Cautiously approaching the far side of the ring I paused behind a massive trunk and looked at the house. Slightly uphill and almost sideways to me now it appeared as just a jumbled series of rectangles and there seemed to be a boundary hedge, which was logical. I decided to make for the dark outbuildings over to my left.
The upward slope and the hedge, which appeared to be high and straggly, meant that it would be unlikely anyone indoors could see me and there did not appear to be many windows on this side of the house anyway. With this in mind I made for the corner of the field where I hoped to be able to get over or through it. Even better, there was another gateway which I guessed would have originally provided direct access for cattle into the original farmyard.
The whole place was on a much bigger scale than I had imagined and the word ‘estate’ suddenly made sense. Standing quite still at one side of the gateway, almost right in the hedge, I could see that the yard was huge and cluttered up with derelict machinery of various kinds. The cowsheds and a large barn I thought were brick-built – my mentor had told me that too much intelligence is never a bad thing and in the event of them being wood I could burn them down – the bare roof beams of some of them silhouetted against the sky like the broken ribs of some large animal carcass. The barn appeared to still be in possession of its roof but there was an ominous sag in it.
I pretended I was Patrick and sensed the air, slowly breathing in the evening breeze as it flowed through the gateway. I could smell damp, rotting wood, another earthy scent, perhaps a very old manure pile and . . . a fusty, sweaty smell. Then a strong scent of cigarette smoke. Someone was standing outside smoking.
Why? Were these mobsters so health conscious and house-proud that they did not want anyone smoking indoors? It seemed just about impossible so one must assume that whoever it was was outside for a purpose. And where was he or she? As if to answer my question there was the suspicion of a movement near the barn and then a telltale tiny red glow as the smoker inhaled. This was very useful to me and, judging by the rate at which it was being smoked, the glow moving jerkily, this person was extremely nervous. Then, easy to make out and hear, a figure half-ran towards the house, tripping over something and almost falling in their haste. Half a minute later, when I was on the point of moving, I heard shouting in the distance. I stayed right where I was and, after roughly the same period of time had elapsed, someone reappeared – I had an idea the same someone, only with a bottle this time. I also had an idea he had something in his other hand. He became invisible to me again.
As quietly as possible, I climbed over the gate. There was deep shadow here by the hedge, which had a ditch-like depression at its base, and as I paused again to listen I sensed, rather than saw, that there was something in it, almost at my feet. For some reason all the little hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I first nudged whatever it was with a foot and then made myself bend down to touch it. My first impressions had been correct: it was a body.
Forced to crouch there, my ears roaring as I nearly fainted, I nevertheless ran my hands over that part of the corpse that I could reach. The shoes were trainers; Patrick had been wearing trainers. The cloth of the trousers was denim; Patrick had been wearing a pair of black jeans. There was a leather belt of some kind; Patrick had been wearing a leather belt. By this time I could hardly go on but ended up on my knees by the body, examining the rest. The shirt was impossible to identify but Patrick had been wearing a black shirt, no tie. No tie here. A couple of days of beard stubble – that tallied too. But this man had been quite bald on top.
I almost vomited then. Had she pulled all his hair out? But no, the pate was smooth, normal skin, albeit cold and clammy. I had a sudden thought and felt down the chest, which the body was half lying on, encountering a hefty beer gut. And fool, fool, my husband has an artificial foot – why hadn’t I examined that first?
My left hand was sticky; this man had been stabbed to death in the chest somewhere. I had no choice but to wipe it off on his shirt. I then somehow knew that this was not the only body here; there was another dark humped shape a little farther away. Having carefully surveyed my surroundings and listened for a full two minutes – there was still a lot of shouting going on somewhere, probably in the house – I crawled to it, going straight to the right leg this time. It was a real one and I got a lot more blood on myself because this man had had his throat cut.
In a quandary now I eased my cramped legs but did not stand up. Did I just use my mobile to phone the police? Then I froze as someone came into view against the last tiny remaining glimmer of the sunset. The same man? Another? This one had a bottle too, belched and then took a quick gulp from it. He appeared to be watching the barn, not removing his gaze from it. My eyes were really accustomed to the near darkness now and for the first time I noticed the stairs on the side of the barn that gave access to the loft area. Someone was halfway down them, slowly, silently, a frame at a time.
For a moment I thought I had imagined this as then I could see the figure no longer. On the corner of the barn was a large barrel, no doubt used as a water butt, and it seemed to me that this might be a little wider than before. But when you strain your eyes to see at night it can sometimes appear that even the darkness dances. I transferred my gaze back to the man with the bottle who now, I thought with a twinge of alarm, was facing me. He placed the bottle on the ground and reached into a pocket. It was the last thing he did.
Something he had been holding in his other hand fell to the ground with a heavy thud and then he was lowered to join it. There was what appeared to be a quick examination for any signs of life and a frisking of the body before it was hoisted up in a fireman’s lift and brought over to where I crouched in the shadows, concealed by the hedge. The burden rolled into the ditch with the others. Breathing hard from exertion the killer began to walk away.
‘It’s me,’ I whispered.
There was a muffled exclamation and he came back. A hand was extended and I was helped out.
‘Bloody wonderful woman – do you have any water purification tablets with you?’ Patrick asked hoarsely.
I told him I did and for a moment he clung to me and I was sure he was close to tears.
Slowly, up in the loft in the barn in darkness, a small amount at a time, I fed him purified water from the rain barrel. Although dehydrated he had not dared to drink it as it stank to high heaven and had existed on just a little rain that had dripped through the roof of the barn. I was fairly sure the smell was only as a result of the leaves in it rotting as ours at home smells like this too sometimes before it is cleared out. I had a couple of high energy chocolate bars with me too and some Kendal mint cake.
‘They’ll storm the barn again soon,’ Patrick said after a little while, speaking very quietly, recovering. ‘And, sadly, this door’s off.’
I had asked no questions yet but with his little torch – he complained about the waste of the batteries – located the bloody place on his head where the lock of hair had been pulled out.
‘Someone’ll hear the shooting though, surely.’
‘No, they don’t use guns; they daren’t as there’s another house around a quarter of a mile away and any firing would probably be heard in the town. So far I’ve managed to kick most of them back down the stairs and their nerve goes. They took my phone and Glock but didn’t find the knife so I taught them to be more careful in future by killing two of them with it. She got me by the hair but I pulled free and made for here. They’ve left me to stew and weaken, sending in a couple of blokes at a time to wear me down. Cat and mouse.’
‘She sent the bits of hair to me.’
‘You can put them in a locket.’ He chuckled, kissed me and then went over to the door where he was keeping watch every half minute or so.
‘But what’s all this about?’ I said, or rather squeaked. ‘Why not just go off and call Greenway?’
‘There’d be a massacre of cops. You wouldn’t believe the weaponry they’ve got in there, sub-machine
guns, everything, together with explosives for bank jobs and safes. No, this is far better for a while. Nearly all of them – and there’s around thirty blokes in there – are either alcoholics or drug addicts. It’s the hold Uncle and Murphy have over them. She’s a junkie too, in case you hadn’t guessed already. What you must realize is that most of these people are out of their heads. Mass murder’s nothing to them. They’d shoot up the whole of Steyning for a laugh if they’d killed a lot of police and then run for it, just like they did in Bath.’
‘So your reasoning is?’
Patrick checked the yard again. ‘They know I’m up here and dare not move to leave as they also know I’m on to them. So the thinking is it’s far easier to finish me off without making a noise, but I’m dealing, one way or another, with everyone they send out to keep an eye on me. They’re all armed but can’t see me as there’s no electricity in the farm buildings. And if you drink like a fish and/or take drugs it ruins all your faculties over time. Any more choc?’
I rummaged in my pockets and found a Mars bar. ‘And then what?’
‘They’ll crack in the end and start firing.’
‘We can fire first. I’ve got the Smith and Wesson.’
‘Yes, if we have to. But I’d rather terrorize the bastards and shorten the odds a bit first. Make Uncle sweat for a bit. With a bit of luck they’ll end up by losing it completely and killing one another.’
‘Is Carol Trelonic in there?’
‘No, I got rid of her on the way here – shoved her in a bush when the car stopped for her to throw up. No one noticed. She was just expendable baggage anyway.’
‘And Colin Andrews?’
‘He’s here. Bleated to me that they’d kidnapped him for ransom and if I helped him he’d drop the charges against Matthew. I managed to throw a punch at him on the way out.’
‘How did they get hold of you in the first place?’
‘This is their bolt hole and I came along for the ride. But I was just a bit too slow getting out of the car when we arrived. She spotted me. How did you find this place?’
‘I exchanged a little info with Mick the Kick that resulted in his not going to the party. Matthew came up with the name Lock House from the computer info but it was the Keys Estate.’
‘Ah.’ Patrick was over by the door again. ‘They’re coming. I wonder what he’s bribed them with this time? Three, no four. They don’t look very keen.’
This was the other Patrick talking, of course, the ex-special services soldier. I dared not try to talk him out of what he was doing, for in my heart I knew it was the right thing. I was sure that this was as I had predicted, to protect his family for ever from the attentions of gangs, to etch into the underworld’s mind that Patrick Gillard was not to be messed with. Not only that, he could imagine the sub-machine blazing from an upper window of the house – out of our sight – mowing down the police before they could get into position even if warnings had been given. Who knew what other weapons were indoors: high powered rifles with night sights, stolen hand grenades . . .
‘What can I do?’ I asked.
‘Stay where you are and if one gets past me do your best.’
I still had the torch and used it quickly to get my bearings and to look for a piece of wood or something similar that I could use as a weapon. It was just as well I did for there were low beams at one end of the loft, which was bigger than I had thought, on which one could comprehensively brain oneself. I also found some old implements: a wooden hay rake that was more woodworm holes than wood, a rusting axe that was too heavy for me to lift, several billhooks – too horrible – a jumble of small tools and that was all. Desperately, I went down to the far end and there, in a festoon of black cobwebs, spotted several newish pickaxe handles. Thus armed with the chosen weapon of the thug I trotted back, switching off the torch.
‘Fire if you have to – just don’t hit me,’ Patrick muttered over his shoulder.
‘It’s almost impossible to see.’
‘That’s good for us because they’ve been in a house with lights on. Hello, here’s number one.’
I saw him duck and something heavy like a brick landed practically at my feet. I groped for it, found that it was, grabbed it, ran over to the door, leaned on Patrick to make him stay low and lobbed it in the general direction of the foot of the stairs. There was a yell and a general tumbling noise, like sacks of boulders going downwards.
There was a female scream of anger from below. ‘Louts! Idiots! He’s unarmed but for a knife, weak with hunger and half-dead from thirst by now! Go in there and get him! You’re just as much cowards as the morons who ran away.’
Two raced up the stairs with a view to hurling themselves through the door, hit what amounted to a brick wall, were grabbed, had their heads crashed together, one then kicked backwards so that he went straight through the handrail of the stairs to fall into the void beyond, the other savagely slammed into the door frame a few times before following the first.
There was another shout from below. ‘Go and get a car! Use the lights to see by. Get a move on!’
I heard thumps behind me and remembered that barns have trapdoors to enable fodder to be thrown down to animals below. Then there was a loud bang as though one had been flung open and back. I flicked on the torch for a second to see that a man was almost right on me, another appearing through the hatch. Using the pickaxe handle like a spear I ran at him and got him just below the ribs. He folded over and, guessing my exact target in the gloom, I whacked him on the head. He went over backwards and, judging by the noise, the other one fell over him.
It was the briefest of respites. They leapt up and came at me again. This time I had reinforcements, my only contribution being to switch on the torch again to locate the aperture in the floor so that Patrick could neatly bulldoze one of them through it, the second jumping down in utter panic.
‘There’s two of ’em!’ one of them yelled when he staggered outside.
‘Balls! You’re just useless!’ another man bawled.
‘They’re both out there now – Uncle and Murphy,’ Patrick said in my ear.
‘How long can you keep this up?’ I asked.
‘Not much longer, honeybunch. I should have noticed that hatch before but at least we can use it as an escape route.’ He went over and shut it, having to scrape aside a couple of inches of dirt and semi-rotten hay that had concealed it in order to get it to fit properly. An empty oil drum was placed on top after he had established that I could shift it if necessary.
A vehicle approached slowly, bouncing on the rough ground and was positioned so that the headlights shone directly on the barn.
‘I’m not sure how this helps them,’ Patrick whispered.
A voice high with terror screamed, ‘They didn’t run, Brad, they’re here, three of ’em under the hedge! Bleedin’ dead! You cow, Murphy! You knew this man was a psycho, didn’t you, and you’re just getting your kicks while he finishes us off one by one.’
‘Shut up, it’s his turn,’ I distinctly heard Murphy say.
NINETEEN
‘Shall I phone?’ I said.
‘Not yet,’ was the terse reply.
The sudden illumination had revealed a tiny and filthy window overlooking the yard. Standing well to one side of it I scrubbed some of the dirt and cobwebs off with the sleeve of an ancient jacket hanging on a nearby nail and risked a look out. The view was a narrow one but even so I could see at least a dozen people in the headlights of the car. They were clustered around the couple, although at a respectful or nervous distance, and appeared to be receiving orders. This went on for another couple of minutes, during which I relayed to Patrick in a whisper what was happening, the men and, I thought, one other woman going off in twos and threes.
Silence fell.
Patrick stirred restlessly. ‘I don’t like this.’
He had promised to make Uncle sweat and it seemed they hoped to do the same to him. Perhaps he was, I thought inconsequentially; he did no
t normally smell like this. Then my skin crawled and I stretched to touch his shoulder lightly as one might play a few notes on a piano as he stood motionless in the light breeze coming through the doorway. He immediately came to my side.
‘We’re not alone,’ I breathed.
He did not react, returned to his original position and another heavy silence followed. Then, at first very quietly, a dog began growling. Patrick can mimic all kinds of things and Elspeth still tells the tale of how when he was quite young he frightened off a man who was hanging around near the family car when John was away by doing just this through the letterbox.
The growl travelled, but in the shadows away from what light there was shining through the doorway and, weakly, through the window. I had an idea he was bent low, at dog height, the picture perfect in my imagination: fangs bared, hackles up. Down the barn the growl went. Fear was churning through me: some of these maniacs would probably be able to kill a dog with their bare hands without a second thought.
I then jumped out of my skin when there was a sudden shriek and someone came running. A very tall, seemingly scarecrow figure came thundering down the loft but was halted horribly when he went full tilt into one of the lower beams, going down as though poleaxed.
‘Torch,’ Patrick said.
By its tiny light he moved away the oil drum, lifted the trapdoor, heaved the unconscious man through the hole through which he must have come with the others and then put everything back in place.
‘I’m done,’ he mumbled. ‘Is there any more water?’
Rat Poison Page 22
