by Nick Oldham
At the village boundary, Jake had a good open view of the centre with the Tawny Owl on the left, just a little further on than the butcher and general store, the only two shops.
The Skoda sped past the pub, and Jake used the incline to wheedle just a tad more speed out of the Land Rover, and to be on the safe side he flipped on the blue light.
Fortunately, the main street of Kendleton was just as deserted as Thornwell when the two vehicles screamed through.
Overwall chose the road that would take him up past Jake’s police house, beyond which Jake knew that he would have little or no hope of catching Overwall, who, he guessed, would know all the ins and outs, highways and byways, whereas Jake was still pretty much a stranger to the area.
It wasn’t that Overwall would not be caught and arrested at some time in the future – but that was no good to Jake.
He needed to speak to Overwall now. Later might be too late.
Henry hung upside down, swaying slightly, with his head about two inches from the floor, looking into the huge eyes of the dead horse. He raised his head and tried to look around the big, cold room. There were rows and rows of animal carcases, mostly gutted, skinned and prepared for sale. Others were not so far advanced. They were just gutted, their bellies hanging open, probably waiting their turn. He saw two deer carcases and knew they would have been poached from private land, probably from the Duke of Westminster’s estate, which covered thousands of acres around this part of the world.
He struggled against his bonds, but they were tight and immovable. He quickly tired himself, and his vision swam with the effort and the pain in his head.
As soon as Overwall had gone, Bartle had said, ‘You want to see, eh? OK, Mr Christie, I’ll show you … You just hang on there.’ He cackled mirthlessly at his own joke and left Henry straining to see where he went. He walked to the far end of the cold room, and Henry saw his feet disappear through a door.
He was back a short time later.
‘Come on, ladies, do as you’re told,’ Henry heard him say.
There was a scraping noise, like chains being dragged. Twisting his head, Henry saw feet appear back through the same door.
There were four pairs of feet.
He recognized Bartle’s boots.
And behind these were three pairs of naked, dirty, blood-caked feet.
SEVENTEEN
Jake almost lost control of the Land Rover while hurtling around the right-hand bend just beyond the Tawny Owl. The vehicle skittered across the greasy road surface, but he wrestled with the heavy steering and righted it with a dramatic fishtail.
Overwall was still ahead, drawing easily away as he passed the police house.
Out of the corner of his eye Jake saw the lights in the house, the front door open, and Anna standing there, silhouetted, obviously awaiting the arrival home of her daughter, keeping a vigil.
She ran down the front steps, confused as Jake flew by.
Beyond the house the road ascended, then dropped into a fairly long straight stretch before becoming a twisting, turning labyrinth in which Jake knew he would lose Overwall for certain.
He was way ahead of the police car now, maybe 250 metres, his own headlights on full beam.
Even from this distance, Jake clearly saw what happened next.
Seemingly from nowhere, a magnificent red deer stag leapt from the blackness on the right, directly in front of Overwall’s car. The huge beast was captured in all its full masculine glory in the main beam, and it spun its head to look directly into the headlights, causing its eyes to shine ruby red.
Overwall’s brake lights came on as he slammed the brakes on.
The stag remained as still as a magnificent carved bronze statue, staring defiantly into the lights. Jake was convinced that the Skoda was going to ram into the animal.
Two things happened simultaneously.
Overwall swerved violently to the left, his Skoda leaving the road and plunging into the dyke by the roadside. And the stag shook its head in some haughty gesture and, with a surge of power and strength, leapt off the road into the darkness and was gone.
‘Our stag,’ Jake said. ‘Thank you.’
They were in chains. They were handcuffed, and another chain was threaded through the link between the cuffs and was in Bartle’s hands.
Bartle dragged them, like a slave master, between the hanging carcases until all three were standing in front of Henry.
‘You wanted to see. Here they are, Mr Christie.’
Even in his own sorry state, Henry was shocked by what he was looking at.
Emma was one of the three females, the only one fully dressed, but even so, what remained of her school uniform were rags, as if the clothing had been purposely torn. All she had on was her shirt and tiny pencil skirt, her tights laddered and ripped. She looked cowed and terrified and dishevelled, her pretty face swollen and bruised, lips bust open and bleeding, hair a mess. Her head was bowed in defeat, but her eyes looked pleadingly at Henry as tears flowed down her face.
The other two had filthy bed sheets wrapped around them and were obviously naked underneath. Their faces were dirty, like Victorian urchins.
Henry instantly recognized one of them, even though her face seemed misshapen and out of line: Laura Marshall, the missing special constable.
He did not know the other girl.
Bartle yanked the chain, pulling the girls to their knees.
‘Jesus,’ Henry said, ‘you sick bastard.’
Bartle leaned over in front of Henry. ‘Now that I’ve given you a show, I’m going to give them one. They’re going to love seeing your guts spilled – aren’t you, girls?’
Henry heard Emma stifle a scream.
‘Please don’t be dead,’ Jake said, swerving to a halt and stopping at the point where the Skoda had veered off the road. He could see the deep indentations of the tyres in the grass verge and the car itself just beyond, nose down in the ditch. Smoke and steam rose from its front end. The driver’s door was flung open.
Overwall wasn’t dead. He was out of the car and running across the field.
Jake swore, grabbed his torch, jumped down out of the Land Rover and went after him.
He slithered down the banking into the wet, evil-smelling ditch, the dirty water at the bottom of the dyke coming up over his ankles, his shoes slurping in the glutinous mud. He had to drag his feet out of the mud before scrambling up the opposite bank and vaulting the barbed-wire fence into the field, ripping a huge hole in his suit jacket. This was all well and good, but Jake was still wearing the suit he’d had on for the inquest – his best one – and also his best shoes.
That did not deter him. Slithering in the mud, he came upright, got his balance and went after Overwall, who he picked up fifty metres ahead of him in the beam of the torch.
Jake set off at an easy trot. He knew Overwall slightly, had seen him most mornings picking up the kids, often lounging against the side of his taxi with a cigarette in his mouth and coughing disgustingly. He would be easy to hunt down, and the best way to do it would be like a hunting dog, going for the long game. This would ensure that when he grabbed him Jake would not be too exhausted himself to deal with him.
But Overwall had no pace at all, and Jake wondered if he’d been injured in the accident. He hoped so, but not too much, because Jake wanted to inflict some injuries on him. He was staggering and limping when Jake caught up with him, and with a push in the back, Overwall dropped on to his knees and raised his arms wide in submission.
Bartle dragged the young women down, then wrapped the chain around the head of a hanging deer.
‘You don’t move,’ he warned them. None of them dared to look him directly in the face. ‘I’m going to keep you entertained now,’ he said.
‘Where’s the police car?’ Henry blurted. It was something that had bothered him from the word go, and before he was sliced open, he needed to know. How could it have disappeared so completely, without trace?
‘Eh?�
�
‘PC Marshall had a police car … It was never found.’
‘Ah,’ Bartle said, getting it. ‘Covered in shit.’
In his rage and with his momentum, Jake could not prevent himself from smashing into Overwall and flattening him into the soft, muddy ground, then pushing and kneading his face into it, before hauling it out and screaming into Overwall’s ear, ‘Where’s my daughter? Where is she? And where’s Henry Christie?’
Overwall spat out mud and wet grass and spluttered, ‘I’ve got my rights! You can’t treat me like this.’
Jake’s response to this was to force his weasel face back down into the mud and hold it there, half-suffocating him, before lifting his head back out by his hair.
‘No rules here, you bastard. I’m searching for my daughter, and I’ll do what I have to do and face the consequences … Just me and you here,’ he growled into Overwall’s ear. Just to prove this statement, he pulled back Overwall’s head, then rubbed his face back in the mud. He pulled it out again and demanded, ‘Where is she?’
Overwall coughed and choked. ‘Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry.’
Henry tried to writhe and turn and watch Bartle as he walked towards a table on the opposite side of the room, where he picked up a huge gutting knife in one hand and a slightly smaller carving knife in the other.
Bartle inspected both knives under the light cast by the fluorescent tubes overhead, running his fingertips down the blades, holding them up to catch the light. Satisfied, he turned and smiled at Henry. The blades flashed.
‘Fuck,’ Henry muttered desperately, his fear rising so far that he was sure he was about to burst.
The big, lumbering man walked slowly across and stood in front of Henry’s dangling body, weighing him up, casting his professional slaughterer’s eyes over him.
He squatted down, placed the knives on the floor and reached for the captive bolt gun he had left there.
‘In some ways, it’s tempting not to use this,’ he said of the gun. ‘Part of me just wants to gut you, pull out your innards, let them hang down over your face so you can see and smell them, watch them steam, while you’re still alive. I mean, I can do that … easy … then slit your throat and watch the life pump out of you. Trouble is, I love using this baby.’ He shook the gun.
He rotated slightly on the balls of his feet, in order to be directly in front of Henry. He placed the open palm of his left hand gently on the right side of Henry’s face. Henry could feel the rough callouses and harsh skin and recoiled as terror like he had never known coursed through him.
‘Ah, ah, ah, just holding you steady,’ Bartle explained.
‘Fuck you,’ Henry growled darkly.
Bartle smirked, held Henry’s head firmly and placed the muzzle of the gun into the side of his head on the hairline between his left ear and eye, then screwed the barrel hard.
‘It’s a bit like a nail gun. It only fires into a hard surface. That’s why I have to keep your head still or it won’t work properly and you’ll suffer unnecessary pain.’
Henry swore at him again.
‘Just thinking of your welfare,’ Bartle started to say. ‘I’m a—’
Whatever he was going to say was cut short when Bartle screamed ear piercingly like a demented devil, dropped the gun and at the same time pitched forwards on to the cold concrete floor, then rolled, moaning, clutching his groin. Henry jerked and saw Emma Niven standing there, having somehow extracted her petite wrists from Bartle’s old-style handcuffs and chain and sneaked up behind him as he was crouching in front of Henry. She had delivered a ferocious kick between his legs with as much force as possible.
Bartle rolled away in agony, but was quickly up on his knees again, red faced, hissing like a steam train, with both hands clasped over his balls.
‘Bitch,’ he said, starting to rise, ‘you’re gonna die now.’
Emma spun towards him like a ballerina, but Henry realized her movements were more like a ninja than a dancer as she flipped her body around like a top, lashing out with her right foot and kicking Bartle in the face, sending him sprawling underneath several hanging carcases.
Henry saw the moment of impact – the way Bartle’s face distorted, the saliva whipping out of his mouth like a slavering dog.
‘Cut me down,’ he screamed at Emma.
She ran to him, picked up the smaller of the two knives, reached up above Henry’s feet and sliced through the cord around his ankles which was looped over the meat hook. Henry thudded down awkwardly on the side of his head and shoulder, banging hard even though the drop was only a few inches.
‘The tape, the tape,’ he encouraged her.
Bartle was already rising, shaking his head like a grizzly bear, pure malevolence in his eyes as he scrambled to his feet whilst Emma sliced at the tape that bound Henry’s wrists. Feeling it give, he began to strain his wrists against it to speed up the process and help to tear it apart.
Bartle lumbered towards them, his arms swinging like a speed skater. One of Henry’s hands jerked free, but it seemed too little, too late. Bartle barged into Emma. The knife flew out of her grip, and then he had his huge arms wrapped tightly around her slim frame. He lifted her away from Henry and ran her hard against the side wall of the abattoir.
She screamed, kicked and punched at him, fighting wildly.
With a swell of strength, Henry broke his second hand free from the tape, ripping the hairs out of the back of his wrist with a grimace. With his legs still strapped up, he writhed across the floor like a mermaid to reach the knife, sat up and hacked at the tape to release his feet.
Seeing this happening, Bartle roared, hurled Emma to one side and ran for Henry, who sliced the last thread of tape to free his legs and scuttled on his hands and knees behind a huge carcase of beef.
Bartle sidestepped and went for Henry, who had managed to get to his feet, still with the knife in his hand.
Henry screamed a warning. ‘I’ll use this.’ He brandished the blade menacingly.
Bartle stopped abruptly and dropped into a wrestler’s stance, wiping blood off his face with the back of his hand. Henry saw that Emma’s karate kick had broken the man’s nose.
‘You’re finished, Spencer,’ Henry taunted him, backing away. ‘This – whatever it is – is all over now.’
‘Not yet.’ He spat blood, wiped his face again, then charged, moving more quickly than a man of his size should have been able.
Henry brought up the knife, his mind blank but desperate, knowing he was fighting for his and other people’s lives here, and if it meant plunging the blade deep into Bartle’s heart, he would do it – and then give it a twist.
But Bartle was very fast, coming at him in a blur, and suddenly the knife was spinning out of his hand and Bartle was on him. His huge, muscled arms surrounded him, forcing Henry backwards and crushing the air out of his lungs, squeezing the life out of him.
The pair of them crashed against a side of beef. They ricocheted off that into the dead horse, off that into another side of beef, until their balance went in this terrible macabre ballroom dance and they toppled over, Bartle on top, Henry underneath, struggling and fighting.
Henry managed to pull one arm free and clattered his open hand across Bartle’s face, but the man simply flicked the pathetic blow off with contempt and continued to hold Henry down, then sat upright, straddling Henry, moving himself up Henry’s body, pinning his shoulders to the cold floor; then, adjusting himself, he carefully wrapped the fat fingers of his left hand around Henry’s throat. He dug his calloused-tipped fingers in, rooting for the windpipe, which Henry was certain would be ripped out.
Henry’s eyes bulged, and his tongue started to swell. Bartle squeezed slowly, looking down, starting to laugh.
Then – abruptly – the laugh stopped. Bartle went rigid. His whole body jerked upright. His expression turned to one of horror. His mouth contorted, and he heaved up a mouthful of blood and screamed silently, before pitching heavily on to Henry, crushing him w
ith his weight.
Laura Marshall stood behind him. She was a thin, wasted figure, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets, her frame withered and weak.
But she had found enough strength in her to plunge the knife that Henry had dropped deep into Bartle’s back, just by his left shoulder blade and into his chest cavity, driving the full length of it in.
She stood back, horror-struck, as Henry disentangled himself and pushed Bartle off him at the same moment Rik Dean and Jake Niven ran into the abattoir.
The man watched the house, not caring how long this would take. He saw the police Land Rover pull up outside, saw Jake Niven get out and go around to the passenger side and help out his daughter. He carried her in his arms towards the front door, which opened, and Anna Niven rushed out, their son Danny behind her.
As a family they entered the house.
‘How very touching,’ the man whispered cynically to himself. He did not know for sure what was going on, but that did not matter.
A couple of minutes later, the door opened again, and Jake came out and got back into the Land Rover, reversed off the drive and sped off. The man watched, not too concerned, because Jake would be coming back sooner or later.
The man got slowly out of his car and walked up to the front of the house, knocked gently on the door. It opened after a few seconds. Anna Niven stood there, drying her eyes, clearly having some sort of hyper-emotional time.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Mrs Niven?’
‘Yes.’
The man put a finger to his pursed lips and said, ‘Shh. My name is Arlow Worthington … You might know of my brother, Fraser Worthington.’ He then drove his fist into Anna’s face.
EIGHTEEN
‘There.’
The nurse took a step back and proudly surveyed her handiwork: Henry Christie’s head.
She had done all the dirty work on the deep gash caused by the crowbar. She had shaved his head and cleaned it carefully, making the patient wince and gasp as she dabbed and swabbed, causing him to go, ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh’ (in a slightly disconnected thought, Henry reminded himself of the ‘monkey’ joke, the one about a chimp getting into a hot bath); then she gently eased each side of the wound together and began the painful process of stitching him up, because it had been medically decided that butterfly strips would not be strong enough to hold it together.
