It made him wonder about Quine’s background. Slotted was a military term, slang for dead. Killed. Shot. It figured. It would have taken someone with a military sense of duty to have performed the tasks Quine and his colleague, Meaker, had undertaken. A clean-up squad with a perverted distortion of the old military credo: if it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t, paint it. For ‘moves’, read ‘slot’.
A phone trilled somewhere close by. Quine looked down at his pocket and shrugged. ‘Oops. Sorry - business calls. Things to do, places to be.’
‘Why Friedman? He get in your way too often?’
‘Who? Never heard of him.’ Quine chuckled. Then, like a phantom, he was gone, and all Palmer could hear was his footsteps jogging unhurriedly along the corridor and down the stairs.
He turned and hurried over to Riley, ignoring the figure on the bed. From what Quine had said, Pearcy was most likely beyond help. He placed a gentle hand on Riley’s arm, and felt a weight shift from his shoulders when her head moved and she looked up at him. One eye was badly bruised and the skin of her cheek was grazed. She was still short of breath but looked fine.
‘What bloody… kept you, Palmer?’ she muttered between gasps. ‘Christ, I’m going to have to sign up someone younger and fitter. You’re over the hill.’
He looked down at her and pulled a face, feeling suddenly more cheerful. Riley on the offensive was a good sign. Better than good. ‘Can you run, dear?’ he murmured pithily. ‘Or are you going to sit here bleating all day?’
She shook her head and tried to get up, clutching her stomach. The movement seemed to bring about a burst of pain and she grimaced. ‘Bastard,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all right – I’m winded, that’s all. You go. I’ll follow in a minute.’
‘I’m not leaving you here alone.’
Riley forced herself upright and looked towards the bed. ‘Forget it, Sir Galahad. I’m fine. I promise I’ll lock the door behind you. Anyway, I’ve got him to look after. Go on… you can’t let them get away. Go!’
Palmer left.
Chapter 41
The sound of Palmer’s footsteps fading away down the stairs and leaving her alone in that bare, deathly room made Riley feel horribly vulnerable. She resisted the temptation to call after him, but knew she’d never forgive herself. Anyway, she doubted he would stop; Palmer didn’t do droopy females, and while he was always ready to step in when the occasion called, he would expect her to get on with things. She wondered where Meaker had got to and whether he was now stalking Palmer in turn. And what of de Haan? To hell with the fat boy, she thought. If he comes near me I’ll rip his throat out.
On the bed, Henry groaned and struggled to move. He was still alive! She gulped in a lungful of air. Come on, girl, she told herself. Time to get back in the game. Then she’d better start praying she could get help here in time before Henry weakened further – and before Palmer began killing people.
She stared at Henry, now on his back, eyes closed. He looked awful; thin as a reed and sallow in colour, his skin was damp with perspiration and almost translucent. She leaned close and could hear the faint hiss of breathing between his lips. With it came a sour, acidic smell, overlaid by the aroma of soiled bedclothes. Whatever else de Haan and his people had been doing with Henry for the past few days, caring for him as a former Church member hadn’t been top of their agenda.
She turned and scooped up the decanter from the floor. It still held a cupful of water, the majority having drained away through the cracks in the boards, and she sniffed it briefly before tipping her head back for a taste. In her eagerness a rush of tepid liquid surged around her mouth and nose, making her cough. Plain water. At least she wasn’t about to poison him on top of his other troubles.
She dribbled a few drops between his lips, which were chapped and flaking and rimmed with a white crust. His throat, covered in white stubble, began working instinctively, and his eyes fluttered weakly before he suddenly gagged and coughed, his head rising off the pillow. He was badly dehydrated. Maybe they’d kept him in a drug-induced stupor to keep him quiet, and he’d knocked over the decanter while reaching for a drink. Or trying to attract some attention.
She put the decanter down. He needed medical attention, and fast. She’d have to get an ambulance here. But what about the front gates? She cast around for her mobile. If she warned them, they’d bring bolt cutters. Must be plenty of times when they had to force their way into places to attend to emergencies.
Her mobile phone had split open on impact with the floor, revealing the circuitry board and the battery half out of its mounting. With trembling hands she held the back in place and tried to snap it back on. Damn, her brain was so scrambled she couldn’t remember if it slid or clicked. Too bad; she gripped it hard and heard a solid snick. Then she checked the small screen. It still worked!
She stabbed frantically and waited for what seemed like forever as the connection was made. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a loud crashing noise, then moments later the furious blast of an air-horn.
Palmer was nearing the bottom of the drive, running as hard as he could but knowing he could never catch up. He had burst out of the front door of the mansion in time to see the white van career out of a large garage on the edge of the car park and speed away down the drive. As it turned sideways on, he caught a glimpse of Quine and another man - Meaker or de Haan, he couldn’t be sure - in the front seats. He swore to himself. If only he’d thought to check the garage before entering the house. They must have deliberately locked the gates the way they had to suggest a deserted property and give themselves time to pack up and get clear. Right now it looked as if the strategy was going to work.
Suddenly there was an explosive bang and a tortured shriek of metal ahead of him through the trees. He didn’t need to see what had happened; Quine had hit the gates full-on. As if to add colour to the sense of impending disaster, the air of the drive was hung with the blue haze of exhaust smoke, and the gravelled drive showed deep ruts where Quine had driven the van at a furious pace towards the road, clipping the verge on the way.
Palmer rounded the final bend and saw what was left of the ornate iron gates. The chain and padlock had given way first, but both gates had been ripped apart, mangled and twisted beyond repair. One of the ancient pillars had given way under the impact, leaving slabs of crumpled stone spilled across the driveway. Among the debris was the crushed chrome grill from the van, a sprinkling of broken windscreen glass and a section of plastic bumper, cracked and torn like paper.
Then an engine screamed in protest, followed by the thud-thud-thud of a damaged wheel on tarmac, and Palmer realised the van hadn’t gone far. He skidded past the lodge, knowing he had Quine within his grasp.
Another sound intruded, this one the frantic blare of air-horns, closely followed by the hiss of air-brakes and a squeal of rubber. A huge shadow flashed past the open entrance, a charging hulk in dark green and yellow, dragging behind it a white-blue trail of smoke as the tyres strained to get a grip on the road surface. The horns blasted again, wailing across the surrounding greenery and battering the trees.
Palmer stopped running and watched as the truck, laden with hardcore, thundered down the road and began a steady slide sideways, the driver desperately trying to bring it to a halt. For a split second there was an awful silence; no birds, no engine noise, no squeal of brakes. It was as if all sound was suspended, although it could only have been his own sense of dread at what was about to unfold.
Ahead of it, the white van seemed to get going again just in time, spluttering forward as if it was going to pull clear of the charging monster in time. But it was too late. With what seemed like a last, frantic charge, the truck hit the van, scooping it up on its massive bumpers, carrying it forward with barely a sound before flicking it sideways off the road.
The truck took another two hundred yards to stop, grey smoke billowing from the wheels as the back slid round towards the verge. A scattering of hardcore sprayed off the top of the load
and hit the surrounding vegetation like machine-gun fire, and the air-horn died away in a final wail. The van, meanwhile, under the massive impact of the loaded truck’s weight, tore into the trees, ripping through branches and foliage before culminating in another violent crash.
Then silence.
Chapter 42
Palmer jogged towards the spot where the van had left the tarmac. There was no need to hurry now. He couldn’t see what damage had been done to the front of the truck cab, although the driver had been able to bring it safely to a stop. But the impact had been considerable. Then the door opened and a stocky figure dropped to the road, looking back with a stunned expression to where the collision had occurred.
Satisfied he was unhurt, Palmer veered off and jumped a ditch, following the trail of smashed branches and gouged earth, littered with bits of metal and broken, tinted glass. A box of Flowing Light pamphlets lay gutted in a patch of thick briar, and a computer terminal lay face up to the sky, the screen broken and disgorging bits of circuitry.
The van had come to rest between two large trees, jammed tight and suspended three feet off the ground. One of the rear wheels was still spinning with a soft grinding noise, and a thin plume of smoke was rising from the exhaust. There was no sound of movement from inside, and no noise from outside. The smell of leaking petrol was very strong.
There was a click as Palmer opened the baton he had used at the arches. He stepped clear of the bodywork and approached the driver’s door. It was badly buckled and revealed a man lying across the wheel, arms flung forward as though hugging the vehicle in a last fond embrace. His legs had merged with a third tree-trunk which had snapped off with the impact, the stump rearing up through the floor where the pedals had been. The man had short, cropped hair, and a pair of rimless glasses hung from one ear, one lens shattered.
Quine. He’d suffered massive damage to the side of his head and body.
Beyond Quine was the bulky shape of de Haan in the passenger seat, his once-smart suit littered with leaves, shattered tree bark and a heavy splattering of blood. Palmer guessed most of it was Quine’s. The pastor seemed unaware of Palmer, too intent on struggling to free himself from his seatbelt while uttering a high-pitched keening sound. But his struggles were hopeless; the belt was pinched hard back against the door pillar by a tree branch as thick as a man’s leg, having penetrated the side panel like a spear and stopping short of de Haan’s body by millimetres. Everywhere there was broken glass and the smell of fuel.
He heard a shout from the road, and turned to see the truck driver hovering nervously at the edge of the trees. He looked stricken with shock but was holding a mobile phone in the air. Palmer ignored him; he guessed the man had called the emergency services but was unwilling to come any closer.
He clambered round to the other side of the van, stepping over broken and twisted saplings and branches. Through the open space that had been the windscreen, he saw de Haan watching him with a malevolent stare while still tugging at the seat belt. The pastor was muttering ceaselessly beneath his breath as if reciting a prayer, small bubbles popping from between his fleshy lips with each word. A trail of pink mucous was running down his chin and staining his shirt collar, and a larger bubble appeared from the side of his nose and blossomed like an obscene flower, pink and vivid, before popping and spraying blood down his cheek.
It was only when Palmer stepped up alongside de Haan that he saw something he had missed from the other side of the van: the tree branch piercing the vehicle’s bodywork and pinning the seatbelt had a secondary arm lower down. This had penetrated even further, pinning de Haan to his seat below the waist. A slick of blood was running down the fat man’s thigh and puddling on the floor, staining it a deep, dark red.
‘Get me out.’ De Haan’s voice was surprisingly clear. His eyes flickered across Palmer’s face, but if he recognised him, he gave no indication. He seemed short of breath, and the colour had drained from his face. ‘Help me, damn you!’ He flailed a pudgy hand against the seat belt, but to no effect. He looked towards Quine for help, and when he saw the man’s open, faded eyes, he struggled even harder, as if aware that death was a mere moment away and would soon embrace him, too.
Palmer braced himself against the van and tried to ignore the sharp smell of fuel permeating the air around him. He reached in and lifted de Haan’s face so the pastor could see into his eyes. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said softly, ‘if you tell me about Katie Pyle.’
‘Who?’ De Haan’s eyes seemed to slip sideways as he considered the question. Then he nodded eagerly and gulped for air, his whole body shuddering. ‘Bush,‘ he murmured. ‘Jen… Jennifer Bush. She changed her name.’
‘Why? What did you do to her?’
‘Nothing! We did… nothing. She… said she couldn’t go home. Not our fault… people do what they want.’ He coughed up a small gob of blood and spat it out. When he spoke next, his voice sounded stronger. ‘We offered to take her home. She refused. She’d got herself pregnant by some kid at school… said it was a one-time mistake. Her father wouldn’t have understood, she said. It was her choice.’
‘She was just a kid. Scared and vulnerable.’ Palmer’s voice was bleak, and something in the tone made de Haan flinch. ‘Did you arrange the abortion?’
The pastor nodded and looked away. ‘She was being stupid…she wanted to keep it. It was easier… not to. Questions would have been asked. We did her a favour.’
‘Then you lost her, didn’t you? You lost track of her.’
‘She wanted to leave!’ de Haan hissed, and winced ‘We couldn’t hold her – why should we? She was no good to us!’
‘So why did you take her in? Was she one of your unwitting Sirens - a lure for Nicholas Friedman?’
De Haan looked stunned at the extent of Palmer’s knowledge. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you… It wasn’t like that. They were friends. He needed guidance and she… she agreed to help us.’
‘By pulling him in for you?’
‘Call it what you like. They both did what they wanted to… nobody forced them.’
‘And afterwards? Why did she leave?’
‘She wanted to. She said there was no going back, and agreed to keep quiet about… Friedman and to start a new life.’ He stared at Palmer. ‘She knew what she wanted, unlike some of them.’
To Palmer his words had the hollow ring of self-delusion. If he could convince himself others were to blame, de Haan could do almost anything. ‘So why kill her after all this time?’
But de Haan had run out of words.
Palmer continued relentlessly, knowing he had little time. ‘Had Henry threatened to talk? To expose your scummy operations and get Katie to back him up? Is that why your men went to her mother’s house – to find out where she was?’ When de Haan remained silent, Palmer knew he had touched on the truth. ‘What about the other kids who died? Like Nicholas Friedman. Were they a threat, too?’
De Haan rocked in his seat, obviously in pain, his jowls wobbling as he struggled with the seat belt. ‘They were weak, that’s why!’ he spat, eyes wild with fury. ‘They’d outlived their usefulness - is that clear enough for you? They would have died sooner or later, anyway, from drugs and… their filthy lifestyles!’ He jerked his head sideways at the man in the seat beside him. ‘It was Quine who did it. Blame him! He finally managed to get into Pearcy’s database and discover Katie’s new name and address. He killed her, like he killed the others. He enjoyed it - always had done. I couldn’t control him.’ He gave a sob and a trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. ‘Quine insisted that when the parents wouldn’t pay up or the kids made threats against us, the only thing to do was silence them.’
Palmer nodded. ‘And you went along with it.’
‘Yes, all right - I did!’ De Haan’s voice rose to a scream and his eyes took on a demented look that made the hairs on Palmer’s neck bristle. ‘But so what? She was only a stupid little tart.’
Palmer stepped back from the van, his eyes st
one cold. He could smell something burning, and a plume of oily smoke trickled past him into the air. He thought of the steady drip of fuel beneath the van and wondered if the truck driver had bothered to call for help yet. He hoped not.
‘Wait!’ De Haan’s face wore his terror like a mask, and he began to struggle furiously when he saw the absence of emotion on Palmer’s face. ‘You said you’d get me out of here! You said you’d help me!’ De Haan’s voice was hoarse with desperation. ‘I’ll give you money – anything!’
It was the last ounce of weight needed to tip the balance. When he’d considered the idea moments earlier, in a part of his mind capable of dealing objectively with such concepts, Palmer had decided he could never do it. But now it came down to it, it was remarkably easy.
Maybe later he’d have to deal with what followed.
‘I lied,’ he said simply. He put the baton away, then turned and walked away through the trees.
‘What’s happening? Are they alive?’ The truck driver’s voice was tight and edgy. He was standing at the edge of the ditch, clutching the phone like a talisman, as if it might hold the power to reverse the damage that had been done. He stared in the direction of the van, then at Palmer, his eyes imploring him to say that everything was all right. ‘I tried to stop, honest… but they just came out of the gate. It was so sudden… I had a big load on and my brakes couldn’t cope… ’ He dropped his hand to his side with a look of despair. ‘I don’t believe this.’
Palmer felt sorry for him. He would have to live with this forever, even though it hadn’t been his fault. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘I saw it happen. There was nothing you could have done.’
NO HELP FOR THE DYING (Gavin & Palmer) Page 23
