Primal Cut

by Ed O'Connor

  Alison Dexter’s eyes were open. She lay in a puddle of molasses on the kitchen floor. Her hands cuffed in front of her, her feet tied at the ankle. Bartholomew Garrod moved around in front of her, illuminated by the flickering half light of three paraffin lamps, dropping chopped vegetables into a frying pan. Dexter knew exactly what fate awaited her. She remembered the photographs from the ‘Primal Cut’ case file. She remembered the contents of the Garrods’ refrigerator. She hoped that consciousness would fail her quickly. Garrod had removed the tubing from her mouth and most of the masking tape: she could at least now breathe through her nose although her mouth was sealed shut.

  Garrod crouched down in front of her.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said through a giant yellow smile, ‘you’ve woken up in time for dinner. Ain’t that sweet?’

  She tried to move away from him but his hands stretched under her armpits and dragged her up from the ground. Dexter now knew pure terror. Naked, glazed and unable to defend herself, she tried to make herself as limp and awkward as possible. Garrod struggled, one handed, to raise her arms in the air. She slipped and flopped and resisted as effectively as she could. However, eventually he lifted her handcuffs up to the meat hook that he had fixed into the doorframe and she dangled there, utterly helpless. Then, in her darkest most shame-filled moment, she heard footsteps in the adjoining corridor.

  Garrod moved past her as she screamed soundlessly into her gag and walked into the doorway. He recognised the dark outline of Henry Braun.

  ‘You’re a bit early,’ said Garrod as he admitted his guest.

  ‘Couldn’t wait,’ said Braun with a grin. ‘We all set?’

  ‘Yes,’ Garrod replied. ‘She’s in here.’

  They walked through. ‘Went off all right then?’

  ‘Like a dream. You’ve had no contact from the police?’ Garrod asked.

  Henry Braun wasn’t listening. He was standing, transfixed by the sight of Alison Dexter hanging naked in the doorway, glaze dripping from her body. Her eyes, for an instant pleading and hopeful, seemed to die as she recognised Braun and finally understood the horror of what awaited her.

  ‘What’s all that stuff all over her?’ Braun whispered, riveted by the shocking image in front of him.

  ‘Molasses. It’s a kind of sugar syrup. Make her taste sweeter.’ Garrod was enjoying the obvious awe he had engendered in Braun. Perhaps the man could be useful to him again in future. They had both lost their brothers. That created a bond of tragedy between the two of them.

  Braun reached into his rucksack and pulled out a Polaroid camera. He began taking pictures, placing each on Garrod’s kitchen table as it was spat out of the camera.

  ‘These are for my brother, bitch,’ Braun whispered in Dexter’s ear. He bent down in front of her and licked molasses from her stomach in a vertical line up to her neck. Dexter tensed and tried to wrench herself free of the meat hook. ‘When I’ve finished, you’ll wish you’d put me away, not him.’

  Garrod poured some red wine into his frying pan. It sizzled happily.

  Underwood’s car pulled up outside the derelict hospital.

  ‘There it is,’ Harrison said pointing at the white Sierra parked ahead of them.

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ Underwood muttered. They had momentarily lost contact with the car a minute or two previously. When Braun had turned off the main road, the police car had overshot the approach road. Underwood had feared the worst. Now they were back in the game.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked.

  Harrison used a torch to locate their current position on a map. ‘Craxten Fen Psychiatric Hospital.’

  ‘You are kidding me?’ Underwood stared out at the huge building with considerable trepidation: madness lived inside.

  ‘What’s your plan?’ Harrison asked.

  ‘Where is the ARU?’

  ‘At the crossroads. Five minutes maybe seven. You think we should wait?’

  Underwood heard himself make a decision from within the shell of his fear.

  ‘No. I think we should go in. My problem is I have no idea what to do when we get in there.’

  Unarmed, he did not fancy his chances against Bartholomew Garrod. But then, Alison Dexter could be inside that building somewhere. If he was too late to help her, he knew he would never forgive himself.

  ‘I’m going up there for a look,’ he said. ‘Stay here and direct the ARU. Call for back up, an ambulance, the SAS, whatever’s available.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Underwood withdrew a torch from the glove compartment and climbed out of the car. He headed nervously towards the hospital, clambering through the break in the fence line just as Braun had done a minute or two previously. Underwood ducked down low against the stone wall of the east wing and moved as quickly as he could through the darkness. The front door was padlocked. He headed around the side of the building, passing gingerly through the maze of discarded machinery and below the looming silhouette of the water tower.

  Underwood could smell cooking. He prayed to whatever God that still listened to him for help.

  Inside, Bartholomew Garrod was almost ready. He lifted his frying pan from the heat of his cooking stove and placed it to one side. He picked up his favourite cutting knife and turned towards Alison Dexter. Braun had finished taking photographs and was in the process of taking off his trousers. He saw Garrod approaching with a knife.

  ‘Jesus Christ, George!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  ‘I’m going to start with some silverside, then maybe move on to some rump fillet,’ Garrod replied. ‘Get out of the way. I’ve waited a long time for this.’

  Braun stood with his trousers around his ankles, barring Garrod’s way. ‘Hang on, mate. I thought I was going to slip her one before you did your business with her. I’m not doing this for charity you know. We had an arrangement.’

  ‘Do you think I’d eat anything after you’d been crawling all over it?’ Garrod spat back. ‘Get out of my way, sonny. I’ll take what I want and you can shag whatever’s left.’

  Garrod moved quickly: he flung Braun against the kitchen wall and now stood in front of Dexter, his knife gleaming. ‘And now, dearie, you know what’s coming next, don’t you?’

  Dexter’s eyes followed the point of the knife as it moved gently down her body. ‘Silverside is one of my favourite cuts. It’s that bit of your inner thigh just under your arse.’ He used his foot to slide a washing up bowl underneath her.

  John Underwood was standing at the door.

  Braun saw him first. ‘Who the fuck is this bloke?’ he asked Garrod as he pulled his jeans back up to his waist.

  Garrod turned to face the man he had battered and left for dead in the North Sea.

  ‘He’s a copper, you stupid bastard,’ Garrod shouted back. ‘They followed you.’ Furious at his partner’s idiocy, Garrod turned and plunged his cutting knife straight into Braun’s solar plexus. Stunned, Braun staggered backwards gasping for air, flailing hopelessly before tripping in his half-pulled up trousers and falling to the kitchen floor.

  Underwood stepped into the kitchen. ‘Bartholomew Garrod, you have the right to remain silent.’ Underwood’s warning sounded pathetic but he could see Dexter was still alive and he had to play for time. ‘I should warn you that anything you say might be used against you.’

  Garrod laughed. ‘Come on then, arrest me. I’ll rip your fucking head off. You should have stayed at the bottom of the North Sea. I’ll have your tongue out for that.’

  Underwood exchanged a glance with Dexter. Her eyes were either pleading with him to help or warning him to run away. ‘The place is surrounded. There are armed police outside. Give yourself up now. Don’t end up like that idiot brother of yours.’

  Cold hatred flickered in Garrod’s eyes. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You had some simple-minded oaf in tow in London. But you let him down, didn’t you? You left him to take the rap while you did a runner. Real fraternal love
that is. I bet you still have nightmares about leaving him behind. You see, I know all about you Bartholomew. This little mess you’ve created isn’t going to bring him back.’

  ‘What can you possibly know about me?’

  ‘I know about the photo.’ Underwood said pulling the picture he had found in Garrod’s caravan from his pocket. ‘Is that what got you started? Daddy’s photo collection?’

  Garrod saw his photo in Underwood’s hand. ‘Give it to me,’ he said, ‘give me the picture and I won’t kill you.’

  Underwood shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’ He backed up, stepping out of the kitchen door and into the corridor. Garrod followed him out. Underwood took a cigarette lighter from his pocket.

  Dexter tried to strain her eyes into the darkness beyond the kitchen to see what was happening. She hoped sincerely that Underwood had a plan. His words had a very empty ring to them. She hung uselessly in the air and watched Henry Braun’s life pump away in front of her.

  Underwood continued backing up. They were both outside now, on the lawn next to the back entrance to the kitchen corridor. Garrod looked from side to side. There were no other policemen to be seen. Once again this idiotic copper had made the mistake of facing him alone.

  ‘Give yourself up Bartholomew,’ Underwood said.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Garrod snarled, bearing down on him. ‘I’m having too much fun.’

  ‘You must be even thicker than your brother then,’ Underwood laughed. ‘I thought he was the family freak.’ He suddenly sparked the flint on his cigarette lighter: it flamed brightly. Underwood set fire to Garrod’s photograph and held it up as it burned.

  Furious and seeing an opportunity, Garrod lunged forward and slammed both hands into Underwood’s chest. The speed and ferocity of the attack sent Underwood staggering off balance, stumbling backwards into the honey pit. Molasses welled around him, Garrod was above him in an instant: his monstrous hands forcing Underwood’s head down into the deep pool of brown syrup. Underwood thrashed helplessly and tried desperately not to breathe in the mess that was engulfing him.

  ‘You see,’ Garrod said, ‘the problem with dumb animals is that they get slaughtered. It’s the law of nature. It’s not their fault and we shouldn’t even pity them. They are meant to be slaughtered from the very moment that they’re born.’

  Underwood was on the verge of losing consciousness. He was fading, he had nothing to respond to Garrod’s huge strength and superior position. He went limp in the hope that Garrod might let go. He didn’t. Underwood’s broken nose pressed agonisingly against the hard plastic lining of the honey pit. He knew that he only had seconds remaining.

  Harrison had directed the ARU team through the fencing and towards the hospital. Armstrong pushed on down the alley at the side of the east wing, her Glock pistol pointed directly in front of her. Harrison and Murphy – the other armed officer – ran a flanking manoeuvre around the west side of the hospital.

  Armstrong rounded the side of the building first and, through the darkness, saw the huge bulk of Bartholomew Garrod hunched over the pit in the centre of the lawn.

  ‘Cambridge police!’ she shouted. ‘Stand up and put your hands above your head!’

  Garrod released his grip on Underwood and turned to face the source of the voice. For the first time that night, he began to sense that events were sliding away from him. He started to walk towards the voice. Behind him, an exhausted John Underwood hauled himself out of the pit trying, agonisingly, to catch his breath.

  ‘Stand still or I will shoot!’ Armstrong warned him. Garrod was closing on her rapidly. She levelled her gun and fired. The shot cracked out, echoing across the huge still space of Craxten Fen. The bullet smashed into Garrod’s right shoulder. The impact made him stagger sideways but, to Armstrong’s horror and surprise, the man kept coming at her. The second shot hit him in the stomach a split second before he crashed into her and drove her hard into the hospital wall snapping a number of her ribs.

  Armstrong’s Glock fell to the ground. Garrod, wounded but still functional, flung the broken ARU officer down and turned back towards the kitchen. He could hear other voices approaching through the darkness. Other policemen would soon be on him. He was not afraid to die: only of dying unavenged. He staggered back to the kitchen corridor, blood oozing from the two bullet wounds. Seeing this, Underwood got uneasily to his feet.

  Garrod lurched past Alison Dexter and fell against his kitchen table, his feet sliding in the pool of blood made by Braun’s terrible chest wound. He clattered amongst his tools until he found an appropriately long cutting knife. Gutting her would have to suffice. His strength was ebbing away rapidly, the room starting to swim around him. He steadied himself and turned towards Alison Dexter.

  John Underwood stood between them, Lisa Armstrong’s Glock pistol aimed squarely at the centre of Garrod’s forehead.

  ‘Put the knife down,’ Underwood said. ‘It’s over Bartholomew.’

  Garrod half heard the words. The room was spinning: pain wracked his body at every heartbeat. He could smell onions cooking and hear Ray shouting at him:

  ‘Ah ate some bit of him, Bollamew!’

  Alison Dexter hung a few feet away from him. Garrod decided to take her with him; drag her into the honey pit for eternity; he would chew at her soul instead of her body.

  He lunged forwards.

  Underwood fired the Glock directly into the centre of Garrod’s forehead. Garrod’s head snapped back and the prize fighter fell to the ground. Underwood stepped over him and fired another shot into the fallen man’s head. Garrod’s body spasmed at the impact. Then he fired again; power and satisfaction surged through the weapon. Underwood stared at the animal he had put to the ground.

  ‘Guv! That’s enough!’ Harrison shouted as he and Murphy charged through the back door, ‘Enough!’

  Underwood let his grip relax and the Glock pistol fell to the floor.

  Harrison reached up and unhooked Dexter’s hands from the meat hook; she slumped exhausted into his arms.

  Underwood studied the holes he had put in Garrod’s head. Inexplicably, he started to laugh.

  Redemption

  74.

  Monday, 28th October 2002

  Bob Woollard stood as Judge Arthur Barnard addressed the foreman of the jury. Barnard had a rich, deep tone to his voice that made DI Mike Bevan imagine that the God of Justice himself had come to Peterborough.

  ‘How do you find the defendant Mr Robert Woollard on the charge of “overloading, infuriating and terrifying” animals under Section A of the 1991 Protection of Animals Act?’

  The foreman, a physics teacher from Newmarket, cleared his throat. ‘Guilty.’

  ‘On charge two, that the defendant Mr Robert Woollard “caused, procured or assisted in the fighting of animals and managed premises for that purpose”, do you find him guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Guilty, your worship.’

  ‘Guilty, your honour,’ the judge corrected him with the ghost of a smile lurking on his lips.

  Woollard was also found guilty of four additional charges relating to the breeding and sale of illegal dogs. After a brief deliberation, Judge Barnard sentenced him to a minimum of three years’ imprisonment: the maximum permitted by the existing legislation. In the Public Gallery, DI Mike Bevan punched a clenched fist into the palm of his hand.

  Bevan looked across the courtroom at Woollard, keen to try and read the man’s reaction. The sentence would send a message out into the dog fighting community that none of them was untouchable. Hopefully, it would disrupt the Cambridgeshire circuit enough to jeopardise its existence altogether. There was also the comforting thought that Woollard would soon be facing separate charges of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice relating to the murder of Leonard Shaw.

  As Woollard was led away, he looked up at the gallery and impassively met Bevan’s gaze.

  The policeman allowed himself a smile.

  75.

  Sandway’s
abattoir struggled to continue its normal business. Since the capture of Bartholomew Garrod, a number of police officers had visited the processing plant and conducted interviews with Robert Sandway and his employees. The unwanted publicity had been damaging. The Ministry had scheduled a full-scale inspection. Preparation for this was disrupting his normal operating procedures. He could not afford such distractions. Time in his business was undoubtedly money and he had no desire to see his narrow profit margins crushed any further.

  Sandway was still a minor player in the industry. Economies of scale were loaded against him. Over nine hundred million animals are slaughtered annually in Britain. Only seventy thousand of them were rendered at his plant in 2001. His business was always peripheral; its margins wafer thin, its survival dependent on a narrow base of local buyers and a shallow stream of cash flows. Now Sandway could almost feel the ministry pithing stick scratching at his brain.

  Only ruthless efficiency and attention to the regulatory framework could keep his business alive. Ironically, nobody had made those points more strongly than the man he now knew as Bartholomew Garrod.

  76.

  Tuesday, 29th October 2002

  At her suggestion, DI Alison Dexter met John Underwood for lunch in Cambridge. She was sitting at the vulnerable table next to the darts board of the Cross Keys on Lensfield Road. He found her mood difficult to read. The burning intelligence in her eyes seemed, for once, to be clouded with something else. Underwood sensed it was vulnerability. Or shame. Either way, she looked half-pleased to see him. This, at least, was progress. He chewed thoughtfully on a steak and kidney pie as she talked business.