by T F Muir
Not unless they wanted to ruin their career. Or worse.
Oh, fuck. She shielded herself from a hard gust of wind that shook the hedgerow by the side of the car, as if Lachie were trying to burst his way through to strangle her. She had seen him in action before, knew how vindictive he could be. No one survived an onslaught from him. No one. She tilted her head to the black oblivion of the night sky and closed her eyes – shit, shit, shit – and took several deep breaths that did little to settle her nerves.
When she opened her eyes again, she tried to force the worry of what she had done from her mind. She needed to focus on what was important – really important – and find out what was going on. She retrieved her mobile and called Gilchrist’s number again.
But his phone was still dead.
Then Stan . . .
Same result.
‘Right,’ she said, staring off into the cold night, her breath clouding the air as if she had just run the hundred metres. ‘If you think I’m going to stand around freezing my tits off, you’ve got another think coming.’ She stepped from behind the car and into the full force of a bitter east coast wind. Rather than work back to her hiding-spot near the driveway, she decided to walk across the open fields, just as Andy and Stan had done.
That way she had a better chance of bumping into them if they were on their way back.
She entered the field through the open gate, and took a bearing from the distant lights of Purvis’s cottage. Her feet kicked through damp grass and sank into puddled soil. She cursed, put her head down and strode on into the cold darkness, struggling to force all thoughts of Lachie from her mind.
‘I said turn round. Now.’
Gilchrist stared into the twin black bores of the shotgun.
Purvis had repositioned himself to bring Stan more into his line of fire, so that he could take out Gilchrist first, then Stan, or the other way around, if he preferred.
Gilchrist caught Stan’s eyes and nodded, and together they turned around.
‘On your knees,’ Purvis ordered.
Gilchrist felt something hard catch in his throat. He had seen wartime footage of men jogging to their spot of execution, then being shot in the back of the head, one after the other. He had often wondered why no one ever fought back. But now, as he and Stan did exactly as Purvis instructed, he knew the answer – disbelief and the horrific and numbing realisation that there was no hope of survival. Life, for all the good and bad that had been done with it, was about to end.
Stan’s eyes were closed, as if he, too, were simply waiting for the blast.
‘Eyes to the front.’
The closeness of the voice jolted Gilchrist. Then he caught the scratchy shuffle of leather soles on dusty concrete and sensed a subtle shifting of Purvis’s body – the lowering of the shotgun towards his head.
He closed his eyes, and prayed to a God he did not believe in.
CHAPTER 33
It took Gilchrist’s silent counting to ten before he opened his eyes, and another ten to twenty before he took a breath and let his hopes cling to the slimmest of beliefs that it might not be his last. Of course, with encaged human body parts in wire-mesh sculptures all around them, logic told him that Purvis was only toying with them, and that there could only ever be one outcome.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Give yourself up.’
‘And do what? Go back inside?’ Purvis chuckled.
‘You’ll get a fair trial.’
‘My arse. They’ll lock me up as soon as look at me.’
Stan cocked his head, risking a glance. ‘Do you have family?’
‘Shut it, you. Don’t try to give me any of that sentimental shite. It don’t work on psychos.’
‘Is that what you are, then?’ Stan said. ‘A psycho?’
‘I told you to shut it,’ Purvis snapped, and clipped the side of Stan’s head with the stock of the gun.
Stan keeled over, the side of his head gushing blood.
Gilchrist rose from his knees and felt the stock slam into his back with a force that sent him sprawling. He struggled to his knees, a burning ache telling him that the blow had either torn a muscle or cracked his scapula.
He winced as he turned to Stan. ‘Let me stop the bleeding—’
‘Stay the fuck where you are.’
Gilchrist froze, arms by his side, the flat of his hands pressing on the concrete floor. He curled his fingers, managed to scrape some dust into his loose grip. But his logic was telling him something was wrong – they should both be dead by now.
‘Why are you keeping us here?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see. Eyes to the front.’
Another hit from the stock reminded Gilchrist that Purvis was still calling the shots. What he had learned was that Purvis was waiting for something or, as it was gradually becoming clearer to him, waiting for someone.
And if Gilchrist had been a betting man, he might have risked a punt.
But he had also learned that with Purvis you could never be too careful.
Jessie reached the compound fence, and a rare break in the clouds gave her a moonlit glimpse of the barn. She stopped, her heart in her mouth as she searched for the dogs.
But she saw nothing.
Something else was niggling at the back of her senses, the noise of a running engine coming from the barn. She edged her way along the compound fence to the corner. In the distance, the lights of the cottage glittered. She turned her back to them, and removed her mobile and tried Andy’s number, then Stan’s, but the connection was well and truly dead. She thought again of calling the Office for back-up, but reasoned that by the time it arrived, she would likely have found a simple explanation for the lack of communication.
So she decided just to press on.
She resisted the urge to click on her torch, but held it tight as she edged onwards. She reached the gate to find the padlock dangling open. The night sky shifted again, killing light from the moon, and blackness settled all around her like a cloak. Her senses felt raw to the touch, as if her every nerve was exposed. A hard lump threatened to choke her throat as she strained for signs of movement. She gripped the cold metal, and caught her breath as the chain-links rattled. The memory of the dogs rushing the fence chilled her blood, and she waited in the darkness, afraid to take another step.
But nothing stirred.
She eased the gate open, all the while staring blindly into the black shadows for any sign of the Rottweilers. Then she stepped inside the compound and pulled the gate behind her. The latch clicked with a metallic ring, and she felt her blood turn to water as something shifted in the grass by her side.
She froze stock still, and peered into the darkness.
Movement.
Black on black.
Then she heard a low growl that rose for a terrifying moment, only to fade to a whine and the cutting song of the wind as it brushed over the grass.
She reached the barn door in fifteen quick strides. The sound of the engine was louder here, drowning out the wind. She grappled with the loose padlock, her fingers feeling thick, rattling metal on metal as they fumbled for the latch.
Then she found it and tugged the barn door open.
Inside was as black as night, and the noise from the generator deafening. She shut the door behind her, held her breath, and waited for any signs of movement. Then, for the first time since crossing the fields, she flicked on her torch.
Its beam shimmered across the floor and settled on the generator. Her ears had become accustomed to the noise, the beat of its racing engine now less invasive. She shone the torch around the barn and its beam fell on the BMW.
‘Nice one, Andy.’
She walked the length of the car, shining her torch through the side windows – to confirm it was unoccupied – noticing the cracked windscreen, the dent in the window pillar. The generator thrummed in the background. Had it been running when Andy called earlier? In th
e inexplicable absence of two senior officers, she knew she should phone the Office and report the discovery of the BMW, call in the registration number and ask them to check the VIN.
She laid her torch on the barn floor, removed her mobile, and started to scroll down.
‘Cut the call.’
Jessie jolted, and spun around to face the darkness from where the voice had come.
‘I said cut the call.’
In the black of the barn, Jessie could see nothing. She looked down at the torch on the concrete floor, its beam shining aimlessly under the BMW, which stood between her and the source of the voice. She shifted her feet . . .
If she could only . . .
She slowly bent her knees, lowered her hand—
‘Don’t even think about it,’ the voice said. ‘I have a gun, and I will shoot.’
The man had moved around to the front of the car, and Jessie realised with a stab of fear that he must be able to see her clearly, even though she could see nothing.
‘Cut the call,’ he repeated, his voice taking on a steely tone that left Jessie in no doubt that the last warning had just been issued.
She killed the connection.
‘Now drop it.’
The voice had crept closer, although still some distance away – maybe ten feet. Jessie thought she caught some movement – shadow on shadow – but she could not be sure. One part of her wished she had the strength and the courage to put up a fight, just go for it. Another part reminded her that Robert needed her, and what would he do if she was not around for him?
‘I’m waiting.’
Jessie dropped her mobile to the floor.
‘Step to the side and turn around.’
Something in the cold finality of his words caused Jessie to picture the man steadying himself and aiming the gun straight at her head. She raised both hands in the air. ‘I’m unarmed,’ she said to the darkness. ‘Don’t shoot.’
‘Turn around.’
Jessie wondered why he was so insistent when he could see her clearly. The only logical answer was that he was going to shoot her. She tried to reason with him. ‘My son’s deaf,’ she said. ‘He needs me.’
‘I said turn around.’
‘Please.’
‘Last chance.’
Jessie swallowed the lump in her throat, and shuffled around. Every nerve in her body was jumping, while her mind tried to reassure her that she was not about to die. The sound of shoes – or boots – crunching over the dust and dirt sent a wild flash of panic through her and her heart into overdrive, thudding in her chest like some caged animal kicking to free itself.
She did not want to die.
Leather scraped concrete.
Closer now. Too close. As if . . .
The footsteps stopped.
Silence, save for the rush of her breath and the frenzied beating of her heart.
She could feel his presence now, sense he was leaning closer.
Making sure he could not miss—
Her world exploded in a blast of white light.
CHAPTER 34
Gilchrist tilted his head to the ceiling. To his side, Stan stirred from unconsciousness with a long groan, as if he had caught it too – the momentary stutter of the generator’s engine in the barn above, which caused the lights in the basement to flicker.
‘We have company,’ Purvis announced.
Gilchrist risked taking another hit from the shotgun’s stock by turning his head and saying, ‘Magner?’
Purvis smiled down at him. ‘Clever you.’
As Gilchrist’s mind flashed back to that first interview with Magner, the cut on the base of the thumb, the question – you’re left-handed? – he saw where he had made the most basic of errors, stunned into silence that not one of them had picked up on it. CCTV footage of the Highland Hotel – on the night Brian McCulloch was seated in his Jag in Tentsmuir Forest, supposedly committing suicide after having murdered his entire family – and Magner standing in the hallway outside the conference room, about to enter, mobile phone in hand, powering it down – and all of it done with his mobile in his left hand, while he prodded at the keypad with his right.
‘You stood in for him,’ he said.
Purvis cocked his head, a silent question in his eyes.
‘The conference in the Highland Hotel. It wasn’t Magner. It was you that night.’
Purvis grimaced as he stared down at Gilchrist, as if deciding whether to hit him with the stock of the shotgun again, or blast him with both barrels. It took him two seconds to choose the former, and he stepped forward and thudded the gun into Gilchrist’s face.
Gilchrist had time only to turn away, take the blow to the side of the head. Even so, the hit sent a flash of light through his brain, and he grunted with surprise as the concrete floor rose up to meet his face with a grit-laden slap.
The next second – well, it felt as if it was the next second, although he failed to see how he had missed Magner’s entrance – Gilchrist rolled on to his back, confused for a moment as to where Purvis had gone. The skin by his left eye felt thick and sticky to the touch, as he struggled to focus. Another dab at the side of his head had him wincing with pain, trying to gauge the extent of the wound through hair clotted with blood and dust. And Jessie was here, too, seated on the concrete floor beside Stan, their backs to the wall. He struggled to push himself upright, which caused Magner to stride towards him, and glare down at him.
‘You’re a silly man,’ Magner said. ‘Persistent, I have to give you full marks for that, but silly.’
If Gilchrist could have spoken, he would have agreed. Silly sounded about right. He had been silly not to arrest the bastard sooner; silly not to see how the resemblance between Magner and Purvis was crucial to the case; silly to have led Stan and Jessie into this basement. He would have agreed with all of that, but his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth, and all he could do was shake his head in silent acknowledgement of his abject silliness.
Magner held up a mobile, which Gilchrist recognised as his own. ‘Been looking through all your Call Logs, and it’s good to see that not one of you called for back-up.’
Oh, that, too. He was silly for not calling for back-up; silly to think that he and Stan could have gone it all alone. But not silly, really, when you thought about it. Just stupid.
Downright fucking stupid.
‘We didn’t need to call for back-up,’ Gilchrist said, working spittle into his mouth, ‘because they already know where we are.’
‘Really?’
‘If we don’t check in, they’ll send uniforms to the cottage. They’re probably already on their way.’
‘On a Sunday night?’ Magner sounded incredulous.
‘Never heard of twenty-four/seven?’ Jessie said. ‘That’s the constabulary for you.’
‘Every day a working day. Is that it?’ Magner’s smile evaporated the instant his lips curled.
The clanging of metal on metal had everyone turning their heads towards the access ladder. Light shone through the shaft, revealing Purvis working his way down, rung by rung, into the basement.
Gilchrist counted twenty-seven steps from the foot of the ladder to Purvis standing in front of him, and noticed for the first time that he was dressed in camouflage gear. Magner, on the other hand, was wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a red tie. A matching handkerchief poked from his top pocket.
Purvis took one step closer to Gilchrist.
The kick to his chest took Gilchrist by surprise, the power behind it staggering. For one frightening moment his world turned black again, and he thought his heart had stopped.
‘That’s for killing Bruce,’ Purvis gasped.
Gilchrist’s system came to with a grunt. He sucked in air and winced from the fresh pain.
‘Bruce was one of Jason’s dogs,’ Magner explained.
‘I thought psychos didn’t like pets,’ Jessie quipped. ‘Cruelty to animals, and all that.’
Purvis gave
her a look that could have boiled the air between them. But Magner raised his hand and Purvis took a couple of steps back, distancing himself from Jessie, as if not trusting his right boot. If looks could speak, Purvis was telling Jessie just how high over the crossbar he was going to punt her.
‘You’ve put us in a dilemma,’ Magner said. ‘What should we do with you?’
‘I know what to fucking do with them,’ Purvis countered. ‘Turn them into dog food.’
Another raised hand from Magner shut Purvis down, and told Gilchrist who was in charge. But he also knew that no matter who was pulling the strings, the situation could end only one way, with one of them – likely Purvis – pulling the trigger.
He glanced into the darkness, where the lights failed to reach, at sarcophagal chambers that resembled square mouths to dark caves, in each of which dangled skeletal wire-mesh cages that housed human artefacts. Or, as Gilchrist’s numbed mind came to understand, symbolic tokens from each kill, prizes to be treasured or fondled, through which the killer – read killers – could relive that glorious moment of ultimate pleasure, when they watched the light of life in each of their victims flicker, then die.
Purvis turned to the workbench and reached for something. When he turned back, the sight of the shotgun turned Gilchrist’s blood to ice.
‘My son needs me,’ Jessie pleaded.
‘You should’ve thought of that before you became a cop,’ Purvis said, shouldering the gun.
This time, Magner did not raise his hand. Instead, he reached for the gun and pushed the barrels down so they pointed at the floor. ‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ he said.
Purvis almost sulked, like a child being told he could not watch TV, and Gilchrist realised that Magner wanted to talk. He needed to know how much they knew, how close they had come to nailing him for the McCulloch massacre.
Of course, asking questions could work both ways.
‘How’s your hand?’ Gilchrist asked.
Magner frowned, but said nothing.
‘How did you kill Janice?’
Magner narrowed his eyes. ‘Interesting question,’ he said. ‘How? Not why?’
‘I know why,’ Gilchrist said. ‘She had seen too much. She was going to talk. She was the weak link between you and McCulloch. And after we questioned her, she called you up in a panic.’
