by T F Muir
Keeping the lights of Cauldwood Cottage to their right, they tried to guess the position of the barn. But with nothing in front of them except blackness, they were left with no option but to continue to plod on as if blind.
Gilchrist cursed as he felt his boots sink into softer ground.
Stan whispered, ‘I think we’re coming to a burn, boss.’
They agreed to change course, heading farther away from the cottage, and Gilchrist was relieved to feel the ground firming up. His vision was becoming attuned to the dark, too, and he thought he could just make out the silhouette of the high row of pine trees that lined Purvis’s boundary close to the barn.
‘This way,’ he said, and changed course again. At that moment his mobile vibrated. He turned his back to the cottage and took the call.
‘That’s me,’ Jessie said. ‘I’m about fifty yards from the back door. The car’s still in the driveway. I think he’s watching the telly.’
‘Can you see him?’
‘No. But there’s a wee gap in the curtains, and I can see a light flickering. Maybe he’s watching Songs of Praise.’
Gilchrist smiled. ‘Keep out of sight. And don’t use your mobile unless you see movement.’
‘Can’t I call my wee boy?’
‘For crying out loud—’
‘Only joking. Jesus, Andy, where’s your sense of humour?’
‘Freezing itself to death, along with my balls,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want any heroics if Purvis sticks his head outside. All you have to do is alert us. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Gilchrist killed the connection.
‘Everything all right, boss?’
‘Except for her tongue.’ He slipped the mobile into his pocket and set off in the direction of the pine trees.
Within three minutes the fence appeared. Gilchrist peered into the darkness beyond, straining every sense for any sign of the dogs. But other than the dark shadow of the barn itself, he could see nothing. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered.
Stan cocked his head and lifted his face to the breeze. ‘Not a squeak, boss.’
‘Let me get the meat ready,’ Gilchrist said, ‘just in case.’
He removed the steaks from his jacket pocket. Still wrapped in cling film, they were cool now, rather than cold. He was pleased to see they were positioned downwind of the barn. He did not want the dogs to catch the scent of raw meat.
‘Let’s work along the front of the fence,’ he said.
They eased towards the corner, where the fence turned at a right-angle to run parallel with the rear wall of the distant cottage. Its windows were bright squares on the black horizon. Two cars drove past, their headlights briefly illuminating both the building and the Focus in the driveway. Then they passed and the cottage was swallowed by darkness again.
Gilchrist turned his attention back to the task at hand. A memory of both dogs eyeing him in silence until he touched the fence reminded him to keep well back from the chain links.
They were only about twenty yards along when Stan stopped. ‘Over there, boss.’
Gilchrist peered into the darkness and felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘I don’t see anything,’ he whispered.
‘It’s standing still,’ Stan said. ‘Watching us.’
‘Only one?’
‘So far.’
Purvis was not the sort of guy to sit in front of the fire with one of the dogs at his feet. No, both Rottweilers were here, somewhere, protecting the barn. Gilchrist was certain of that. ‘I still can’t see it,’ he said.
‘I think the other one might be lying down.’
‘We need to make sure we feed both of them.’
Stan edged towards the fence.
‘Don’t get any closer,’ Gilchrist said. ‘If you touch the fence, you’ll set them off.’
Stan stepped sideways, like a crab edging along an invisible line, keeping his distance, not taking his eyes off whatever he thought he could see.
Gilchrist followed, his fingers gripping the meat. He was finding it hard to resist the urge to rip off the cling film and just launch both steaks over the fence.
‘There,’ Stan whispered. ‘You see it?’ He pointed to the corner of the barn, held it for a couple of seconds, then swung his arm twenty feet to the left. ‘And over there.’
Gilchrist stared hard into the darkness, forcing his eyes to see. Slowly, limb by limb, muscle by muscle, the dogs manifested into view – first the one standing at the corner, then the other – their deep chests and powerful shoulders a raw display of animal strength.
‘I need to get closer,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The meat’s got to land right beside each of them.’
‘We don’t want one of them eating both pieces, boss.’
Gilchrist saw that Stan was right. And they had to close the gap between the dogs and the fence, without setting off a barking frenzy. ‘If we edge a bit to the right,’ he whispered, ‘we might entice them to approach.’
They’d moved only a couple of yards when Stan let out the tiniest of whistles. Gilchrist felt his throat constrict as both dogs trotted towards them. They stopped about five feet from the fence, and ten feet from each other. As steadily as he could, Gilchrist undid the wrappers and held a chunk of raw meat in each hand. He eased his right arm back and lobbed the first piece over the fence.
The instant it landed in the grass, both dogs launched themselves at it with snarling growls, tearing and ripping into it. Within three seconds, the fight turned into silence, except for hard sniffing and grass ruffling as the dogs searched for more food.
In the darkness, from where he stood, Gilchrist could not tell if one dog had eaten the whole steak, or if they had both torn a share from it. He worried that one of them might not have enough thiopental in its system to knock it out. He could throw the other piece over, and hope the hungrier of the two managed to prevail. But what if that did not work?
‘Bloody hell. Now what?’ Stan asked.
‘We wait,’ Gilchrist said.
‘For what?’
‘For one – or both – of them to drop.’
‘Good thinking.’
As they waited, Gilchrist’s night-vision improved to the point where he could see the outlines of both dogs clearly. Like before, they stood in silence, head-on, watching him – not Stan, he was sure of that – as if Purvis had trained them not to attack until the fence was actually touched.
In less than two minutes, one of the shapes grunted and shifted, then lowered itself on to its haunches, as if the effort of standing had become too much.
‘I think he’s going,’ Stan said.
Gilchrist waited until the dog settled into the grass, then he stepped forward and lobbed the second steak over the fence. This time there was no feeding frenzy – just a rush of power from the other dog, a nasty growl, and a slobbering sound that lasted all of two seconds.
‘Did it eat it?’ Stan said.
‘Swallowed it whole.’
‘Remind me not to buy one of these as a pet.’
They waited in silence.
Gilchrist counted the seconds in his mind. It took less than thirty beats for the dog’s legs to totter. Then it tried to move, but collapsed to the grass with a grunt and a whimper.
‘I think we’re good to go,’ Stan said, reaching into his pocket and removing his locksmith’s kit with a tinny rattle – nothing more than a few keys and a set of picks.
Gilchrist approached the fence.
As soon as he touched it he would know if the dogs were out cold.
Or not.
CHAPTER 30
Gilchrist kept his eyes on the nearer of the two dogs.
The instant he touched the padlock, both dogs growled, and one of them – the first to collapse – rose to its paws. But it managed no more than a couple of steps before its front legs buckled and it fell muzzle-first into the grass. It struggled to pull itself upright again, but managed only to roll on to its side, where it lay whimpering, back legs kic
king, as if somewhere in the darkest folds of its subconscious it was galloping over grassy terrain and tearing police detectives to shreds.
‘Bloody hell,’ Stan said.
‘Precisely.’ Gilchrist peered into the shadows for any movement from the other dog, but saw none. ‘Okay, Stan. Open sesame.’
Stan gripped the padlock, inserted a pick, removed it, and chose another.
With a click, the padlock sprung open.
‘Like riding a bike,’ Stan said.
‘Slowly.’ Gilchrist was conscious of the rattling of the padlock and the creaking of the gate as he eased it open. They stepped into the compound and Gilchrist sensed movement to his side. The closer of the two dogs was still jerking on the grass, its movements becoming more sluggish with each kick, until its nervous system could no longer fight the drug, and it stilled.
Gilchrist let out a breath, and glanced at the cottage. He half-expected to see Purvis running towards them with a loaded shotgun. But the cottage stood undisturbed, a picture-perfect silhouette under a black sky. ‘You’re good to go for the other padlock,’ he said.
Together they strode to the barn door.
While Stan worked at the padlock, Gilchrist searched for the tiniest flicker of light at the cottage windows. Behind him, the sound of metal scraping on metal seemed as loud as hammer blows, and he jumped when his mobile vibrated. He turned his back to the cottage, expecting it to be a call from Jessie, but felt a flutter of hope when he saw it was a text from Cooper’s new mobile number: ‘I need time to myself because I’m pregnant. Will let you know what I decide. xx’
Something tight clamped Gilchrist’s chest. I think you have the right to know. Well, now he did. He read the message again—
‘That’s us in, boss?’
‘Right, let’s go.’ Gilchrist pocketed his mobile, took hold of the handle, and pulled the door open for Stan to enter. Then he followed, closed the door behind him, and clicked on his torch.
Stan did likewise, and the barn filled with shafts of light that stuttered around the shadows until both beams settled on the gleaming body of a black BMW. ‘We’ve got a result,’ Stan said.
As he watched Stan make his way to the front of the car, Gilchrist shone his torch over the walls and corners searching for motion sensors, but found none. But it seemed to him that the barn was smaller inside, as if it should be twenty feet longer. A flick of the torch towards the far end provided an explanation as the beam fell on a door in the left corner, which presumably led through an internal wall to some sort of office or storage area.
‘We’ve got him, boss. Look at this.’
Gilchrist joined Stan at the nearside wing. The headlight was shattered, and the front and side panels badly deformed. He shone his torch along the bonnet to a cracked windscreen and dented pillar. Road Policing had estimated the car that hit Janice was travelling in excess of sixty miles an hour, maybe as fast as eighty. A human body hitting the BMW at that speed would cause exactly this sort of damage.
Gilchrist studied the crumpled metal, searching for evidence of human contact – fragments of cloth, skin, blood – but the bodywork looked as if it had already been cleaned. Another flick of the torch to the wall by the barn entrance lit up a coiled hose, beside which stood a Karcher electric pump, which told Gilchrist that Purvis had power-washed the damaged panels. If the car had been cleaned outside the barn, but within the enclosed compound, any human remains – slivers of skin and blood – would surely have been sniffed out and consumed by the Rottweilers.
‘Stand back, boss.’
Gilchrist walked away from the car and shone his torch around the barn while Stan took a number of shots using his digital camera. The barn appeared to be a workshop of sorts, with a concrete floor and strengthened beams overhead for lifting out car engines. All kinds of tools hung from hooks on its walls or stood beside workbenches – drills, chainsaws, power hammers, sump pumps, oxyacetylene torches, welding gear. And other bits and pieces of equipment, too – gloves, camouflage combat jackets, safety helmets, and what looked like a matching pair of binoculars.
Gilchrist dragged his torch beam along an electrical cable and into a corner, where it danced over a mechanical unit. It took him several seconds to realise it was a generator – power for lighting and for the tools, of course. Which had him wondering why all the equipment was sitting out in the open if there was a storage room at the rear of the barn.
Instinctive curiosity had him edging towards the internal door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. In addition, a padlock was clamped over a metal hasp, causing Gilchrist to wonder why a simple office or storage room would demand such security.
‘Finished?’ he asked Stan.
‘A couple more, boss.’
Gilchrist shone his torch along the top of the door, then ran his hand over the wooden surface. Nothing. He illuminated the wall to the side, and spotted a shelf from which hung a set of keys. From their shape and size, they were all too large to fit the padlock, but the third one he tried in the door’s own lock turned it over with a heavy click. The padlocked hasp kept it firmly closed, though.
Then Stan was standing beside him. ‘Want me to open this one too, boss?’
While Stan worked away with his picks, Gilchrist phoned Jessie.
She picked up on the second ring. ‘Nothing happening here,’ she said, ‘except my tits are freezing off.’ She made a rushing sound, as if blowing into her hands, then said, ‘Any luck?’
‘We’ve found the Beemer,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Brilliant,’ she gasped. ‘Can I go home, then?’
‘We’re going to be another few minutes,’ he said. ‘Any movement from Purvis?’
‘Nada.’
‘Well, you might as well head back to the car, then.’ His main concern had been that the dogs would alert Purvis. Now they were out of the picture, there seemed no chance of Purvis making the long trek from the cottage to the barn on such an arctic night.
‘And not a moment too soon.’
‘Be with you shortly,’ Gilchrist said, but Jessie had already cut the connection.
‘Got it,’ Stan said, and slid the padlock free. ‘Thought I was losing my touch there for a moment.’
Gilchrist pushed the door open, and entered a windowless room. His torch beam danced over bare wooden walls and a dusty floor. The room was as long as the barn was wide, but no more than six feet deep, leaving Gilchrist with the feeling that some internal space was still missing. He rapped a knuckle against the end wall and it echoed back at him. Not the rear wall of the barn, then, but there appeared to be no door.
‘What’s this room for?’ Stan asked.
Gilchrist shone his torch over the four barren walls again – no light switches, no power points – then up to a spider-webbed ceiling.
‘The SOCOs can look into it, boss. After we get a warrant for Purvis’s arrest.’
Gilchrist nodded. He didn’t want to spend any more time than was necessary in the barn. If the dogs came to, where would they be? He was about to move away when something caught his eye. ‘What’s that?’ The beam illuminated a semi-circular scrape mark on the ceiling. He lowered the torch to the floor, and could just make out an identical mark. ‘It’s a door,’ he said, running the beam up the wooden wall panels.
‘Here, boss.’
Gilchrist kept his torch trained on the edge of the panel as Stan ran his fingers down its length.
‘Got it,’ Stan said as he slid a flat metal lock to the side and pulled.
A section of the wall peeled back towards them.
Gilchrist was first inside. The room was almost identical to the previous one, except that it was fitted with ceiling fans that whirred in a stuttering motion, as if operated by the wind. Even with the limited ventilation, the air carried a thick and musty smell that left an aftertaste of stale meat on the tongue. Something else, too – a hint of soot or smoke.
Stan already had his hand to his nose. ‘Bloody hell, what is this?’
Their torch beams danced in wild disarray across the walls, then settled in unison on a wooden pallet on the floor.
Gilchrist leaned down and shoved the pallet to one side to reveal a trapdoor. Maybe he was imagining it, but the smell of meat seemed stronger here. An inner voice once again told him they didn’t have much time before the dogs came to, but he knew he could not leave now. He slid a metal latch across, pulled up the O-ring handle, and lifted the trapdoor. Then he rocked back on his heels as a stench as thick and ripe as a putrid carcass rose to greet him.
‘Ah fuck, boss,’ said Stan, stepping back.
But Gilchrist was on his knees, his torch lighting a metal ladder that sank into the dark confines below. He shifted on to his backside, his legs dangling into the open space. Then he placed his feet on the rungs and descended into the black hole, his torch beam shivering from side to side. The shaft was short, and he was soon in a cold and fetid basement. He shone his torch at the concrete floor, one hand to his nose to fend off the stench. He coughed once, twice, and fought off the urge to retch.
‘Anything, boss?’ Stan shouted from the shaft’s opening.
Gilchrist’s beam danced over concrete walls and columns, and into open doorways that seemed to lead from one empty space to another. The metallic rattle of Stan’s torch on the ladder’s rungs echoed around the basement as he worked his way down.
‘It’s some kind of bunker,’ Gilchrist said. ‘The barn’s been built over it.’
Then Stan was beside him, their beams lighting the immediate darkness but sinking into a distant blackness. ‘It’s bigger than the barn,’ Stan said. ‘And it doesn’t smell as bad down here.’
Gilchrist knew that the human olfactory system could stand only so much, and that their sense of smell had been obliterated by the strength of the stench. He remembered old Bert Mackie – Head of Forensic Medicine before Cooper took over – telling him that once you got past the initial hit, and your sense of smell was cooked, you just stayed with it until you completed the postmortems. Hell mend you if you took a break and a breath of fresh air, for when you returned to the job you had to go through the whole hellish process of becoming accustomed to the rotten guff again from scratch.
