Even if they activated the thing’s GPS and sent out a search team it’d take them forever to find it. And by the time they did, she would be long gone.
She buzzed her window up again and drove off into the night.
Now, the big question was: what to do with Inspector McRae?
42
A single standing stone flares in her headlights – pink and notched, its surface covered in intricate swirls and knotwork – and Sally’s phone dings at her, the red circle at the end of the line flashing. This must be it.
Please still be here. Please still be here. Please…
There’s a small parking area not far from the stone, at the side of the road, with spaces for about eight vehicles, separated by fading white lines. But there’s only one car there: a single black hatchback, no number plate, engine idling. The glowing red tip of a cigarette flares to a hot orange, then fades to red again.
Sally parks two spaces away. Pulls her sunglasses on and her hoodie up, the curly ends of her wig sticking out. She takes a deep breath and climbs into the rain. Hurries over. Stands there, cold water seeping into her hoodie as the wind whips away her fogging breath. Shifts from one foot to the other.
The cigarette flares orange again.
She knocks on the passenger window. ‘Hello?’
It buzzes down, a curl of smoke escaping into the night. ‘What?’
Please…
Sally bends forward, resting her arms on the sill. ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I was sent a text…’
The man in the driver’s seat is big as a nightclub bouncer, dressed all in black. For a moment it looks as if he hasn’t got a face, but he’s wearing a mask. It’s barely visible in the dull glow of the hatchback’s instrument panel: a dull-blue featureless slab, marked with a large number four. Eyes nothing but two thin slits. His huge hands covered in red leather gloves.
They match the accents on the car’s upholstery.
He places his cigarette in the ashtray and gets out of the hatchback.
Sally’s bladder clenches: he’s even bigger than he looked, cricking his neck from side to side, rolling his shoulders as he limps over and looms above her.
She shrinks against the Shogun. Everything about him radiates violence.
She clenches her hands into fists. Not to fight him – he’d kill her – but to keep them from shaking. ‘I was sent a text? They said to come here and…’
Four clenches a huge red fist of his own, snapping it up, ready to—
‘Foxglove! The password’s Foxglove!’
He nods, then beckons her forward with a finger. And when she steps towards him he slams her back against her car, hard enough to make her teeth rattle against each other. Bellowing in her face. ‘YOU’RE LATE!’
‘It was flooded outside Meikle Wartle! I had to—’
‘And where’s your mask?’
‘I didn’t—’
He grabs her hoodie, pulls her forward, and shoves her against the Shogun again.
‘Please, I didn’t—’
‘Bloody amateurs.’ Four slams a red glove down on her shoulder and spins her around, so she’s facing the car, then thumps her into it again.
Pain cracks across her ribs. ‘Aaargh!’
‘Shut it!’ He forces her legs apart with his foot, then goes through her pockets, hard and fast. Hauls her phone out of her jacket and spins her around again. ‘What’s this? You going to film us? That it? You going to call the cops? You got GPS on it?’
The tears roll down Sally’s cheeks, cold as the rain. ‘I don’t… I didn’t… Please, I don’t know what to do!’
He pockets her phone then points at the far edge of the car park, where a tarmac path leads up to the stone. ‘You stand there and you keep your pervert mouth shut.’
So she does, standing huddled into herself, arms wrapped around her aching chest, shivering in the rain as he searches her car with the kind of efficiency you’d expect of a policeman or someone from the armed forces. Even checking under the floor mats and seats.
Four pulls out the red rucksack and rummages through it.
Sally’s breath catches in her throat, but he doesn’t take anything. He nods and dumps it in the passenger footwell again. Then turns and beckons her over.
He reaches into his pocket and produces an envelope. Throws it at her with a flick of the wrist, like he doesn’t want to risk touching her again. In case he catches something. ‘Address is in there. And you’d better get your skates on – the Auctioneer isn’t as forgiving as I am when paedos are late.’
She nods. Scoops down and picks up the envelope – already starting to grey as the rain soaks into it.
Four lunges forward a step. ‘Well don’t just stand there, you snivelly bitch, MOVE!’
And Sally does, scrambling into her Shogun, jamming it into reverse, roaring out of the parking space then off into the rainy night.
The air catches in her throat, short, panting, rasping.
Sally pulls in to the side of the road and sits there with her head on the steering wheel, throat dry, everything shaking, heart like an angry man hammering on a locked door.
Breathe.
Come on: for Aiden.
She sits up and takes the damp envelope from her pocket. Sticks on the interior light. Opens the thing with trembling fingers and slips the card inside free. The words ‘BOODIEHILL FARM’ stretch across the top in big inkjet-printed letters – the text beginning to spider where the damp has got to it. And underneath that: a map and directions.
Sally nods, takes a deep shuddery breath, props the card up behind the steering wheel and pulls out onto the road again.
A sign looms out of the darkness as Sally slows for the junction: ‘BOODIEHILL FARM ~ AGRICULTURAL PROPERTY FOR SALE’. The wood it’s painted on is bloated and swollen, streaks of green and black staining the white surface like it’s been there for a long, long time.
The track beside it stretches away into the darkness, towards a cluster of large agricultural buildings, a faint glimmer of lights twinkling between them.
This is it…
She turns onto the track, accelerating. Can’t afford to be any later than she already is. But she’s barely gone a hundred yards before someone flashes their headlights at her.
Sally slows.
A hatchback sits in the entrance to a field – dark blue, with no number plates, windscreen wipers sweeping from side-to-side in the rain.
She stops in front of it, palms damp against the steering wheel, trying to calm her breathing as a large man, dressed all in black, climbs out of the hatchback and marches over. Not quite as big as Four was, but every bit as menacing in his dull-blue mask. Only this one has the number three on it.
Sally pulls on her sunglasses again, flips up her hood, and buzzes her window down.
He stoops and stares inside. ‘You looking for someone?’
‘I… Foxglove. Foxglove.’
He holds out his hand. ‘You want to make a deposit.’ Not a question, a statement.
Which makes no sense at all – she’s already given Becky to the man with the gun. ‘A deposit?’
Three shakes his head. ‘You don’t bid cash, you make a deposit and bid on account. You get back anything you don’t spend at the end, less a handling fee. Now: do you want to make a deposit?’
‘Yes! Yes, I want to make a deposit.’ She leans over, grabs the rucksack from the passenger footwell and holds it out to him. It doesn’t weigh as much as it should, given what’s in it. ‘Sixty-five thousand pounds in twenties. They’re nonconsecutive. I took them out over the course of about…’
But he’s not listening, he’s carrying the rucksack around to the hatchback’s boot. A clunk, and the tailgate swings up, bringing on the internal light. He’s got some sort of machine on the parcel shelf and one-by-one he feeds the blocks of cash into it, making notes as he goes. Then he takes something from the boot, thumps the tailgate shut, and marches over to the Shogun again. Tosses whatever it is in t
hrough the window. ‘Put that on.’
It’s a mask – green and scaly, with sharp teeth and red eyes, a snout that has flames coming out of the nostrils, all rendered in thin plastic. Slightly better quality than the sort of thing you can buy from a petrol station at Halloween, but not much. She slips it on and tightens the elastic, so it’s secure against her wig, adjusting the mask until she can see out properly.
‘Your name is “Dragon”. You do not tell anyone your real name. You do not ask them their real names. You share no personal details at all. If you do, you will be disciplined. Do you understand?’
Her voice sounds strange in her ears, deeper, more echoey. ‘I understand.’
‘You have sixty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-five pounds to spend on the item, or items of your choice.’
‘But I gave you—’
‘Two and a half percent handling fee.’ He turns and thumps away through the rain, shaking his head. ‘Bloody newbies.’ Climbs into his car and clunks the door shut.
She looks at Dragon’s face in the rear-view mirror. Then pulls up her hoodie again, leaving fake blonde curls hanging down over her chest. Nods at her reflection.
Dragon looks back at her. ‘You can do this.’
Because what other choice does she have?
Sally puts the Shogun into drive again, headlights picking out fields of stubble and dirt on either side of the track as she goes past – all the way to the end, where it opens out into a courtyard flanked by two large metal barns with a dark farmhouse lurking at the far end. The only light comes from a handful of dim yellow fittings, fixed to the barns’ corrugated walls.
About a dozen cars are parked between the two agricultural buildings, four-by-fours, hatchbacks, estates, a new-ish Audi… All of them stripped of their number plates, except for a tatty old Jaguar.
Sally parks next to the Audi. Takes a deep breath. And steps out onto the rain-slicked concrete. The smell of sour straw and animal waste taints the air.
Muffled voices ooze through the walls of the building on the right, where a sub-door lies open – inset into a much larger sliding one.
Another big figure, dressed all in black and a dull-blue mask, stands in front of it. Tall and broad with the number two slashed across her face. Her voice is every bit as hard and aggressive as the other Numbers. ‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry. It took longer than I thought because—’
‘You’re late again, you get disciplined.’ Two sticks out her hand as Sally hurries over. ‘Car keys.’
‘What?’
‘Give me your car keys!’ Jabbing her hand forward again. ‘No one leaves till everyone leaves.’
‘Oh. I see. Yes.’ Sally digs her keys out and drops them into Two’s gloved palm.
‘Now: inside.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’ She swallows, straightens her shoulders, and ducks through the door.
Warm air wafts over her, bringing with it the soft vanilla scent of cattle and the pungent brown stink of dung. Inside, the cattle court is one big open-plan space with a raised walkway down the middle, each side divided into three large pens by chest-height metal barriers. All lit from above by twin rows of buzzing strip lights.
Chunks of agricultural machinery crowd the pens on the right, but the ones on the left have been cleared down to the straw-covered floor – a stack of pallets and a dozen large round bales of haylage, wrapped in pale green plastic, lined up along one wall.
The only animals in here are people.
Eleven of them, standing in a group, none of them talking to any of the others. Mostly men, going by the clothes, all wearing masks: a rat, pig, goat, tiger, horse, chicken, monkey, rabbit, dog, some sort of lizard, and a bull. The only one of them that looks as nervous as she feels is Chicken – fat and fidgety in mud-scuffed jeans and a tatty tweed jacket. He plays with the buttons on it, twisting them in his pudgy fingers.
Two Numbers stand off to the side, talking in voices too faint to make out… Sally freezes. The bigger one is Four: the thug from the standing stone. He’s talking to someone a good foot-and-a-bit shorter than him, with a number five on his mask, Shorter, maybe, but there’s something about Five that makes the pit of Sally’s stomach crawl.
She sticks to the side of the pen furthest away from them, making her way through the gap in the barriers toward the gathering of animal masks. No one says anything, or even nods a greeting, but they turn to stare at her with their immobile plastic faces and hollow eyes. Most of their masks look a lot more expensive than hers did in the mirror, all except for muddy fidgeting Chicken.
Sally joins them, making the gathering an even dozen.
Twelve little animals, all in a row…
She wraps her arms around herself, steam rising from her damp hoodie.
A warm, confident voice booms out across the cattle court. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’
Almost as one, they turn their gaze from her to the walkway. Standing up straight. Eager. Like dogs awaiting titbits from their master.
There’s a man on the walkway, dressed in a black leather jacket, black leather gloves, a grey hoodie and a featureless grey mask. No number. He’s got a roll of clear plastic sheeting tucked under one arm and when he gets halfway down the walkway he props it up against the guardrail. ‘Now that Dragon is here, we can begin.’
Everyone shuffles forward.
That voice – it’s the man from the derelict cottage. The one who took Becky. The one with the gun. The Auctioneer.
He throws his arms wide, mask tilted towards the ceiling as he bellows it out: ‘WELCOME TO THE LIVESTOCK MART!’
— secondhand children —
43
The Auctioneer lowers his arms. ‘Before we begin tonight’s sale, we have a bit of housekeeping to do. If you hear a fire alarm, please make your way calmly from the building using either of the exits being pointed out to you now.’
Five swings an arm up at the door Sally came through, Four points at a metal one at the opposite end of the cattle court.
‘Today, we welcome two new members to our congregation: Dragon and Rooster. Big round of applause for Dragon and Rooster!’
The clapping lasts all of three seconds, then peters out. Chicken / Rooster shrugs and shuffles his feet like he’s been nominated for an award.
‘We have one more item of business to attend to before we can begin our auction this evening.’ The Auctioneer turns and waves. ‘Number One?’ Then he picks up the roll of clear plastic sheeting, unfurls it with one smooth movement – about the size of two double duvets joined side to side – and lays it out on the concrete walkway.
A huge man with the number one painted on his dull-blue mask pushes through the door at the far end, propelling someone in front of him. A man, dressed all in black, with his hands secured behind his back and a black bag covering his head and shoulders.
Pig rubs his fingers against his jeans. ‘Ooh, a floorshow…’
Number One shoves the man and he stumbles, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the straw-covered floor with a muffled cry. Like he’s been gagged.
Number One grabs him by the arm. ‘Get up.’ He hauls the man to his feet and drags him onto the walkway.
Pig rubs at his jeans again. ‘I do love a good floorshow.’
Tufty parked the pool car at the junction and hopped out. Scrambled back inside for his peaked cap, and hopped out again.
The headlights blazed in the darkness, turning the rain into shiny things, making the wet tree trunks glow. He stepped in front of the bonnet and his high-viz fluoresced radioactive yellow. Looked out into the Deep Shadowy Woods of DOOM.
He checked his phone again. Nothing since,
SERGEANT MCRAE:
There isn’t time you idiot! Follow her! I’ll catch up later!
Tufty shifted from one foot to the other and dialled the Sarge. It rang straight through to voicemail.
‘Hello, this is Inspector McRae. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave
a message after the beep.’
Try to sound calm. ‘Sarge, it’s me … again. Where are you? Just wondering.’
He hung up. Fidgeted in the headlight’s glow – his shadow long and dark before him as he cupped his hands to his mouth in a makeshift loudhailer, breath billowing out. ‘SARGE?’
The engine grumbled. The windscreen wipers whonked. The rain pattered.
Tufty turned and tried again. ‘HELLO?’
OK, this was bad. This was really, really bad.
He hiked as far up the track as the headlights reached. ‘INSPECTOR MCRAE!
COME ON, THIS ISN’T FUNNY!’
Nothing. Not even an echo.
Tufty bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes raking the dark tangle of branches and trunks. Where the hell had the Sarge gone?
Like it or not, it was time to own up and ask for help.
He scrambled down the track and jumped into the pool car, unzipping his jacket as the windows began to fog. Pulled out his phone and selected ‘THE PRINCESS OF DARKNESS!’ from his contacts.
It rang. And rang.
‘Come on, come on, come on…’
Steel’s voice crackled in his ear, breaking up. ‘Where the bl— …ell have— …ello?’
‘I can’t find him!’
‘Hello? Tuf— …odding useless—’
‘He said I had to go after Danielle Smith’s car and I did but I couldn’t find it and I circled round to pick him up and now I can’t find him. He’s not answering his phone or anything!’
Tufty rocked back and forward in his seat.
What if the Sarge died of pneumonia? Or hypothermia? Or fell down a hole and broke his neck?
‘…uck’s sake! This… pointless— …ear a word.’
And then silence. She’d hung up.
He fidgeted with the steering wheel for a bit. Then climbed out into the rain again. Grabbed the big Maglite torch from the boot and clicked it on – sweeping the beam across the trees either side of the road. Left or right?
Right?
OK.
He took a deep breath and followed the torch’s glow into the dark woods.
The Blood Road Page 37
