Speculation about the boys and the second Polish worker were making people talk about a serial killer. Ellie wondered how many bodies it took to earn that title? Only the turkey basher, the dog fighter and the IRA bloke have actually been killed — and, in fairness, the turkey basher’s death had been an accident.
Ellie, Alex and the rest of the dark-ops team were seated around a cluttered kitchen table in the unit’s cottage, debating the merits and drawbacks of weapons of mass destruction.
She was frustrated. ‘The bloke on the dark-net assured me we can buy anything we need from China, but getting hold of sarin is proving really tricky. Apparently this particular nerve agent won’t keep and is extremely complicated to make. He says he can get us the equipment for our own lab and, for the right price, probably track down a chemist prepared to mix the stuff, but all of this will take too long and bring in too many unknown and hard-to-regulate variables.’
‘No to Sarin, then.’ Alex took a drag on his roll-up. ‘I think it’s for the best, lass — it’s a particularly nasty way to go.’
‘So?’
‘Well, the papers seem to be on your side at the moment. They start printing pictures of dead bodies, including kids, covered in blisters, their faces contorted in agony — you might lose that support.’
Alex had always silently baulked against the army’s unspoken policy that women and kids were acceptable collateral damage. He and the men under his command had sometimes had to target and kill radicalised women and once or twice unsuspecting children — extremists weren’t above using either as walking bombs — so they couldn’t afford to be squeamish about their safe detonation. But he’d always remained sickened by such executions and he knew, with perhaps one exception, that his men were far from happy with some elements of Ellie’s latest proposal. They were relying on him to make her see sense.
But for now they all played along with their new and generous paymaster.
‘What about anthrax?’ Geordie was the second newest member to the unit. He was their chemical warfare and explosives expert, whose previous job had been to contain contaminated sites and ensure the safety of soldiers forced to work under such hazardous conditions.
‘Anthrax?’ Ellie was intrigued.
‘It’s a naturally occurring disease which you can get from dead camels in the Middle East.’
‘You want to ship over a dead camel?’ Alex snorted his derision.
‘No, man. You pay a man that can to collect the anthrax spores from the beast and ship them over.’
‘And what does anthrax do?’
Alex found Ellie’s eagerness disturbing.
‘Well, it’ll kill you — that’s for sure — either by contact with the skin, ingestion or inhalation — depending on how you want to spread it. And the beauty of it, from your point of view, E, is that once a place has been contaminated, you’ll not be able to live there for decades!’
‘That’s brilliant, Geordie. Result!’ She turned to Alex, her eyes glowing with excitement.
‘And what about the fallout?’
‘Fallout?’
‘You start playing God, Ellie, deliberately spreading disease like one of the seven plagues, there’ll be a lot of collateral damage — not least of all to the natural wildlife plus farm and domestic animals.’
Ellie’s eyes lost their manic sparkle.
‘Of course, we could just mix up a batch of TATP and blow the village up. Simples.’ Geordie looked a bit like the insurance meerkat. He was tall and thin with a small head that was in continuous motion, checking out his companions and their surroundings.
‘No! We blow it up and they’ll just rebuild and be back in business in no time, slaughtering those poor bloody whales!’ Ellie remained adamant. ‘We need something that will stop the slaughtering permanently by stopping them living there altogether.’
‘Well, ricin will do that.’
‘Ricin?’
Why were things never as straightforward as you wanted, needed them to be?
‘Why, aye. For a deadly toxin with no known cure it’s surprisingly easy to make, transport and use. You just crush castor oil seeds in water and then you can spray it around the specific areas you want infected — like the houses and streets — leaving the wildlife intact. It lasts forever and over a large area like a whole village it’d be way too expensive to clean up.’
‘You’re a fucking genius, Geordie!’ Ellie leant across and placed a large kiss on his cheek.
He hoped the kiss would be followed by a cash bonus.
Alex’s response was pragmatic. ‘And how exactly does it kill?’
‘It’s a strong poison that can be ingested as liquid, inhaled as water vapour, or you can shoot people with small pellets made from its powdered form. Remember the brollie and that Bulgarian spy — ricin!’
Alex plodded on. ‘Once ingested or shot, what happens then? How long does it take?’
‘Depending on concentration, about ten to fifteen minutes.’
‘And they’ll suffer?’
‘Aye, E. They’ll suffer. Vomiting, diarrhoea, external and internal burns, intense itching and difficulty breathing — they’ll feel like they’re suffocating.’
‘Good. Like the whales drowning in air as they’re beaten to death with tyre wrenches on the fucking beach.’
Alex, however, was not prepared to commit a large unit to an international operation without the poison being tested, and Ellie was obviously not prepared to test it on animals.
It was a poacher’s moon or, more precisely, a baiter’s moon. The large milky globe bathed the ancient woodland in a soft but useful light. The woods were still — as though everything was holding its breath. Alex, Ellie and Adam had lain for nearly an hour in the dank leaf mould waiting for the two men to return. The three of them had followed the badger baiters’ Volvo as it made its way down the rain-soaked M5 from the bright lights of Birmingham into the quiet darkness of the Gloucestershire countryside.
Alex and Ellie carried on a murmured intermittent conversation as they waited for the return of the men with evidence of their guilt, but Adam dozed, trying to ignore the arthritis in his right knee.
He was too old for this sort of jaunt, he told himself but ever since he’d helped rescue the chimps from Oxford, he’d felt a sense of purpose that had been lost the year he’d retired. The same year his wife of forty years had died. He wasn’t stupid. He knew something nasty would happen to the two baiters, but he didn’t know what. Like Alex, he was becoming a great believer in don’t ask, don’t tell.
His job was to care for the animal they caught, making sure it was returned to the wild in one piece rather than transported back to some city centre flat to be torn apart by fighting dogs. And the thing about badgers was they wouldn’t go quietly; they would fight tooth and bloody claw, inflicting fatal injuries on their attackers. His rage kept him warm and motivated on these various night excursions, although he hadn’t been on many. He only went if they were likely to find animals in need of urgent treatment or a humane death.
Tonight he would check the badger and then drive the Land Rover back to Wales. Ellie and Alex would take the baiters somewhere else. He’d made the connection between Ellie and the black turkey feathers, now spread across every broadsheet and magazine, some time ago. You didn’t employ an ex-SAS captain as an ‘odd-job man’ unless the odd jobs were likely to involve violence. But he’d also made a decision. He had come down off the fence and was firmly on the side of the animals. That was all he needed to ‘know’.
Thick Brummy accents broke through the still night as the two men came back into view. They were carrying something between them in a large sack which they slung into the boot of the estate.
Alex and Ellie got to their feet, guns pointing at the men’s chests. Alex had taught her the basics — always aim for the large area that contained the most number of vital organs; like using a shotgun on a barn door, you’d be unlucky not to hit something.
‘Jesus Chris
t!’ The older man looked terrified.
‘Fuck me!’ The younger one went for bravado. ‘You two certainly take a bit of poaching seriously.’
But both men had raised their hands.
‘What’s in there?’ Ellie nodded towards the toddler-sized, snarling sack.
‘Why don’t you take a look-see?’ the young mouthy one replied.
Alex raised his gun from the lad’s chest to his face. ‘Why don’t you tell the lady what she wants to know?’ His suggestion was made with an intensity that made the gun redundant.
‘It’s a badger!’ the older man shouted, realising his son was making a bad situation worse.
‘A badger?’ Ellie’s already hard face tightened. ‘For baiting?’
The question had to be asked.
‘No, for breakfast.’ The young lad remained defiant.
Ellie kept her gun trained on both men while Alex handcuffed them, hands to the front, before he placed the older man in the rear seat of the Volvo. Adam joined them from the shadows, flexing his knee once or twice before walking to the open boot and injecting a sedative into the still moving sack. Once it was still, he cut it open to reveal a now semi-conscious adult badger. He quickly checked it over for any injuries and then picked it up.
Alex took hold of the lad’s elbow. ‘You’re going to show this nice gentleman exactly where you trapped this badger, laddie.’
Realising that Alex and Ellie were not gamekeepers and that he was in a whole world of shit, he nodded and they walked back into the woods.
The same connections were being made by his father. ‘You’re the woman in the papers, aren’t you?’
Ellie was sitting in the front passenger seat, her legs out of the car and the gun in her lap. The instant Alex and Adam had disappeared into the woods she’d swallowed another painkiller. She’d been dealing with a dull internal pain for some time, but tonight it had ignited into an acute stabbing that even the new tablets couldn’t dull.
Something was rotting in the State of Denmark.
She turned to stare at the baiter, her own drawn face as grey as his. ‘How many badgers have you two caught and helped kill?’
Her tone was one of mild interest. It gave the man some hope.
‘Not many. Can’t really remember.’
‘You can’t remember how many badgers you’ve snatched from their homes and families and taken to that flat in Birmingham — Mandela Towers is it? — where you’ve butchered them alive using dogs who are also badly injured or killed in the same bloody process, while sickos like you look on and bet money on the inevitable?’
He realised it was hopeless. He knew he and his son were about to die and, if the papers were right, in a very bloody and gruesome manner. As he strained his ears for the sound of barking, the upholstery in his car, which already stank of badger and dog, was darkened by urine. When his son returned and was placed next to him in the back seat, he could see he too was fully aware of what was about to happen. According to the papers, victims who were only going to be beaten were dealt with by masked men. No one here was wearing a mask.
As Adam climbed wearily into the Land Rover and drove off, Ellie fastened her seat belt and Alex started up the engine for the Volvo’s final journey. She glanced over at the two men sitting behind her with bowed heads.
‘I’ve good news.’ Their heads snapped up as they stared at the back of her head. ‘You are going to die.’ The expectant look drained from their faces. ‘But it will be relatively painless. Here.’ Ellie handed the older man a hipflask. ‘Cheap vodka I’m afraid, but it’ll take the edge off.’
Ellie watched the father take a long pull on the clear liquid before handing the flask to his son who also took a large swig of the ricin. Ellie then turned on the radio to drown out the sound of their dying.
The deaths were timed at twelve and thirteen minutes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Every saint has a past and every sinner a future.
‘Hello, Kai.’ Mia had pictures of the three missing lads imprinted on her brain as well as hard copies in her briefcase. ‘Glad to see you’re alive and well!’
The lad just scowled and stood by the now open gate, pointedly waiting for her to drive through.
‘Hellooo!’ A disembodied voice boomed at Mia. ‘Drive straight ahead and you’ll be at the office! Kettle’s on!’ it declared.
The car crawled the short distance it took her headlights to pick out a white breeze-block wall which, like the gate, glistened with fog-induced wetness. Kai was nowhere to be seen. Instead a big man in his sixties was standing in a lit doorway with a hands-on-hip stance, a loud hail-fellow-well-met expression and turned-down black wellies — all of which reminded her of a slightly tipsy Santa.
‘You must be Doctor Langley — we’ve been expecting you! The names Ned, Ned Sharp! I run the place!’
She wondered how this loud, excited approach to life went down with fighting dogs. He seemed to read her mind.
‘You’ll have to excuse the volume, used to making myself heard over all this bloody barking, but come on in and I’ll switch to what my teachers called my inside voice!’
Within a few minutes she was ensconced in a large wooden chair holding a steaming mug of exceptionally strong tea.
‘So, Doctor Langley, you’re researching canine behaviour and rehabilitation?’
Am I?
Mia took a gulp of tea to gain a moment’s thinking time, but it had been infused with a generous shot of whisky and as the spirit hit the back of her throat, she suffered a severe coughing fit. Ned leaned forward and slapped her on the back. This only made matters worse and she raised a hand in protest as she coughed herself to a standstill.
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
God only knew how she was going to manage the drive back if she finished this tea.
‘That’s the trouble with good scotch — you have to get used to it to really appreciate it!’
You don’t put ‘good scotch’ in tea.
Mia took another, more cautious sip, this time holding it in her mouth before letting it fall to the back of her throat.
‘The shelter — how long has it been open?’
‘About a year — just over actually. Been here since the start!’ Ned’s exclamatory tone remained but the volume was now bearable.
‘What about Kai?’
‘Aye, he’s been here from the start too — helped get it ready along with Lee and Darren.’
She was looking forward to speaking to them alone which should be easy enough as part of her ‘research on canine behaviour and rehabilitation’. This Ellie was a master-manipulator, controlling the timing and direction of a conversation taking place halfway up a Scottish mountain while she was God knows where.
Ned continued to fill her in on the details. ‘We’re housing around thirty dogs at the moment — even I’m surprised by the extent of dog fighting and I was with the Met for thirty years!’
‘You’re ex-police?’
Ned nodded.
That was a big risk on Ellie’s part.
‘Tell me, Ned, what qualifies you to run such a specialized shelter?’
‘Twenty of my thirty years was in their dog section.’
That reduces the risk — a lifelong plod, no curiosity, no detective skills. ‘So, you’re used to dealing with both offenders and dogs with attitude?’
Mia smiled at the unsuspecting ex-copper.
‘Yes, but in fairness I’ve had no trouble off the boys and very little from the dogs. Occasionally we get one that won’t see sense and we have to give them the bullet …’
‘Boy or dog?’
Ned burst into a rumbling Father Christmas laugh.
‘Due to the nature of their abuse, the dogs are confined to separate kennels. Each has its own run and they can sniff at their neighbour through the wire fencing that separates them. If they start to fight they get moved until we find them a neighbour they can tolerate. Occasionally, we manage to get two dogs that tolerat
e each other enough to attempt a joint playtime — although the boys always have them on the end of a strong leather leash and I’m ready with the fire extinguisher.’
‘Fire extinguisher?’
‘Only way to separate them if play turns to fight. The foam doesn’t harm them but the noise and the sensation distracts them long enough so the boys can pull ’em apart.’
‘About the boys? What makes them want to work up here in the middle of nowhere?’
‘They were on probation, originally—’
‘Probation? As in from court?’
Ned shrugged. ‘I always assumed so. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason . . . So, why do they stay?’
‘Pays good and they like the work. Maybe they see a bit of themselves in the dogs — forced to fight for everything they had.’
‘Who was here first? You or them?’
‘Them. They’d already started work on building the kennels when I got employed to run the place.’
‘So who was in charge before you?’
‘Blimey, Ellie warned me you’d want a lot of detail. Some ex-army bloke called Alex — strong silent type — but the boys seemed to like him well enough.’
‘Who’s Ellie?’
‘A lovely little Welsh lady who owns the shelter. Never actually met her, a bit of a recluse — we did my interview over the phone.’
‘Do you know whereabouts in Wales she lives?’
‘Never thought to ask.’
See — plod.
‘Her surname?’
Ned shook his head. ‘She must have told it me but I can’t remember off the top of my head. It might come to me but we just call her E. Is it important? She won’t want to be mentioned in your article. Very humble is E, doesn’t like any recognition for the great work she does.’
Mia smiled, battling to keep her frustration cloaked in an air of nonchalance. She hated being played like this — she felt like bloody Pinocchio!
Ned stood. ‘You’ll have to stay the night, Mia. I can’t in good conscience let you back down the mountain in this weather. You can take my room and I’ll bunk in with one of the boys.’
She Will Rescue You Page 10