Phil’s eyes blinked slowly then turned in Andy’s direction. A look of recognition: but no sense of relief or any lessening of the despair. If anything, it had increased. Andy was afraid to take the gag off.
Behind him Andy could hear a buzzing and sizzling sound, like a wasp caught by a fly zapper.
The tape came away with a thick wet sound as Phil coughed and then tried to scream.
All that came out was a rattling, wet sound. His mouth opened wide enough for Andy to see jagged stumps of broken teeth and clotted blood.
The wet rattle slowly transformed into sobbing. Andy knelt down in Phil’s blood, positioned himself to hold his head and shoulders in his lap. He closed his eyes as Phil wept, rocking back and forth with Phil’s sobbing head in his arms.
When Andy opened his eyes he kept them fixed firmly on the closed curtains, trying to ignore the smell coming behind him. He knew now why it was so dark. He’d caught a brief glance of the uplighter and heard the blood hissing against the light bulb. Arterial blood, which had shot up, splattered on the ceiling, and dripped into the uplighter.
“…dead…all dead…”
The words were badly formed because of Phil’s shattered mouth, slurred speech that was barely audible.
“…oh God in Heaven, how they suffered. He wouldn’t let me scream, wouldn’t let me beg…”
Andy held Phil tighter. The words he heard hit him like a blow to the stomach.
“He - he held my head, forced my eyelids back so that I could watch them die.”
Andy’s stomach constricted further. He held Phil’s head back slightly and looked down. His gaze met Phil’s haunted eyes then travelled down to the bread knife embedded in Phil’s stomach. He put a hand to it. Phil gasped.
“You - you shouldn’t have done that, Andy…”
Andy loosened his grip instantly. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean - ‘
“No…no.” A heavy, rattling sigh. “Fingers…fingerprints. He planned that. Police…”
Andy looked back into the hall. The phone. Police? Fuck that. Ambulance first, surely.
“Police…police coming. Fingerprints.” Phil hung his head.
Then Andy realised why Franklin was no longer here. It didn’t matter about the diary now, whether he’d read it or not. There would be no way he could act on the information received if he was being held by the police for the murder of the Lotson family.
Fingerprints. His fingerprints, on the bread knife that Franklin had left embedded in Phil’s stomach. Sirens, in the distance, coming closer. Alerted by Franklin.
Andy could do nothing. His head slumped, his chin resting on Phil’s crown. Phil’s breaths were slower and shallow, until finally there was nothing at all.
Nothing but Andy’s weeping and the screech of tyres on the road outside, the blue revolving light spilling through the gap in the curtains, sweeping across the blood-soaked carpet and the open necks of the dismembered bodies tied to the chairs in the dining room.
The open necks that smiled a welcome to the uniformed officers who entered the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Jason Franklin’s euphoria at his new found freedom was short-lived. Enjoyable though it was to be behind the wheel of a vehicle again after all those months, he knew it wouldn’t last so he’d tried to put his foot down, make the most of his short time on the road.
That wasn’t going to happen, though. He’d only had six driving lessons and the vehicle was hardly capable of head turning speeds. Every clumsy, inexperienced gear change led to thick black plumes of smoke belching from the exhaust and a petulant whine from the engine. The van was on its way out.
That wasn’t important. At least he knew he’d give it a good send off. What worried him now was how long it would be before the pursuit began. Sam Dawson would be relieved at eight a.m - just as well he’d been working a double shift - but the cook-chill Luton was a well known sight around the hospitals of Cambridge and its deliveries were timed. The van’s disappearance and the discovery of the drivers in a pool of blood in the kitchens of the Phoenix Unit would hasten its description and registration number being relayed to the police. He had little time.
A petrol station came into view. An empty forecourt, the cashier yawning widely in his booth. Jason hadn’t intended to stop; there was more than enough fuel in the tank. But the sight of the neon red sign glowing in the night sky reminded him of something else he might need. Something that would have served him well at the Founder’s Feast last year if he’d had the chance to use them.
Of course, a van loaded with unleaded fuel would be far more effective than a couple of petrol cans, but what the hell. For old time’s sake.
Ten minutes later, with three plastic green petrol cans purchased with cash from Connie Teague’s wallet and filled with fuel paid for by the van’s fuel card, Jason Franklin felt complete for the first time in over a year. He bit into a Ginster’s pasty as he drove off towards the centre of Cambridge.
He was concerned about entering the college too early. Daylight unmasked a multitude of sins, especially stolen three ton white metal ones - but he had no choice. He had to get the vehicle inside the college grounds as soon as possible. The woods - the Nemeton - would hide him and his vehicle. And The Elder would tell him what to do next, he was certain.
He pressed the channel buttons on the radio in an attempt to find something Christmassy.
As he finished the pasty he wondered idly if the “other” mentioned by The Elder was on his way to the Nemeton - and what he was bringing to assist in the destruction of All Souls. He wondered if Phil Lotson had managed to speak to Freeland, if Freeland was still alive.
Well, no matter. Pointless worrying. Omelettes and broken eggs, Jase. Omelettes and broken eggs. Just wish I could remember what I’d done to Sam Dawson, though….
He turned the volume up and tried to sing along to The Waitresses’ Christmas Wrapping. He couldn’t remember all the words, so he made some up as he drove.
“Christmas magic…will bring this tale to a very happy ending…”
* * * * *
Christmas magic was the last thing on Rob Benson’s mind as he drove down Jesus Lane, blinking away tears. Every time he came to a halt at traffic lights or pedestrian crossings he could hear the soft thump of a small furry body rolling up to the bulkhead.
Sorry, shit bag. I did my best. But at least I got that fucker…
The broad wintry expanse of Midsummer Common flew by on his right. If only I had wings, he thought. Fly right over it, drop past the bridge and I’d already be there.
It was only a matter of time before the bodies were discovered in the Granta warehouse. The Transit had been seen arriving - and leaving. They’d have heard his voice shouting in the warehouse as he drove the forklift straight towards the boar. They’d have heard him shout the name of Terry Harrison, and would remember the grudge the two of them had shared.
His fingerprints would be on the controls of the forklift and the bloodstained envelope containing his P45. His boss and his love rival impaled on the tines. Only one conclusion would be drawn. And only one person could help him.
“Yes, Andy. Yes, Phil, I fucking believe it now, okay?” he shouted at the windscreen as he rounded Mitcham’s Corner. He just hoped they knew what to do now.
Because I’m fresh out of ideas. The Green Man was silent.
“What say you, old man? Still wanna go to…what is it, the Nemeton? Don’t know what that is, but if it’s at All Souls you’re in luck. Because I bet Andy’ll be going there soon…and he’s going to need you.”
And the shotgun in the van, he thought. Now he was glad Andy had brought it with him to Cambridge. At least they’d have something to fight with…
“Assuming the Old Bill don’t stop me getting into the college,” he muttered to the Victorian villas of DeFreville Avenue. The gothic turrets frowned down on him.
He passed the church and turned into Phil’s street. Past Kelly’s battered red Rover, he saw a space th
at had been filled earlier. He frowned as he swung the van into the space, trying to think what was there before. He shut the engine down.
A blue Toyota Celica, now gone…
He slammed his fist onto the dash. The Celica! For fuck’s sake, of course he’d seen it before. Only now it was gone did his mind fill in the gaps. He had seen it in the tiny car park on the Trinity Street side of All Souls. It belonged to the head porter.
And now it was gone, which meant Franklin had done whatever he had come for.
A sick feeling rose in his guts, a feeling that turned to icy horror as he heard the sirens.
His shoulders slumped. He lowered his head onto the steering wheel, taking deep, shuddering breaths.
Christ, for it to come to this…what bloody hope did we have?
The icy slush of fear and despair churned again in his stomach, a physical pain this time. He clutched his stomach and sank to the floor of the cab, out of sight of the two uniformed police officers that ran out of the Vauxhall Astra patrol car.
There was a hammering of fists on wood, not metal. Only when the door to the Lotson’s house crashed open did Rob realise they hadn’t come for him.
He cautiously peered over the steering wheel, the slushing in his stomach forgotten. The door was open, the two uniforms already inside. Rob looked at the metallic green Mondeo that now pulled alongside the patrol car.
The officer climbing out of this car wasn’t in uniform. He had a dark blue overcoat through which Rob could see the lapels of a non-descript grey suit jacket and blue tie.
He was young, late twenties with cropped, ginger hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His face was pale with watery blue eyes and he had a slight frame that he carried with a strange mixture of arrogance and nervousness.
He entered the open door. Rob cautiously flicked the key in the ignition to allow the electrics to work. He lowered the window, and then twisted the key back to the off position.
Five minutes passed before the plain clothes officer returned, a mobile phone clenched to his ear, his face even paler than before.
Rob quickly sank beneath the line of sight again, crouching in the footwell. He listened to the detective’s words.
“Sir? DI Boyd here. Hell of a job you did in there, Mr Franklin…Did you have to be so bloody thorough? The child as well? Yes, we’ve got Hughes: pinning this on him will be no problem…what happened to the Lotsons is the work of a psycho, so - ‘
Rob closed his eyes in despair. He fought back a sob.
“I’m sorry, Mr Franklin. I meant no disrespect.” Rob heard the detective swallow nervously. “I meant that with Hughes’ previous record of violence and his grievance with Lotson, his guilt will be beyond question…I see. Very well, sir.” The call was ended.
Rob heard Boyd mutter something, then footsteps retreating back to the house. The door was left open.
Rob pulled himself back into the driver’s seat. He stared at the closed door and saw the welcoming Christmas wreath was now on the floor. He swallowed. Phil, Kelly and Nick. Dead. Killed by Franklin.
Three deaths attributed to Andy Hughes. And what could he do? Any moment now the call would go out to Boyd’s colleagues, with a full description and registration number of the van.
Within moments both he and Andy would be charged with murders they hadn’t committed. Both out of the picture: allowing the Fellowship of All Souls to continue their obscene ritual.
“Wonder if we’ll share the same cell, Andy?” Rob whispered hoarsely. He turned to look at the Green Man. The eyes were closed, the mouth frozen open. No help, no comfort, and no advice forthcoming.
“Who’s going to take you to All Souls now?”
He stared through the rapidly steaming windscreen at the green Mondeo. Then at the patrol car, the blue lights still flashing.
Three coppers. And surely there’d be more on the way after the discovery of the bodies in the warehouse.
Okay, he thought, closing his eyes. Down to me and me alone.
He didn’t have much time. Neither did he have anything to lose. He stepped out of the van, closed the door gently and walked to the back of the van. He opened the rear doors and looked inside.
He tried not to stare at Jasper’s face, his brown eyes staring lifelessly at him, his black-blood stained mouth fixed open in a permanent rictus. There was a scorched smell of melting plastic. He blinked at the dark bulkhead. For a brief moment he thought he could see green shoots trailing and reaching for…
No. Can’t be. Hallucinating already, Benson. Grief and wishful thinking.
He focussed on the bubble-wrapped firearm instead.
* * * * *
With the second kick to his bleeding stomach Andy Hughes almost blacked out. Pain flooded his entire body. With his hands cuffed behind his back he couldn’t fight back or resist. He writhed on the carpet, his face burying into the pools of blood from Phil’s body.
Blackness played at the corners of his eyes, promising him oblivion, and then cruelly denying it.
The uniformed officer’s eyes were filled with loathing and disgust. His beard was similar to Phil’s, Andy thought hazily: the same unkempt dark brown turning to grey. Probably Phil’s age as well. With a wife and kids, maybe a boy the same age as Nick. That’d explain the rage and the hatred.
“Bastard! Murdering bastard!” Another kick thudded into his ribs. This time Andy screamed.
The door to the hallway opened. Cold air from outside accompanied Boyd. The uniform snapped his head back at the approach of his superior and lowered his foot.
“Willis. Where’s Beasley?” Boyd asked in crisp, upper class tones. He seemed unconcerned with the kicking Andy Hughes was receiving. Thinks I deserve it, Andy thought with a grimace. The stabbing pain in his stomach lessened to a dull, throbbing ache, allowing him to breathe again.
“Throwing up in the kitchen. Can’t say I blame him after what this…this demon has done here.” Willis spat on Andy’s face. “Murdering cunt…”
“All right, Willis, that’ll do. Go and nursemaid Beasley. I want a chat with Mr Hughes.”
Willis wiped the saliva that trickled from his beard. “Make it a physical one, sir.”
“It’ll be painful, don’t worry about that. Now go.”
Boyd watched the door to the hallway close with his watery blue eyes. He squatted down next to Andy. He bunched up the ends of his overcoat to ensure no blood stained it.
“I don’t approve of Mr Franklin’s methods, Hughes. But he’s a necessary evil. People like you and Lotson…what you tried to do could end all human life on this planet, don’t you realise that?”
Andy lifted his head from the floor and fixed Boyd with a contemptuous sneer.
“You an All Souls alumni, pal?”
Boyd’s watery eyes hardened. “As a matter of fact, yes. I graduated from there eight years ago.”
Andy coughed and spat. “Figures.”
Boyd glanced behind Andy at the dead, bloodless bodies tied to the chairs. The sunlight was brighter, stronger, and had forced its way through the gap in the curtains. The drying blood was ruby coloured in the harsh light of day. His voice wavered.
“You’ve brought this on yourself, you know.” His words lacked conviction, and Andy laughed grimly, knowing that Boyd was trying to convince himself, not his prisoner.
“Like I brought on what’s going to happen to Jen?”
Boyd sighed. “Yes, Mr Franklin told me you’d find out about that. One of the reasons you must not be allowed anywhere near All Souls. I’m sorry, Hughes, I really am. Just take comfort from the fact she suffers for humanity - and that she won’t have to visit you in prison.”
Andy roared. Boyd sighed sympathetically. He cocked his head to the left, frowning as he heard a noise from the doorway.
He froze rigid at the touch of something cold and metallic pressed to his ear.
“No one’s going inside, Boyd. Not Andy, and not me. Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
Andy raised his poundi
ng head and stared in disbelief. Boyd was still crouched, holding the bottom of his overcoat in his hands to avoid staining - looking for all the world like he was going to take a shit.
Not far off the mark, Andy thought. Having the 20.3 inch barrel of a Franchi SPAS 12 combat shotgun thrust in your ear was one way of loosening your bowels.
Boyd’s eyes bulged in terror as Andy spoke to him calmly.
“Do as he says…Boyd, is it? Yes, Boyd.” He pushed himself up from the floor with his knees, wincing. But a damn sight happier than earlier. Now there was hope. He stood slowly, backing away from Boyd.
“No sudden movements, Boyd. Roberto has used one of those before.” Take it easy, Rob. Don’t stare too long at the bodies. Rob’s grip on the shotgun was tight, but jittery. Andy could see sweat greased the pistol grip. Rob’s trigger finger fluttered.
Boyd let out a little squeak of panic.
“Andy…what the fuck did that monster do to them?” Rob’s voice shook as much as his grip on the shotgun. The Christmas tree lights glinted through the holes on the shotgun’s folded metal stock.
“Roberto. Cool it. Keep your voice down. Boyd, call out to your men. Get them in here…but no warning.”
Rob pulled back on the weapon, allowing Boyd to turn his head and call out. He walked behind the crouching detective, his face pale at the sight of Phil’s body. Andy frowned at the blood on Rob’s fleece. He didn’t look wounded, but badly shaken.
What the fuck’s he been up to? What happened in that warehouse? Whatever it was, it had been bad enough for him to believe that coming here was his only option.
“Beasley, Willis!” Boyd yelled. Rob pressed the shotgun into Boyd’s right ear now. Boyd took the hint and lowered his voice. “In here now, please, lads.”
“Better,” muttered Rob. “No, don’t get up. Stay on the floor. Crouch if you want, or sit. But don’t fucking stand. And keep your hands where I can see ‘em.’
Andy nodded approvingly. Rob was thinking clearly. With Boyd on the floor he had a clear line of sight on the two uniforms hurrying through the doorway. Rob raised the weapon.
“You. Over to my mate, take his cuffs off. Slowly.” He glared as the bearded cop moved over to Andy, then turned his eyes to the younger one.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 33
