Dead Time

by Dead Time (retail) (epub)

  He’d been duped by Edmund, the threat on the note tricking him into coming to Waverley Manor on his own. He sprinted back up the tunnel, banishing the thoughts of the last time he’d been here. The sound of metal on metal echoed through the chamber and he shouted out, ‘Edmund, stop.’

  He reached the ladder in time to see a shadow above the gated doorway. Something akin to laughter filtered down the tunnel as the padlock was snapped shut. Lambert wasted no time, firing into the opening, the sound of the bullets ricocheting off the steel gate echoing in the tunnels, until the light started fading as the opening was covered.

  Lambert tried not to panic. Tillman was nearby, and even if something happened to him, sooner or later someone would think to look for him. He had two phones but no signal. He pointed his torch at the walls of the tunnel, warding off feelings of claustrophobia.

  The corpse he’d seen in the tunnel was Peter Saunders.

  Had Lambert been wrong all along? Had Edmund Barnes been responsible for Saunders’ escape?

  A second thought crossed Lambert’s mind; he’d taken the right tunnel from the junction but there was still one more tunnel to explore.

  Sophie and Jane could be down there after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sophie woke with a shudder, enjoying a split second of confusion before reality assaulted her. ‘Jane,’ she screamed, dragging her body across the stone floor to her daughter.

  Jane was still not responding but her breathing was strong. Sophie couldn’t tell how long she’d been asleep. Her slip into unconsciousness was dreamless, a dark void which could have lasted hours or minutes. What could Jane have been given to affect her so?

  Sophie moved to the corner of the room and placed her fingers in her mouth, cursing herself for not doing so earlier. She gagged, a weak trickle of vomit coating her fingers. She could only hope the poison had left her. He body was lethargic, her limbs weak, but that could be down to dehydration. She wouldn’t let it defeat her this time.

  She began edging along the wall, using the thin shard of light as a guide. She checked as best she could the density of the wall, stretched high on her tiptoes. The walls were smooth, plastered. After making a lap of the room, she started again along the floor, searching for anything that could help, finding only the bottle of poisoned water.

  Closing her eyes, she held Jane close, refusing to panic. If their captors wanted them dead, they would have been killed by now. Manic thoughts hovered on the periphery of her mind, trying to gain traction. Pictures of Waverley Manor, the descriptions she’d heard from the trials Michael attended. Each time they intruded she held on to something else: Christmas Eve, Michael carrying Jane to bed. Jane learning to speak, her scrunched-up face as she took her first taste of broccoli. And her other darling girl, Chloe. The two were similar in so many ways, and she couldn’t let the same thing happen again.

  Michael.

  It all came down to him. She began crying, worried her thoughts somehow betrayed her husband. She blamed the dehydration again, but wasn’t it Michael’s fault? She’d never blamed him for Chloe’s death, but he’d been the one driving the car. And now? Now, they were here because of him. It had always been his career, and she’d known what she was getting into, both the first time and the second, following the split, but she had to face the truth. If it wasn’t for him they wouldn’t be here.

  He rarely shared, but his latest case had reached the newspapers again, a killer leaving a card with Michael’s name on it. That was why they were here, that was why her baby girl was in danger.

  She picked up the bottled water. Heavy in her hand, it was still stone cold. She unscrewed the cap again and sniffed. In the end, she glanced at Jane and the soft lift of her chest and decided she couldn’t risk either of them taking a drink. There would be a chance, a moment where she would need to be alert, and she could survive for the time being with the dryness coating her mouth and throat.

  A noise came from outside the door and she jumped, clinging tighter to Jane. Was it voices? ‘Hello!’ she cried, rushing to the door. ‘Hello!’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The sound of Lambert’s gunshots reached Tillman. Three loud blasts breaking the stillness of the night. He didn’t immediately break cover. He checked the burner phone to see if Lambert had contacted him, and sent word to the team controlling the perimeter, instructing them to move in.

  Both of Lambert’s phones went straight to voicemail, so he moved off. If he’d been dealing with a civilian he’d never have followed this procedure; it had been madness sending in Lambert on his own but he understood his reasoning.

  ‘I’m too old for this shit,’ he mouthed to himself, his foot sliding on a covering of ice as he followed the path taken by Lambert. He could only hope the gunshots had come from Lambert and that they’d proved fatal.

  He couldn’t hurry despite his desire to reach Waverley Manor. Loud footsteps would alert his presence and the ground was unforgiving, jagged and layered with ice. Instead, he edged forward, his gun poised for the slightest movement. This was not the way it was supposed to play out. He moved to the edge of a copse of trees, the broken remains of the Manor visible through the vines and bushes. He lay down on his front surveying the area, searching for the trapdoor Lambert had made for, wondering if his friend had been foolish enough to enter the tunnels alone.

  Time was his enemy. His chest heaved against the ground, his laboured breathing threatening to reveal his presence. He tried moving along the ground on his hands and knees, commando style, but his bulk and age betrayed him.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said, using his hands to push up off the cold hard ground. From his crouched position he sprinted into the darkness, semi-tensed, in case someone was ready to shoot him. He rushed over to the shattered remains of Waverley Manor and through the brickwork and frosted foliage searched for the opening.

  * * *

  Lambert screamed, the noise echoing in the cavernous space. He viewed the current situation from Edmund’s perspective. Lambert had been responsible for his father’s conviction and, some people believed, for the attack on him in prison. Lambert could only guess the extent of Edmund’s involvement in his father’s world, though the material they’d found in his house gave some indication.

  Edmund wanted revenge, and every muscle and sinew in Lambert’s aching body told him it was waiting for him around the corner. It wasn’t déjà vu overcoming him as he headed back to the junction, more a sense of impending doom. The last time he’d journeyed down this tunnel he hadn’t known what to expect. But now he could picture it, and if his worst fears came to pass it would be his undoing.

  He shone his torch on the walls as he tiptoed down the tunnel. The cavern held its history in its walls. Bloodstains and scratch marks decorated the porous rock, and Lambert shone the torch away, holding it directly in front of him instead.

  The first room he came to was clear. The last time he’d been here he’d seen a blood-soaked mattress and tools of torture and incarceration. Now it was just an empty space but Lambert remembered, would never forget, the heinous crimes committed here.

  He moved forward, daring himself to hope as the second room matched the first. Room Three was empty and he sprinted onwards, eager to confirm his optimism that he was alone. He reached Room Four in a rush of movement, and realized he’d been holding his breath. He gasped for air, discovering that, like its counterparts, Room Four held nothing but bare stone and memories.

  At the end of the tunnel was a larger room, where during the investigation the real horrors began to reveal themselves. He moved forward once more, hoping against hope as he walked into the high-ceilinged room.

  The police had done their best to clear the place but the past lingered. Names were still chiselled onto the walls, holes carved into the stone where chains had hung.

  And in the corner was the hatch, the trapdoor to a second level worse even than this first circle of hell. Lambert shone his torch on the padlock holding the do
or in place and was almost sick with relief when he read the inscription: ‘Property of the Metropolitan Police’. He lowered his gun, the tension in his arm easing, until he heard the sound of someone screaming, reverberating down the tunnel.

  * * *

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ said Tillman, his foot catching on the thick slab of concrete. Had this been Edmund Barnes’ plan all along, to entice Lambert to Waverley Manor in the hope of finding his wife and daughter, only to trap him underground forever?

  Tillman bent on his haunches and pushed at the concrete, grunting with the effort, the slab barely moving more than a few centimetres. Tillman filled the air with obscenities and pushed again, screaming at the exertion. Once he had the slab moving it took on momentum and soon the covering was open. He pulled at the chain gate covering the opening only to find it was padlocked shut. He shone his light down the vertical tunnel, illuminating the ladder, and screamed Lambert’s name. Footsteps echoed up the concrete walls and Tillman edged back from the opening, his gun at the ready.

  A period of silence followed until Lambert’s voice said, ‘Glenn?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Michael,’ said Tillman, ashamed to hear the emotion in his voice. ‘Can I stick my head down or am I going to get it shot off?’

  ‘He’s gone, Glenn. Peter Saunders is down here, what remains of him.’

  Tillman shone the torch again, the pale, tired face of Lambert staring up at him. Tillman took out his toolkit and undid the padlock, and waited with heart pounding for Lambert to make his way up the ladder. He stuck out his right arm and pulled Lambert to the surface. Both men embraced, the contact fierce and momentary, before each pulled away.

  Tillman didn’t want to say it but had to ask. ‘Sophie and Jane?’

  ‘They’re not down there.’

  A wave of tension left Tillman’s body. ‘OK, let’s find this sick bastard.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Tillman updated his colleagues, who’d spread out on the perimeter of the forest. Whatever the legality of his secret team, Tillman wasn’t about to let Barnes escape. They took different routes, Tillman heading further into the woods, Lambert back the way he’d come.

  Lambert ignored the memory of being underground, fighting off thoughts of claustrophobia and nightmares of being buried alive. His only goal now was finding Edmund Barnes and, from there, locating his daughter and wife. He sprinted through the undergrowth, oblivious to loose branches and uneven ground. If Barnes escaped now they might never see him again.

  The boy may have expected Lambert to have come alone so hopefully hadn’t planned for his escape. Lambert continued running, ignoring the fatigue seeping through his body. He sprinted into the clearing separating the two dark pathways, glancing in every direction, fearing Edmund could have taken multiple exit points. He continued along the second pathway towards his car, regretting having taken this route.

  Lambert reached his car without seeing any sign of Barnes. He screamed hysterically into the night air and rained his fists down on the roof of his vehicle, only stopping when the sound of a gunshot filled the night air.

  * * *

  Seconds later, Lambert’s phone rang. It was Tillman. ‘Tell me you’ve got him,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Actually, we have. He’s suffered a gunshot wound to the calf but he’ll survive. We’re about to question him. Get here immediately,’ said Tillman, hanging up.

  Seconds later a GPS location appeared on Lambert’s screen. Lambert didn’t hesitate and resumed sprinting back the way he’d just come. He’d been only seconds away from Barnes, who’d run to the south-west corner of the clearing stretching for half a mile behind the clump of oak trees.

  Edmund Barnes was lying on his back, his head resting against a tree trunk, flanked on either side by Tillman and two of his men. Edmund was in considerable pain, his body frozen, his face contorted into a rictus mask.

  ‘Edmund,’ said Lambert, his breathing rapid and visible in the frosted air, as he waited for Edmund to respond.

  The boy stared at him like he was a ghost. ‘You?’ he questioned.

  ‘If you mean the man you tried to bury alive, then yes, it’s me,’ said Lambert. ‘Now I’m sure these fine officers have already told you, this is only going to work one way. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer, do you understand?’

  Edmund forgot his pain. He smirked as if Lambert had told a joke. Lambert bent down and looked at the wound from the bullet which had entered via the back of Edmund’s right calf and out again to the side, missing his bone.

  ‘You’ve been quite lucky there, haven’t you?’ said Lambert, pressing down on the wound, eliciting a howl of pain from Edmund.

  ‘Just so we’re clear,’ said Lambert. He had no qualms about his actions, couldn’t care less if they were against procedure. The teenage boy had killed Peter Saunders and had tried to trap him underground. As far as he could ascertain, he’d kidnapped his wife and daughter, and killed at least three innocent men, so the rule books meant nothing. ‘Where are Sophie and Jane?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Barnes.

  Lambert kicked the teenager in his stomach with enough force to cause him to cough and splutter.

  Edmund started laughing. ‘Is that the best you’ve got, Lambert?’ he said, with a cold hostility reminiscent of his father’s.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ said Lambert. ‘Why have you thrown your life away like this? Your dad was an evil man and did some monstrous things. Why have you followed in his path?’

  ‘You think I’m going to speak to you? You’re the one responsible for this – if you hadn’t arrested my father and done that awful thing to him in his prison cell then we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘So this is all just about getting your dad back?’

  ‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘You destroyed my life, my family, so we wanted to destroy yours.’

  ‘That’s why you put my name on those cards?’

  ‘That was one of the ways. We tipped off the journalist, we wanted your reputation ruined, to give you a taste of what it was like.’

  ‘But what about all those innocent people? Alistair Beckinsale, Lance Jenkins, Inspector Duggan.’

  Edmund grimaced like he’d swallowed something distasteful. ‘You see, they weren’t innocent, DCI Lambert. Duggan? Well, he was an irrelevance, but he helped put my father away. But Beckinsale and Jenkins, they were already known to us.’

  ‘You keep saying we and us,’ said Lambert. ‘Who are you working with?’

  Edmund looked confused, as if he’d been caught out. His face was deathly pale, and Lambert wasn’t sure how long he would remain conscious.

  ‘Beckinsale and Jenkins have experienced us before,’ he said, with a sense of pride.

  ‘You mean the Manor?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Yes, the Manor.’

  ‘So you’re one of them? What are you, nineteen?’

  ‘I’ve been one of them all my life.’

  Lambert looked hard at the nineteen-year-old, could tell he was telling the truth. How hadn’t he seen it before? At the trial there’d been a darkness to the teenager’s eyes. Lambert had put it down to confusion, even depression, when it had been a lack of empathy he’d shared with his father. The boy was only nineteen, not yet even a man, yet only God knew the monstrous things he’d experienced during his short time upon the earth.

  ‘So the Manor wanted my reputation destroyed?’ said Lambert. ‘So they staged these three killings and the kidnapping of my family?’

  Edmund smirked and shook his head.

  ‘Well, what then?’ screamed Tillman, reaching down to Edmund’s shirt and grabbing the boy by his throat. Spittle flew from his mouth as he raged at him. ‘Tell me what happened and what you want or I swear to God I will beat you to death with my own hands. You think anyone here is going to stop me?’ For emphasis Tillman jabbed the boy sharply in his nose which erupted with a popping sound, a fountain of blood spraying out onto the grou
nd.

  Edmund clenched his face, convinced of Tillman’s intentions. ‘They didn’t sanction it, it was all me.’

  ‘Why did you kill Peter Saunders?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Peter betrayed me, they all did,’ said Edmund.

  ‘Your dad was supposed to be freed from prison, is that it?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Very good, DCI Lambert. Maybe you are the star detective the papers always said you were. I went to them with a plan to free my father and they used it, but to free Peter Saunders instead.’

  ‘Who are they?’ said Tillman.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me, even if I could tell you.’

  Tillman punched the teenager again, this time to the temple. He closed his eyes, momentarily knocked out.

  ‘It’s all over now, Edmund,’ said Lambert, bending down and slapping the teenager awake. ‘Just tell me where Sophie and Jane are, we can get you some help.’

  The boy smirked again. ‘They’ve got them now. Even if there was something I could do, I wouldn’t.’

  Lambert had seen darkness in his time. Soulless psychopaths with no remorse for the crimes they committed, but the darkness in Barnes’ eyes was something far worse. The boy had been destroyed from within. He was devoid of empathy and compassion. Lambert would go so far as to say he was subhuman.

  ‘You said “us”,’ said Lambert again, searching for a hole in Barnes’ story. ‘What I don’t understand is why the Manor would go to all the trouble of springing Peter Saunders from prison only to kill him.’

  ‘I told you, that was my doing.’

  Lambert shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, convincing himself. ‘Who are you working with, Edmund?’

  Edmund stared back with those dark blank eyes and spat on the ground.

  ‘When did it start, Edmund?’ asked Lambert, nonplussed. ‘Were you just a boy? I imagine you were brought here before. What happened, did your daddy take you here as a family outing? Introduce you to his handiwork?’