by Paul Finch
Still they said nothing.
Though they’d now removed her blindfold and gag, she was kneeling painfully upright, hands and ankles bound together behind her. Her captors knelt too, surrounding her in a perfect circle. The half-light rendered their features ghostly and indistinct, which was much the way she’d seen them the last time – in that derelict petrol station, where they’d come at her like spectres through the shadows and moonlight.
It still seemed incredible to Claire that they were teenagers – little more than children.
First there was the pretty blonde girl who’d clamped her in a choke-hold in the station storeroom. After her came the girl Claire thought of as ‘the Tomboy’. She was stocky, with short, raven-black hair and a permanent pugnacious sneer, but she too was athletic and strong; Claire knew this for a fact because it was the Tomboy who’d dragged her around the most. Last in the command structure came two boys. One was short and dumpy, with curious rat-like features; she imagined he’d been the butt of many jokes. The other was taller and leaner; he had a head of tight brown curls and the angelic looks of a choirboy, yet there was something menacing about him – perhaps his frozen half-smile, which she belatedly realised was not a smile at all, but some kind of facial flaw.
‘What are you staring at?’ he asked quietly.
‘Nothing,’ Claire replied, half mesmerised. His gaze was so forceful that she fancied she could feel it on her skin. It was the same with all of them.
They didn’t seem angry with her, though there was an undisguised urgency when they’d dragged her up from that pit. At the time, somewhere in the near-distance, she’d heard male voices shouting. She’d wondered if that was Heck and the rest of them, closing in … but ultimately it hadn’t mattered. Her abductors had flung her into the trailer of the articulated lorry, climbing in with her, and closing and bolting the doors. The vehicle had then rumbled away, swerving, stopping and starting up again, and experiencing at least one road accident, but not letting that slow it down. It had been on the move ever since, and still was.
‘Miss Moody?’ came a voice from somewhere else in the lorry’s interior.
This was an adult voice, and Claire knew immediately who it belonged to. She glanced left, to where a fifth figure emerged from the darkness. It was the older bespectacled man, the one with the grey frizzy hair, the one whose car had pulled up on the petrol station forecourt. He smiled at her as he shrugged his large frame into an oversize camouflage jacket.
‘My apologies for the roughness of your experience so far,’ he said. ‘It’s a necessary evil, I’m afraid … but at the very least we can be courteous. I am Dr Enwright, but you may call me Leo.’ He indicated the blonde girl. ‘This is Jasmine.’ Jasmine neither smiled nor nodded. ‘And this is Heather.’ The Tomboy did smile, but it wasn’t pleasant. ‘And these two reprobates,’ Leo indicated the rat-faced boy and the taller one with the leer, ‘are Luke and Arnie.’
‘What do you …’ she stammered. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘You’re here to pay your dues,’ Enwright said simply.
‘Why?’ she pleaded. ‘In heaven’s name, what have I done to you?’
‘Not to us. To the nation. You told them we were gangsters, criminals.’
‘But you are!’ She couldn’t help saying that, even though her voice had diminished to little more than a whine. ‘You kidnap people … you murder them.’
‘You called us desecrators,’ the boy called Arnie accused her. ‘That was an insult.’
‘But I didn’t invent that name …’
‘Nor did you deny it,’ Heather said.
‘Listen, please … stop this madness.’
‘You transmitted a message to the nation that we are its enemies,’ Enwright pointed out. ‘That we seek only to damage, to hurt …’
‘I think they can draw that conclusion for themselves,’ she interrupted, fear and pain hardening her tone. This old crackpot … and these stupid kids, these stupid bits of bloody demented kids! The vibrating steel floor was agony under her knees. Her wrists and ankles ached in their bonds. ‘And you’re hardly likely to make them think differently with this kind of behaviour, are you!’
‘Quite the opposite, actually.’ Enwright took two items from a haversack. One of them rattled – it sounded like a box of matches. ‘Because of those offerings we’ve already made, yours, I think, will be the most appreciated.’ He glanced at her with apparent interest in her viewpoint. ‘The British are a sporting set, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t know what you mean …’
‘But they’re a contrary lot too. With the same cynicism that has enabled them to stand back and watch, even while disapproving, as the spiritual life of this land has turned to ashes – they’ll enjoy the irony that the one most deserving of their vengeance, the traitor who lied and misled them, is to be given a chance the others never had.’
A match sparked to life, and he inserted it into an oil lamp, which he then lifted above his head, casting them all in a faint, flickering luminescence. They were clad for the outdoors; she saw green and black waterproofs and leggings, lace-up hiking boots, gloves, more camouflaged jackets. The girl Jasmine was equipped with a firearm; it was strapped to her back, its carved wooden hilt visible over her right shoulder.
‘Are we all going hunting?’ Claire said, trying to sound scornful.
Enwright smiled. ‘Some of us.’
A heap of neatly folded garments was flung down: a white chemise with frill cuffs and collar; a buff, hook-fronted tunic complete with a broad belt to be worn across the shoulder; a pair of baggy maroon breeches, and some gauntlets. As an afterthought, a pair of heeled, leather thigh-boots were placed on top.
‘It’s unlikely to be a perfect fit,’ Enwright said. ‘But needs must. As long as you wear it with pride, the illusion will be complete.’
Claire gazed at the outfit, uncomprehending. She said nothing as the boy called Luke shuffled behind her. With a rasp of steel, he drew his knife and sawed through her bonds. When both her hands and feet were free, she slumped down onto her hip, rubbing at the weals on her wrists and ankles.
‘Take your clothes off,’ Heather instructed her.
Claire glanced up at them. ‘Forget it.’ She indicated the costume. ‘I’m not wearing that stuff, if that’s what you mean. This insanity has gone far enough.’
‘Take your clothes off,’ Enwright reiterated, blank-faced.
‘No. You’re going to hurt me anyway, so why should I?’
With deliberate slowness, Jasmine drew the firearm from her back. Claire stared aghast as what looked like a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun was levelled at her face.
‘Why?’ Jasmine said without emotion. ‘I’ll tell you … because the small chance you have – and it is exceedingly small – will disappear entirely if you fail to cooperate.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Claire said more boldly than she felt, because in truth she had no doubt that this girl would dare.
‘The only thing I’d regret is the waste of good material.’ Jasmine squinted along the barrels – as if she needed to from three feet away. ‘But we can always find more of that. We’ve always been able to find more.’
The others watched, eyes shining, mouths wet with excitement. Jasmine smiled too, for the first time; it was a Satanic vision, her lips a crooked curve, her glassy eyes boring straight through Claire; it could have been anyone she was about to execute here – literally anyone – and it wouldn’t have mattered to her one iota.
Hurriedly, Claire slid off her jacket and blouse, unfastening the button at the front of her trousers and turning slightly to wriggle them down her bruised legs. She sat shame-faced in knickers and bra, arms folded across her midriff in an attempt to cover herself.
They regarded her dispassionately.
‘Everything,’ Jasmine said.
‘Why everything?’ Claire said tearfully.
‘Because, my dear, humiliation is part of the ritual,’ Enwr
ight explained.
‘Everything,’ Jasmine said again, nudging her shoulder with the gun.
‘So you’re perverts as well?’ Claire wept as she unhooked her bra and raised her bottom to pull her knickers down. ‘I might have guessed …’
‘Defending your dignity will cut no ice here,’ Enwright said. ‘Jasmine had to give up far more than you.’
‘Nice pussy,’ Arnie commented, though a fierce glare from Enwright prevented further crudity from him.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Jasmine asked, gesturing at the pile of clothing.
Scarcely able to believe what was happening to her, Claire clambered into the garish costume. As Enwright had hinted, it wasn’t a perfect fit – a little on the large side, but if she tightened the belt to its last notch, it just about held together. She looked around at them. Again they were watching her in silence, but now it was the silence of approval. Luke lifted something into view from the darkness behind him: a cardboard box, overflowing with greenery. He turned his eyes to Enwright, who nodded once, and then smiled, as, with hoots and gibbers, the rest of them fell upon her.
Shrieking, Claire was borne to the lorry floor. The box of greenery contained nettles and thistles. With exaggerated laughs, they grabbed up handfuls of these and began stuffing them inside her costume.
Chapter 45
By the time Heck got to the estate’s west gate, local support units were on site in the shape of two Traffic Division Range Rovers. They’d already closed down the main road with cones and visi-flashers. Gary Quinnell’s Hyundai lay in the far lane, upside down. Its front offside had imploded. A sparkling trail of shattered glass and metal splinters lay across the blacktop.
Quinnell himself was seated on the kerb, a Traffic PC in a white hat and fluorescent slicker crouched alongside him, taking notes. Quinnell’s face, shirt and tie were stained with blood, which had dripped down from a nasty gash in his brow. When he saw Heck approaching, he shook his head. ‘Sorry … came out of nowhere. Fifty plus. Like a bloody tank. Crashed straight through me.’
‘They’ll do that to anyone who gets in their way,’ Heck said. ‘You alright?’
‘Bit shaken. Tried to stand up a minute ago, had a funny turn.’
‘An ambulance is on its way,’ the Traffic officer said.
‘Good,’ Heck replied. ‘Get him down to A&E. See he gets treated quickly, eh? Meanwhile, we need a fix on that wagon.’
‘Air Operations have been alerted,’ the Traffic officer said. ‘But it was heading west, and that’s where the M6 is … and there are lots of heavies on the motorway.’
‘DS Fisher to DS Heckenburg?’ Heck’s radio chirped.
‘Go ahead, Eric.’
‘You need to get back here, Heck.’
‘Correction. I need to find this missing HGV before something very bad happens to Claire Moody.’
‘That’s why you want to get back here. Enwright left a lot of stuff behind … it’s the best lead we’ve got.’
Heck pondered this for an agonised moment, before reaching a decision. ‘On my way.’
‘So what do we know?’ Heck said, ripping off his jacket as he entered Enwright’s office.
The motorised lawn-roller was still jammed in the shattered doorway to the storeroom. Enwright’s expansive desk stood in the corner where they had dragged it, but now the singed map that Heck had saved from the Pavilion fire was spread on top of it. Eric Fisher was present, his attention divided between the map and the computer, which he was plugged into via a pair of earphones. Paperwork was scrolling out, sheet by sheet, from a fax machine in the corner.
‘I said, what we have got?!’ Heck repeated loudly, when Fisher didn’t respond.
‘Oh … sorry, Heck.’ Fisher removed one of the earphones. ‘Bits and bobs. First, have a gander at that map.’
Heck did but could only distinguish the outlines of woods, fields and narrow lanes, which were probably little more than farm tracks. The marker-pen squiggles were unreadable.
‘I couldn’t work out where it’s supposed to be at first,’ Fisher said. ‘But I think I do now. Sale Green and Huddington are the giveaways.’ He indicated the two obscure hamlets in the map’s lower left and right corners. ‘It’s the open country between Worcester and Redditch. Doesn’t tell us what they’ve got in mind, of course.’
Heck shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, we’ve got to get down there. Worcester’s only forty miles from Riphall. They could be there already.’
‘It won’t be a piece of piss going at it blind. That map covers a big area.’
‘Okay, we’ll need foot troops. Let’s hope West Mercia can spare a few.’
‘Nothing else in the Pavilion?’ Fisher asked.
‘Most of it got burned. No time to look through the rest.’ Heck pointed at the fax. ‘What’s this?’
‘Enwright’s criminal record.’
‘Good …’ Heck snatched it, rolled it and crammed it under his jacket. He turned to the computer. ‘What are you ear-wigging?’
‘Going through his audio files.’
‘They aren’t encrypted?’
‘Nope.’
‘Didn’t think we’d get near him, did he?’
‘You ought to listen to some of this stuff.’
‘There’s no time …’
‘It’s important, Heck. At first I didn’t think they were relevant. It’s mostly academic … anthropological experiments, observations of social behaviour, that sort of stuff. But then I realised quite a few of them refer to these kids who’ve gone AWOL.’ He indicated the school records lying on a nearby shelf. ‘And it isn’t what you’d call flattering.’
Reluctantly, Heck waited while Fisher unplugged the earphones. He heard Enwright’s voice – smooth, unctuous, but talking idly to himself, as if giving voice to a stream of casual contemplation. The subject appeared to be Gareth Holker, St Bardolph’s Head Boy and rugby captain, two achievements which Enwright, though vaguely contemptuous of them, was, in a roundabout way, taking the credit for.
‘They say you can’t polish a turd, can’t turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse … such clichés, such typical conceit of the chattering classes. How do men with nothing in their lives become super-powered Special Forces soldiers? How do tea-boys ascend the ladder and finish up running multinationals? Latent power lurks in all of us, and we don’t even know it. All one must do is unlock it. That boy could climb a cliff-face with a hundredweight of bricks on his back if conditioned properly. It’s the mind, not the body … the young mind in particular. So easy to meld, to bend …’
Heck glanced at Fisher. ‘Is there more like this?’
Fisher moved the cursor slightly. ‘Lots.’
‘The Hitler Youth were the perfect example. Give them a flag and they’re yours. Even if they don’t totally believe, one reaches the stage where it is more important to be accepted than to do the right thing …’
‘He’s deranged,’ Heck said. ‘As if we didn’t already know that.’
Fisher hit the ‘off’ switch. ‘Makes it a bit more explainable perhaps.’
‘If no more understandable. There’s nothing in there about Worcester, nothing specific?’
‘Nothing specific. Just stuff concerning the kids … going back months, years.’
‘Can you edit the relevant bits together into a single MP3?’
Fisher raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘I’m an intelligence officer, not a hacker.’
‘You spend most of every day online.’
‘How soon will you need it?’
‘ASAP.’ Heck rubbed his brow. ‘In the meantime, I’ve no choice … I’ll have to lean on the prisoners.’
‘You won’t get much out of Latimer,’ Fisher said. ‘He’s been taken to hospital with a broken jaw.’
‘My heart bleeds.’
‘There may be trouble. His mum and dad are bigwigs in the film industry.’
‘Are they based over here?’
‘LA, as far as I know.’
> ‘While their son languishes at boarding school in rainy England? That explains plenty.’
‘Will Holker talk?’
Heck shook his head. ‘He’s hardcore. Enwright had him the longest. How about Worthington? Still on the premises?’
Fisher nodded at the office door – just as Charlie Finnegan sauntered through it.
‘Worthington?’ Heck said.
‘Yep.’ Finnegan checked his notes. ‘Comes from Bolton … almost certainly our zoo insider. No previous. Apparently been a model pupil …’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Sitting in a patrol car outside.’
‘Get him out again.’ Heck dragged his jacket on. ‘He’s coming for a ride with us.’
‘What … where?’
‘We’re going to Worcester. We’ll talk to him on the way.’
‘Eh?’ Finnegan looked startled. ‘Hang on, sarge, we … we can’t do that.’
‘He’s still your prisoner, isn’t he?’
‘Officially, yeah.’
‘Fine. If anyone asks, you’re taking him to the nearest nick. Your superior – in more ways than one – has specifically instructed you.’
‘But he’s a minor …’
‘So find an appropriate adult.’
‘What about a legal rep …?’
‘What about getting him a pet too?’ Heck said. ‘And an Xbox to keep him occupied? What do you not understand, Charlie, about someone’s gonna die if we don’t get our arses in gear? Now jump fucking to it!’
Chapter 46
‘Surprised the lorry wasn’t spotted on its way down here,’ Charlie Finnegan remarked, noting yet another Traffic patrol parked on a motorway bridge as they sped beneath it.
‘They’re clever,’ Heck muttered, distracted by Leo Enwright’s crumpled rap sheet, which he’d now read through a couple of times. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they’d stopped and put new plates on it. That’d buy them enough time to make it forty miles.’
A passing signpost showed that they themselves were only fifteen miles from Worcester. The M5 was normally busy, but it was now edging towards mid-evening, so the rush-hour traffic was thinning out. Of course, the advantage of that was offset by the disadvantage of approaching dusk – like they didn’t have problems enough when the area shown on the map was so large. Not that Heck was overly worried by this at present.