‘You’re kidding. My feet are soaking wet.’ He stared down at his trainers and the damp legs of his jeans below the knees. ‘I’m freezing,’ he muttered.
‘Yeah, well, we’re all like that. There’s some boots by the back door, and you’ll probably find dry socks in the bedroom. Get some for Dad and me as well.’
Ricky went out again, looking meaner and angrier with each passing minute.
‘See if you can find something to tie them up with while you’re at it,’ Mark called after him.
Brock was regretting the whole thing, the long drive up north, the skid into the ditch, and now this ridiculous expedition on foot down to the deserted village. He’d arrived at lunchtime, and after the accident in the lane had trudged up to the cottage carrying the bag of food he’d bought at the supermarket deli outside Chester. As soon as Michael opened the door he sensed the mood of dark gloom inside. The escape to the country clearly hadn’t restored their spirits, and both Michael and Jennifer looked worn and deeply depressed, as if the isolation had only compressed and intensified their misery.
While Jennifer set about preparing lunch, Michael explained that they’d have to wait to ask one of the neighbouring farmers for a tractor to pull Brock’s car out of the ditch. One was in Liverpool for the day, the other in Wrexham. Then the snow started again, light and picturesque at first, then unbelievably dense. Not long after, the electricity failed. This apparently was not uncommon. The truck with heating oil had been unable to negotiate the ice-bound lane earlier in the week, and the tank was empty, so they hauled logs in from the pile in the backyard and stoked up the fire and made themselves as comfortable as they could. The air of mild emergency actually seemed to lift their spirits a little.
Brock told them about the events in London, which they hadn’t heard about. Michael confirmed Brock’s suspicion, that his brother Robbie had warned him before he disappeared that the Roaches were after him, though he hadn’t said why, and Michael had always believed they had killed him. Michael gave a bitter laugh at the idea that he and the Roaches could be said to be related, and that he was the uncle of Spider’s granddaughter, and although he drew some grim satisfaction from the twist that had led to Ivor Roach’s death, the story of violence, especially in relation to Tom Reeves, only deepened their despairing mood again. When Brock told him that he had seen Abigail Lavender, who had told him the truth about the killing of the policeman in Kingston, Michael shook his head sadly.
‘That would be the authorised version,’ he said, ‘put about by my grandmother. I’m afraid the real truth was less palatable. The two cops came after us, as Abigail told you, and when the second one cornered us I was paralysed with fear. Earl’s blow only made him stumble, but he did drop his gun. I picked it up and pointed it at him. He put up his hands in surrender. He was barely older than me, and now he was the terrified one. His fear changed me. Suddenly my hands, which had been shaking so violently that I could hardly hold the pistol, became steady. I shot him three times, quite deliberately, as if at a tree stump. It was cold-blooded murder, and I have relived that moment every day since. I have tried to atone for it, but nothing can.’
When the snow stopped, Brock had an overwhelming urge to get out into the fresh air and walk. Their stock of paraffin for the lamps was running low, and he suggested going down to the village for that and a bottle of wine, since it seemed he was going to have to spend the night there with them. Michael was reluctant to leave Jennifer alone without electricity, and described the easier trail down to the valley. At first, the walk across the pristine fields was exactly what Brock needed. He tried to phone Suzanne to describe the scene as he tramped through the snow, but there was no signal. Then the path moved into the woods, and the going became more uneven, and the route slower and harder to make out among the mounds of dead bracken and leaves, the fallen branches and the drifts of snow. The light filtering down through the tangle of branches overhead was becoming dimmer, and it occurred to him that he had left his walk rather late in the afternoon. By the time he finally emerged onto the road at the edge of the village, he was wondering if he would be able to find the route back up the way he’d come.
There seemed to be no one around. The lack of electric lights reinforced the impression of abandonment. The pub was closed and Brock had almost given up when he spied lamplight through the window of the general store. The door was locked, but his knock brought out Mrs Hughes. She told him apologetically that there had been a run on paraffin and all she had left was a single half-gallon can. He bought that, and some candles and matches. There was no wine.
As he made to return he happened to glance at the entrance to the lane further down across the road, and noticed what looked like wide vehicle tracks sweeping into it. When he went to investigate he saw two clear paths of hard-packed snow leading up the hill. With relief he began a quick march up one of them, hoping to get back before the darkness was total.
He came to his car but didn’t stop, pressing on along the line cleared by the Roaches’ two-tonne vehicle, which he assumed must have been made by one of the farmers. Then, as he approached the turn into the cottage yard, he saw it, lurched at an angle in the deepest drift, and his heart thumped as he remembered the same model in the shadows of the courtyard by his house, the night that Spider and Mark Roach came to call.
He carefully placed the rustling plastic bag with his purchases on the snow, and approached the car as silently as he could, ears straining for sounds. When he reached it, he brushed the snow from the back window and saw the name Roach Motors on a small sticker in the corner. He could see from the disturbed snow around it that all four doors had been opened. The two Roach sons, he thought, and Spider. Who else? Hired help? Vexx? He moved cautiously around, peering into the dim interior. Something, a small dark rectangle, was lying on the back seat. The driver’s door wasn’t shut properly, and its window was open half an inch. He gripped the door handle and began to pull, then stopped, realising the interior light would come on and alert anyone watching.
How had they found him? He tried to think of the possibilities, but could only come up with Wayne Ferguson. No one else knew both that he’d be here and how to find the place. Was Ferguson the fourth man? And willingly or not? He crouched and moved carefully forward into sight of the cottage, and was alarmed to see no lights at the windows. Perhaps they’d closed the shutters, or put out the lamps. He kept absolutely still, taking shallow breaths, and finally heard the crump of a boot on snow. To the left of the cottage, he thought, and stared into the darkness until his eyes seemed to see movement everywhere. He blinked, turned away then back, and made out the shape of a dark figure against the stone corner of the building.
He badly wanted to get up to the cottage to see what was going on, and tried to picture its layout. The back door was a possibility, but then an image came into his mind of Michael sliding a bolt after they’d brought in the last armful of wood for the fire. The direct route to the cottage, by way of the drive curving around on the right, provided no cover, and he doubted that he could reach it without being seen or heard by the man on the outside. He needed an edge, some help. He assumed they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave any weapons in the car, but it was worth a look.
He noticed a hazel tree forming part of the hedge alongside the car. Its shoots grew long and straight from the stumps of earlier prunings, and he selected one and very slowly and carefully bent it until it split off with barely a whisper. At the driver’s door he fed the thin branch through the window and manoeuvred its end towards the light switch. He knew he had to get it just right—too big a push and the switch would go to the on position and light up the car even with the door closed. He was sweating despite the cold, and when the trembling sapling stick failed for the third time to connect with its target he wondered whether this was going to be possible. Then there was a click. He froze, but nothing happened. He eased the door open. No light came on and he slid inside.
He reached to the back and his hand connec
ted with the dark rectangle he’d spotted on the seat, and he held the wallet up to his face. Careless, he thought, then opened it and stiffened as he recognised the familiar outline of the Metropolitan Police card and, even in the dim light reflected from the snow, Kathy’s picture.
He thought he understood now. Spider Roach had lost a son, and now he was going to wipe the slate clean. He only hoped that Kathy and Ferguson had made the journey alive.
Brock felt beneath the seats and in the side pockets, but came up with nothing. He reached for the glove compartment handle and opened it, then shut it sharply again as its light came on, but not before he’d seen a small box inside with the symbol of a bullet printed on it. He thought, then eased his coat off, draped it over the dash and glove box and opened the door, feeling inside. No gun, only books and the heavy little box, which he pulled out and pocketed.
He hauled his coat back on and tried his mobile again—still no signal. This was a time for cool, rational thought, but he didn’t feel cool or rational. Perhaps the sensible thing would be to run back down the lane and rouse Mrs Hughes, and use her phone to call for help. But where would help come from—Chester? Ruthin? It might take an hour, more. And what might happen in the meantime? No, their help was here. He was it. He got out of the car and recovered the plastic bag, pulling out the can of paraffin and the matches. He took them back to the car and began sprinkling the fluid over the beautiful leather seats, the dashboard, the thick carpets, ending with a trickle over the door ledge. He lit a match in his cupped hands and touched it to the sill, and a blue flame caught, then rippled brightly across the floor. Brock turned and started plunging through the thick snow to the left, partly screened from the cottage by the mounds of snow-covered bushes that surrounded a wide circular patch of clear flat snow, like a lawn, lying directly before the front door. His heart was pounding from the exertion as he strained to hear the reaction.
It didn’t take long. There was a shout—‘Hey, who’s there?’—and then a muffled exclamation and a hammering at the front door. Another yell: ‘Mark, the car, the fucking car’s on fire!’ Brock dropped to his knees behind a snow-mound.
The front door was thrown open, and he saw that the lights inside the cottage had been doused, although there was still the flicker of firelight. Mark said something in an angry rush and started running down the drive to the right, towards the car, gun in hand, leaving Ricky hovering around the open front door. Brock waited a moment, then rose to his feet and stepped though a patch of bracken with a loud crunch. Ricky saw him, and stepped forward, peering at his shape in the gloom.
‘You—stay where you are!’ Ricky was hurrying forward, brandishing his pistol at Brock who stood quite still. About a third of the way across the clear space between them there was a dull splintering sound as Ricky’s boot crunched down into the snow. His next step produced a louder crack, and then he abruptly dropped, disappearing up to his chest through the snow. He gave a loud shriek as freezing water hit his skin. Ricky had discovered the pond.
Brock turned and plunged on around the perimeter of the pond towards the open front door while the Roach brothers bellowed at each other behind him. He reached it and was inside as the first shot banged into the stone wall beside his shoulder. He slammed the heavy door shut and a second shot thumped into it, but didn’t penetrate through. He slid the bolts home on the door and turned, gasping for breath, to scan the room. He saw four figures huddled on the floor to the left, a fifth rising out of a chair by the fire to the right. He recognised Spider, angular and gaunt, waving a fist at him and spluttering, ‘You! . . . You!’, but apparently unarmed.
He ran across to the other group, against the wall in the shadow of the sideboard, and felt a jolt of relief to see movement and hear muffled sounds. He recognised Kathy’s blonde hair and as he bent closer saw a patch of brown adhesive bandage across her mouth. He stripped it off and she gulped air.
‘Spider . . .’ she gasped, and he turned to see the old man at the door, struggling to release the bolts. He ran back and tussled with him, dragging him bodily back to the other group.
Ricky had had trouble finding anything to tie up their prisoners with, and had made do with a length of electrical cable and some bandages and tape from a first-aid kit. Kathy and Michael were already untangling themselves and helping Jennifer. Brock was feeling for a pulse at Wayne Ferguson’s throat. He shook his head. ‘Dead.’
‘That’s what you’ll be, Brock!’ Spider rasped, chest heaving.
Brock got up from Wayne’s body and went to search Spider’s pockets. He found nothing of use. ‘Kathy, see if you can tie him up before he does any more mischief.’ He started searching through the drawers of the sideboard, pulling out a carving set, some glasses, a wooden breadboard.
‘What else have we got in here?’ he urged Michael Grant.
‘There are more knives in the kitchen, and some tools. Not much else. The axe is in the shed. There’s no gun.’
‘All I have is what I found in their car.’ Brock pulled out the box of ammunition.
Kathy had taken Spider to a chair and tied his hands behind him, then gone to one of the shuttered windows. ‘Ricky’s on his hands and knees. Mark’s with him. What’s wrong with him?’
‘Soaking wet and frozen,’ Brock replied from the kitchen, where he and Michael were frantically searching cupboards. ‘He went through the ice on the pond, like I almost did this afternoon. It won’t be long before they come for us.’
He and Michael returned from the kitchen, carrying a box of tools.
‘They won’t save you,’ Spider said.
Kathy slammed the shutter closed. ‘Mark and Ricky are coming.’
There was a hammering at the door, a shout to open up.
‘Better do as they say,’ Spider went on. ‘It’s you we came for, Brock. You can save your friends. Do what the boys tell you.’
‘The way you saved Wayne Ferguson?’
‘You’ll burn in hell for what you did to my Ivor,’ Spider spat at him furiously. ‘I should have done for you years ago, when I chased that wife of yours away.’
Brock broke off his search of the toolbox and turned to stare at the old man.
‘That’s right,’ Spider sneered at him, ‘chased her out of town I did. Scared the living daylights out of her.’ He put on a pathetic whimper, ‘ “Don’t touch me. You mustn’t hurt my baby.” Did you know she was pregnant, Brock? Eh? Eh?’
Michael Grant broke in, ‘Perhaps I can negotiate with them. After all, we’ve got a stalemate here.’
Spider cackled. ‘Not for long. You can’t keep my boys out of here. Open the door now and beg for mercy. I’ll put in a good word for you . . . For some of you.’
Brock turned to Michael. ‘I think right now we need less of the MP and more of the boy from the Dungle.’
Michael stared at him, then nodded. ‘You’re right.’ His eyes dropped to the open toolbox. ‘I remember a story my brother told me when I was a kid, about the boy who didn’t have a gun.’
There was renewed hammering on the door and angry shouts.
Kathy, peering through the crack in the window shutter to the left, said, ‘I can see headlights. Someone else is coming.’
Brock hurried over to Kathy’s side and peered out. ‘You’re right. There’s another vehicle out there, turning into the drive.’
‘It’ll be the farmer up the hill,’ Michael said. He had pulled a cordless drill out of the toolbox and was groping through a case of drill bits, his fingers fumbling in his haste.
‘What’s he like?’
‘Almost seventy, about five foot six.’
‘Will he have a shotgun?’
‘They’ve just been to Liverpool, shopping,’ Michael said.
Brock groaned. ‘My God, it’ll be a massacre.’
He heard the whine of the electric motor and turned to see Michael drilling a hole in the wooden breadboard, cursing under his breath about the battery not being charged. Brock hadn’t the faintest i
dea what he was trying to do, and the image was so bizarre that he called out, ‘Michael, for God’s sake, this is no time for woodwork.’
Grant glanced at him with a tight smile, withdrew the drill, and reached for one of the bullets from the box. He lifted the board onto its edge and slid the bullet into the nine-millimetre hole he’d drilled.
‘Ah.’ Brock looked doubtful. ‘Was it a true story?’
Michael met his eye and said, ‘I have no idea.’
Just then there was an explosion of shattering glass and splintering timber. They must have found tools, Brock thought—a tyre lever, the axe, a length of wood— whatever it was, they were using it to demolish the other window. Its wooden shutters were shivering and bulging as they worked outside. Brock and Kathy grabbed knives and a monkey wrench and stood each side of it, while Michael called his wife over to hold the breadboard upright on the table while he selected a hammer and a screwdriver from the toolbox.
The shutters burst open with a crash, and the figure of Mark Roach reared up into the void where the window had been. His feet were on the sill, one hand groping the side frame and the other waving his silver pistol. Behind him his brother was pushing him forward, screaming furiously. Brock and Kathy had been forced back by the swinging shutters, and Mark’s blazing eyes focused on Michael Grant and his wife directly in front of him. He gave a roar and lifted his gun. Brock watched helplessly as Michael held the point of the screwdriver against the back of the bullet in the board and smacked it with the hammer, like the firing pin of a gun. There was a loud explosion, but not from Mark Roach’s gun, which wavered for moment, then dropped as Mark toppled forward into the room. Michael gave a loud whoop, scrambled over him and launched himself through the window at Ricky, the hammer still in his hand.
Brock threw himself at the front door, heaved back the bolts, and ran outside. Michael and Ricky were struggling on the ground, and Brock jumped on Roach, pinning down his right arm while Michael held his left. Ricky squirmed under them, twisting his head from side to side. Then he suddenly stopped struggling. ‘Teddy,’ he said.
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