“Don’t even think about it!” Rob roared. Even Andy was surprised by that. The younger cop had been reaching for his two-way radio. Now he raised his hands, palms upwards.
“On the floor, please.” His grip on the SPAS 12 was more relaxed, less jittery. Andy tensed as he felt the cuffs twisting on his wrists. He felt the copper breathing nervously behind him as the key turned.
Three things happened then. Andy whirled round, the heel of his palm rising to meet the bridge of his captor’s nose. A wet cracking sound followed and the bearded cop’s eyes glazed. Blood bubbled from his nose and he fell to the floor, dead.
Rob’s eyes widened in horror. The shock of the killing made him lower his arms. Boyd, aware that the shotgun was swinging away from him, took his chance. His hands released the bottoms of his overcoat, his right reaching inside, under the coat, into the jacket and the shoulder holster beneath.
The younger uniform lowered his palms and reached for his two-way. A harsh squawking sound from the black unit followed and he moved back into the hallway, kicking the door to the front room shut.
Andy followed the direction of the noise and reached for the door, pulled it open. He lunged for the cop, grabbed him and dragged him back into the front room. His back was to Boyd and Rob.
It was Rob who saw the Glock 17 in Boyd’s hands, who saw Boyd get to his feet and slide back the bolt on the handgun, pointed squarely at Andy Hughes’ back. It was Rob who stopped him.
“Andy! Get down!” His finger moved of its own accord and snatched at the trigger.
He thought a bomb had exploded. The noise reverberated around the small room, the flare of the muzzle flash was blinding and there was agonising pain in his wrists as the recoil twisted the heavy weapon from his hands.
The Christmas tree toppled over and fell on him as he crashed backwards to the floor, the plastic and glass baubles bouncing on his face before falling into the blood pools from Phil’s body.
He shakily got to his feet, pushing the tree away. The cranberry lights flickered once and died. The ringing in his ears was an almost physical presence, his skull housing a bell clapper that tolled for the dead.
He saw the prone figure of Detective Inspector Boyd, thrown by the force of the blast over Andy - who had ducked down immediately on hearing Rob’s cry.
Andy pushed the body away from him, grimacing at the charred pieces of ribcage and smouldering, ravaged organs that fell from Boyd’s body. His eyes fell on the Glock clasped in the dead grip of the detective. He reached for it, prising the fingers away. He stood, nodded briefly at Rob, and turned to the frozen uniform standing in the doorway. The front door was open.
In, Andy mouthed to the police man. He beckoned with the gun. The uniform took one look at the exploded torso of his superior and shook his head frantically. Andy sighed, reversed his grip on the gun and lashed out.
The ringing in Rob’s ears slowly faded. This time he heard the body fall to the floor.
“Swap you,” Andy barked, tossing the Glock to him. Rob caught it with shaking hands. It felt light as a feather compared to the heavy assault weapon he had brought into Phil’s house.
“Don’t worry, the safety’s on now.” Andy reached behind him and retrieved the SPAS 12. Smoke was still coming from the end of the barrel, and the stench of burnt cordite was almost as strong as the slaughterhouse stench of the living room.
Andy put the shotgun over his right shoulder, his finger resting on the trigger guard. The steel folded stock must have cut into him, the shotgun was that heavy, but Andy seemed oblivious. Christ, it looks like it was made for him!
“Rob.” His eyes were hard, but full of concern. “You okay? What brought you back here?”
“That boar…don’t ask me how, but - it came to life. Attacked me and Jas…”
Andy’s eyes narrowed as Rob continued his story. He shook his head, smiled ruefully. “Looks like you’re in the same boat as me, Roberto.”
Rob couldn’t look at the bodies of the Lotsons anymore. He’d never get over this, never. Everywhere he looked, he saw death. The prone bearded body of the first officer, the bones in the bridge of his nose driven upwards into his brain: the twitching figure of the younger uniform, blood pouring from his ears and coating his stab vest - Christ, where did he hit him? And the exploded body of the compromised Boyd. Dead by me!
He turned to the gap in the curtains, blinking in the warming rays of the winter sunlight that sliced into the room. Through the window he could see the rear doors of the Transit, where Jasper’s dead body lay.
Jesus, so much death…he swallowed thickly against the rising bile. Andy rested his free hand on Rob’s shoulder. His face was strained.
“Come on, pal. We can’t hang around now. You don’t know, but Jen’s been taken.”
Rob twisted his head round. His jaw dropped.
“Pearce told me - right after you left. She - she’s singing to Andraste now. I’ve got to get her out.”
Rob nodded slowly. He stared at the Glock in his palm. The SPAS 12 resting on Andy’s shoulder.
“Need some help, pal?”
Andy’s smile was warm and chilling at the same time.
“I’d greatly appreciate it, Roberto.” He tossed a key fob to Rob who caught it with his free hand. He stared at it and smiled sadly.
“Boyd’s gun and his motor? Sure you don’t want me to take his fillings as well?”
An interested crowd had begun to form alongside the patrol car. It soon dispersed when the tall, bald man with the combat shotgun slung effortlessly over his shoulder reached the Transit.
Rob sighed as he slammed shut the door on the Lotsons house for the final time. He turned, saw the Transit speeding away.
Will that Green Man talk to you, Andy? Give you some help and advice?
He forced a smile to the people gathered on the kerb. A small boy in a Santa hat, no more than five or six years old, looked up at him with fear. Rob tried to smile reassuringly, but he knew it came out as a grimace.
And then the boy took the Santa hat from his head and passed it to him.
“Your nose is red, officer.”
Rob took it with a smile, and wiped the blood from his face. He almost handed it back to the boy, but the look from his mother, hastily backing away with the pushchair containing her other offspring, told him it wasn’t a good idea. He shrugged and dropped the Santa hat to the ground. Blood stained the snow. He climbed into the Mondeo, dumped the Glock onto the passenger seat and twisted the key. The crowd moved back as he drove the vehicle off the kerb. Suspicious faces glanced back to the door, as the penny finally dropped.
He reached into his fleece pocket and took out a much needed Mayfair. The little boy, waved at him strangely as he drove past.
He exhaled, watching the cigarette smoke curl against the windscreen. It was already beginning to take away the sickly odour of the mulberry and clove air freshener that Boyd had dangling from the rearview mirror.
Rob put his foot down, tearing past the graveyard of St Andrews Church to catch up with the Transit.
Rob Benson forced himself not to look at the grave markers, tried not to think of the bodies he’d seen in the last hour. Bodies that earlier this morning had been awake and vital, full of life. In front of him, the brake lights of the Transit flared scarlet, like a promise of more spilled blood. Rob shuddered.
So much death, he thought grimly. And more to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The kitchens of All Souls College smelled like a slaughterhouse. As they should do, Mark Cassell told himself as he tied his apron. There was a faint smell of the disinfectant cleaner that signified the wash-down at the end of last night’s duties, but other than that the only other smell was emanating from the dead boar on the steel worktop before him.
He flared his nostrils appreciatively, savouring the aroma. The animal’s own nostrils, like its mouth, were wide open as if still struggling for breath - or trying to release something. Something black and
wormlike. Cassell leant his huge bulk forward, frowning.
Now that was strange. The carcass had been bled fully before it had been hung; yet some blood had obviously remained hidden, as if waiting for the arrival of the head chef of All Souls before seeping out to greet him.
Well, well, he mused. Life was full of surprises, but death could still throw a few in your path as well. He dipped a chubby finger into the black, clotted liquid leaking from the left nostril, tracing a thick line down to the drainer. It had the thickness of sump oil but its smell was unique.
To other noses it would have been the stench of death, rotting body fluids and the corruption of flesh. To the head chef of All Souls College it was the heavenly scent of life itself. His skills with herbs and spices would not only transform the meat into something exquisite - a piece of art far superior to the garish dishes paraded on television by the celebrity chefs he despised - it would turn the dead animal into a giver of life. From corrupted flesh would come the promise of salvation.
Survival. The world and its peoples safe from the ravages of Her. For another year, at least.
The kitchens were silent and, save for him, deserted. It was something he insisted on every year. Apart from Peter Ford, one of the longer-serving kitchen workers who were fully trusted with the secrets of the Feast, the rest of the catering staff would come in later, just before noon, to begin work. That gave Cassell plenty of time alone with his work. The boar was his alone. His canvas.
Mark Cassell had been in professional catering for so long he couldn’t remember doing anything else - and all within the kitchens of All Souls. He hadn’t needed tuition from the recognised catering colleges, or any sabbaticals at the famous eating-houses of Britain and Europe. Everything he had learned was either self-taught or passed on from the head chef before him. Since graduation, over twenty five years had been spent here: learning every technique, every preparation. Every secret.
However, the last few years had been a trial, a new learning experience, as he and his team had taken on board the techniques required to cater for the higher end of the market - the conference and corporate hospitality market that the College had entered. With the lack of students the College had been forced to diversify, to open its doors to other means of income.
Feedback from the Catering Office had been favourable, but some of the clients had remarked on a “lack of originality”. Cassell wasn’t concerned with that. Like all of the College’s most devoted servants, he was a creature of tradition. Traditionalists didn’t concern themselves with innovation, originality. If they wanted that, Cassell ranted to the Bursar one day, they could bugger off to Heston Blumenthal’s or Marco Pierre-Whites. They were outsiders, anyway. How dare they presume to tell him what food should be served? The purpose of the kitchens of All Souls was the preparation of dishes that had remained true to the original recipe for hundreds of years. And in the case of the boar, thousands.
This dish had a sense of purpose, a gastronomic experience that went beyond satisfying taste buds and filling bellies. It wasn’t just living history on a plate. It was life itself.
He raised his head from the worktop and stared out of the one window whose blind he hadn’t pulled down. It looked out onto the woods behind Cloister Court. His puffy eyes narrowed as they swept over the tops of the snow-capped trees, searching for unwanted visitors. But the only intruder in the woods was the first ray of dawn sunlight.
Franklin’s news of the intruder last night had unnerved him. No matter how much the head porter may try to play the matter down, it was obvious to all that something had gone badly wrong. Rumours amongst the kitchen staff had flown about the increasingly concerned meetings of the College Council. The Fellows had been seen leaving the pre-breakfast emergency meeting yesterday white-faced and in visible distress. David Searles, it was murmured, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Many wagged fingers, pointing to the Master and his wavering last year as the reason for the crisis All Souls was facing.
Only Mark Cassell had been entrusted by Franklin with the full story. Because only Mark Cassell could perform the necessary preparation work with the boar. He was left in no doubt as to the scale of the crisis facing them all.
But now, faced with his yearly and most cherished task, the crisis was forgotten. This was what mattered. It was this that was important. This was the task he had been born for, the reason he had been put on this planet. Some would feel it an onerous task, maybe an unbearable one. Not Mark Cassell. His duty may have dealt in death, but he saw it as a celebration of life itself. Preparing meat to be gorged upon and washed down with the ever flowing wine from the cellars of All Souls. Wine had replaced beer and mead in the last few centuries: an attempt at sophistication along with the use of cutlery and tablecloths, a civility that tried to distance the Feast from its more medieval and, arguably, more barbaric origins.
Arguably. Cassell chuckled softly as he sliced into the belly of the beast. Those individuals Franklin was so concerned about obviously considered the task the Fellowship of All Souls was performing to be worse than barbaric. What did they know? What could they know? Franklin was right, they couldn’t be reasoned with. It was unfortunate that they had to be dealt with in the manner they had, but too much was at stake.
He was so engrossed with the slicing of the meat, the parting of furred skin and fatty dark flesh, that he didn’t hear the footsteps shuffling through the snowbound courtyard outside. A sharp knocking on the locked doors jerked him out of his concentration and had him looking impatiently around.
“Mr Cassell.” The unmistakeable Edinburgh brogue of Franklin’s voice.
Cassell sighed and reluctantly put his knife down. Rinsing his bloodstained hands in the steel washbasin next to the worktop, he half-heartedly shook them dry, walked to the doors and unlocked them. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw that the head porter was not alone.
“Master!”
David Searles nodded in greeting. He looked tired. Worse than tired, Cassell decided. The rumours were obviously true, then.
He stepped aside to allow the Master of All Souls entry to the kitchens.
Searles didn’t so much walk in as creep, the mark of a bowed, weary and, worryingly, defeated man. He had visibly aged since the Feast last December. The stress of the responsibility had taken its toll.
His grey, pallid face wrinkled in disgust at the sight of Cassell’s handiwork. A thin, trembling hand covered his mouth and nose to block out what Cassell considered to be sweet perfume.
The head chef allowed himself a momentary pang of contempt for the Master. His weakness, his inability to lead the Fellowship in anything but the most trivial of administrative duties. This could all be forgiven if he rose to the one task for which he was appointed. But even that seemed beyond him. The unforgivable omission in the final act of communion last year could have doomed them all. It could still do, if the remedy this year was not accepted.
He caught Franklin’s eye, noted with satisfaction that the head porter shared Cassell’s contempt - as well as the frustration that the College Council felt for their inability to overturn Searles’ decision.
The Master of All Souls seemed to be regaining his composure - or at least was aware of the unflattering scrutiny and was making an effort to appear that he was. He took his hand away from his face and turned to the head chef. Now there was contempt in his eyes. Contempt for the huge bulk of the head chef, sweating copiously even though the kitchens were cold enough for the breath of the three men to turn to mist. His nose wrinkled at the sour smell coming from Cassell’s armpits, almost as overpowering as that emanating from the dead boar on the worktop.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Cassell…”
Cassell shrugged his shoulders, a half-mocking smile on his greasy lips. “Quite all right, Master.”
Searles coughed, looked as though he was going to vomit. “Doubtless Franklin has informed you of, ah, recent developments?”
“The Lotsons? Yes. Unfortunate I
know, but - ‘
Searles raised a hand. “It didn’t quite go to plan. Hughes was arrested, but he managed to escape before Detective Inspector Boyd could get him to Parkside.”
Cassell’s face darkened. “He escaped? How?”
Franklin answered. “It would appear he had assistance from a friend of Michaels.”
“Michaels!” Cassell snorted. “Then that means…”
“Yes. We have to assume that Hughes knows Michaels met his end here.” Searles stared at the open belly of the boar.
“That in itself is not really an issue,” Franklin continued. “Hughes is hardly likely to go to the police with his accusations, not now he’s been implicated in the…resolution, of Philip Lotson. And the killing of several police officers. What is an issue is the fact that Hughes has a girlfriend. She came here.”
Cassell opened his mouth. Then shut it. Franklin nodded.
“Jennifer Callaby,” Cassell sighed. “This is very awkward.”
“Precisely, Cassell. Very awkward indeed. But Andrew Hughes is not the only unwelcome guest we can expect soon.” Searles spoke with a waver in his voice. And, Cassell noted, guilt in his eyes.
“Go on,” Cassell folded his arms and stared hard at the Master.
“Jason escaped from Phoenix this morning. He killed two deliverymen and stole their van.”
“He’s coming, Mark.” Franklin used the head chef’s first name in what felt like years. “He’s coming back to finish the job.”
Cassell chuckled softly. In the chilled emptiness of the kitchens it had an eerie quality. Eerie enough to make Searles shudder.
“He thinks he’s going to finish the job.” Cassell moved between Searles and Franklin, back to his porcine canvass. “The young man just can’t take a hint, can he?” Chuckling again, he picked up the cleaver and stroked a finger lovingly down the blade.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mark.” Franklin took the blade from him. “I’ll be taking care of young Jason.”
Disappointment clouded the head chef’s face. Searles opened his mouth to protest, but Franklin cut him off. “This is a sign from Her. A second chance.”
The Caretakers (2011) Page 34
