always understand them, but they rarely questioned them.
‘Where’s Burt?’ Lambert asked.
‘BUUUURRRRTTTT,’ Lionel roared.
Lambert smacked Lionel across the back of his head. ‘I could have done that myself.’
‘Aaarggh,’ Lionel yelped. ‘That hurt.’
Lambert hadn’t seen Lionel and Burt for years, not until a sudden move back to Ireland six months earlier. Prior to that, Alex Lambert had been working in the United States until the Nevada police force had uncovered the illegal import-and-export business Alex had been running.
The business had clients in Ireland, making it a good choice of location to restart the operation. After coming so close to being arrested, Lambert no longer trusted former colleagues, so had decided to work with family instead. Lambert’s brothers – Lionel and Burt – collected and transported stolen items to and from rented properties. Since Lambert hadn’t been home for a long time, finding the right properties in which to store the items had been difficult. The cottage in the woods? Paying money to that whingeing pensioner in the nursing home? That had been a foolish mistake.
‘Is everything ready?’ Alex Lambert asked.
‘The trailer’s on the back of the Impreza. We’re good to go,’ Lionel Lambert replied.
‘The Impreza. What have I told you about finding a low-key vehicle? The last thing we need is to attract attention.’
‘The Impreza. What have I told you about finding a low-key vehicle? The last thing we need is to attract attention.’
‘The Impreza’s cool. Anyway, we’re in a rush now.’
‘This is the last time you’re driving it. Understood?’
‘Yes, Alex.’
Burt arrived in the room munching on a burger that he held in his bandaged left hand. He seemed oblivious to the river of burger juice that dribbled down his chin as it rushed to join the delta of melted cheese and tomato-sauce stains on the front of his Pantera T-shirt.
‘Aren’t you fat enough already?’ Alex Lambert asked.
For a moment, it looked as if Burt was about to cry. ‘I’m actually the right weight for my height,’ he said.
‘Yeah, if you were seven foot three,’ Lionel chuckled.
‘Throw that burger in the bin,’ Alex Lambert said to Burt.
Burt threw the burger in the wastepaper basket, occasionally looking back at it longingly.
‘And you, Lionel, stop making stupid jokes. We have work to do. The buyer is meeting us later on tonight. Just off the Galway road. We need to pack up the item he’s purchasing.’
‘How much is he paying?’ Lionel asked.
‘Well, if –’
Alex Lambert stopped when the smartphone buzzed into life.
The look on Lambert’s face was one the brothers had seen before when they were kids and had hoped never to see again.
Lionel finally summoned up the nerve to ask. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The silent alarm at the farmhouse has been set off. Go there now. I’ll follow you shortly,’ Lambert said. ‘And make sure you don’t let whoever’s in there get away. No excuses this time.’
‘Don’t worry, we won’t let you down,’ Burt said.
‘We’ll do whatever it takes,’ Lionel said, pounding his fist into the palm of his hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
As Chris shut the front door behind him, he was hit by the smell. He took out a paper tissue and covered his mouth and nose.
‘That’s terrible. It smells like . . . like . . .’
‘Poop?’ Sam said.
‘Yes, exactly like that,’ Chris agreed.
‘That’s what I thought too,’ Brian said.
‘Maybe they’re just not very house proud,’ Amelia suggested. Like Chris, she too was covering her nose and mouth.
‘Not being very house proud means a bit of untidiness – it doesn’t mean an overwhelming smell of poop,’ Chris said.
‘Can we stop discussing smells? We said we’d get in and out of here quickly. Let’s stick to that,’ Brian said.
‘He’s right,’ Amelia said. ‘Chris and me will check out the ground floor. Sam and Brian, you go upstairs. Agreed?’
Brian and Sam headed up the stairs. The banister was greasy and grimy. There wasn’t a bulb in any of the light fittings, so they used their torches to pick their way through the gloom. The smell was stronger up here, a lot stronger.
‘It’s horrible,’ Sam said as his flashlight picked out faded and torn wallpaper. ‘It’s like – I don’t know what it’s like. I feel a bit sick.’
There were three rooms upstairs. The nearest was on Brian’s left, just off the landing. The other two were at the far end of the hall, one on either side, the doors opposite each other.
Brian nodded at the door closest to him. ‘This one first?’
He thought Sam was going to go in with him, but his friend continued down the corridor, sniffing the air and talking to himself until he was standing between the two doors at the far end of the hall. The room on Sam’s left overlooked the wild garden at the back of the house, the one on his right, the farmyard at the front.
Brian took a deep breath as his hand gripped the brass handle. It was cold to the touch. He slowly twisted it until he heard a click. He pushed the door open then stepped inside.
Even though the room was dominated by an ornate fireplace, it was cold in there. The patterned wallpaper was faded and it looked as if someone had once begun the job of peeling it off, but had given up before they’d even reached the halfway point. Apart from two large wooden crates by the fireplace, the room was empty.
Brian shone the torch into the corners to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. When he’d convinced himself that he wasn’t, he walked over to the crates. They were as tall as he was and were sealed shut. They had no markings and no obvious lock or fastenings. A quick examination of each one led him to the same conclusion – they’d need a crowbar or lever to open them. He couldn’t remember if someone had brought one along. There had been so much stuff packed into their backpacks that it was difficult to remember everything.
He was about to call for Chris when he heard the shout.
‘Sam,’ he cried out.
It was Sam’s voice he’d heard, all right – just down the narrow hallway. His own shout brought the others running. Sam was standing outside the door on the left at the far end of the hall. He was completely still, an unreadable expression on his face.
‘Sam, what is it? Are you hurt? What happened?’
His friend’s eyes were wide, his pupils huge. He didn’t look injured. He kept staring at the door.
‘Are you OK?’ Amelia called out.
‘Stay where you are,’ Brian shouted at them. ‘Something’s wrong. I don’t know what yet. Just . . . just stay there.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sam? Talk to me.’
‘I’m not hurt,’ Sam said.
‘What’s wrong, then?’
Sam slowly turned his head until he was facing his friend. He looked him directly in the eyes.
‘Have a look in there and tell me what you see.’
Brian pushed the door open. The stench that rushed out to meet him was almost overwhelming. He gagged a few times before he managed to control his breathing. There was nothing in the room apart from a single crate. At first glance, it looked like the crates he’d found in the other room, but as he got closer he saw that there were some differences. There was a small square clear window in the centre of one of the panels. There were holes in the top – seven small circles, an inch in diameter, punched through the wood. And there were five bolts across the front panel. Whatever was in there, was meant to stay in there.
He could hear something moving inside, scratching at the wood, something that sounded like it had claws.
Was that a growl?
Brian leaned down and pressed his face against the window.
Something flew forward and smacked against the Perspex in a flash of black and white and sharp pointed teeth.
Brian toppled over backwards, letting out an involuntary swear word. His heart was racing. What was that?
‘Brian?’ Amelia called.
‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’ At least, he thought he was.
Chris and Amelia raced down the hall and joined them in the room. Their eyes widened when the smell hit and it took them a moment to compose themselves.
‘What did you see?’ Amelia asked, holding her nose.
He wasn’t sure.
‘Some kind of animal, I think,’ he replied.
‘You think?’
‘It . . . well,’ Sam said, ‘I know this sounds crazy, but it looks like . . . a really muscly skunk. Like one that’s drunk a tonne of protein shakes and then gone down the gym every day for a year and . . . let me look again.’
He shoved Brian out of the way and leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the plastic window. The crate shook as the creature leaped forward again.
‘Yeeee,’ Sam yelped as he dived to his left, landing awkwardly on the wooden floor. He got to his feet. His hands were trembling. He stuffed them in his pockets so nobody would notice. ‘OK, whatever’s in that crate is absolutely insane.’
‘Chris, you’re the animal expert, right?’ Amelia said. ‘Why don’t you have a look?’
‘No offence, Amelia, but if myself and Brian can’t handle it, I don’t think Chris is going to be any use. There’s something seriously wrong with that skunk.’
Brian nodded his agreement.
‘I think I’ll give it a go all the same,’ Chris said.
He strode across the room, then got down on his haunches until he too was peering in through the smeary window. The moment he did, the animal leaped forward again, battering the panel. Unlike the others, Chris didn’t move. Instead a slow smile spread across his face.
‘Oh my gosh, if you aren’t the cutest little thing I ever saw,’ he said.
The crate shook again.
‘Chris, get out of there before it escapes and eats you.’
‘I’m fine,’ Chris said. He turned to the others. ‘It’s not a skunk. It’s a honey badger. From Africa.’
The Misfits Club Page 18
