by Scott Hunter
Eagle Court was on the A272.
Time to call this in.
He tried Charlie one more time. Still voicemail.
A thrumming vibration, growing louder by the second, alerted him to the AC135’s imminent arrival. He left the car and walked into the park, scanning the sky. A powerful light pierced the gloom like a sharp knife slicing through cake, and the yellow belly of the helicopter came into view. He waited until it settled, bouncing gently on the soaking grass, and came to rest, before ducking his head and making for the opening door as fast as his aching limbs could carry him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Duncan Brodie was dreaming. He was being hanged on a scaffold, surrounded by a baying crowd. The noose was tightening gradually, by small degrees. He opened his mouth to protest but there was something blocking it, some material. He gagged at the smell.
And then he was wide awake. Not dreaming.
Living a nightmare.
He tried to focus on his immediate surroundings. The showers, Eagle Court. What had happened? He remembered parking the car, opening the door, walking along the corridor to the changing rooms, to the shower room, but then…
‘You’re awake. Good. I’m getting hungry. We should begin.’
Brodie shook his head, tried to clear the fuzziness. Bad idea. It felt as though his head had become detached from his body, as though someone had lined up a croquet mallet and connected it squarely with his temple. The pain made him nauseous, but he knew he daren’t vomit – he would choke.
‘This is nothing personal, Duncan Brodie. Nothing to do with you at all, actually.’
Connie Chan’s voice went on as though she were chatting to him in the Swan’s restaurant. His puzzlement overrode his discomfort and he managed an interrogative grunt.
‘What’s that, Duncan? I can’t hear you very well, I’m afraid.’
He was close to panic. What was she doing? And why?
‘Your wife. That’s your problem, isn’t it, Duncan? You want to break free, prove yourself. You’re tired of her, exhausted by her needs. I can read it in your eyes. Well, women are nothing if not intuitive, Duncan.’
Brodie listened, rigid with terror. Chan was busy as she spoke, preparing something he couldn’t quite see, his head being restrained by whatever was around his neck. His hands were tied behind his back. He flexed his wrists, but there was no leeway. Connie Chan had him trussed like a chicken.
‘You laughed when I told you my occupation. I don’t tell many people what I do, Duncan, so I guess you are privileged. You won’t tell anyone, though, will you? No, of course you won’t. Your wife, though. She’s a nosy bitch, isn’t she? She should have minded her own business.’
Brodie tried to force the gag out of his mouth. If he could just speak, reason with her…
‘Is that uncomfortable? I’m sorry. I don’t want any noise, Duncan. Not that anyone would hear you anyway.’
He gave up. He couldn’t free his voice. He heard Chan’s small hands deftly working away at some hidden task, the completion of which was clearly intended for his discomfort or, worse, his despatch, and this thought fanned the flames of panic. The compulsion to lose it completely was overwhelming. He tried to calm himself. There must be a way. Was he attached to the piping? It was rusted, he remembered. There would be weaknesses in the metalwork. But, without his hands, he couldn’t test the ancient plumbing’s robustness. If he moved his head the cords around his neck simply tightened, so that was no good. Chan had begun to hum to herself as she worked. Now she interrupted her tune to impart further revelations.
‘My Isaiah. I didn’t love him, exactly, but we were good together. Maybe it’s the closest I’ve come to closeness, if you understand me? I don’t mind sharing that with you. Maybe that’s how you once felt about your wife? A good arrangement? Was that how things were, Duncan? Yes, I think so. But she’s worn you down, hasn’t she?’
Brodie closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t tied, helpless, in the very shower room where as a pre-pubescent boy he had joined the other members of his dormitory for their daily ablutions, shivering as the cold water played over their pale bodies. This was a nightmare, and he’d wake up shortly, find himself comfortably enveloped by the warm duvet of the king-size bed in his hotel room, perhaps even with Connie at his side, breathing slowly and evenly in her sleep. This was a nightmare, that was all. Of course it was.
But Chan cut disdainfully into his fantasy. ‘So, your Mrs Brodie,’ she said, ‘she’s smart, I’ll give her that. She figured what Isaiah and me were doing. The day after I killed McMillan, she was waiting for me – when I came to see Isaiah at Chapelfields.’ Connie chuckled and the hairs on Brodie’s head stood to attention.
‘She says, I’d like a word – oh, I know she doesn’t like me, Duncan. I can tell. A woman’s instincts. But that day she looked like she had something specific to tell me. So I popped into her office, just as she asked me to. And she gave me a big surprise, I can’t deny it. She says, oh, I know what you’ve done, you and Isaiah. And she proceeds to tell me. You ask Isaiah to give you the key safe code, she says, after he’s made a visit and dropped off an application form. Isaiah has a good look around when the old fellow isn’t paying attention. When he finds money, or valuables, it’s game on.’ Connie Chan laughed. ‘Game on. Another lovely English expression. I’ll bet you use that sometimes, Duncan. Maybe even when you decided to buy Eagle Court it was game on, was it?’ There was a moment’s silence as she concentrated on some detail of her task before continuing.
Brodie’s ears were doing their job, feeding the information to his brain, but he was struggling to take it in, the pain and discomfort in his neck and hands becoming too much of a distraction to be able to focus on Connie’s monologue.
‘I know, your wife says. I know, and I can give the police all the information they need to have you arrested. I followed you, Connie, did you know that? You were careful, sure, but not careful enough.’ Connie Chan made a soft, self-disparaging noise in her throat. ‘So, I was too blasé. And this, Duncan, is where it gets interesting. Oh, listen, shall I let you talk? Just for a bit?’
Chan ripped the gag from his mouth, and Brodie sucked in air. He felt lightheaded at the sudden intake of oxygen. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he managed.
Her shoulders slumped. ‘Such a vacuous question, Duncan. I’m disappointed. You’re a clever man, so why don’t you have a think and figure it out?’
‘She was blackmailing you,’ he croaked.
He sensed Chan quieten, perhaps to consider a suitable response. He tugged gently at the cords around his wrists, assessing their efficacy. It hurt, but he was beginning to realise that getting out of this pain-free wasn’t going to be an option. It seemed that he had more chance of working his hands free than his neck. If he could free them he could maybe reach up, grab the piping, take the pressure off his neck, use his legs somehow…
Chan’s answer was straightforward enough, however unlikely the dry confirmation seemed to him. ‘Yes, she was.’
‘Then what did she want? Blackmailers always want something, right?’ Brodie tried to imagine his wife seated at the office desk in Aviemore, setting out her terms, Chan perched opposite, listening attentively. Had that scene really taken place? Could Fiona do such a thing? It seemed ridiculous.
‘Of course they do. It’s very simple, Duncan. She wanted me to do it again. But this time, she was going to choose the victim. You know, I love the serendipity of this – there’s a lovely word.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brodie had found that by dint of repeated wrist flexions, he could make a little more space each time. The cords were cutting into his wrists and it would take a while, but eventually he might be able to slide a hand free. If Chan didn’t notice what he was doing.
‘Serendipity. An unplanned, fortunate discovery. That’s what it means.’
He felt her breath on his neck.
‘Here we are, back in your childhood prison. And yo
u remember it all, Duncan, don’t you? You remember the teachers, the gentle ones, the strict ones. And the sadists, the real bad guys.’
Brodie shivered. Where was she going with this?
‘You remember Mr Daintree?’
She bit his neck, felt her sharp little incisors draw blood. He yelped, more in surprise than pain, and she stepped back, laughing. ‘Just a nip, Duncan.’
Daintree … that name…
‘I remember Daintree. What of him?’
‘He wanted to come and live with you,’ she sang. ‘In Chapelfields. Now, wouldn’t that have been nice?’
He felt a cold thrill run through his body, from the apex of his skull to his toes. Now it made sense. Of course he remembered.
Chan went on, still in a sing-song lilt. ‘So, I kill him, like she wants. But my Isaiah, he is killed too, because of what she asks us to do. Because of her whim.’
‘That has nothing to do with me.’ His wrists were sliding more freely now, his blood providing the necessary lubrication. ‘I’m sorry about … Isaiah.’ Who the hell was Isaiah?
‘Tit for tat, though, that’s what we’re doing here, Duncan. My Isaiah has gone. And so Mrs Brodie’s darling Duncan must follow.’
‘You’re sick. Crazy.’
‘Reverting to insults, Duncan, after we’ve had such a nice time together?’
With a final slip, his hands came free. It was so sudden that, for a split-second, he froze. His hands went to his neck, grappling for the unseen metalwork which supported the cords that were strangling him. He pulled himself up, took some pressure off. He heard Chan’s exclamation of surprise, but before she could intervene, Brodie lunged with the desperation of a doomed man, and his legs encircled Chan’s slim torso. She pulled away, cursing him in some unknown language. His legs were losing their grip, he could feel his muscles weakening as she twisted and wriggled to free herself.
No, no, no…
He let go abruptly, drew his legs into his body, lashed out with all the power of his quads. He felt his feet connect with Chan’s upper body and she reeled back, cracked her head on the mould-coated institutional tiling, slid to the concrete and lay still.
Brodie’s heart was beating like a mad timpanist. He had to free his neck. His hands scrabbled at the knots that held the truss together. His fingernails splintered as he wrenched and tugged, and finally, just as he had reached the point of despair, he felt the noose loosen sufficiently to allow him to slip his head out. He sank to the floor, panting hard. Chan’s head had left a smear of blood on the wall. Beside her lay an open wallet containing a selection of small knives, the largest of which, a slim, black-handled flick knife, was still resting in the palm of her outstretched hand. Brodie’s eyes scanned left to right, recording the scene with a kind of fascinated horror. Chan’s high heels lay discarded next to a rusted bucket – she obviously like to work bare-foot – while her designer jacket was hanging on the nearest hook just outside the shower, where the shower supervisor used to stand all those years ago, issuing squirts of Vosene on request.
Brodie made himself get up. He looked down on his lover’s prone body, his emotions see-sawing between disgust and bewilderment. Chan wasn’t moving.
But Brodie could move. He staggered to the changing room entrance and clung briefly to the doorframe as his legs threatened to give way. Then he broke into a limping shuffle towards the front entrance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Charlie fumbled in her purse and found two twenty pound notes. She pressed them into the taxi driver’s hand. ‘Thanks. I’ll be fine from here.’
The driver looked doubtful. They were parked in an area set back from the road beside two stone gateposts. The gates themselves had seen better days; one had become detached from a hinge and lay askew from its partner like a recalcitrant drunk on a night out with a more sober buddy; the other was partially open and, judging by the fresh score marks on the ground, it had evidently been no easy task to shift it. The faded nomenclature worked into the iron of the skewed gate could still be read:
Eagle…
There were no houses on this stretch of road, just a solitary phone box perched on the verge a hundred metres further on.
The driver voiced his concerns. ‘Are you sure, miss? On a night like this?’
The fog was beginning to lift, but it was nevertheless, Charlie conceded, a filthy night to be out and about.
‘I’m sure.’ She gave him a confident smile and added, more for her own reassurance than his, ‘It’s fine, really – I’m a police officer.’
‘Well, if you say so. I wouldn’t let my missus wander about in a place like this, mind you, but…’ he shrugged, ‘you’re the boss.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate your concern.’
‘You need me again, give this number a call. It’ll come straight through to the cab.’
Charlie took the proffered card and tucked it into her pocket. ‘Cheers. I will.’
She watched the minicab’s rear lights fade into the murk. The sense of isolation made her wrap her arms around herself as she stood before the forbidding gates.
Come on, Charlie girl. What’s the worst that can happen?
First thing: check in.
She found her mobile, called up Moran’s number. Nothing. George was next on the list. After a few rings she was greeted by the familiar voice. ‘McConnell.’
‘George. I’m at the school. Where’s the guv?’
‘On his way in a chopper, believe it or not. He should be with you sometime in the next–’ There was a pause as George made a quick calculation. ‘Twenty minutes, I’d say – provided they don’t run into a tree, or a hill, or overhead power lines, or… hell, I can’t believe they got authorisation to fly in –’
‘–All right, George, I get it. But, as far as we know, Brodie and Chan are still here – the car hasn’t been picked up again since the original trace?’
‘Nope. But there’s always a chance they left and took another route. No guarantees that we’d pick ’em up again, not in this muck. Then again, they haven’t checked out of the hotel, so…’
‘So they’re probably still here.’
‘I’d wait for the guv if I were you, boss.’
‘I’ll be fine, George. Just stay on the end of the phone. I’ll let you know when we’ve got this wrapped up.’
Charlie signed off, took a deep breath, and went through the open gate.
Brodie reached his car, fumbled in his trouser pocket for the keys. They weren’t there. He tried the nearside door. It was locked. Of course it was. He always locked the car.
He leaned against the Lexus and tried to compose himself. The only way out of here was the car. No point even thinking about walking; the school was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woodland, the drive a half-mile stretch to the main road. His leg hurt with a fiery pain. He bent to inspect it and his fingers came away bloodstained. One of Chan’s blades had found its mark. It wasn’t deep, so far as he could tell, but it hurt.
There was nothing for it; he had to retrace his steps and find the keys. Then … then get the hell out, call the police at the first opportunity. An image of the bright hotel lounge, an officer or maybe two seated at the table, listening sympathetically to his account, a stiff Scotch in front of him. A rueful shake of his head. A close call, yes, indeed. How could he have known the woman was mentally ill? How indeed? The imaginary police officers nodded their respective agreement.
The front door yawned like a mocking mouth, daring him to enter. For an instant he thought he heard voices, young voices bantering, cat-calling as they filed towards the refectory for supper. The gruff voices of the supervising masters, the occasional yelp as a cane lashed out, made contact with a bare leg. He shook his head to dispel the ghosts. Pull yourself together, Duncan … Find those keys. Then you’re safe.
He went in, inched along the corridor towards the changing rooms. If he had his phone on him he could have used the torch, but it was locked in the car and the f
lashlight was still in the shower room. No matter; his night vision was improving. He scuffed the floor in a left-to-right, sweeping motion as he went – it would be all too easy to miss the lost keys in the stygian darkness of the corridor.
There.
He could see the dim outline of something on the floor a few metres ahead. He rushed to the spot, got down on his haunches, his hand closed over the object.
Yes!
He had them. Now, get the hell out of here…
That was when he heard a noise – the brittle clink of metal on concrete and, a second later, the soft, stealthy shuffle of bare feet on linoleum.
Brodie’s composure collapsed. He backed along the corridor, turned, lost his balance, fell sprawling. The keys fell from his hand, spun away into the darkness.
‘Is that you, Duncan?’
Chan’s voice, musical, a song of seduction, rising and falling in the blackness.
‘We have so much to do together, Duncan. You’ll see. Don’t run away, I have something for you…’
Brodie picked himself up, scrabbled for the keys. Where were they? How could he not see them?
In the way of all dropped objects, the keys had fallen and bounced to some obscure location. There was a darker rectangle on his left – the stairwell leading up to the dormitories. Perhaps they’d dropped onto one of the lower treads? His fingers probed, danced from left to right. Nothing.
Next step.
Same. God, where were they?
‘Duncan?’
Her voice was closer, too close. He shrank into the shadows, took three steps up the stairwell, pressed his back to the crumbling plaster.
A shadow passed across the stairwell, so close he could almost reach out and touch her. Brodie held his breath, flattened himself against the wall, tried to become one with the fabric of the building.
‘Are you here, Duncan? You’re not hiding from me, are you? Oh, what have I found? What do we have here?’
