The Chosen Ones

by Howard Linskey

  He told her the figure then. It was far from small but not as bad as she had imagined. ‘Then you’ll go away?’ she asked hopefully. ‘You’ll leave me alone?’

  He snorted. ‘You’re joking, love. That’s not a flat fee. I expect to see it every month from now on.’

  It was too much.

  ‘I …’ she began, but faltered.

  ‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll leave you alone for a while so you can make up your mind. I’ll be back in touch. I’m pretty certain you’ll see things my way.’ Then he was striding ahead of Jenna, but he turned back before he reached the corner. ‘The others did.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The former soldier wasn’t exactly cooperative, nor did he resist them when they knocked on the door of his home, a static caravan in a holiday park not far from Seahouses. Bradshaw had uniformed officers with him, to assist with a search of the surrounding area. There wasn’t much in the caravan apart from the basics needed to survive: food and cooking pots, a pillow and a bed roll that was tied and tucked into a tiny wardrobe so the bed could be folded away to make more living space. The man led a spartan existence that aroused some suspicion. Bradshaw asked him to come in voluntarily for questioning and he complied.

  Joe McEwan was another man who was convinced he didn’t need a solicitor. Bradshaw had barely come across anyone who had turned one down before being questioned. Now he found himself talking to a second suspect within days who had waived his rights, even if Charlie Hamilton had changed his mind pretty quickly, once he knew he was in trouble.

  McEwan sat impassively before him now, a tall, stocky man with long, unkempt hair and an unshaven face. His hands were dirty, the nails filthy, as if he had been fixing something before they brought him in.

  ‘Let’s be clear for the tape that the right to a solicitor has been declined,’ Bradshaw said. ‘Against the advice given.’ He added that part in case anyone tried to claim McEwan had been bullied into turning down legal representation.

  ‘I don’t need a solicitor.’ The tone was dismissive.

  ‘Because you haven’t done anything, is that it?’

  The face that looked up at him was so calm it was almost saintly. ‘We’ve all done things, Detective, but none of it matters in the end. We are all just meat.’

  ‘We are all just meat? That’s an unusual thing to say.’

  ‘But it’s true. All flesh is weak and all flesh must die.’ He shrugged, as if this was likely to happen at any moment, not at some far-off point in the future.

  ‘You are saying it doesn’t matter what we do, just to clarify that?’

  ‘I’m saying what we do doesn’t matter in the long run, since none of us will be here to talk about it and the world will keep on turning without us. In the meantime, we should probably try to help one another. It would be a grim old life if we didn’t do that.’

  ‘So, you’ll help me?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘With my inquiries?’

  ‘If I can,’ said the ex-soldier.

  ‘You haven’t even asked me what they’re about. People usually want to know why they are being questioned.’

  ‘Figure you have your reasons. Misguided ones, obviously,’ he said. ‘Go on, then – what are you inquiring about?’

  ‘A woman was abducted.’ Bradshaw gave the soldier the briefest possible account. He had the right to know why he was being questioned, but Bradshaw didn’t want to give him any details he didn’t have to, in case the suspect revealed something under questioning that only the culprit could have known.

  ‘Well, I haven’t abducted anyone.’

  ‘Let’s start with where you were that night.’ And he told McEwan the date and time.

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No one living nearby saw you around that time?’

  ‘I live in a static caravan on a caravan park. Most of the caravans are empty unless it’s peak season, especially during the week. There aren’t many of us here all year round. People who live in a place like this tend to want to keep themselves to themselves. They don’t socialize.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Some move here to get away from people, and some have very little money. That tends to make them grumpy and possibly a little embarrassed about their predicament.’

  ‘That include you?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘Do you want to keep yourself to yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’m not very fond of people. It doesn’t make me a murderer.’

  ‘Now who said anything about murder? I didn’t.’

  The two men looked at each other for a while, as if appraising each other. Finally, McEwan spoke. ‘You used the word “abducted”. Why would any man want to abduct a woman, unless he was going to kill her?’

  ‘I think the question should be Why would any man want to abduct a woman at all?, but you tell me.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘You’re a police officer, you know there are men out there who like to harm women, but I’m not one of them. I’m sure you’ve come across it before.’

  ‘Do you like women, Joe?’

  ‘I don’t dislike them.’

  ‘But you said you didn’t like people.’

  ‘No, I never …’

  Bradshaw read from his notes: ‘I’m not very fond of people’; then he looked up at McEwan. ‘Aren’t women people?’

  ‘Very clever,’ he sneered. ‘You asked me why I liked being on my own, I gave you a flippant response.’

  ‘You do like women, then?’

  ‘From time to time.’

  ‘But you don’t force yourself on them?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You don’t drive around posing as a cab-driver, picking up drunk lasses after closing time?’

  ‘Not a hobby of mine, Detective,’ said McEwan. ‘Who’s said that it is? You might want to ask them about their whereabouts because I think they have been leading you down the garden path.’

  Bradshaw ignored his question. ‘So you haven’t abducted anyone?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Could you please speak,’ Bradshaw asked him, ‘for the benefit of the tape.’

  ‘No,’ he said, then added: ‘that’s a no to ever having abducted anyone, not to speaking on the tape.’ And he gave a grim smile to show his cooperation. ‘Look, I’m assuming you are very short of leads and are just picking up a bunch of people for questioning, is that it? Am I just the latest in a fairly long line? Is it because I’m ex-military and I live alone? Does that tick a couple of boxes on some psychological profile? I bet it does, but if that’s all you’ve got …’

  ‘Have you ever killed anyone?’ asked Bradshaw, purely to see what reaction he would get from the enigmatic figure before him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I have. I’ve killed people.’

  ‘Are you referring to your time in the army, Mr McEwan?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry,’ he said facetiously. ‘Were you talking about more recently?’

  ‘You were in the Gulf War back in 1991?’

  The man nodded, then he remembered the tape and said in a loud, clear voice, ‘That is correct,’ before adding: ‘Though I don’t really consider it a war.’

  ‘What do you consider it to be?’

  ‘Mass murder.’

  ‘Infantry?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘Artillery. I was a gunner in a tank. We had a Challenger but they mostly had old T-72s. That’s a Soviet-made seventies model. A bit of a mismatch, like having an airgun versus a Magnum. One of our guys blew up an enemy tank from just short of three miles away. I think he still holds the record.’

  ‘Why do you consider it mass murder?’

  ‘Not many people were killed in the Gulf War, if you recall.’ He looked grim. ‘At least not on our side. Tens of thousands of their lot were, of course, but nobod
y really cared about that, did they? Just so long as we marched on and kept mowing them down, usually from the skies, sometimes on the ground, but they didn’t have to see it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to see so many corpses up close or to pass line after line of burnt-out lorries or tanks with the crews still in them, already cremated? Their own families wouldn’t be able to recognize them. It wasn’t what we trained for.’

  ‘But it was better than dying,’ offered Bradshaw. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  McEwan didn’t answer that, just said, ‘If that’s soldiering, I don’t want any part of it.’

  ‘That why you left?’

  ‘After a while. I kept my head down because I still had time to serve, but as soon as the redundancy was offered I took it. They were disbanding whole regiments by that point, so no one minded when I crept out the back door.’

  ‘Were you angry when you left?’

  ‘Most soldiers are angry for one reason or another.’

  ‘Have you worked since?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you been working lately?’

  ‘Not recently. I seem to struggle to keep jobs.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  He took a long while to answer, as if he was contemplating it for the first time, but Bradshaw reasoned he was probably not used to explaining himself.

  ‘Nothing seems that important,’ he said finally. ‘Not compared to what I’ve seen. If some boss gets a strop on because he isn’t going to hit some stupid sales target, I just find it amusing. If a customer gets het up about something not being to their liking, I just think they’re ridiculous. I can’t take any of it seriously.’

  ‘Are you in a relationship, Mr McEwan?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ he snapped. ‘How is it relevant?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s relevant and sometimes it isn’t, but it might help me to save time if you were to answer the question, unless there’s something about your relationship status that you’re keen to hide from me.’

  ‘Let me ask you something, Detective Sergeant. If I answer yes or no, which one of those would make me more likely to abduct a woman?’ When Bradshaw said nothing, he said, ‘If I say I’m single, you’re going to tick another little box in your head, aren’t you, until you’ve ticked enough to make me a prime suspect? That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Bradshaw stayed silent.

  The ex-soldier continued, ‘Hasn’t got a job: tick! Moves around: tick! Ex-army: big tick! Don’t try and pretend that it isn’t. You civilians all love the army, don’t you, until you actually have to deal with soldiers. Not so proud of us, then, eh? Finally, is he single? Another big tick.’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m single. Happy now?’ He held out his hands. ‘Why don’t you just slap the cuffs on me?’

  ‘Do you own a car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t? You don’t own a car?’

  ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘I’m giving you the chance to correct yourself. You just said you don’t own a car.’

  ‘That is correct.’ His tone was laced with sarcasm.

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Bradshaw, ‘because we have you down as the owner of a car.’ Bradshaw recited the registration number.

  ‘My car?’ he asked. ‘Is that what this is all about? My car?’ His voice was shrill, but he sounded more upbeat.

  ‘Yes. Your car. The one you just said you didn’t own.’

  ‘I don’t have a car.’ He said that with some satisfaction. ‘I sold it two bloody years ago.’

  ‘You sold it?’ asked Bradshaw in disbelief.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why is it still registered in your name?’

  ‘What? Oh, I dunno. I don’t think I ever really told anyone about it. I didn’t think it mattered.’

  ‘You didn’t think it mattered?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He only wanted it for scrap.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The bloke who bought it off me,’ said McEwan. ‘He had one of those trucks with a hook on the back to take it to the yard. No one was going to be driving it again.’

  ‘I meant, what was his name?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He looked thoughtful, as though he wanted to help. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘You sold your car to some bloke and you didn’t even take his name? Who are you trying to kid?’

  ‘No, I did take his name.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘But that was two years ago. I don’t think I kept it. Why would I?’

  ‘Why did you sell your car? If indeed you did sell your car.’

  ‘I was broke. The guy gave me a few quid for it. I needed the money.’

  ‘But hang on, how did this mystery man know it was up for sale, if you didn’t advertise it?’

  ‘I stuck a hand-written cardboard sign with “For Sale” on it in the back window. I’m no detective, but I guess that must have been a clue.’

  ‘You realize that failing to report the sale of a motor vehicle is an offence.’

  ‘Oh,’ said McEwan. He sounded as if he couldn’t be less interested. ‘Better haul me up before the judge in the morning, then. I expect he’ll want to throw away the key.’ Then he snorted. ‘Or possibly give me a fine, which I won’t be able to pay.’

  Bradshaw was lost for words.

  ‘Are we done?’ McEwan asked. ‘Or are your mates still searching my caravan for missing women?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  1982

  It was Father’s job to protect him. That’s what he had told Chris over and over. It was Father’s duty to do what was best for them both, no matter how hard that might seem at the time, especially when Mother had left them both for good.

  It was the way other people thought that was the problem and, if Chris was exposed to it, who knew how damaging it could be? That was why Father had bought the land out here and set up the business, to deceive the outside world about the true purpose of the site. Father wasn’t really building a business, he was creating a sanctuary, and he couldn’t let non-believers in to destroy it before the end of the world came.

  So, there would be no school. Instead there would be books to learn things from, but the main book was the good book. There was nothing you couldn’t learn from the Bible, except perhaps how to strip and rebuild an engine, but Father could show Chris how to do that. Father had always been good at making things.

  No other children could come here because they would have been poisoned already. The words of their parents would be enough to do that and soon they would become just like their mothers and fathers. Chris had to be protected from others. His father would do that, but Chris could never leave.

  He need not worry, though, because Father would do all the thinking and he would keep Chris safe from the Apocalypse when it came, which it inevitably would, because there was a cowboy in the White House called Ray Gun and he wanted to start a war.

  Father told Chris how God had come to him one day and had told him what to do, just like he had done before with Noah. Chris asked him if God had come to him in a dream or did he walk up to him in the street? How did Father come by this idea that the world would soon be destroyed? Father would always wave that question away.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he would say. ‘Just know that he came to me one day and that God does indeed move in mysterious ways.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Bradshaw was late for their breakfast meeting. He blamed the traffic, but it wasn’t the real reason. The previous night he’d been hit with a bout of crippling insomnia that kept him awake until long past the early hours, no matter what he tried to do. He’d read a book, watched some middle-of-the-night TV and even gone for a drive, but none of it got him even halfway to sleep until an hour before his alarm went off. It was a very tired DS Bradshaw who walked in to see Tom finishing off a bacon butty while Helen ate the last of her tea and toast. He
managed to summon the energy to fill them in.

  ‘Are you just going to let him go?’ asked Helen when he explained about Joe McEwan’s car.

  ‘We’ve let him go already. We can’t hold McEwan on suspicion of attempting to abduct a woman just because he’s a pain in the arse, Helen. While I was talking to him we had Uniform scouring the land around his caravan and searching inside it. They didn’t find anything, much less a car. The only thing we have is the reg plate, and that’s just Tom’s theory. Imagine if we had to explain in court that it wasn’t even the one the woman gave us.’

  ‘Can’t she identify him?’

  ‘The guy who was driving had a cap and sunglasses on and she was in the back of his cab. I could have been driving it, for all she knew.’

  ‘I can’t believe he can just go back on to the street like that.’

  ‘Helen, there’s no evidence, none at all. He hasn’t done anything except sell his car without telling the DVLA. I had to let him go.’

  The waitress finally spotted him then and came over. ‘Can I get a cup of coffee in a takeaway cup?’ he asked her.

  ‘You’ve only just got here,’ said Tom.

  ‘And I’ve got to leave now,’ Bradshaw told him firmly. ‘I’ve an appointment this morning and I really can’t be late for this one.’

  He hadn’t been back for two days. There had been no food or water; the empty plate and plastic glass taunted her now. He hadn’t gone through with his threat to put her back in the crate or even checked up on her. So this was her punishment for trying to escape, but how long would it go on for? Another day? Two? Perhaps he would never come back and she would starve to death or die of dehydration.

  At first she was filled with despair at her failed attempt to escape and the certainty that he would never again allow her an opportunity as good as that one. Eva had been given one chance and she had blown it. Now, all she could think about was food and water. The hunger cramps in her stomach were agonizing and they would get worse if he didn’t bring her some food soon. Was this deliberate, or had he simply disappeared? What if he had been in an accident and been injured and was lying unconscious in a hospital somewhere? What if he had been killed? No one would ever find her then. She would starve to death and this room would become her crypt. Her disappearance would never be solved.