by Sibel Hodge
‘But…but I don’t know what…’ His hands trembled at his sides. ‘Who are you? I don’t know anything. I’m just a retiree. I…I can’t answer any questions.’
‘Oh, but I think you can.’ I stood up and kept the Glock steady on him. ‘Like I said. If you answer my questions truthfully, I’ll be gone before you know it, and you can get back to having a nice quiet evening by the fire, reading Story of O.’
His forehead crinkled with confusion. ‘How did you know—’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ I tilted my head. ‘So? You ready for a little Q and A session?’
Scholes’s mouth flapped open and closed, a little rush of air exhaling as he did so.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ I inclined my head towards the archway that led into the kitchen. ‘We’re going to the garage.’
‘W-why?’ Dread settled over his face.
‘You’ll see.’ I stood and stepped towards him. ‘Come on. The quicker we do this, the quicker it’s over and you’ll never have to set eyes on me again. That’s a promise.’
He took a step back and held his palms up. ‘Okay, okay, just, please…don’t shoot me.’ He turned around and shuffled forward in his navy-checked slippers. ‘I don’t know what I can possibly—’
‘Shut up.’ I pressed the gun under his left shoulder blade. Metal on fabric on skin on bone on heart. ‘Get in the garage.’
Scholes moved unsteadily through the kitchen to the internal plywood door painted white that led into the single garage.
‘Open the door.’
He nodded incessantly, like one of those stupid nodding dogs people had on their dashboards. He turned the key. Then hesitated.
I dug the gun harder into his back.
In response, Scholes quickly swung open the door and took a step forward.
‘Turn the light on.’
Scholes flipped the switch on the wall just inside the doorway. A yellow fluorescent strip light sparked on. The old external garage doors were wooden and opened outwards onto his driveway and were locked from the outside with a bolt and padlock. There was no way he was getting out of them.
‘I don’t know what you want,’ Scholes whined. ‘There’s nothing in here.’
‘I told you, I don’t want money. I want answers.’
His neck began shaking, causing it to nod rapidly again. ‘But I don’t…I don’t know anything.’
The old Ford Cortina was parked in the middle of the garage, with just enough space to walk around the doors. Along the wall to the left of the kitchen doorway we stood in was a hip-height metal workbench with junk dumped underneath it. Pots of paint, tubes of silicone, old curtains, two folded deckchairs, boxes of junk.
‘There’s a roll of flexible hose, duct tape, and a pair of scissors hidden underneath that pile of red curtains under the bench. There’s also a bottle of your favourite whisky. Get them out.’
Scholes’s head turned, trying to look at me over his shoulder, but I nudged him forward with the barrel of the gun. ‘Chop, chop.’
He bent down, an old man’s stooped hunch, pulled a few paint pots out of the way to get to the curtains, and then tossed them to the side. He hesitated again when he saw the length of black hose and duct tape, realisation kicking in. ‘I don’t know anything. I don’t understand. I’m just a simple man. I keep myself to myself. You’ve got the wrong person,’ he whined.
‘I don’t think so. Get the whisky.’
He retrieved the full seventy-centilitre whisky bottle. Glenfiddich, laced with Ambien. Just a little something to make things go more smoothly. I pointed my gun at the whisky. ‘This interrogation is going to be nice and relaxed, as long as you tell me the truth, okay? What’s that look for? It’s your favourite brand, isn’t it? You can’t say I’m not thoughtful. So, go on, have a drink. Then we’ll talk.’
Under the unwavering barrel of my gun, Scholes unscrewed the cap and warily took a swig. He swallowed. Licked his lips.
‘Nice blend, eh?’
He nodded warily.
‘Well, have some more. Nothing like two people having a pleasant chat over a few drinks, is there?’
Scholes took a bigger swig.
I waited. Smiled. He got the message and drank again.
‘Keep going.’
Scholes obliged, dribbling some of the amber liquid down his stained grey cardigan as he watched me cautiously. ‘Look, I really don’t know wh—’
I jerked my head towards the car. ‘The outcome is all up to you.’
He nodded again, but this time it was as if he was convincing himself. ‘Okay,’ he said, his voice a meek, compliant whisper. I pictured him when he was younger, how Jamie had described him in the diary I finally read after Maya’s attempted murder. I wanted to pistol-whip him right there and then. The urge was so fucking strong that my Glock hand started to shake as I gripped the handle. I couldn’t slip up, though. Scholes’s prints had to be all over this to make it look authentic.
‘Now, I want you to put the whisky in the car and open the rear offside passenger window, just enough to slip one end of the hose through. Then wind the window up again to secure it.’
He rested the bottle on the front seat, opened the rear door behind the driver’s seat, and unwound the window. He slid one end of the hose through until about fifteen inches dangled inside the vehicle. Then he wound it up again so the glass held the hose in place, leaving an open gap of a couple of inches wide at the top of the window.
‘Now duct tape over the gap from outside of the car.’ We couldn’t leave any leaks anywhere, could we? Not when I would be in close proximity to the vehicle.
Scholes pulled off pieces of tape and overlapped them until the opening was sealed. He looked at me for the next instruction and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He knew what was coming.
‘Secure the other end of the hose into the exhaust and wrap it with duct tape.’
He picked up the hose and pushed it up inside the exhaust pipe. His hands trembled so much it took four attempts before the hose stayed in the pipe. Then he taped it up so the hose wouldn’t fall out.
‘Nice cars, these old classics, aren’t they?’
Scholes looked at me but didn’t reply, as if he didn’t know what the right answer should be.
I examined the pipe and hose, smiling. ‘Good. Don’t worry. It will be over soon as long as you behave.’
‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything!’ he snivelled.
‘Sit in the driver’s seat.’
Scholes opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel, staring down the barrel of the Glock.
‘Drink the whisky.’
Scholes swallowed more.
I waited.
He drank. The dosage of tablets wouldn’t take much longer to kick in and make him drowsy.
‘Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen. If you tell me the truth, I’ll let you go. No harm done. I’ll be on my way, and you can forget I was ever here. But if you lie…’ I stood in the kitchen doorway, facing the front of the Cortina, and took his car keys from my pocket, dangling them in the air. ‘If you lie, you’ll start the engine and close the doors and I won’t let you out until you tell me the truth. Got it?’
He nodded, his neck wobbling again involuntarily.
‘Good. Have a drink.’
He swallowed more whisky. A quarter of the bottle had gone now.
‘Crossfield Children’s Home,’ I said slowly.
Scholes’s eyes bulged with surprise. With terror.
‘You were supposed to be looking after those kids. You had a duty of care to protect them. And yet you subjected them to the most unimaginable abuse and torture. You were also complicit in their murder. What you and the others did is way over the edge of human depravity.’
‘It wasn’t me! I didn’t know anything about it at the time. It was…it was only after I found out some of the staff did—’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence. Do you want
to live?’ I tilted my head and jingled the keys.
‘Yes, of c-course I do. I—’ His eyes were wet now, glistening in the harsh strip light filtering through the windscreen.
‘Take a drink.’
He nodded vigorously and gulped the whisky.
‘Let’s try again. Crossfield Children’s Home. You and Barker abused those boys. And then you procured them for sadistic VIPs to rape and torture and murder at 10 Crompton Place.’
Scholes closed his eyes briefly, tears slipping down his cheeks.
‘Didn’t you?’
The tone of my voice made his eyelids snap open.
He nodded pathetically. ‘They made me. I had to do it. I had to.’
‘The only thing you have to do in life is die. The rest is all up to you. Your choice. Your actions.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s too late for sorry.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Who was the masked man at the parties?’
‘Wha-what do you mean?’
‘Crompton Place. Judge Sebastian’s house. There was a hooded, masked man there on several occasions. Who was he?’
‘I don’t know.’
I raised my gun, aiming it directly through the windscreen at his forehead. ‘Who was he?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ Scholes’s head shook violently, tears and snot dribbling down his pathetic face.
‘Have a drink.’
He gulped more whisky.
‘You must know. You knew those children were being trafficked there, to be tortured, to be murdered!’ I spoke slowly again. ‘Who. Was. The. Man. In. The. Mask?’
Scholes’s breath came in short, choppy pants as he stared down the barrel of my Glock. ‘I don’t know. I swear, I don’t. I never went to the parties. I only knew the judge owned the house, but I never knew who went there. I swear! Honestly, you have to believe me. I’m telling the truth.’
I took a moment to push the sickening, violent anger down. Inhaled a deep breath. Held it. Made my mind up.
‘You’re lying to me. Barker had a scouting party at his quarters at Crossfield. Want to tell me who the guests were?’
‘I…I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. I wasn’t even there!’ This time Scholes desperately glugged more alcohol without being prompted, as if it was his saviour.
‘Okay, then. Time’s up.’
I walked forward, around the open driver’s door, and held out the ignition key to him. ‘You’re going to start the engine and shut the door. I’m going to stand in the kitchen doorway and ask you some more questions until I’m satisfied you’re telling the truth. If I am, you can get out before the carbon monoxide renders you unconscious and you die. Is that all clear, or do you want some further instructions?’
He snivelled some kind of reply that didn’t make sense.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ I wiggled the key in my left hand and kept my Glock trained on him with my right.
Scholes stared at me, but I wasn’t sure whether he was actually seeing me or looking straight through me.
‘Take the key. Now.’
He blinked, his eyelids growing heavier, but didn’t make a move to take them. ‘You’ll kill me anyway.’
‘Well, now, there’s a big dilemma. And the choice is entirely yours, of course.’ I gave him a crooked smile. ‘One, you can have your cock and bollocks shot off and I’ll leave you to die in agony. Two, I might leave you in the car until the carbon monoxide kills you. Or three, and this is probably the clincher, you can tell me the truth and I’ll let you turn off the engine and get out before any of the above happens. How does that sound?’
Scholes stared down into the whisky bottle in his lap, his lips moving with no sound coming out, occasionally sniffing and snorting like a pig. Which, actually, when I thought about it, was offensive to pigs.
‘What’s it going to be, Scholes? Only I have to wash my hair tonight so…’ I shrugged. ‘I need to run along soon.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled before swallowing some more whisky. ‘I loved those children.’
‘You’re sorry?’ I snorted. ‘Take the key, and this will be over soon.’ I stepped closer. Aimed the gun at his crotch.
Defeated, Scholes held out a trembling hand.
I dropped the key fob into it. ‘Start the car. If you turn the engine off or try to get out, I will shoot you.’
He was docile now, compliant, as he started the engine.
I took a step back. ‘Now shut the door.’
Scholes pulled on the door handle and slammed it shut.
I took up my position in the kitchen doorway again. Scholes would be the marker. Even if any carbon monoxide leaked out of the vehicle, it would render him unconscious first, and that was my cue to leave him to it.
I stared through the windscreen and shouted over the noise of the engine. ‘Okay, let me refresh your memory. Howard Sebastian, Colin Reed, Douglas Talbot, and Felix Barron all came to the party Barker held at Crossfield. You knew what was going on, so you must’ve known who the people from The Friday Club were. You were involved in it all, too.’
‘I was never at the parties.’ Scholes swayed a little in his seat. He downed some more whisky. The bottle was just over half full.
‘Let’s try again. Who was the masked man?’
Scholes clenched the steering wheel with one hand, as if it could save him. ‘I don’t know! Really, you have to believe me.’
‘That’s a lie, Scholes!’
‘I don’t, I don’t,’ he said, his eyelids drooping for a moment before he jerked upright again, trying to stay alert, but the tablets were taking effect, enhanced by the alcohol. A trail of grey smoke swirled inside the car. It almost looked as if it was something alive, dancing on the air. Fascinating to watch.
‘Who was he?’
‘They’ll…kill me. They’ll all kill me.’ His chin drifted down towards his chest.
‘I hate to point out the obvious, but you can’t be killed twice, can you? And it looks like I’ve got there first. Scholes! Stay awake now!’
His eyelids snapped open.
‘Who is he?’
‘What? I can’t hear you!’ he whimpered, his face contorted with panic.
‘You know who he is. You know what he did. I want a name. I want a name and I’ll let you out.’
‘He…no…he…’ He mumbled something incoherent.
I cupped a hand to my ear. ‘Who is he?’
‘They knew I had…had the same…’ He trailed off, coughing with the exhaust fumes. I waited for him to carry on, watching the smoke.
Tears streamed down his face. Could’ve been from the fumes. Could’ve been from fear. Could’ve been with remorse. Although that seemed unlikely. And it didn’t matter, anyway. It was far too late for that.
‘They…’—he coughed—‘knew about Barker and me. They said…I…they’—he coughed again—‘would.’ He stopped mid-sentence, confused. ‘Wurl we wit not,’ he slurred. ‘Exp…expo…expose—’ He broke off in a fit of coughing, deep hacking that sounded as if his lungs were being hurled out of his mouth.
‘Give me his name.’
Scholes blinked quickly, his head swaying from one side to the other, as if he was having trouble keeping it upright. ‘I don’t know. I don’t…’ he slurred, his eyes fluttering closed, his chin lolling onto his chest.
I believed him. Scholes had never been to the parties. I was hoping Barker might have known and told Scholes but apparently not. He really didn’t know.
I watched until he finally lost consciousness, succumbing to the drugs and alcohol and carbon monoxide.
‘By the way, I lied,’ I said before letting myself out of the house and stealing through the rear garden the way I’d come.
Five dead, four to go.
Chapter 52
Ben Scree.
Not a person but a seven-hundred-metre cone-shaped mountain in Scotland. From the summit, the views were breathtaking. Breathtaking literally for the next
hit on my list.
Ben Scree was a 4.75-mile hill walk with a mostly pleasant terrain. Slightly boggy at the bottom, but once I was past that, a handy narrow track snaked up through heather and grass to the summit. The rocky shingle-and-flint path could be a little treacherous in a few spots, where it ran along the very edge of the mountainside. One wouldn’t want to slip off at one of those points. If someone were unlucky enough to fall there, they would be battered against the rocks on the sharp drop down. The very best they could expect would be a broken neck or spine or both. The worst unfortunate outcome would be all of the above, plus having the internal organs liquefied to soup and the soft tissue and bones pulped to raw hamburger meat. And what a tragically sad accident that would be.
Ben Scree was also interesting because, four miles away, Eamonn Colby, the children’s minister, had a holiday home he liked to frequent. A spacious and rustic log cabin, although it was more like a mansion than a cabin. Probably funded by an expenses scam. Definitely paid for by the taxpayers. Eamonn Colby’s main recreational activity whenever he was in residence in the cabin was walking Ben Scree and drinking the best Scottish Highland malt whisky. The media reported hill walking helped Colby relax and clear his mind of the daily stresses of Westminster, and kept him fit. Which all served to refocus him, so he could return to Parliament reenergised and raring to go from his weekend or week-long Scottish breaks. And the best part was that Ben Scree was relatively unknown in walking circles. I was told by reliable sources that someone could be on that mountain a hundred times and not see a soul. And also, that he liked to walk it alone. It was the place where I’d find, fix, and finish Colby.
Scholes’s suicide had been reported in the media, correctly predicted, as the suicide of a lonely old man. Not surprisingly, there was no mention of the repulsive, sickening images and films on Scholes’s laptop. Maybe it had been covered up by the remaining members of The Friday Club. Or maybe the police or coroner’s officer hadn’t even bothered to check it hard enough to find the hidden images. It didn’t matter much to me. The only thing that mattered was that Scholes was on the lower rung of the chain. Not in the same league as the rest of them. So his suicide would probably go unquestioned. From what I could tell, Scholes hadn’t been in contact with any of them since Crossfield was closed in the ’90s and he retired. They didn’t care about him. He was merely a pawn.
