The big bloke with the grey hair’s right: he’d freeze to death.
So instead Richard settles back on the edge of the bed and clutches his granny’s old bible to his naked chest.
He sniffs, wipes his nose with the palm of his good hand, then smears the silvery slime on the bare mattress. At least it’s stopped bleeding.
Not exactly what he’d had in mind, is it? Naked in some strange bedroom, waiting for them to decide how they’re going to make him suffer.
03:10, YESTERDAY MORNING
There’s a knock at the door.
Richard stands there in the bedroom of his bland little Sacro flat, eyes closed, swearing. Then hauls his trousers up again.
Mood’s ruined now.
He gathers his things – the quilt Granny Murray made, the suitcase with Grandad Joe’s clothes in it, the plastic bag.
Lying on the bed, Harry just cries.
Richard hauls everything he owns to the front door and opens it.
There’s a man standing in the corridor outside: pale leather jacket, black ski-mask over his head, sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Very sinister. Richard hands him the suitcase. ‘You’re early.’
Someone else steps up, done up in IRA chic like his mate. ‘Where are they?’
‘You can put the guns away. I’ve taken care of me minders. Now—’
A fist slams into Richard’s stomach. His knees give way and he thumps to the carpet, arms wrapped around his aching innards. Breath coming in ragged gulps.
No – this wasn’t the deal. This isn’t right!
The first man shoves past, and his mate steps up and kicks Richard in the chest, hard enough to flip him over onto his back. It’s like being shot, but all he can do is gasp, can’t even struggle as they drag him back into the flat.
Clunk, the door closes.
Man Number Two stops dead, staring into the bathroom. Then he peels off his ski-mask, exposing a face like skimmed milk. His jaw falls open, eyes wide. Then he turns to Richard. ‘You dirty…’
Another kick, this one hard enough to make Richard fold up like a fortune cookie, clutching his aching balls, moaning, tears streaming down his face.
The other one says, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’
‘Bathroom. Look in the bathroom.’
‘Fucking hell…’
Another kick.
‘There’s someone else in here!’
Silence.
‘Fuck…’
And then they’re back, dragging him through into the bedroom.
‘Look what you’ve done! You sick piece of shit…’ A punch in the kidneys, making him squeal. Then another one.
‘Fucking hell, Evans. Is he…?’
They cluster around Harry – still tied to the bed, naked, face down, with his pasty backside propped in the air.
Richard closes his eyes. Grits his teeth. Then forces himself over onto his stomach. Waves of fire ripple out from the small of his back, groin aching, chest burning.
Get out of here. NOW. Arm over arm, crawling along the oatmeal-coloured carpet.
‘HEY! Get back here you little sod.’
Rough hands grab him, haul him back towards the bed and Harry’s naked body. ‘This what gets you off, is it?’
A backhand slap snaps Richard’s head sideways and he starts to cry.
They’re going to kill him.
They’re going to beat him to death in some crappy council housing flat for sex offenders.
The one in the pale leather jacket backs up a step. ‘You know what? This works. Fuck it, this works really well.’
‘Got to call an ambulance, police—’
‘Grab him.’
‘Lowe, look at the guy on the bed. We have to—’
‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’
Those rough hands again, dragging Richard across the carpet, shoving his face against Harry’s naked thigh.
Richard struggles, but the guy digs his knuckles into the back of his neck.
‘Bite him. Go on, bite him like you did my dad, you fucking freak!’
‘I don’t…don’t…Please…’
He hauls Richard’s head back, then rams it forward into the hairy, clammy skin.
‘You do as your told, or so help me God I’ll break every fucking bone in your fucking body.’
‘I don’t…’ Pain, rips through his hand, bones grating against each other as the big man stamps on Richard’s knuckles, crushing them against the carpet.
‘Fucking bite him!’
Richard opens his mouth wide and sinks his teeth into Harry’s cold flesh.
49
Logan closed the front door behind him. The beautiful blue sky was gone, replaced by a layer of featureless grey that hurled little shards of ice at him, stinging his ears and nose, cheeks and fingers. He shuffled into the lee of a police van, trying to get his lighter to work.
Fourth time lucky: it caught and Logan dragged in a lungful of smoke, then spluttered it right back out again. Only his second cigarette today, not bad for twenty past three.
Nearly an hour and three-quarters to go. Have to leave soon, or get caught up in the traffic heading back to town. Rush-hour was bad enough, but the snow would grind everything to a halt. And he wouldn’t want to be late for his bollocking from Finnie.
That would be a dreadful shame.
The phone in his pocket rang, the vibration travelling through to his ribs.
‘Bugger off.’
It kept on ringing.
‘Bloody hell…’ He dragged it out with numb fingers and hit connect. ‘This better be bloody important.’
‘Sergeant…er…I mean, Logan. Look we got off to…it was a mistake, OK?’ Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie.
Logan huddled closer to the van, breath steaming out around his head before being whipped away by the wind. ‘You’re bloody right it was.’
‘I didn’t know this was going to happen! How could I know? I just…you said he had all this counterfeit cash and I thought…I thought it would—’
‘What? What exactly did you think it would do?’ He watched a patrol car slithering away down the lane, its headlights cutting through the blue-grey gloom, catching the whirling snowflakes. ‘You hounded an eighteen-year-old boy till he tried to kill himself. And then you tried to pin it on me!’
‘I just…’ Sigh. ‘Look, you’re good at this policeman stuff, it’s easy for you. I just wanted something to, you know, be a success. Crack the counterfeit case.’
There was a long silent pause.
Logan switched his phone to his other hand, dug the numb fingers into his armpit, smoking with his eyes screwed up.
‘Can you understand?’
Logan held his cigarette out at arm’s length and let go. The wind snatched it out of his fingers, sending it spiralling away to explode in a shower of orange sparks against the IB Transit van. ‘Fuck off, sir.’
Logan hung up.
Richard Knox stands at the window, staring out into the falling snow. He shivers, watching as a car pulls into the driveway.
The house is one of them farm building conversion things: all natural stone, wood floors, and exposed beams. When what you really want is proper insulation, carpets, and central bloody heating.
The huge black Range Rover lumbers to a halt, blocking the other cars in. There’s a pale grey Mercedes, a big black people carrier, and a little Clio.
It was the people carrier they’d used to transport him about – from the Sacro flat to the house where he had to bite the old man. And from there to here. Always blindfolded and gagged, trussed up like a joint of meat, on the floor behind the back set of seats. Well, you wouldn’t want to get your nice Mercedes all dirty by stuffing a registered sex offender in the boot, would you?
The Range Rover’s doors open and a small woman gets out, stands in the snow looking around. Oh God…It’s her.
Richard shrinks back, hiding behind the curtain, peeking out around the edge.
Her sidekick
s climb out, stomp round to the back and open the boot. Then they haul something out onto the ground. It’s a man, big, wearing nothing but a dirty towelling dressing gown that flaps in the wind, hands fastened behind his back, something tartan over his head.
So they got Danby after all…It’s almost enough to make Richard smile.
They drag the DSI to his feet, then towards the front of the house.
Down the hall, Richard can hear the ‘gang’ still arguing about what to do to him.
The doorbell’s harsh artificial Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring…echoes through the house.
‘…ever it is, just get rid of them!’
Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring…
‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ That’s Matt, the big man with the grey hair.
Richard presses his ear against the door. Muffled sounds. A clunk.
Matt says, ‘We’re not—’
A painful grunt. A thump.
‘Matt, for Christ’s sake, can you not just…Who the hell—’
And then that Home Counties accent: ‘Go get him.’
‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m calling the police!’
‘I SAID GO FUCKING GET HIM! KNOX – HERE – NOW!’
Logan’s little Fiat made a grinding, rattling noise.
‘You hear that?’ Butler coaxed them around the roundabout and onto South College Street. ‘That’s the sound of the transmission eating itself.’
There was a bang, and another cloud of grey smoke spiralled out into the dark afternoon. But the car kept on going.
He dug out his phone. Should really call Steel and find out if Susan was OK. Might not have her mobile on though, not in the hospital. And what if it was bad news…?
He called FHQ instead and asked for Constable Guthrie. There was a pause, then, ‘Hello?’
‘Have you got that info I asked for?’
‘The old bloke got attacked? The one from Cove?’
‘What about him?’
‘Did a full background check like you said – get this, according to a DS from Sunderland, his brother was one of Knox’s victims. Almost went to trial, but the brother backed out after a visit from a couple of local heavies…Talk about your unlucky family, eh?’
About to get even unluckier.
‘What about the man in the picture: Lowe?’
‘Yeah, Bruce Lowe. His dad went missing for a week, turned up covered in bruises and bites. Wouldn’t talk to anyone, ended up in a psychiatric care home. Died of bronchitis eight months ago.’
Butler hooked a left onto Portland Street, bypassing the long queue of traffic waiting at the lights, the Fiat towing a growing pillar of smoke behind it. Even in a dying car they’d made pretty decent time. It wasn’t even four yet.
‘Did you do the property search?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not…Oh, hold on, just come in.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘Dear Constable Guthrie…Blah, blah, blah…Right: Bruce Lowe bought a converted steading about half a mile outside Newburgh three years ago.’
Logan smiled. Finally something was going his way.
Richard Knox falls to his knees on the cold hard kitchen tiles. Tries not to cry out. The kitchen’s all rosewood units, green marble worktops and stainless steel appliances. A big enough room, but it’s already pretty crowded, you know?
The gang that snatched him from the Sacro flat are standing behind him – down the end with the cooker, where there aren’t any exits. Matt: a tall, thin man with grey hair; Bruce: pale leather jacket, even paler skin; and a plain, dumpy woman called Ellen.
On the other side of the room are the three people Richard really hoped never to see again. Julie and her pet thugs. Not that she needs help, know what I mean?
A breakfast bar juts out of the wall, partitioning the kitchen in two. Danby’s slumped over it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just lies there, shivering, his legs a deep angry pink. That tartan bag still over his head.
Knox gathers the quilt around himself, hiding his shrivelled naked cock.
Julie smiles at him. ‘Hey, Babe. You miss me?’
Matt steps forward. ‘Look, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at but—’
Neil – the Elvis impersonator – takes a step forward and slaps Matt hard enough to send him crashing against the working surface. A mug shatters on the tiles next to Richard. He flinches, can’t help himself.
Neil grins as Matt struggles upright with tears in his eyes, one hand clutched to his scarlet cheek.
‘Anyone else fancy a go?’
Silence.
Bruce takes a small step forward.
Dumpy old Ellen puts a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t…’
He raises his pale chin. ‘This is my home.’
‘Good for you, Sweetheart; love what you’ve done with the place.’ Julie perches on a stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Now, you all know why we’re here, so why don’t we act like grown-ups and no one else needs to get hurt.’
Bruce balls his fists. ‘He raped my father.’
‘And you want revenge, correct?’
Bruce nods.
‘And you’re going to…what: kick him to death? Have yourselves a lynch party? Batter his brains in with a hammer?’
A voice from the doorway says, ‘We’re going to hand him over to the police.’
They all turn to look at the old man, standing there in his fleece and jeans. Face is a right mess, you know? All covered in bruises. He purses his lips, raises an eyebrow at Julie. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Well, well, well, if it’s not Mr Jimmy Evans. We were reading all about your terrible ordeal in the papers this morning, Babe. Feeling better?’
The old man’s chin comes up. ‘We’re handing him over to the police.’
‘I see…’ Julie smiles. ‘And then what? They believe your trumped-up charges and he goes back to prison for the rest of his sordid little life? That the idea?’
‘They won’t have any choice, he’s—’
‘Oh Sweetie, he’ll be out in six, seven years tops. Then it’ll all start up again.’ She sighs. ‘No, your young friends here have the right idea. Mr Knox needs to pay a much darker price for his crimes.’
‘We won’t—’
‘She’s right.’ Ellen looks down at Richard, then backhands him across the face. The blow snaps his head around, smacking his cheek into a cabinet door. Hot stinging pain on one side, dull throbbing on the other.
They’re going to kill him.
Richard bites his bottom lip. Tries not to cry. It’s a test. It’s all a test.
Oh God, they’re going to kill him.
Julie winks. ‘That’s more like it!’
Ellen straightens her shoulders. ‘He raped my grandad. An eighty-year-old man and this piece of shit tied him up in the basement and raped him.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t we make it nice and simple?’ Julie thumps a huge handbag on the breakfast bar – like a leather mop cap with rope ties and big handles – and digs about inside. Four pairs of 3D glasses go on the worktop followed by a big bunch of keys, a packet of tissues…and a moulded leather holster. She unfastens the restraining strap and pulls out a black slab of metal.
A semiautomatic pistol.
Oh God.
Richard blinks. Tries to look away. But the gun’s like a magnet.
She pulls back the slide and peers inside, then lets it go with a clack, ejects the magazine, and puts it in her pocket. Julie places the gun down in front of her.
It clunks on the marble worktop.
‘One in the breech. All you have to do is shoot him in the back of the head.’ She looks at Neil. ‘Show them, Babe.’
He makes a gun of his thumb and forefinger and marches over – Evans, Bruce, and Ellen shrinking back as he gets close. Then Neil takes his position behind Richard, grabs a handful of hair, and forces his head down. The big man jabs his finger into the dip at the back of Richard’s skull.
‘Bang.’
Oh God…
He lets go and Richard scrabbles sideways against the cabinets, knees drawn up to his chest, hot tears dribbling down his cheeks.
Oh God…
‘Isn’t that fun?’ Julie smiles. ‘Best thing is, because it’s a forty-five, when it comes out the other side it’ll take most of his face off.’
Ellen licks her lips. Looks from Richard to the gun, then up to Matt. ‘You do it.’
‘I…with…’ He rubs at the angry red handprint on his cheek. Looks up at his dad, then drops his eyes. ‘Bruce…?’
The old man bangs his hand on the wall. ‘This isn’t right!’
‘You’re not in charge any more, Evans.’ Bruce holds out his hand. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Excellent. Tony, get the patio doors would you, Babe? Don’t want the nice man getting brains and bits of skull all over his nice new kitchen.’
Tony – the one who doesn’t look like Elvis – hesitates a second, then does what he’s told. Cold air floods the room.
The security light comes on at the back of the house. The garden’s almost featureless, an expanse of crisp white. The trees and bushes bent under the weight of snow, more flakes swirling down from the dark sky.
‘Oh God, please…’
Neil grabs Richard’s arm.
‘No, please, God no, please…’ Richard snatches at the cabinet handle, holding on, knuckles going white. He stares at the old man. ‘Don’t let them do it!’
But Jimmy Evans just turns his back.
‘Please!’
Neil kicks Richard in the ribs.
He screams, but doesn’t let go. ‘Please! You—’
His head jerks backwards and hot copper fills his mouth; a ringing noise followed by a wave of fire. He lets go.
Neil drags him across the kitchen tiles, over the lip of the patio doors, and tumbles him out into the snow.
So cold against his naked skin it burns.
Richard scrabbles to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, tears and snot running down his face as they form a circle around him, looming. He chokes back a sob. ‘Please, please, I didn’t mean it. You don’t have to—’
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