by Vince Vogel
She could think of only one reason why someone would do such a thing to John Chalmers and it petrified her. Made her feel naked as a man caught in the open terrain of a frozen tundra. Made her wonder what had been tortured out of John and whether she was now in serious danger.
And what did Dorring possibly know of this? He’d not been spotted anywhere near Chalmers. Before he’d made his statement, Mo Hamilton had made hers. She’d claimed that at seven a.m.—the time the Fire Brigade claim the fire was set—she, Alex Dorring and Steven McDonald were driving to the beach. It was impossible that he was there.
So the only reason Abigail could think of as to why John Chalmers was lying on a silver gurney as black as the night and as dead as the moon was because he had told her things she shouldn’t know. It had to be. They must have found out about her visits to him, and now, after torturing the poor man, they probably knew everything he’d told her. They would come for her alright. And it would probably be soon.
Abigail said goodbye to the two men at the funeral home and was seen out by Peter.
“And remember,” she said as he went to close the door on her, “this is completely secret. If anyone finds out, I’ll know it was either you or Gordon. Okay?”
“Of course, Abby,” he said with an earnest expression. “Of course.”
When the door was shut on her, Abigail stood on the cobbled street in the early morning twilight. The birds were making a song and dance of the dawn chorus and the sky was alive with their twittering and their play. She glanced up and down the quiet street at the first lights coming on in the windows of the gray stone houses.
Were they all in on it? she asked herself as she watched movement behind the closed curtains. Is this whole place nothing but poison?
She went to walk to her car, but upon turning that way, she was suddenly presented with a man who appeared like a phantom, as though he’d just risen out of the pavement like steam from a grate. Her stomach turned to eels as she gazed into the neat face of Bruce Appleby, the purple, early morning sky reflecting off his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Good morning, Detective Pritchard,” he said cordially with a smile.
She wondered where his men were. He usually took them everywhere with him.
“Morning, Lord Appleby,” she replied, trying her best to hold her nerve.
“Isn’t it wonderful to rise with the birds?” he said, his eyes looking blank behind the lenses.
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “I rose well before them.”
“Ah! Of course. Silly me. This bother with the English chap.”
“Yes. And John Chalmers’ autopsy, too.”
She tried to gaze into him, switching the machine on. But he was worse than the Englishman. Nothing but a blank rock.
“Yes,” he replied in a hollow voice devoid of emotion. “Terrible news, that. I always liked John. As did my father. You have any idea how it happened?”
Looking hard at him, she replied, “We’re not sure. He died from the fire, but as to how it was caused, that’s the job for the fire investigators. They’ll be here by midday, so I’ll take them out to the cottage then.”
“You think it was an accident?”
“Well, John did like a drink and a smoke,” she said, playing the part of someone else. “So it could be falling to sleep drunk with a smoke in his mouth.”
“I heard he liked to cook late night fry-ups too,” Appleby said.
“Could be that. But like I say, we’ll know better once the investigators arrive.”
“Yes. Indeed.” He paused as though he had something else to say, but then merely stared at her. She began to become uncomfortable when he added, “Well, I won’t keep you.”
Feeling flustered, Abigail simply nodded and stepped around him. As she opened the car door, she looked over her shoulder at him. He was still standing on the pavement, staring at her with a grin on his face.
Shit! He knows, she said to herself, getting inside the car and starting the engine.
24
“Hey, shit head!”
Dorring looked up. The cell door was open and Fergus stood before it with a malevolent smirk on his face. Dorring noticed his hands. He was wearing a pair of red MMA fighting gloves.
Behind him stood several of the other men, including the man who’d tried to burst in before. They all had their sleeves rolled up and there were others who wore gloves or had taped up knuckles.
So they’ve made up their minds, Dorring said to himself. About time.
He began to pull on the ring the cuffs were chained to. The chain was only three inches long. It felt solid, but Dorring bet that if he pulled hard enough, he could eventually pull the bolts through the wood.
“Okay, fucker,” Fergus said, bearing down on Dorring.
“Remember, Fergus,” someone called from outside the room. “We each get three minutes.”
“I know tha rules,” Fergus said over his shoulder.
Dorring leaned forward on the bench and stared straight into the cop’s eyes.
“Now listen here,” Dorring said, “if you really do believe I killed Stevie, then you need to know that I didn’t. There’s a killer on this island. It was him. You’re protecting him.”
“We already know there’s a killer here—you,” came out of Fergus’ malevolent scowl of a mouth. “Conner Jones told us all aboot how nuts you are. How ya lost it in Afghanistan. How ya’ve come here because o’ paranoia. Think there’s a killer loose. It’s all in ya wee heed, lad.”
“Conner is protecting the real killer.”
“Conner protects this island an’ its inhabitants. He protects the good business o’Lord Appleby. He protects prosperity, peace an’ tranquility. He protects us against men like you.”
“I didn’t kill Stevie,” Dorring insisted.
Bending forward so that their faces almost touched, Fergus replied in a low voice, “I nay care.”
And with that, he leaned back, then pounced forward and slammed his fist into the side of Dorring’s jaw, knocking his head sideways a few inches.
Fergus was disappointed. The punch hurt Dorring nowhere near as much as he’d expected after putting everything he had into it.
Dorring shook his head and flexed his arms up behind his back, making the chain taut and pulling on the metal hook, the bolts pressing against the holes in the wood and making it creak.
“You’ve got almost another three minutes,” Dorring said. “Make it count.”
25
Abigail was nervous as she drove through the town, constantly checking her mirrors to see if anyone was following her. She shouldn’t be about to do what she was, but she had no choice. She had to find out something.
Reaching the road at the edge of McGuffin Cemetery, she parked her car and got out. The rusty gate creaked as she opened it and she almost ran up the frayed stone steps.
At the top, she stood still, watching the shadows in the early morning light as they played within the oak trees. When she was sure no other soul was there with her, except of course the dead, she moved onwards.
Reaching the broken grave, she glanced about once more in a furtive way, and then kneeled down in the overgrown grass. Digging her hands into the dirt, she searched about with her fingers and felt relief when she found exactly what she was looking for.
Quickly, she tucked it into her pocket and left the graveyard. Back in her car, she started the engine and drove to the harbor, parking at the top where it overlooked the whole bay. Most of the fishing boats were already out, but some, those exploring the shallower waters, were now setting up to go out.
With her heart beating fast in her chest, Abigail reached into her pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Opening it, she took a mobile phone and switched it on.
She dialed a number and placed it to her ear.
“Hey, Abby,” a woman’s voice answered. “What’s happening? We hear there’s been two deaths on the island.”
“Could be three,” Abby said. “You to
ld me last time about the missing agent—the one working with the Russians.”
“Yeah?”
“Is he still missing?”
“Yes.”
“Describe him?”
“You know I can’t divulge that sort of information on individual agents. I only told you that he was missing so you could keep your ear out for it.”
“Okay. Well, I may have heard something. If I describe someone for you, you tell me if I’m hitting the mark.”
“Okay.”
“White. Black hair. Around six feet, two inches. Two hundred pounds. Tattoo on the left of his chest. A swallow.”
“That’s him.”
Dorring was telling the truth about the body. Abigail was sure of it now. It made a lot of the other things he said make sense. However, he was still holding back from her. Wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She knew for a fact that it was a lie he was only here on holiday.
Men like him don’t suddenly turn up in places for no reason. And when they do turn up, things start happening.
Things were happening now.
“He’s dead,” Abigail told her contact.
“Okay, now tell me why you think so?”
“Because the guy we’ve pulled in for the murder of Steven McDonald reckons he found a body yesterday morning washed up on the beach. He’d had his throat opened up and the description I just gave you was the one he gave me an hour ago.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Alex Dorring. That’s another thing. He’s ex-SAS.”
“Like Conner Jones.”
“Yes. They served together. I need you to find out what he’s been up to for the last twelve years since he left the SAS. Everything. I’ll call you back in five minutes. Okay?”
“Yeah. Can you spell the name?”
Abigail gave her all the information and then put the phone down. She didn’t tell her contact about John Chalmers yet because she hadn’t even told her about visiting him in the first place. Chalmers hadn’t been part of the main investigation, he’d been part of something else. A part of discovering Abigail’s past. A part of her life obscured by both pain and time. Seen through a child’s eyes and only coming back to the adult in nightmares. Had going to Chalmers about her father jeopardized her official reason for being on the island?
If so, she was in a lot of trouble and was only making it worse by not telling her superior. She’d been continually briefed that any possibility of discovery was to be reported immediately. Any delay would lead to disciplinary action.
No, Abigail thought, I’ll have to tell her when she gets back to me. Tell her that I’ve jeopardized the investigation.
But Abigail Pritchard didn’t get that far. Before five minutes was up, and as she sat in her car thinking and watching the bay, a shadow cast over her lap and she turned sharply to her window.
There stood the beaming face of Bruce Appleby. CEO of Appleby Pharmaceuticals. Lord of McGuffin Manor. Lord of McGuffin. Lord of mass murder.
He tapped his knuckles on the window and she jumped. Glancing quickly down, she spotted the mobile on her lap, swallowed in Appleby’s shadow. Quickly, her hand snatched it and fingers closed around the device.
Appleby made a winding gesture with his hand and she obliged, pressing the button so that the window lowered.
“Twice in one day,” she said, trying to laugh off her obvious shock.
“Cut the shit,” he said. The smile had dropped. The face was blank and menacing. Over his shoulder, Abigail spotted two large men with their hands buried in their jacket pockets standing at the edge of the road.
“What’s up, Bruce?” she said, her eyes turning back to the face beside the window.
“You know we’re a close knit community here,” he said.
“I do.”
“Then you know how we look after each other on McGuffin.”
“I do, Bruce. It’s one of the things that appealed to me when I took the job. Having grown up in the city, I appreciated…”
He held a lily white palm up to her and she stopped.
“Folk here tried real hard,” he said in an undertone, “to stop you coming. For the whole of the time there’s been police on McGuffin, they’ve been men born on this soil. Men of this earth. Not some wee lassie from Glasgow. They didn’t want ya anywhere near this place. It was supposed to be Stevie McDonald’s job and now he’s dead.”
“What is this, Bruce?” she said, trying to act calm. “I haven’t got much time. I’m needed back at the station.”
“I’m trying to say, Abby, that the island did’nay want you then. And it does’nay want you now. My advice is that you leave immediately.”
“What—right this minute?”
“Yes. I’ve got a car nearby.”
“Am I being run out of town?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what this is. I’ve already spoken with Inverness. You’re to be moved on.”
“This is bullshit.” It was right to show her anger now. “Inverness doesn’t have the authority. They’d have to…”
A smirk gradually rose up on Appleby’s cheeks and Abigail realized she’d made a terrible mistake. He’d been bluffing.
“Why would they not have the authority, Abby?” he asked with a knowing look gleaming from behind the gold spectacles.
Because I wasn’t put here by Inverness, she said in her head. Inverness were told to put me here by my superiors. And only someone working for another, much higher up agency than the Inverness and Islands Constabulary would be placed somewhere in that way. Someone from the National Crime Agency perhaps.
The two of them stared at one another in silence for what felt like a very long time to Abigail. She was completely rigid, their eyes trapped together as the world dissolved around them, and she couldn’t think of anything to say as her brain was caught in a spasm.
Then the mobile vibrated in her hand and she almost jumped out of the seat. Appleby heard it and glanced down at her lap.
“Give me the phone,” he said.
She shook her head at him and then glanced over his shoulder. The two heavies were moving in their direction with determined strides. With a sudden movement, she leaped across the car and dived for the passenger door. Behind her, the driver’s side opened and Appleby grabbed her foot as she reached the handle.
Turning rapidly over onto her back, she kicked him right in the face with her heel. He cried out, recoiled back and grabbed ahold of his face, his glasses smashed.
Abigail turned herself onto her front, opened the door and leaped out.
But as she scrambled to her feet, she found the two heavies right in front of her. They stood frozen for a moment like statues, Appleby moaning behind them.
“The fucking bitch!” he grumbled.
Below them was the harbor. Messy huts, wooden walkways floating on pontoons, nets, and metal cages rusted from a lifetime in the salty sea. Gulls flew around the top of it all in search of spoils. Along the walkway, the last boat was being loaded up and readied to leave.
It was this that Abigail looked at as the men grabbed ahold of her and a large hand was held over her mouth. Though she knew it to be futile, she fought with everything she had. Why make their job any easier than it should be? she thought as she kicked the groin of one, headbutted the mouth of another as he lifted her from the ground, bit a forearm as she was loaded into the trunk of a car, and screamed bloody murder as they lowered the lid down on top of her.
26
They beat into Dorring like a pack of rabid dogs on a tied up bear. He did his best to fight unconsciousness off, using his big body’s unbreakable nature and his indifference to pain to keep awake. He was sure that if he did go under, they’d continue beating him until his heart stopped. Plus, his only sure chance of survival was pulling that ring through the bench. He’d already split the wood underneath where he was sitting. A few more minutes and he’d have it off the metal supports that held it to the wall.
So with every punch he took,
Dorring would jerk his body violently, giving them the impression that the blow took more out of him than it did. What he was really doing, however, was jerking on his wrists and pulling the ring and the wood. Pulling so hard that the cuffs cut deep into the wrists and his hands were covered in blood. He hoped he wouldn’t break through one of his radial arteries before he broke through the bench.
Currently, some skinny young constable was beating into Dorring. Letting himself get corrupted early in his police career, so that by the time he’s middle aged, he’ll be as spiteful and mean as Fergus and the other older men. The rest all stood around the doorway, leaning on it and panting. It looked like Dorring had taken more out of them than they had out of him. And this enraged them.
From his bleeding and bruised face, Dorring grinned at them. The kid, already exhausted and only two minutes into his three, got crazy at the grinning mouth. He stepped back, placing a hand on one wall for support, and lurched forward in an attempt to smash the sole of his shoe into Dorring’s mouth. But in his fatigue he misjudged it and the foot didn’t reach that far. The toe came within inches of Dorring and he lurched forward himself. He caught it between his teeth, biting into the toes of the boot until he felt the flesh underneath, clamping down as hard as he could and feeling the toes get crushed within the leather.
“Agh!” the young cop cried in full guttural, the tiny cell filling with his scream.
He pulled back, but Dorring wouldn’t let go, the top of the big toe and two others in his mouth. The cop got mad. He began beating Dorring around the head. But his fists were already sore and he ended up clapping him with his palm instead, doing nothing to deter Dorring. The men at the door began laughing loudly.
“Stop laughin’, ya bastards!” the young cop cried out. “An’ fuckin’ help me!”
Fergus came dashing in, his MMA gloves covered in blood. He stepped around the panicking boy and put everything he had into a left hook. It was his trademark, as Dorring had come to understand, having been the victim of enough of them. Fergus threw all his weight into the punch and Dorring went along with this. He jerked violently to the side, tugging his wrists as hard as he could, and let go of the foot. He made like the punch was so strong it would throw him through the wall. It was enough. The chain went taut and then it slacked. He landed at the wall, leaning against it, a chunk of the bench dangling behind him from his wrists.