Carnal Acts

by Sam Alexander

  ‘Joni!’ the girl cried, throwing the ball hard at her brother then running towards her. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, you know – school, boys, my idiot brother.’ Kat liked Joni because she took time to talk to her on the few occasions they’d met. ‘Nice blouse.’

  The men arrived at varying degrees of speed, Luke hanging back behind his grandfather.

  ‘Wow!’ Heck said. ‘I’ve never seen a fruit salad blouse before. Is it from Hawaii?’ He ran an eye over her. ‘Wherever it was made, you look spectacular.’

  ‘Hello, lass,’ David said, holding out his liver-spotted hand. ‘Come away in.’

  ‘Hiya, Luke,’ she said, smiling at the twelve-year-old.

  He nodded, eyes down. If ever there were a case of early teenage lust, this was it.

  ‘Joni!’ Ag called from the house. ‘Come and help. As usual I’m left to slave in the kitchen on my own.’ She looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have used the “s” word.’

  Joni smiled. ‘Slavery isn’t confined to people of colour.’

  ‘True enough. Have a white wine, orange juice and soda spritzery thing.’ Ag filled a glass from a jug. ‘I’ve made a mushroom lasagne. Can you sort out the salad?’

  Joni nodded, sipping her drink.

  ‘Those heathens demand meat,’ Ag said, ‘so you’re going to have to live with the scent of rib roast.’

  ‘It’s fine. You shouldn’t have bothered with the lasagne. I could just have eaten the vegetables.’

  Ag frowned. ‘I invited you. I’m not going to give you nothing and three veg.’

  Joni laughed.

  ‘You look well. Are you settling in at last?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. No time. We’ve been very busy.’

  ‘I noticed.’ Ag moved closer. ‘Is my man coping? He’s come home every day in a state of exhaustion.’

  Joni nodded. ‘The DCI’s doing fine.’

  ‘He’s called Heck, Dad or Son in this house. Take your pick.’

  ‘OK,’ Joni said, as her boss walked in. ‘Can we … can we have a few minutes?’

  ‘No!’ Ag commanded. ‘It’s Sunday, it’s nearly lunch time and shop talk is banned.’

  Heck opened his hands helplessly, then poured two glasses from the jug. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the old man get this down. He thinks white wine is the work of the devil.’

  ‘He’ll also drink anything that contains alcohol,’ Ag said.

  They moved to the front room, where Kat and Luke were playing with the long-suffering pets. Adolf was sitting on the back of the sofa, peering at the boy through narrowed eyes, while Cass was standing against Kat on her hind legs. Joni felt a shiver run up her body as a high-pitched sound entered her ears. She looked round and saw Heck’s father sitting at the table, Northumbrian pipes on his lap. He started on a fiendishly complicated air, accompanied by his son on the bodhran. Joni clapped when they finished, even though the music had made her uncomfortable. It had reached a part of her that classical music didn’t. She found herself thinking of the laughter that had floated away on the wind in the middle of the night – the laughter and the skeletal figure she had glimpsed.

  Lunch was loud and delicious. Joni had been put between David and Luke. While the old man would happily have talked to her without interruption about the larks he and his friends had got up to when they were young, she tried to engage the teenager in the conversation. He was interested in rugby and cricket, two sports she had never seen the point of – she’d never cared for teams, preferring to test herself against her own personal best with the javelin rather than bother with the opposition. But Luke’s enthusiasm was infectious and she found herself asking him about the complexities of the scrum. He wanted to be a number eight, whatever that was – like his father had been – but apparently he needed to put some inches and pounds on.

  ‘Aye, Heck was the man,’ David said, shaking his head. ‘When he had the bit between his teeth, he could get the ball over the line with half-a-dozen defenders hanging off him.’

  The meal finished with a spectacular homemade ice cream cake.

  ‘All right,’ Ag said, after coffee had been handed out, ‘I can see Heck and Joni are bursting to get to work. Half an hour in the study and then rounders in the garden, OK?’

  Joni nodded gratefully and followed her boss to the small room on the first floor, where he had a desk piled with paper and no computer.

  ‘Let’s have it then,’ Heck said, after she sat down on the low sofa.

  She made her case for searching the Favon estate for the Restons – as well as for Suzana Noli and Oliver Forrest.

  ‘But Dan Reston and his wife have done a bunk,’ Heck said, fumbling for his phone. He clicked on a number and waited for a reply. ‘Still going straight to voicemail.’

  ‘He hasn’t done a bunk, sir,’ Joni said. ‘I’m sure of that. He’s on the estate somewhere and Lord Favon’s knows it.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do? It’s still all conjecture.’

  ‘Not if we get the SOCOs to go over the whole pickup instead of just the tyres.’

  ‘At best that might put Reston in the frame for the headless man’s death, though he could easily claim the dogs got loose.’

  ‘But someone cut off Gary Frizzell’s head and hands. If we squeeze him, maybe he’ll put Favon in the frame.’

  ‘All right, I’ll talk to Mrs Normal tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not today?’

  ‘Lay off, Joni. I’ve only called her on the weekend once. She was at a lunch and wasn’t happy. Besides, getting a warrant on Sunday afternoon is a tough ask.’

  ‘People’s lives may be at risk.’

  ‘All right! I’ll call her later so we can at least get the paperwork ready.’

  Joni wasn’t impressed – it didn’t work that way in the Met – but she had to accept the ways things were done in the north. Soon Ag opened the door and ushered them out.

  Joni proved to be a useful rounders player, hitting the ball so hard that it took Luke a couple of minutes to find it in the neighbouring field. He grinned as he ran back, shyness gone.

  It was close to four when Joni left. She had to visit her mother and her stomach was already clenching at the prospect. She felt things were coming to a head with Moonbeam and their relationship would never be the same again. Ag kissed her on both cheeks as did David, more sloppily. Heck pecked her once, then Kat gave her a hug and Luke did the same. They were sweet moments.

  ‘Come again!’ Ag called, as Joni was climbing into the Land Rover. ‘Come next Sunday.’

  Joni waved but didn’t speak. She could only look ahead a matter of hours. As she pulled away from the Rutherfords’, she saw a figure in the wood across the road. For a moment she wondered who it was, but the thought immediately left her mind as she concentrated on her mother.

  136

  The man known as Gazelle had been outside Moonbeam Pax’s cottage since midday. He was fifteen feet up an old oak tree and had a viewpoint that was both safe and panoramic if he shifted the branches. He didn’t need the binoculars he’d brought in his backpack. He’d parked the car about three hundred yards further down the road, in a concealed turn-off that led only to the gate of an empty field. There was just an old Renault outside that he knew went with the house. Smoke was rising from the chimney on the right side of the low building and the woman with the crazy name didn’t come out until mid-afternoon. She spent some time cutting from plants in a fenced patch of ground, then went back inside. Her hair looked like a buzzard had been nesting in it and her clothes were hippy but definitely not chic. He could imagine she’d once been an attractive woman. It was hard to see in the small windows, but he reckoned she was on her own. When he was watching her in the garden he thought he heard the door to one of the outhouses bang, but he must have imagined it. There had been no sign of anyone else.

  After eating a sandwich and an apple, his b
ack against the gnarled trunk, Gazelle looked at his watch. Nearly four. The sun was still up in the west, but a chill was beginning to settle. He saw no reason to wait any longer. He took the pistol and ammo clips out of his bag, slapping one in and racking the slide. Then he slipped the sheathed knife into the pocket of his dark green combat jacket. One pocket was already stuffed with plastic restraints. After pulling the balaclava over his face, he was ready to rock.

  Dropping down from the tree silently, he went to the door and knocked three times. If the woman wanted to know who he was before opening up, he would say he was a police officer, but that turned out to be unnecessary.

  ‘Wha—,’ Moonbeam Pax said, the smile dying on her lips.

  Gazelle had the pistol raised. ‘Inside. No noise, no pissing about.’

  The woman backed into the cottage. He glanced into the room on the left past the open door and saw only heaps of cardboard boxes.

  ‘Christ!’ he said, gagging as he followed her past the foot of the stairs and into the other room. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A herbal remedy for gout,’ Moonbeam Pax said, showing less fear than he was used to.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to a wooden chair by a rickety table. She did so and he quickly secured her arms and legs with ties.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing of value, at least to those who do not believe in nature’s powers.’

  Gazelle slapped her hard on the left cheek. He was wearing thin leather gloves and the blow made a loud crack.

  ‘Why … why did … did you do that?’ she asked, her eyes wet.

  ‘Because you’re a stupid cunt.’ He pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the side of her head. ‘Now start taking deep breaths. In a few minutes you’re going to call your daughter and tell her you’re feeling poorly. You need her to look after you, got that? You need her now.’

  Moonbeam Pax nodded slowly as she tried to control her breathing.

  137

  Michael Etherington was wedged in the braches of an old oak at the top of the wood. Favon Hall was over a mile to the west. He’d watched as Dan Reston, covered in blood, had dragged the dogs’ bodies through the hedge and loaded them on to the Hilux. His head was down and his shoulders slack as he lit a cigarette. It was too far to hear, but it looked like he was bellowing. Then the factor’s body language changed. He straightened up and pounded his fists against the bodywork. He got in and drove at speed across Andrew Favon’s lawns, heading for the old dower house on the other side of the gardens.

  The general considered his options. If he went home, he’d have to find a secure place to hide the camo gear and his weapons – the police would no doubt take him in for questioning about the explosion at the nightclub. He could go back to his friend’s 4×4 and drive as far away as he could, but there was no honour in that. No, he had to go to the Hall and question the Favons about Nick’s death.

  He got down from the tree and made his way through the wood to the eastern edge of the gardens. He was surprised that the shots hadn’t brought Andrew to the door, but maybe he was still pissed from the night before. Although booze wasn’t too high on the list of his vices… Then he heard the roar of an engine and saw the red Hilux speed across the gravel. It swung round the edge of the Hall and drove towards the medieval tower. He raised the scope and watched as a figure dressed in black – no sign of blood – got out. A balaclava had been pulled over the face. Moving quickly, the man took a cattle prod from the back of the pickup and opened the steel door. He disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar.

  Michael Etherington had a bad feeling. As far as he knew, the tower was full of junk and was also unsafe. One thing he was sure of – there weren’t any cattle in it. So what was the prod for? Jesus, he said, under his breath. Has the mad fucker locked Andrew and Victoria up in there?

  He broke cover, running in a crouch. There was open space between the wood and the tower, but he had no choice.

  138

  The man with the codename Leopard was getting impatient. He’d been among the trees across the road from Heck Rutherford’s house for nearly three hours. He’d seen Joni Pax arrive and the whole pack of them go inside for a lunch that seemed to last forever. Then they reappeared and played rounders in the garden, their leaping, running forms visible from his hiding place. He looked at his watch. At last it was nearly time. He checked his clothing. It was all brand new, bought with cash from different shops: a black cagoule and waterproof trousers, black hiking boots that pinched. He hoped he wouldn’t have to run further than the stolen car he’d been supplied with and had parked down the road.

  Leopard had his weapons in a shooting bag: a Benelli M4 Super 90 semi-automatic shotgun, with seven 12 gauge rounds already inserted and another twenty in his pockets; a Korean pistol which he only intended using in the last resort; and a combat knife. He didn’t want to inflict any more damage than he had to, but he would do anything to punish Heck Rutherford. The Albanians had discovered how much he wanted revenge, even though he thought he’d concealed it from all except close family. The money was great too, but it was the icing on the cake. Slaughtering the bastard Rutherford in front of his family was motivation enough.

  At last the black cow left – he’d been given strict instructions not to start until she’d gone – and Leopard checked his gear. He pulled on thick latex gloves and rolled down his balaclava. This was it. Payback in blood and guts. He moved to the edge of the wood, checked the road in both directions and headed for the front door. The westering red sun made him blink, but only once.

  139

  Evie was at the rear-facing window of her bedroom when the Hilux drove up to the tower. Was that Dan Reston with a balaclava over his face? Why was he taking a cattle prod in there? The way he moved, it was frightening. Could there be someone else inside? She made her mind up – it was time she got out. She wedged a chair under the door handle so her parents would have a struggle to get in. Then she stripped the bed and pulled off the sheet and under sheet. She twisted the fabric and then tied the ends to make a form of rope that would at least get her close to the gravel-covered ground below. There was a basement that increased the distance.

  Andrew had forgotten about her second crutch. She smashed it against the worn wooden frame, breaking as much glass as she could, then threw the duvet over the jagged edges. After securing one end to the leg of a chest of drawers, she threw the rope out and sent the crutch after it. She took a deep breath and climbed out. Her upper body strength was good after using the wheelchair for months, but she still almost lost her grip as she went down and had to pull her legs up to prevent further damage. She straightened them until her feet reached the gravel and stood panting before she picked up her crutch. The silver-coloured metal had taken a battering, but it still held her weight. She limped over to the tower, stopping when she heard what sounded like a man scream. Then she started moving again, her heart pounding.

  As she passed the pickup, she had a thought and looked in the window. The key wasn’t in the ignition.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she mouthed.

  There was nothing else for it. She had to go in. It would be the first time in her life. The old building had been out of bounds since she was a small child. She smelled the musty air. There was something else in it – something animal. As she started on the first set of stone steps, she heard another scream, this one more highly pitched. She glanced at her crutch. She had the feeling it wasn’t going to be anything close to adequate as a weapon.

  140

  The call came when Joni was about five miles from her mother’s. She immediately knew something was wrong.

  ‘Joni? I’m … not well, darling. Can you come and … look after me?’

  Moonbeam’s tone was almost the standard mixture of laid-back charm and neediness, but Joni caught the tension in it. She didn’t say she was on her way, as arranged, because she knew her mother wouldn’t have forgotten that.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, a
s evenly as she could.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got this bug. I’ve … I’ve thrown up twice already and I hardly have the energy to get to the loo.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good. All right, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ The connection was cut, too quickly Joni reckoned, but she’d bought herself some time. She drove on, trying to work out what was happening. A burglary, a home invasion – or something worse? She called Heck. The landline was engaged and his mobile switched to voicemail. Parking about five hundred yards before Moonbeam’s track, she found Pete Rokeby’s number.

  There was a lot of noise in the background when he answered.

  ‘It’s Joni, Pete. There’s something going on.’ She explained the situation.

  ‘You think your mother and DCI Rutherford are in danger?’

  ‘I don’t want to take any chances, given what we know the Albanians can do. I’m calling uniform to both places, but I want you to get to Heck’s … to the DCI’s, as quick as you can. Where are you?’

  ‘Restaurant in Corham. It’s a friend’s birthday and I’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Too bad. Get over there now.’ She terminated the call, called the uniformed branch and then got out of the Land Rover. She had a toolbox under a blanket in the back. She knew she should wait for backup, but she couldn’t leave her mother in danger, for all their problems. She put a screwdriver in one jacket pocket and took a two-foot socket wrench in her hand, before cutting across the fields and approaching the cottage from the rear. She reckoned backup from Alnwick would be at least twenty minutes. She stooped as she approached the back window of the main room. Raising her head cautiously, she saw her mother sitting on one of the chairs at the table. The white restraints round Moonbeam’s wrists and ankles immediately caught her attention. She looked around slowly. A figure in dark clothes and a balaclava was standing behind the door that led to the small hall. The height and bulk suggested it was a man. He was holding a pistol in his right hand and what looked like a combat knife in his left. He couldn’t be seen from the front windows. If she knocked at the front door, she’d make a large target.