Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy)

by Campbell Hart

  “Tell me it was on the M8?”

  “Yes. A car fitting that description was seen heading west on the M8. I think our girl may have been paying a visit to daddy.”

  “I’ll go down now. What time’s the press call?”

  “Twelve.”

  “OK I’ll phone in before then but expect to see me there.”

  “Don’t take any unnecessary risks. I’ll have a patrol car sent down. Happy hunting.”

  February 22nd 2010

  Mary had been careful not to make any noise as she approached the caravan. It had been icy and she had been careful not to give herself away by the crunch of the gravel driveway. Slowly she made her way to the back of the trailer. She crouched under the main window and listened. Mary had expected the quiet hum of the TV but there were raised voices inside, a foreign male voice which she didn’t recognise.

  “You will do as you are told. This has been planned to the last detail and I expect you to do your part.”

  Mary heard her father protest but then there was a scuffle and then a crash. She raised herself onto her tip toes to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. It was a dangerous move and if they looked out and saw her there was little she could do to hide. She could only make out the top of his head, a dark mane of hair swept back round his ears.

  “Now do you understand?” the voice was harsh. “Yes I understand,” replied her father. In the background she thought she could hear a child crying. ‘I’m going to need to revise my plans. Maybe the other man will leave.’ Mary crept across to the old house and checked the doors which were all locked. Thinking back she turned over a large stone in the driveway and found what she was looking for, the spare key. The rock had been stuck hard into the ground and was difficult to move so she assumed her father had forgotten it was here. As she walked through what had been her home Mary was struck by the silence. She froze when she heard a door open outside and for a second she thought that she had been discovered. From the front of the house she could see a beam of light shining through the windows. She bent down and held her breath. Then the door closed again and the light was gone. Mary made her way to the top floor and opened the door to her childhood bedroom to be faced once more with the memories which refused to die.

  February 23rd 2010

  Arbogast arrived at the farm at around 8:45am. He had rushed down a mug full of espresso from his DeLonghi Perfecta. It had cost a fortune but he could only function in the morning with strong coffee so the investment paid for itself on a daily basis. He felt wired – it was part coffee, part exhaustion, and part adrenalin. When he arrived at the Sanderson farm he realised it had been nearly two weeks since his last visit, although DS Reid had been down a few times. He thought of her and prayed that she would be OK, not that prayer was a currency he valued, but he still had hope. The landscape had changed. The last time he had been here the countryside had that magical quality that new snowfall brings. But it had started to melt away and the dead grass and blackened trees were beginning to show themselves. The thaw always brought with it the shock of the old. Deep snow hid the world, masked reality and concealed its secrets. The rubbish people dropped into a snowstorm would emerge through the ice, leaving a wasteland, as if an iceberg had slid over the country leaving behind it the detritus of countless careless moments.

  The farm stood midway up a hill, poised on a brief plateau. The birch trees that circled the house had been swept back by the wind, like a hand pushing down on long grass on a hot summer day. His own car was an eight year old Nissan which wasn’t made for ice. He had to abandon it halfway up the hill. It was probably fairer to say that the car abandoned him. The Nissan had lost all traction and the vehicle had spun nose first round 180 degrees and was facing back down lodged between the raised verges on either side of the drive. Arbogast left ‘old faithful’ in reverse and walked the rest of the way. There didn’t seem to be anyone around although the Range Rover was still there. Arbogast rapped the metal door for longer than was necessary. He waited but no-one came so he tried the door which to his surprise was open. He pulled it towards him and stuck his head through the door. “Hello?” he said, but found no response. He looked behind him, checking there was no one there and then he entered. He knew he shouldn’t, he had no right, but then again it had been left open so why not. All the rooms were empty and apparently unused. A bottle of vodka sat by what he assumed was Sanderson’s bed but there was no sign of anyone else. Confused he left the caravan and surveyed the area. Behind the caravan was the shower block. Arbogast made his way round and had a look. He assumed this was where the water came from. The block had seen better days. What had once been small white wooden windows where now rotting frames which wouldn’t last for much longer. There were two doors at either side, one marked MEN, the other WOMEN. He tried the door on the women’s side but it was locked. The rust on the hinges suggested it hadn’t been opened for some time. The other side was open. He walked in and was struck but the unmistakable stench of sewage. Arbogast covered his mouth and nose with his jacket sleeve and went into have a closer look. The block itself was nothing special. There were four shower cubicles and a urinal which was separated from the washing area by a flimsy plaster wall, which was crumbling in places. He assumed the tiles had once been white but they were now stained brown, strangers to detergent. The floor was cleaner; someone had been in here recently. Arbogast remembered that Sanderson said he drew his water from here. There was something about the shower block that was gnawing at Arbogast but he couldn’t place it. He would store it at the back of his mind and come back to it. Leaving the block he decided to have a closer look at the house but was stopped in his tracks. Standing outside, Eric Sanderson stood wiping his hands on what looked like an oil rag.

  “Detective Arbogast, get lost did we?” he said smiling from ear to ear, “I hear that you have managed to misplace my daughter – she’s always been trouble you know.”

  Arbogast didn’t like his tone, “I’ve been looking for you actually Mr Sanderson. I wondered if you might have seen your daughter, but I couldn’t find you.”

  “I was in the old place.”

  “Really, I thought you said the house was out of bounds?”

  “Quite right but I fear that mother-nature has forced my hand. It’s the thaw you see. The house is becoming unstable. As you can see it’s dropped an inch or two these last few days and I’m afraid the mine workings below may be ready to claim her.”

  “Being a bit dramatic aren’t we there sir?” There was something different in Eric’s manner today. He seemed more confident.

  “I’ve been having a look around the old place, taking what I might need but it’s become quite filthy. But let’s not stand around outside Detective, come into my office.”

  He gestured to Arbogast to make his way to the caravan.

  As the metal door scraped shut Mary watched from the house as her father took the Detective inside. She smiled and knew that her time had come.

  21

  Arbogast was staring intently at Eric Sanderson and he knew that his instinct had been right, something had changed. This was not the same reserved man he had encountered just a few days ago. He seemed relaxed, almost as if his troubles had disappeared. Arbogast saw no reason to beat around the bush.

  “Has Mary been here Eric?”

  “Mary?”

  If he knew anything Sanderson did well to cover his surprise.

  “I have good reason to believe that she may either be here already, or will turn up soon. Either way she’s in trouble.”

  Eric was examining the cuticles on his right hand, which was loosely clenched, “And what do you suppose I can do about that?”

  “You don’t seem overly concerned.”

  “Why should I be? I’ve told you about what happened in the past – there’s no love lost between us.”

  “Even so she’s still your daughter – flesh and blood. I’m sure you were...close...at one point?”

  �
��I don’t think I care much for your insinuations Inspector.”

  “Listen Eric I think you might know more about this than you’re letting on but right now you know I can’t prove anything.”

  “How inconvenient for you, detective.”

  Sanderson was about to say something else when he was cut off.

  “But here’s the thing – this case has turned into quite a circus. We’re holding a press conference in a couple of hours in Glasgow and I think you’re going to be our star turn. You see, like it or not, your daughter is missing. I think she’s in the immediate area and I think she wants to see you. But we want her to know you want to see her so you’ll be asking her to contact us, to give herself up.”

  “Are we back to this again? Why should I agree?”

  “It’ll look good for you. I know there are a few press people circling round just now, keen to dig up old stories and paint you up as a dirty old man. Whatever happens next this will help you and it will help us too. This case started off fairly simply. We had a known sex offender on the run with a young girl. But it’s all changed and I can’t quite pin down a motive. Your daughter doesn’t seem to have good reason to be involved in murder and abduction but she’s pushed herself out there. She’s become involved. Looking at the bigger picture all roads seem to be leading to your boss right now.”

  “What’s John Madoch got to do with anything?”

  “That’s my business. I want you to come with me and publicly call for Mary to turn herself in. Don’t take long to think it over because I’m not really giving you a choice. It’s either that or I’ll take you in and I’ll have forensics down here with a fine tooth comb. Technology has come a long way since 1985 you know.”

  “I hear what you’re saying and but I really don’t have a clue where you get your ideas from. I’m an engineer and a busy one at that. I’m at a key stage of the excavations for the wind farm. I have blasting to do today and this press conference of yours – let’s just say I don’t have the time.”

  “There’ll be time enough for that too, maybe. Get your coat.”

  As they left the caravan Arbogast noticed that Sanderson hadn’t locked up.

  “Feeling safe?”

  “There’s no-one here that will bother me and I really do have nothing worth taking.”

  “We’ve all got something, Eric.”

  As they recovered the car from the ice Arbogast noticed that a patrol car had arrived and was parked at the bottom of the road. He stopped on his way past and got out to speak to the constables.

  “Alright there? I need you to keep an eye on this entrance. I appreciate the owner’s coming with me but we still expect his daughter to make an appearance. Here’s her picture. If you see anything – phone it in. Failing that I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  He got the resigned nods he expected from the PCs who were embarking on what would no doubt be a tedious and largely thankless task, but it was this kind of donkey work that split pain-in-the-arse cases like this one wide open.

  Mary Clark watched her father leave with the detective and wondered what was going on. There was a patrol car too, which complicated things slightly but she could wait. The old house was creaking and groaning, in a way that was new to her. It seemed to be troubled, waiting for something to happen, to soothe its aches and pains, and it wouldn’t have long to wait. As Mary negotiated the stairs down to the ground floor she could see what the noise had been. Her father had been pottering around for close to three hours. She had toyed with the idea of confronting him there and then, but this wasn’t the right time. Not yet. As she looked around she could see that he had been busy, with tools scattered everywhere, although she couldn’t see what he had been working on. It occurred to Mary that her father might be trying to cover his tracks but she was determined that the trail of tears would end here. ‘I know Kovan is here somewhere. Madoch’s men told me that they would bring her here. I have never known exactly where it was but now I have the chance to find it.’ As she looked around she was surprised at how little her childhood home had changed. She had managed to escape and find a life of her own but it was as if time had stood still. There was something appropriate about the damage Mother Nature had wreaked on this old pile, as if the bricks and mortar were finally ready to give up her secrets. And then she saw the picture. It was taken outside behind the house. It had been a bright summer’s day and it showed her sat in her father’s knee on the old wooden garden bench, with her mother leaning in with her head nestled under his chin. ‘The happy family. What a joke.’ As she took the picture off the wall her old life came flooding back, the picnics and the Christmas time memories – but they all faded away when she remembered what he had done to her, time and time again. Mary felt anger growing inside her as she welled up at the thought of the secret place, their secret place. A sudden rage overcame her and she threw the picture across the room, recoiling when the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, the frame cracking and breaking. Mary collapsed onto the floor hugging her herself close with her arms clasped around here knees.

  She didn’t hear it at first but through her tears she became aware of the noise. A dull thud she thought must have been her own heartbeat but when she stopped and listened she realised that there was something or someone else in the house with her. This scared her at first but then if the noise came from a threat she reasoned that she would already know about it. Mary walked through the ground floor but could not identify exactly where the sound was coming from. She tried the door to the basement. It had always been locked when she was a child and she could never remember having actually been in there. Outside the door the noise was louder, a muffled banging noise and then what sounded like a muffled scream.

  “Help me,” it said, again and again, “Help me – let me out.”

  She tried the door to the basement and was surprised when it opened. The space was divided into two sections. The first had access to steps which led outside to the garden. The floor was cracked and when she looked up she could see it went right through the building and that she was directly below the living room. The second part of the basement was another enclosed room which took up the west section. Mary could see that the door was locked but it was here that the noise was coming from.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello – who is that – can you let me out please? I cannot breathe in this coffin. I must find my wife and daughter?”

  The voice was foreign although Mary could not place it, although it sounded familiar.

  “Wait. I’ll help. I’m not with the man who locked you in.” Looking around Mary could see there was no key and there were three mortise locks to be opened. “I’ll be back.” She knew where the keys had been kept before, but returning to the kitchen she found nothing save for rusting cutlery and aged utensils that were long past their prime. Returning to the basement she looked for an axe or saw, anything that could help her cut through. And then she saw the chainsaw.

  “Stand back I’m going to cut you out,” she said, pulling on the starter cord. Again and again she pulled achieving nothing but fruitless splutters until, suddenly, the saw roared into life and she got to work. It was hard going but 15 minutes later she had managed to cut a hole that was big enough through the wooden door for the prisoner to crawl through. She watched as he made his way to freedom, his lush dark hair and dirty black suit made for quite a contrast. As he raised himself to his full height she screamed.

  “It’s you, my god what have I done.”

  It was another full house at the Pitt Street auditorium. They had agreed to keep it short and sweet. Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, was going to give a brief update about yesterday’s ‘escape’ while Eric Sanderson was to be the star of the show. He hadn’t been keen and tried to leave when he saw the number of people, cameras, and microphones that were waiting for him. ‘I can’t do TV, I just can’t,’ he had argued but they had insisted he would not need to do interviews, and that the press conference itself would provide a
ll the material that would be needed. A number of satellite broadcasters were there too so the whole thing was to be covered live across the UK and abroad. Arbogast was pleasantly surprised to see Rosalind Ying back in the saddle.

  “Hey there, are you sure you should be back so soon?” he said, touching her arm. Rosalind still looked like death warmed up but she was obviously determined to make the best of a bad situation.

  “What and let you close my case, I don’t think so. How’s Eric doing?”

  “He’ll do his bit. This routine will give us a bit of breathing space. I’ve got a car down at the farm and I’ll be driving him back after this. I think I’ll have a look around the house.”

  “With his permission of course,” she said, as a broad smile lit up her face.

  “Naturally,” They watched from the sidelines as the media consumed the Eric and Norrie show.

  “He’s not too bad,” Arbogast said, nudging Rosalind, “you’d almost think he cared.” From the corner of his eye Arbogast saw a hand trying to get his attention. It was Sandy Stirrit.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” Rosalind nodded as Arbogast made his way into the press pack.

  “Fancy seeing you here – I thought you were going to go to town on this for me?”

  “I tried but they wouldn’t bite. Too scared of legal action but this is all good stuff,” he said nodding to the press bench. “Do you have anything else for me?”

  “Strictly on the QT we’re looking into one John Madoch.”

  “John Madoch – Glasgow’s favourite gangster?”

  “He’s over this like a rash. Hanom Kocack was being forced to work in a lap dancing bar owned by Madoch while the husband, Onur, is working at Moorland Wind out at Eaglesham. Eric Sanderson works with him, and then as you know Sanderson’s daughter is also involved. Far too many coincidences to be coincidental don’t you think? We’re saying nothing publicly at the moment but it would be worth you digging a bit deeper. Madoch’s involved but we can’t prove it yet. And you being a good fellow of the press I’m sure he wouldn’t object to a few friendly questions.”