by T F Muir
She froze.
Cocked her head at the noise.
A scraping sound in the kitchen. As if a sackload of gravel was being dragged across the floor.
Then a dull thud.
She dropped to her knees, eased the phone back on the table, and pulled the Beretta from its holster. If anyone walked into the living room, she would have them in her sights.
She waited.
Ten seconds passed in silence. Then twenty.
She thought of calling out, but that would only alert whoever was there.
She tried to still the pounding in her heart. Overhead, the helicopter roared like a hurricane that flattened grass and blasted the window with light. Through a gap in the curtains she saw a collection of blue and red flashing lights draw up on the road outside. Their presence gave her strength and hope, and she stood up, Beretta held out in front of her, and walked towards the kitchen door.
She kicked it open, her mind struggling to make sense of the confusing scene before her – the kitchen table up in the air at an angle of some sixty degrees, along with an entire section of wooden flooring, beneath which the dim opening to a smaller hatch beckoned like the dark entrance to Hades. Instinct screamed at her to back off, but she had time only to turn to the side as a hard crack hit her with a force that thumped her backwards.
As she fell, glass exploded all around her to the echo of two more cracks. She flinched from flying splinters, her mind already working out that the first shot had thudded into her body armour, while the next two had missed altogether and shattered the crockery in the cabinet. Even before she hit the floor the scene before her slowed down, as if she were watching it one frame at a time, her own actions as sluggish as moving through treacle.
A couple of clicks and a grunted curse told her the gun that had fired at her might have jammed.
From the hallway, Magner staggered into the kitchen, the rifle already cast aside and on its way to the floor behind him, while a shotgun seemed to slither from his shoulder into his grip with expert ease.
Jessie’s Beretta seemed paltry by comparison – its barrel short and stubby, compared to the long double barrels swinging her way. She squeezed once, felt the kick, then squeezed again.
But still the shotgun zeroed in.
Another shot from the Beretta, and the twin barrels shuddered for a millisecond, then continued on their search until they settled on her.
She fired again to a hard click – the sound of an empty magazine – and felt her lungs empty in a scream as Magner’s finger squeezed the trigger.
She jerked to the side in a quick roll that cracked her face against the edge of a cabinet door. The shock as the shot thundered through the wooden flooring felt like a kick that hit the full length of her body. She lay still, afraid to move in case she found she could not, that she had been hit full bore, and had only seconds to live.
Magner had stilled, too, as if stunned by the shotgun blast.
He stood for two seconds before his body followed the command from his brain. The shotgun dropped from his hands, then his legs buckled, and his knees hit the floor with a hard thud that should have broken bone. His continuing collapse was inevitable, as he fell forward, eyes already blinded by death, his broken face smacking the floor in a full-bloodied head-butt.
Jessie squeezed her eyes shut—
‘Armed police.’ A hefty kick to the back door burst it open to a riot of screaming voices. ‘Drop the gun drop the gun drop the fucking gun. Now.’
Jessie let the Beretta slip from her fingers.
She wanted to come back at them with some memorable quip like, ‘You missed a great party, guys,’ but a sob choked its way out of her throat with a dry gasp, and it was all she could do to raise her hands and place them behind her head.
Gilchrist reached the end of the tunnel.
A set of wooden steps and a handrail ascended into a shaft in the roof – no more than four feet in depth – and appeared to end at a wooden trapdoor, distinguishable only by a thin rim of light that ran along the hinged edge.
Gilchrist’s options were severely limited. Injured and without any weapon, he was completely defenceless. An image of Magner climbing up the wooden steps to the cottage warned him that he had no time to fuss over any plan of action. The sensible thing to do would be to return back the way he’d come, try to escape that way, maybe even head down the tunnel to the Meating Room, emerge through the barn, and work his way back to the cottage from there.
But that would be no use to Mhairi.
As he stared at the trapdoor at the top of the shaft, he came to see that the only way forward was up. He gripped the handrail, placed one foot on the first step. It felt flimsy, as if it might collapse under his weight. The shaft seemed decrepit, too, as if no one had been here for years, maybe decades.
He placed a foot on the next step.
All his weight was now supported by the rickety ladder. But he pressed on, one careful step at a time.
He reached the top, tilted his head, and placed an ear to the trapdoor. He thought he caught the faintest hint of someone talking – a man’s voice, deep, not angry, more like talking to a pet, teaching it tricks, teasing it with biscuits.
His heart froze at the thought of another pair of Rottweilers. If something like that was waiting for him, then it really was game over. The memory of gnashing teeth and snarling growls had him closing his eyes and saying a silent prayer. He would need more than one arm to fight off a pair of dogs. Even two arms would not be enough. A baton-gun might help level the odds.
An Uzi would give him an advantage.
He studied the underside of the hatch, placed both hands flat against the wood, but the fire in his left arm warned him to try something else. He readjusted his position, eased up another step, so that his right shoulder pressed against the wood.
He held his breath, and flexed his muscles.
The trapdoor eased open.
The man’s voice was clearer now, closer too, and Gilchrist risked a quick look through the gap at floor level. As best he could tell, he was in another barn, and the voice was coming from a lighted area to his right. He had to shuffle his feet on the creaking steps before he could see the source of it clearly.
Purvis was standing with his back to the trapdoor, hunched over what looked like a wooden table, maybe a workbench. All his attention was focused on whatever was lying in front of him, but Gilchrist could not tell what. He risked opening the hatch a little wider, but had to readjust his feet.
He shifted his weight, and his right foot slipped.
He just managed to prevent the trapdoor from slamming shut, more by luck than design, as it snapped down on his right hand. But that was enough to cause Purvis to lift his head and pull himself upright.
Gilchrist tried to tear his hand free, but the rim of the hatch had his knuckles trapped. To free himself, he would first have to open the trapdoor. He held his breath as he peered through the gap and prayed that Purvis would not see him.
Purvis reached out and picked up something off the table.
Then he turned to face the trapdoor.
Gilchrist’s blood turned cold at the sight of the shotgun in Purvis’s hand. Then it boiled in a hot surge of disgust and anger when he saw Mhairi’s bare thighs parted on the table.
Purvis grinned as he walked towards the hatch.
‘Come on in, Mr DCI,’ he said, ‘and join the party.’
CHAPTER 41
Gilchrist pushed the trapdoor wide open and let it flop over on its hinges.
It landed with a wooden slap that sent dust flying.
He stepped halfway out, then glanced down into the shaft and shouted, ‘All right, all right. No need to whine about it.’ Then he pulled himself up and out, to stand on the edge of the opening with his hands shoulder high. ‘Your pal needs help,’ he said to Purvis, who levelled the shotgun at him.
‘Do what?’
‘His jaw’s broken.’
‘Get back,’ Purvis s
napped, and walked towards him.
Gilchrist obliged, shuffled one step away, then another.
Purvis reached the open shaft and looked into the empty space below. Then he turned back to Gilchrist. ‘What the fuck’re you up to?’
Gilchrist put on a puzzled look of his own, shrugged, and nodded to the opening. ‘He’s the one who needs help.’
Purvis leaned farther over the opening. ‘Tom?’ he shouted. ‘Hey, Tom?’
His voice echoed back at him.
‘He can’t talk,’ Gilchrist assured him. ‘His jaw’s broken.’
Purvis glared at him. ‘How’d he break his jaw?’
‘Tripped.’
Something settled across Purvis’s eyes at that comment. He stepped back from the opening and pointed the shotgun at Gilchrist. ‘Get him,’ he said.
Gilchrist held out his left arm, still dripping blood. ‘I need both hands.’
Purvis stared at the tattered sleeve, then jiggled his shotgun. ‘Go down there and get him.’
Gilchrist lowered both arms.
He was about to step forward when Purvis said, ‘Drop the jacket.’
Gilchrist dipped his right shoulder, pulled his arm free, then did the same with his left, grimacing with pain as he eased the sleeve down his bloodied forearm.
‘I hope it hurts,’ Purvis said.
Gilchrist was about to drop the jacket to the floor when the tinny sound of Rod Stewart singing ‘Maggie May’ stopped him.
Purvis stilled, too. His gaze darted to the shaft. He stepped to the edge again, and removed a mobile from his pocket, shotgun in one hand, trigger finger curled within the guard. His puzzled shout echoed down the shaft. ‘Tom?’ Then he took the call and placed the mobile to his ear. ‘Talk to me, Tom.’
Gilchrist watched surprise crease Purvis’s forehead, then shift wide-eyed through the shock of realisation to full-blown anger.
Purvis dropped his mobile and lifted his shotgun to give Gilchrist both barrels in the face, but Gilchrist was already on the move, whipping his leather jacket at the muzzle.
Purvis squeezed the trigger.
The blast sounded like cannon fire.
The shockwave slapped Gilchrist’s face as the pellets ripped past his head.
Somewhere behind him, wood exploded, metal clattered.
With Purvis not gripping the shotgun in both hands, the recoil sent the barrels pointing roofward. Gilchrist saw an opportunity. He swung his jacket at the shotgun again, the tattered sleeve wrapping around the barrels almost ripping the weapon from Purvis’s grasp. Then he lunged forward and tried to grab the stock.
But Purvis was too quick and stepped to the side.
Except there was no floor to step on.
Only the open shaft.
Purvis noticed his mistake too late, as one ankle twisted on the edge, shock and pain firing across his face. He tried to recover, but his leg buckled and his sideways momentum sent him toppling into the shaft.
Even then, he tried to save himself by turning his body as he fell, like some devilish acrobat. But as one hand refused to release the shotgun, the other clawed nothing but air. The opening, too, was not large enough to take him full length, and the back of his shoulders hit the frame of the trapdoor with a force that shivered the floorboards.
Gilchrist jerked his jacket, snapping the shotgun from Purvis’s grip as he slumped through the opening, fingers dragging across the wooden floor like claws as he tried to stop the inevitable. The single handrail caught Purvis’s right leg for only a moment, but long enough to change his angle of descent and send him in a headfirst dive down the shaft.
By the time Gilchrist stood at the trapdoor opening, Purvis lay at the foot of the ladder, his head pooling blood and lying at an impossible angle that told Gilchrist his neck was broken.
Gilchrist staggered back from the opening and turned to the workbench.
Mhairi was lying on her back, naked, her ankles and wrists strapped to the four corners with duct tape. Her body jerked in spasms from the force of her sobs.
Gilchrist threw his jacket across her body then reached down and ripped the tape from her mouth. ‘You’re safe now,’ he said. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’
Tears streamed down Mhairi’s cheeks, her lips shivering, lungs gasping with sobs that made speech impossible. The tape securing her wrists proved difficult to unwrap, but Gilchrist found a piece of broken glass lying in debris in a corner, and freed Mhairi at the cost of several cuts to his fingers. When he helped her to her feet, she clung to him as if her life depended on it, her body shuddering with a force that made him think she might never recover.
The sound of a helicopter overhead told Gilchrist they had tracked Purvis to the barn from the call to his mobile. He helped Mhairi hobble towards her clothes, then turned his back to give her some privacy as she struggled to put on what was left of them.
He retrieved Purvis’s mobile from the barn floor, but the connection was dead. He dialled the last incoming number and the call was answered on the second ring.
But the line remained silent.
‘This is DCI Andy Gilchrist,’ he said.
‘Andy?’ Jessie shouted. Then, much quieter, ‘Are you . . .?’
‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘And so’s Mhairi. But we need an ambulance.’ Then he added, ‘I don’t think she’s been harmed, but she needs to be checked out.’
He listened in silence as Jessie brought him up to speed, and found himself squeezing his eyes and giving a silent prayer of thanks when she told him Magner was dead.
When he ended the call, he walked towards Mhairi.
She had dressed as best she could, but her clothes were little more than torn strips that she was now trying to hold together. Gilchrist grabbed his jacket from the floor, held it open, and helped her put it on. She tried to zip up, but her fingers were shaking with a tremor that worked all the way to her teeth, and she was forced to give up with a chattering attempt at a smile.
Rather than zip it for her, Gilchrist folded one side over the other.
Mhairi crossed her arms in a shivering hug, then said, ‘Stan?’
Gilchrist shook his head and placed an arm around her shoulder, his silence telling her all she needed to know. She fell against him then, her sobs taking her breath away, and he could do nothing to stop his own tears welling. He stared into the darkest recesses of the barn, hugging Mhairi closer, as much for himself as for her, while images of Stan flickered in the shadows of his mind.
When Mhairi’s sobs finally shuddered to a stop, she managed to say, ‘I loved him, you know.’
‘I know,’ Gilchrist whispered.
He had loved Stan, too.
He just wished he’d had a chance to tell him that, and to say goodbye.
Together they turned and walked to the barn door.
CHAPTER 42
Mhairi was driven to Memorial Hospital in St Andrews, while Gilchrist was flown by helicopter to Ninewells Hospital in Dundee for treatment to his arm. Despite the makeshift tourniquet, his wounds continued to bleed, and he was given a local anaesthetic so the surgeons could repair a torn vein. All in all, his forearm required thirty-six stitches and three pints of blood were transfused into him. The largest of several lumps on his head – where Purvis had clubbed him with the shotgun stock – required four stitches, but he declined to have a CT scan. The consultant advised that he remain in hospital for observation, but Gilchrist signed himself out and took a taxi straight back to Cauldwood Cottage, his left arm strapped in a sling.
He thought of calling Cooper, but instead sent her a text: call me. By the time he arrived, Cooper had not contacted him, and dawn had broken to a blue sky and stiff winds.
The roads were closed, and the taxi could approach no closer than two hundred yards. Gilchrist had to show his warrant card to a young WPC before she would permit him to proceed by foot. He paid the taxi fare, asked for a receipt – mainly to irritate Greaves – and stepped into the fresh morning chill.
; When he reached the cottage, it seemed as if an army had invaded. Purvis’s Ford Focus had been towed away for forensic examination, and rows of vehicles – marked and unmarked police cars, SOCO vans, private cars – were parked in the long grass to the rear. Gilchrist had to step aside to let a tow-truck ease down the driveway. A car covered by a tarpaulin was on the back, which he presumed was Purvis’s Beemer.
The cottage was taped off, and dragonlights lit up its rear wall like a stage. SOCOs busied themselves in silence, flitting through the scene like ghosts. Gilchrist decided to return to the barn, see it in daylight, maybe even go a few steps farther and risk a look in the basement warren – the Meating Room – provided Stan’s body was no longer there.
To his surprise, Jessie caught up with him.
‘I was inside filling out a report,’ she said. ‘Thought I should join you.’
‘Been up all night?’
‘Went home for a couple of hours’ kip,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t sleep, though. Too much going on up here.’ She tapped the side of her head.
‘How’s Robert?’ he asked.
‘Asleep in his grow-bag.’ She shook her head. ‘I sometimes wonder if he remembers he’s got a mum.’
‘You should go home,’ he said. ‘Spend some time with him. You look knackered.’
‘Thanks a bundle. You’re looking not too bad yourself.’ She sniffed, turned her face into the wind as if to shift her irritation, then returned with, ‘You’re standing there like a one-armed bandit. How’s the arm?’
‘Getting better,’ he said.
‘And the mess on your head?’
‘That, too,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘What about the Beretta?’
‘I handed it over. Told them I found it.’
‘They’ll check the registration.’
‘It’s stolen.’
He mouthed an Ah, and said, ‘Right.’
They continued in silence towards the barn. The compound gate was open, and they stepped through.
A SOCO Transit was parked to the side, its engine running, doors open, as if it had been abandoned on arrival. Ahead, the barn doors were open, too, revealing a tidy interior. All sorts of tools glistened on metal peg-hole racks. Stacked shelves lined the walls, holding plastic containers, boxes, tins, filters, even books.
