Still Bleeding

by Steve Mosby

2pm. Small Items.

  Kearney stepped into a tiled hallway that smelled of tobacco and old clothes. He had no idea what he was going to say if he encountered Arthur Hammond, but fortunately the man wasn't in sight. There were just a few groups of older men here, faces weathered and grim.

  At the end of the small hallway, a door led into a larger space, where Kearney could see chairs laid out in rows, many of them already filled: again, mostly with men, their arms folded over pot bellies. A low, constant murmur was coming from the room, like people in church waiting for the service to start

  To the right, another door. The sign above said: Viewing Room.

  Kearney checked his watch: it was nearly two o'clock, but not quite. A couple of stragglers were still in the viewing room, but there was no sign of Hammond. Kearney wandered in, as much to avoid being seen as out of interest. One of the other men in here was elderly, clutching his stapled catalogue in both hands behind his back as he stalked, perusing the wares. The other was short and squat: wobbling from leg to leg, his bottom lip quivering.

  Neither seemed particularly excited, and at first glance Kearney could understand why. There was little here of obvious value - or at least, not to him. Ugly porcelain figures. Old, arched pipes. Sets of china cups with ornate handles. Several clocks, one of them fashioned like a doll's house. None of it looked the sort of merchandise that would draw a collector like Arthur Hammond, even if his tastes were as innocent as they might be.

  Does he own the place?

  That was a thought. Kearney had no idea. But it seemed like the kind of business opportunity a man like Hammond might associate himself with.

  So perhaps he was wasting his time here. He was still pondering the question when a thick-set man in a black suit leaned into the room.

  'We're beginning, gentlemen.'

  The other two headed for the doorway.

  You're here now, Kearney thought.

  He manoeuvred himself between the pair and followed them through.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  They left me sitting down at the far side of the loading bay, my legs splayed out along the ground. My hands were cuffed behind me, around the back of one of the thick pipes that ran from the ceiling down into the stone floor.

  After securing me in place, the man in the grey suit squatted down in front, resting his hands on his thighs. His knuckles were enormous, and I was convinced he was going to punch me. Instead, he just looked at me curiously, tilting his head slightly, as though he couldn't decide what it was that he'd caught. The anger I'd felt before was fading now, like the effects of a pill. In its place, there was pain and there was fear.

  'Where is she?'

  It was all I really wanted now.

  But he shook his head, then stood up and walked away.

  The men I'd fought with had recovered and were standing a little distance back, by the van, the second of the two staring at me with unconcealed hatred. I forced myself to stare right back. Fuck you. But the older man put a palm on both of their chests, forming a solid 'W' between them.

  'Not now,' he said.

  And then they left the loading bay through a side door, heading towards the front of whatever building we were in.

  Aside from that distant clanking noise, the room was now still and quiet. The car we'd arrived in was a few metres away from me, ticking slightly as the engine cooled. The van was far across the bay. Both of them might as well have been in another world.

  I tested the cuffs as much as I could, but I wasn't going anywhere. Not least because of the pain in my wrist. He hadn't broken it, but something had torn, and it was getting worse by the second: a soft thudding, growing louder. Even lifting my hands made it flare. There was no real point in injuring myself for the sake of it, I supposed, but I tried anyway: gritting my teeth, pulling against the cuffs…

  Then collapsed.

  Behind me, the pipe was vibrating gently: a soft, quiet rumble against my spine. It was cool at the moment, but I had the disturbing impression that it might become scorching hot at some point. Better not to think about that.

  Over to the side, the garage door was sealed tight. There wasn't even a trace of sunlight creeping underneath. One of the men was outside anyway - but still, perhaps someone else might pass by, or maybe by the other door that led further in. There might be people close enough to hear.

  'Hey!' I shouted.

  The word echoed around. It felt dangerous, the way it didn't land on anything and seemed to just hang in the air.

  'Can anyone hear me?'

  No response.

  I tried again, this time shouting as loud as I could:

  'Hey! Is anyone th—'

  But my voice gave way slightly, and the words disappeared. I coughed, my throat catching. Fought against the despair. I was about to try again when I heard it.

  A single muffled scream.

  I stopped moving.

  It had been an animal noise, but I knew straight away that it had come from a human being. A person in such distress they could hardly even breathe properly. It made my heart bounce.

  And then a second later, I heard a terrible thumping noise. It sounded like someone panicking: fighting for their life, unable to move properly. But it was all obscured. The sound was being deadened by something.

  'Sarah?'

  I looked across the loading bay, one end to the other, but I couldn't see anything. The noise was coming from this room, but there was nobody here. Then my gaze fell on the white van and stayed there, locked in place. The vehicle's chassis was trembling slightly, bowing at the wheel arches. Someone was in there, struggling madly. They'd been in there the whole time, in fact, but my shouting had woken them up.

  The person began hyperventilating. It was a desperate noise: gathering in as much air as possible, so that they could-

  They shrieked again. Again, it was muffled.

  Roger Timms's van, I thought. A chill ran through me. When I'd watched the news back in my hotel room last night, the reporter had said the police were still looking for it.

  Fears grow for missing…

  'Rebecca?'

  There was no reply from within the van, but whoever was inside continued screaming, and the van was now rocking frantically. Christ. If it was her she'd been missing for days, tied up in God only knew what conditions: maybe even in there the whole time. No wonder my shouting had panicked her.

  'It's all right, Rebecca.'

  It was a stupid thing to say, but I felt a desperate urge to reassure her somehow. It didn't have any effect. Either she didn't believe me or she was past the point of being able to feel anything but terror.

  I tried the cuffs again, more recklessly now: twisting my hands against them, testing the angles, trying to find… something. But then I collapsed back down, my wrist burning and my vision starring over.

  There was a knot in my throat as I called out again. 'It's going to be OK.'

  But my words simply hung there, and the van continued scream.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Garland found himself a seat at the back of the hall, and watched as the auctioneer Hammond employed took his place at the podium. The man was extremely elderly, but well- practised in the art, and he'd dressed for the occasion in a black, double-breasted, pinstripe suit with a crimson rose puncturing the lapel. Behind him, there was a screen, where the projectionist would shortly display photographs of pointless, inexpensive items, which the men in here would then squabble over, often with the intention of selling on at a greater price in the weeks and months to come.

  To Garland, it was the equivalent of betting a pound on the horses. And yet everyone here took proceedings so seriously. Pandering to them, the auctioneer's face was set suitably grim.

  Garland folded his arms, scanning the audience.

  Searching them out.

  Before he came to the employ of the organisation, he'd been a soldier for a time, and then a mercenary for hire. He'd
worked with a small team of like-minded Americans fighting in the former Yugoslavia, killing for money. On one occasion, they'd had to search a small village for a handful of soldiers they'd been tracking; the men had discarded their uniforms and hidden themselves in plain sight amongst the farmers.

  It had taken Garland only a few minutes to identify them. After they'd been separated from the civilians, the men had been lined up on their knees in a dirty field and shot in the back of the head. One by one, but quick and professional; a second, at most, between each. Some had cried, others had just knelt there shaking, unable even to knit their hands behind their necks. But none had seemed surprised. They had hidden themselves, exhausted, in the village without any real hope of success, knowing that even in the pervading mist of beaten- down despair, they stood out. Some uniforms couldn't be taken off. Men like Garland could smell their own.

  As always, it was simply about money; he hadn't hated them. In fact, he felt a certain degree of respect. That they'd trembled and cried didn't diminish them in his eyes, because who wouldn't? It hadn't saved them, but they understood the consequences of their actions. Each of them, in turn, was a killer himself. They had fought hard to arrive at their deaths. And so the brief music that cracked across the field that day had not been out of tune.

  Dotted around the auction room now, these men - and one woman - were entirely different. Garland would have had no trouble spotting them, even if he didn't have their faces committed to memory. They were simply angled differently to the other people in here. Even so, they imagined themselves disguised. They thought that if they sat there, the uniform alone would be enough to keep them hidden.

  That wasn't entirely their fault, of course. It was part of the myth that had been peddled to them. The myth of safety.

  But it was the main thing that set them apart from the men in the field, and it was what excluded them from his respect. Those men had dirt under their nails, while these people had nothing. They liked to think of darkness and death, but never with consequences. They probably saw their damp interest as profound - that they were explorers - when in fact they lived in cocoons and paid for bundles of evil to be left beyond the membrane, so they could admire it from a position of safety. And then, afterwards, they would wash their hands and go back to work, imagining themselves distinct and powerful.

  Like the game reserve he'd worked on, it was laughable.

  But good business.

  He concentrated on that now, keeping his expression blank. It was the same whenever he dealt with clients. Any disgust he felt was buried deep. What he thought of these people was irrelevant. He was paid to be here.

  The thought of money…

  His gaze picked out the back of Arthur Hammond's head.

  Nearly over, Garland reminded himself. His job had been to tidy up the mess in this particular branch, which had involved spreading it out first of all, so he could see what had caused it. Now, everything was clear. Timms's greed was the root cause, but Christopher Ellis had not been the only one to exploit it. Before he died, Timms had offered up another name, a more high-profile one, perhaps in the vain hope that it would save his life.

  Garland investigated the claim through his police source, and it was true: a fingerprint had been found on the forehead of Jane Slater. That was a sign Hammond had visited the scene, but the experience had not been officially arranged.

  People being greedy.

  He checked his watch. In a few hours, he would be on a private plane, leaving all this behind. It couldn't come soon enough.

  The auctioneer batted his hammer down three times to signal silence. The raps echoed.

  'Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Tooleys Auctions, for our weekly small-item sale of treasures and collectables. Those intending to bid, please make sure you've registered at the desk for a paddle.'

  Garland stifled a yawn, glancing to his left down the back row. He noticed the man at the far end, recognised him immediately, and then turned back to face front as though nothing had happened.

  The policeman. Paul Kearney.

  Except Garland knew from his contacts that Kearney wasn't a policeman any longer. What was he doing here?

  Possibilities clicked past in his head.

  The only thing that made sense was that Kearney had followed one of the clients. Hammond, presumably, since the others had travelled from too far afield.

  Garland performed a few more calculations. He had no reason to believe the police suspected anything. Even if they did, they were unlikely to have sent Kearney here, given his current status. Which suggested Kearney was here on his own account.

  Interesting.

  What did he know, and what did he expect to achieve? Nothing illegal was going to take place during the auction itself. When it was over, Kearney certainly would not be allowed through the door at the back of the room, which the other clients would casually drift across to and enter. There was no real danger of him interfering or causing a scene.

  In fact, although Garland would rather have avoided the scenario, even the police would have problems. Discounting Banyard, who was otherwise engaged, he had only six men in the building. However - when they were paying attention, at least - those men were an entirely different type of animal than the police would be accustomed to dealing with. All heavily armed as well. If it came to it, nobody was going to stop them leaving. Not unless the army were drafted in.

  Garland took another brief, sideways glance and then followed Kearney's gaze to the front of the room.

  Yes, he was looking at Arthur Hammond.

  Interesting, Garland thought again.

  But little more than that.

  'Lot Number One,' the auctioneer said.

  He signalled to the projectionist. And, as a photograph of a silver tray appeared on the screen behind the man, Garland leaned back in his chair and stifled another yawn.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty

  I couldn't tell how long it was before they returned. It felt like at least half an hour, but it was probably longer. The man in the grey suit led the way, and he was followed in by five people I hadn't seen before. There were four men and one woman, all of them dressed casually. Two other men in suits came in last. They closed the metal door behind them, then bolted it shut and stood like sentries on either side of it.

  The man whose teeth I'd smashed in was conspicuous by his absence - perhaps he'd been considered too messy for this class of company. Even though the five newcomers were dressed down, they all had a certain air about them. The kind of quiet confidence and sense of entitlement that came with wealth and power. They all looked as though they were used to having their orders carried out. I didn't need to see their wallets or everyday wardrobes to feel the money that had just entered the room.

  None of them noticed me at first. They were too busy hurrying to keep up with the man in the grey suit. He led them to the back of the van, and they formed a semicircle around him.

  I looked from one face to another. There was no real point in memorising them, but for some reason I was determined to try. There was a tall, pale man with a neat brown crew-cut and bobbled acne-scarring on his cheeks. The man beside him was shorter, with a tan and a neatly trimmed beard. Next, there was a bald man who looked like a scientist, with small, round glasses and furrows lining his forehead. The woman was stocky and had a plump face; her hair was parted in the centre and sprayed into a solid grey cone that rested on her shoulders. Finally, there was an older, almost aristocratic man. He had a moustache and a waistcoat, and was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  And all five looked nervous. Despite the power they might normally have, I could tell they were a little out of their comfort zone here. But perhaps that was part of the experience. Perhaps, I thought, they were exhilarated. They were all eyeing the van, and I had no doubt they knew exactly who it had once belonged to and what was now inside.

  It's not a massive stretch to imagine a handful of people might seek that out. People
willing to pay enough to make it worth the risk.

  But when I'd said that to Kearney, I'd been talking about looking at the dead. This was something far removed even from that, and I couldn't imagine what must be going through their heads. Some of them had expressions on their faces like children. What did they do out in the real world, I wondered. Did any of their families or colleagues know what they did when they were out of sight?

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' the man in the grey suit said. 'We arrive at the final lot of the day.'

  Some time before they came back, Rebecca Wingate had fallen silent, but the sound of the man's voice now started her screaming again. It must have sounded even more horrific that close to the vehicle, but the woman standing beside it actually smiled. There was a flash of ice in her eyes.

  The man in the suit patted the side of the vehicle once.

  'I know that all of you have been following Thomas Wells and Roger Timms over the years. Some of you are connoisseurs.' He looked between them. 'Others are collectors. However, you'll all be aware that their careers are now, regrettably, over. As valued clients, we have invited you here today for the offer of one final experience.'

  He paused, glancing at the van. But he kept his face blank and professional, and gave no indication he was aware of the sound or movement coming from inside.

  'For the collectors amongst you, this might be seen as a particularly unique piece: a work-in-progress. For others, it will simply be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The sale price will include the original registration plates. And, of course, all of the vehicle's contents at the time we acquired it.'

  Some of the bastards actually smiled at that. They were visibly relaxing now: the man in the grey suit's patter was reassuring them. He looked from one to the other, and said:

  'I think we'll begin the bids at fifty thousand.'

  None of them moved.

  'Do we have fifty thousand to start with?'

  The scientist nodded almost imperceptibly - and then a second time, more strongly, as though the movement had gone wrong at first and he'd needed to try again.