Still Bleeding

by Steve Mosby

I wasn't sure if I'd been knocked out, or just knocked down, or what had happened. I told my body to sit up, but then felt pressure on my arm stopping me.

  '—ott is thi—'

  The man in the grey suit. Except he was red now, silhouetted against something green, and his head had about six crimson auras echoing around it. I stared at him, mesmerised, as he slowly came into focus and the colours drained out.

  'What is this?'

  He was squatting down on his haunches beside me, framed by the bright green trees behind him. I saw the leaves rustling, and then felt the breeze on me.

  'I said, "What is this?"'

  He was flicking through the empty folders, newspapers and magazines that I'd been carrying in my bag.

  'An insurance policy,' I said.

  He nodded to himself, his expression blank. Then he looked up and around, and I had the impression that he was weighing up various options, calculating the most efficient course of action.

  He tossed a magazine to one side and stood up. In his other hand, he was holding a gun with what looked for all the world like a silencer screwed onto the barrel.

  'Get him to the car,' he said.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kearney drove past the house slowly, making sure he had the right address, then carried on up the road and turned around. He pulled the car up onto a grass verge, out of sight behind a four-by-four, and killed the engine.

  On his right-hand side, across the thin country lane, there was a low, twisted hedge, thick with spiky leaves and dotted with red berries. In the distance, over the fields that lay behind, drystone walls stood in crumbling lines. A nice view. With the window down, the breeze felt warm and clean.

  On his left-hand side, the houses.

  He was in the suburbs to the west of the city. They were affluent and quietly distinguished. This far out into the countryside, the straight lines and sharp angles of the city streets were smoothed away beyond recognition; the roads curled and stretched out on their own, like children running off and exploring the green fields. You could drive a mile before meeting a junction. The houses were large and wide, and some of them were probably better classed as mansions. They all rested behind neat lawns and arched hedges and cobbled driveways. In the garden beside Kearney's car, there was an old red telephone box. In the next one down, someone had actually installed a well.

  It was a very desirable postcode. Also a very private one.

  He thought Anna, when they were together, would have dreamed of retiring somewhere like this. It had the illusion of being a nice neighbourhood, but in reality it was just expensive. The truth was that it wasn't actually a neighbourhood at all. Certainly not a community. Sitting there now, his arms resting on the steering wheel, it felt to Kearney more like a place to ostracise yourself. To secrete yourself away. A place where everyone kept their distance. Where the houses were far apart, so that nobody could hear what was happening through the walls. And where the only people who might were other rich people, who were probably doing similar private things themselves.

  Keep yourself together.

  Yes. He stared blankly ahead, trying to do just that. His mood had been erratic today. His mind was having difficulty holding onto thoughts without running off with them and getting itself lost. If he didn't consciously keep a grip, everything began to drift, as though some central hub had been dislodged, and nothing was holding him in place any more.

  He peered down the lane at Arthur Hammond's house. It was even more opulent than the ones around it. The size and privacy of it unnerved him. You couldn't really see in at all. The hedge at the front was effectively a wall, broken only by a double gate topped with small, subtle spikes. All that was visible above it was an angle of the top floor of the house, and a single blank window. It made the building look furtive. You couldn't see what it was doing with its hands.

  What are you going to do, Paul?

  He had no idea.

  What Connor had said in the cafe had set him moving, but he didn't have a plan, and he wasn't sure of anything. His intentions kept shifting, back and forth. Perhaps he was simply here to ask for Hammond's advice. After all, the man clearly had things to say about the matter in hand. About the nature and collection of art.

  Then again, perhaps he suspected something else altogether.

  But now that a decision was needed, he couldn't make one. There wasn't much justification for either course of action. If he walked up and knocked on the man's door, he didn't know what questions to ask. If he kicked it down, he couldn't imagine what would happen next.

  Frustration built up inside him. After a moment, it coiled itself into the familiar shape of self-hatred, so that his skin began to feel like it was hurting him. Like his entire body was held at some painful angle and there was no way of stretching that would relieve the ache.

  Maybe it would have been different if the investigation was over - if they had found Rebecca, even if she was dead. Or if he hadn't woken up in his hotel room from a nightmare of the yellow man, to see the children watching him. Demanding something of him. Mike Halsall. Sarah Pepper… and then the name Peter French was in his head, like a gift they'd brought for him.

  There it is.

  Now what are you going to do?

  The question hadn't changed.

  See if Arthur Hammond was home, he decided. Listen to what he had to say. Maybe look around a bit, whether he liked it or not.

  Kearney supposed that the events of yesterday evening had done something for him, at least. No longer a policeman now, he could simply do what was necessary. He could ask whatever questions he liked. Only one thing mattered. Perhaps the promise he'd made could never be kept, but he had nothing to lose by trying. He would find her.

  He held down a button and the car window slid up. As he opened the door, he heard a screech and then a scrape, and he paused. The sound of metal rasping over concrete drifted up the quiet lane. The gate leading into Hammond's little estate was opening slowly inward, catching on the ground.

  Kearney closed the car door slowly, and then waited.

  A few moments later, the nose of a car edged out from the driveway. Kearney ducked down in his seat. He stayed out of sight until he heard the same scrape return - fainter now that it was muffled by the closed door - and risked sitting up again.

  The back end of a battered old car was disappearing down the lane. It was dark crimson, but he couldn't make out the model. Instead, he concentrated on the back window, trying to see who was inside. The driver and one other person, he thought. The second man appeared to be in the back seat, like he was being chauffeured.

  Was it Hammond?

  Kearney couldn't see enough to be sure, but he thought so. Up ahead, the old car rounded a curve in the road and disappeared. The property's automated gate crunched back into place.

  Kearney sat there for a moment, wondering what to do. Should he still try the house? There hadn't been any guarantees before, and now there were at least two less people home. Fewer, he reminded himself. But he was also a little unnerved by what he'd just seen. A rich man in a battered old car. On the surface, it was innocuous… but there was also something hidden about it, wasn't there? Something secretive and underhand.

  Where are you going? he wondered. In your disguise.

  Kearney came to a decision and started the engine. For at least the first few miles, he was going to have to be careful. Hang back slightly. Hope for the best.

  He was going to need a little luck.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  'What was that house?' I said.

  I was in the back seat of the car, sandwiched between two men. Both of them were young and utterly implacable: holding me in an efficient, professional manner, but otherwise paying me no attention at all. They were just staring idly through the tinted glass at the streets outside. A third man was driving, his hand resting lightly on the steering wheel.

  The older man in the grey suit was in the
passenger seat up front. I could only really see the back of his head. It was bullet shaped and his grey hair was thinning, with rough, leathery skin visible underneath, as though he'd spent a lot of time in hotter climates with the sun beating down on him.

  'What was there?' I said.

  'Nothing.' He sounded so uninterested that I wasn't even sure he was talking to me. 'It's one of our older places. That's all.'

  'Who the hell are you people?'

  He cocked his head slightly, but didn't reply.

  A minute later, I said, 'Where are you taking me?'

  Nothing. None of the other men seemed interested in talking either.

  Not yet, at least.

  I put that thought out of my head.

  The car rocked gently, the driver's hand barely moving. We were going at a slow pace, doing nothing to draw attention to ourselves. As much as I could, I watched the shops and houses we passed and saw people strolling along the pavements, sunlit and unconcerned.

  It reminded me of reeling through the city centre two days ago, back when things had still felt - on the surface - under my control. Back when I should have gone to the police. Before these men had killed Mike and Julie. Before they'd killed my brother.

  We drove for about twenty minutes, and I was shivering by the time we arrived. The car pulled up a slight incline, then paused as a yellow barrier ahead of us lurched upwards. After we drove in, I heard it clank down behind.

  I had no idea where in the city we were, but this was some kind of industrial complex. The car moved forward, rounding a corner, and I caught sight of rows of other vehicles parked up ahead. The older man paid them no attention, but the men on either side of me peered out with interest, as though curious to see who was here. We left those cars behind, then took another corner, the tyres crunching over glass, then another, and I realised we were slowing down, circling round to the back of a row of buildings.

  Halfway up, there was an open garage door. It looked wide enough for three or four cars. Another man in a suit was standing beneath it. His hands were up on the shutter there, and he was leaning out, like a mechanic on a cigarette break. When he saw our car approaching, he let go and stepped out, then waved us in past him.

  'What's going on? Where is this place?'

  No reply.

  We drove into what appeared to be the back of a warehouse - some kind of large loading bay. There was a series of cranes and hooks attached to rigs in the ceiling, and a ramp leading up at one side. Thick pipes ran down the walls. Everything was pale green, and the paint looked to be about an inch thick in places, with veins and clots where it had run and stuck.

  The only other vehicle was a small, battered, white van, tucked in next to the ramp. We pulled in just past it.

  The handbrake cricked, and then the engine cut out.

  I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

  'What the fuck is this place?'

  Nothing. But I noticed other noises: distant clanking and scraping; something that sounded like a buzzsaw whining angrily through timber. Like there was a metal workshop next door.

  All of it echoing around, but my heart remained loudest. And I felt sick. My breath would hardly come. These men had killed so many people, and now they were going to kill me, and Sarah, and…

  Just keep a grip on yourself.

  The doors opened to either side and the man on my right pulled me out that way. I didn't resist. He rested his fingers on my shoulder, the heel of his palm in my back, ready to push me forward. The second man came round the car.

  A huge screech filled the air. The shutter was rolling slowly down towards the ground, rattling in its runners. A wedge of sunlight on the concrete floor was retreating towards it.

  I was about to be trapped in here. No.

  I went for the man on my left first, simply because it was a right-handed shot. His eyes clenched shut as the hook landed, and he made the same noise I'd heard in the video of soldiers having their throats cut - just a quick grunt of fear, surprise and pain. The impact shattered his teeth and knocked him to one side.

  The second man reacted fast, and his punch slammed my left hand back into my face. I couldn't even see him, so I just curled under and threw an uppercut somewhere I hoped his head would be. It caught him under the jaw and snapped his head back. Not hard enough. Rather than knocking him down, he just took a recovery step to the side, tightening his guard.

  But it gave me a clear run to the garage door.

  Ten metres, a dive and a roll, and then that one guy who was still out there. And I'd be away.

  Maybe I could have made it. But the punches had lit a fire inside me, something hot that burned all the way from my heart to my skin. Instead of running, I went for the man again. Threw a jab that landed on his fists, and then the hardest right hook I could manage. I put my whole body into it. My brother had always been the one with the strength, and I wished for some of that now. No finesse. I just imagined the head of that old punch bag cracked at the neck, and clenched up every muscle…

  It landed hard and felt good.

  The man stood it, covering himself, but it had rocked him. I threw mad, random punches at him then, and he staggered backwards, desperately guarding. My breath was coming out thin, like I had a reed in my windpipe, but an absurd thrill ran through me as I landed another and the man stumbled over his own feet and went down. Every single blow felt like solid bate.

  'For God's sake.'

  The man in the grey suit sighed. I looked across. He hadn't even taken his gun out of his jacket. The driver had moved across to the garage door and was standing there now, arms folded, but neither of them looked concerned.

  The older man was closer, so I walked across and went for him. A stupid, diving right. He leaned away from it, then palmed me hard in the side of the head, knocking me off balance. I had time to think you didn't have a chance, and then my wrist was turning against itself. My body went with it, completely out of my control, moving instinctively away from the lock. He shifted his body slightly, using my wrist as a pivot, taking me all the way to the ground. Face down.

  Fuck.

  I had a view of the loading bay. The first guy I'd hit was still bent over, leaning on his knees, spitting blood onto the floor. The second was standing up now, stunned. His face was bright red, as though he'd been slapped and didn't know what to do.

  It was nothing, but still - it felt like something. Even if it was just taking some of the emotion inside me out on someone else. I could have gone for the door, and perhaps I should have done. But right then, I didn't care.

  A second later, somewhere out of sight, the garage door crashed once against the ground and then was silent.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Kearney had lost them.

  He smacked his hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

  It had been difficult to keep track of Hammond's vehicle on the country lanes, simply because there was so little other traffic that he'd needed to keep his distance. Every time he reached a junction, he was trusting his luck a little: hoping that at least one direction offered a clear enough straight for him to make a choice. If the battered old car wasn't visible on a clear run, he took the other route, accelerating quickly to make sure he was right, then hanging back again.

  In theory, that should have been the hardest part. And once they'd got back on the main roads, heading towards the city, he'd been able to slot a few other cars between them and relax a little. He could see the turnings Hammond's driver took far enough in advance to follow. It had started to go wrong when they'd skirted the centre, heading into a largely residential area.

  He'd turned the corner just now and they'd vanished.

  A long, empty road ahead of him.

  He slowed the car and pulled in at the side of the street, leaving the indicator flashing. Rubbed his forehead, grimacing. Then opened his eyes with new intent.

  Come on. You've not lost them.

  It was mainly houses here,
all facing right up to the pavement with their chests out. On the left-hand side, there was a wall of trees, then more houses further up. No driveways that he could see, and Hammond's car wasn't parked up on the street.

  So there must be something else.

  Kearney killed the engine and got out, closing the door behind him with a clap, and then he walked up the road, checking either side as he went. He found it a little further along on the left. The trees had been partially obscuring it: a yellow barrier across a tarmac drive. It was actually wide enough to fit an articulated lorry down.

  The pavement curled around the side of the barrier. Kearney took one last look around before he followed it, but there was nowhere else they could have gone.

  The drive led into an industrial complex, and it was much larger than it appeared from the road. He walked past single- storey warehouses and factory units, their walls and inclined roofs all made from corrugated iron. There was a printer's yard. A bridal warehouse, with wedding dresses covered in cellophane on racks outside. A half-open metal shutter. He looked inside and saw fridges stacked there like bared teeth.

  And then, up ahead, a row of parked cars, slotted in at angles. Most of them were cheap, but a couple were polished and expensive: black and glinting in the sun. Hammond's old vehicle was pulled in at the far end. The driver was still inside, reading a newspaper draped over the steering wheel. The back seat was empty now.

  Kearney strolled along, as casually as he could manage. The building to the left, where the cars were all parked up, was one of the largest in the complex. It was painted entirely black, with an arched sign over a set of double doors, one of which was wedged open with a rusty metal box. The sign itself was old, the paint there faded and faint, but he could make out a red hammer with a wooden block drawn below it. The white lettering was scratched: barely visible beneath the static of time.

  Tooleys Auction Rooms.

  A chalkboard was bolted to the metal beside the door: