by DS Butler
Fred Oakland chuckled, and Mackinnon turned and saw him waggling the key.
“Look, I’ve got to go now, Nick,” Mackinnon said. “But I’ll keep you posted.”
“All right, I’ll leave now. I’m not much use hanging around the station. I can be with you in ten minutes.”
Fred Oakland beamed at Mackinnon as he clutched the key in his podgy fist. “Found it,” he said. “I knew I had it somewhere.”
“Great,” Mackinnon said. “Let’s go and take a look.”
The smile slid from Fred Oakland’s face. “You want to open it now?”
“Yes.”
Fred Oakland frowned. “Shouldn’t we check with Mr. Cleeves first?”
“Absolutely not.”
Mr. Oakland shrugged and led the way through the shop to an old door set into the back wall. The frame was small, and Mackinnon had to duck as he walked through the doorway.
The musky smell of fresh wood shavings wafted along the corridor.
“This is the entrance to the basement,” Fred Oakland said. “There’s another entrance, in the Star Academy’s reception.”
Mackinnon nodded. He’d seen it and watched Roger Cleeves stroll out of the basement less than ten minutes ago.
Fred Oakland opened the door to the basement. Mackinnon could see the first couple of steps leading downwards, but the rest of the stairs were hidden by the darkness.
Fred Oakland ran his hand along the wall just at the entrance, trying to locate a light switch. When he found it, he turned the light on with a snap.
A single light bulb hung down over the staircase. The light wasn’t powerful, perhaps a forty-watt bulb, and the edges of the steps remained in shadow.
The gentle hum of electricity made Mackinnon wonder how many years it had been since the electrics in this place were updated.
Fred Oakland turned to Mackinnon and smiled. “I’ll go first, shall I?”
Mackinnon nodded but couldn’t smile back. His mouth was dry, and the damp smell drifting up from the basement made his skin crawl. Fred Oakland led the way down the stone steps.
“You’ll need to watch your footing,” Fred Oakland said. “The damp can make the stairs slippery.”
Mackinnon reached out for the wall, pressed his hand against the rough stone work and steadied himself. After a few more steps, Mackinnon felt something touch the skin on the back of his hand. He yanked back his arm, but it was only a cobweb. He wiped it away and continued down the steps.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Fred Oakland disappeared around a corner. Mackinnon followed quickly, not wanting to be left behind down here. The smell of damp grew stronger as they walked along a narrow corridor. The only source of light was the solitary light bulb over the staircase, and as they walked away from it, Mackinnon found it more and more difficult to keep up with Fred Oakland.
Mackinnon caught his foot and stumbled. He held out his hands to break his fall, grazing his palms. He wiped them on his trousers and shivered as he heard a scratching sound and imagined rats scurrying past. When he looked up again, he couldn’t see Fred Oakland.
Shit. Mackinnon pulled out his mobile phone, and used the light from it to get a better look at his surroundings. The walls were a light brown, spotted with darker patches, perhaps from water damage or damp. Further along the corridor, the damp was worse. It streaked the walls, leaving marks behind like dripping, black treacle. Mackinnon looked down and saw what tripped him up: a large stone brick. Mackinnon nudged it with his foot so it sat back against the wall, out of the way.
“Detective?” Fred Oakland’s voice drifted along the corridor.
“Coming.” Mackinnon walked forward, using the light from his mobile phone to guide him.
As he walked around the next corner, he saw Fred Oakland hunched over next to a black door. He waited as Fred Oakland jiggled the key in the lock.
Then Fred Oakland turned around, and Mackinnon almost jumped out of his skin.
The pupils of Fred Oakland’s eyes were huge. They looked like dark stones set in his pale round face. It made Mackinnon’s skin crawl.
He knew it was just due to the lack of light down here. Mackinnon’s own pupils would look the same, but he felt an overwhelming desire to get out of this basement and away from Fred Oakland.
Fred Oakland held the key up close to his face and peered at it, frowning.
“That’s funny,” he said.
“What is?”
“The key doesn’t fit.”
“Try it again.”
Mackinnon’s heart was thumping; he just knew there was something behind this door. Something Roger Cleeves was hiding from them. Was he protecting his son?
Fred Oakland leaned forward again to put the key in the lock. He tried turning clockwise, then anticlockwise, but it didn’t move.
“It’s no good.” Roger Cleeves straightened. “He must have had the locks changed.”
Mackinnon hit the door with his fist.
“Temper, temper…” The voice came from behind them, making both Mackinnon and Fred Oakland turn around.
Roger Cleeves stood on the bottom step, his face half covered by shadow.
“Hey, Cleeves! What’s the big idea?” Fred Oakland asked. “I never gave you permission to change the locks.”
“Oh, didn’t you?” Roger Cleeves stared at Oakland, a small smile playing on his lips.
“No. You know I bloody well didn’t.” Fred Oakland pointed at Cleeves with the key. “Now open up this door.”
“Why?”
Fred Oakland put his hands on his hips and shook his head so hard his cheeks wobbled. “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because this gentleman is a police officer, and he wants to take a look inside.”
Fred Oakland moved forward, standing chest to chest with Roger Cleeves, scowling in his face.
“Stand back, please, Mr. Oakland,” Mackinnon said.
But Fred Oakland ignored him. He poked Roger Cleeves in the chest with his finger, “Open up.”
“Take a step back, please, Mr. Oakland,” Mackinnon said.
But it was too late.
In a flash, Roger Cleeves had a switch blade held against Fred Oakland’s fleshy throat.
“I think I’ll be going now, Detective,” Roger Cleeves said, backing out of the passage, moving towards the stairs leading up to the furniture store.
Taking his time, he walked backwards, holding Fred Oakland close to him and keeping his knife tight against the man’s neck.
All at once, it became clear.
The fragments came together, and Mackinnon realised what had seemed off earlier when he entered the Star Academy reception from the basement. This was not a man crippled by arthritis. He stood erect, walking easily and fluidly. He didn’t have a limp. It was all an act, a show put on for their benefit. Mackinnon’s mind spun in a million directions, all at once.
Mackinnon’s mobile rang, piercing the tension.
Roger Cleeves slowly shook his head. “Don’t even think about it. Let it ring. If you call for help, or follow me, I’ll slit his throat.”
Mackinnon stared after them, watching them move closer to the exit. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He was furious.
Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, filling him with rage.
He stayed frozen to the spot until they disappeared. He could hear Fred Oakland whimpering. Mackinnon’s fingers closed around his mobile phone. He’d wait a few more seconds, until Roger Cleeves was out of earshot, then he’d call it in.
There was no way in hell Roger Cleeves was going to get away with this.
Mackinnon stared at the door Fred Oakland had been trying to unlock. It was huge and nothing like the other doors in the building. The door from the furniture store to the basement was old and flimsy. This door was strong and looked new and sturdy.
What was Roger Cleeves hiding?
Were Anya and Victoria locked in there, still alive?
Mackinnon slammed into the door with his shoulder, grunt
ing with the effort. Pain shot along his arm, but the door didn’t budge. He kicked out, aiming for the lock. The thud echoed around the basement but still, the door didn’t move.
Mackinnon was a big guy, but there was no way he was going to be able to move that on his own. They’d need a team with tools to get it open.
Mackinnon crouched on the floor, heart pounding, trying to catch his breath. How long had it been? Long enough, he decided and grabbed his phone, dialling Collins.
No answer.
Shit. Why wasn’t he answering?
He dialled DI Green’s number.
When the detective inspector answered, Mackinnon said, “It’s the old guy. Nathan’s father, Roger Cleeves. He has a knife and he’s taken Fred Oakland hostage.”
“Slow down, Jack,” DI Green said. “Tell me everything.”
38
After he’d explained the situation to DI Green, Mackinnon raced upstairs. He paused by the door to the furniture store.
Had Roger Cleeves already left?
No. Mackinnon could hear voices.
He pushed himself back against the wall, slid slowly up to the door frame and peered into the shop floor. The fluorescent lights shone brightly, illuminating the furniture. In the middle of the store, Roger Cleeves stood with one arm gripping Fred Oakland’s torso tightly.
Mackinnon couldn’t see his other hand, but he was pretty sure Roger Cleeves still had the knife.
Mackinnon shifted his gaze, looking for something he could use as a weapon. His eyes fixed on a small wooden stool. Maybe he could use that to defend himself if Cleeves lunged at him with the knife.
Then Mackinnon heard a familiar voice.
His head shot up.
Collins stood in the shop doorway, his hands raised in a placatory gesture.
“Don’t come any closer,” Roger Cleeves said.
No one seemed to notice Mackinnon. He slowly started inching his way towards them. If he could just get to the counter...
“P… please…” Fred Oakland clasped his hands together in front of his face as if he were praying, begging.
Mackinnon moved to just behind the service counter and peered out from behind the till. He could only see their legs from his position.
“Please don’t hurt me…” Fred Oakland moaned. A yellow puddle spread at his feet.
“Oh, Christ. That is disgusting.” Roger Cleeves stepped back just a fraction, to avoid the pool of urine.
He loosened his grip on Fred Oakland, moving the knife away from his throat.
This was Mackinnon’s chance.
He moved forward.
But Roger Cleeves heard him. He swung around to face Mackinnon.
“Well, well, it seems you didn’t listen to me. Did you think I wouldn’t keep my word?”
Cleeves dug the knife into Fred Oakland’s throat. Beads of blood appeared along the surface of the cut.
Jesus, for one horrifying moment, Mackinnon thought he was going to slit the man’s throat in front of them.
In the next fraction of a second, he caught Collins’ eye and some kind of understanding passed between them.
Collins and Mackinnon both ran at Roger Cleeves, Collins yelling at the top of his lungs.
They connected. A flash of colour.
During training, they were lectured on the acceptable level of violence an officer could use to overpower a suspect. Each individual case might warrant a different level of force, but it should always be controlled force.
In theory, Mackinnon agreed. He had little time for officers who abused their power, and there was a fine line between subduing a suspect and what some might call police brutality. But face-to-face with a man trying to stab him, Mackinnon’s instinct took over.
He felt Roger Cleeves’ soft flesh yield beneath his fists as he punched, again and again. He waited, expecting to feel the sharp blade of the knife at any moment. His body tensed for the blow.
Where was it? Where the hell was the knife?
Collins had his hands around Roger Cleeves’ throat. His face was turning purple. Collins was still hollering, screaming a string of intelligible swear words.
The knife, Mackinnon had to get the knife.
He saw the flash of the blade as Roger Cleeves swiped it inches from Collins’ face. Mackinnon made a grab for it.
His hand closed around Roger Cleeves forearm, and Mackinnon pulled back so hard, Cleeves squealed like a stuck pig.
The knife clattered to the floor, and Mackinnon kicked it away.
“Stay down,” Collins growled as Roger Cleeves squirmed on the floor.
Mackinnon kept his knee on the man’s back until Collins cuffed him.
“My arm, you bastard,” Roger Cleeves screamed. “You’ve broken my sodding arm.”
Mackinnon ignored him.
He turned to Fred Oakland, who was curled up in the corner of the room, his eyes wide and staring, watching Collins make the arrest.
Mackinnon moved across, knelt beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right, mate?”
Fred Oakland nodded.
Mackinnon’s legs felt too weak to support him as he tried to stand. “No injuries?”
“Yeah,” Roger Cleeves yelled. “My arm!”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Fred Oakland shook his head. “I’m fine.”
Mackinnon stared down at Roger Cleeves. His shoulder was at a funny angle, most likely dislocated rather than broken. There was probably something in the rule book that said they were supposed to un-cuff him, but sod that. The cuffs were staying on.
“I need the key for that room.” Mackinnon said. “Search his pockets.”
“Here. Try these,” Collins said, throwing a key ring full of keys at Mackinnon.
Mackinnon turned his head towards the window as he heard sirens approaching.
“We should wait.” Collins said.
But Mackinnon was already heading for the basement.
39
Heading back down into the dark, dank basement, Mackinnon felt an undeniable sense of dread. There was something evil about this place, something that made him want to run out of here and not look back.
He took a deep breath and continued on down the dimly lit, narrow corridor, following the twists and turns, using the light of his mobile phone to guide him like before until he reached the huge black door. He hammered on it with the side of his fist.
“Hello? Is anyone in there? Can you hear me?”
He listened for a reply while fumbling for the keys, but heard nothing.
There were six keys on the key ring. He went for the biggest one first, stabbing it towards the lock, but it was too big. The second one he chose fitted into the keyhole but wouldn’t turn.
The third fitted perfectly, and as he turned the key, he heard the clunk of the lock mechanism moving.
He pushed the door hard. It was heavy, and obviously reinforced. As the door creaked open, the smell of sweat, unwashed bodies, fear and something else… flooded over him. Bile rose in his throat, and sweat drenched his body.
“It’s the police,” Mackinnon said as he edged inside the room. “Is anyone in here?”
The room was in complete darkness, and he shone the light from his mobile phone into the room as he fumbled along the wall, looking for a light switch.
The light from the mobile phone flickered over large pieces of equipment: cameras, amplifiers and what looked like a stage. It was an eerie sight.
There was no response. Was the room really only used for storage? Then where was that terrible smell coming from? And why did Roger Cleeves panic when Mackinnon wanted to look inside?
Something lying on the ground caught Mackinnon’s left foot, causing him to stumble. He swore. What was that? It felt soft. He leaned closer but could only make out a dark shape. As he shone the light from his mobile on the ground to see what it was, the light shone over a body, and two eyes stared up at him.
He felt as if he’d been punched in the gu
t. He doubled over, the air left his lungs, and he gasped for breath.
Then the body on the ground screamed.
Jesus. She was still alive.
“It’s all right,” Mackinnon said. “I’m a police officer. You’re safe now.”
He moved towards the figure on the floor and held her hand. The screaming subsided and turned into gentle sobs.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
After a pause, a voice from behind answered. “I am Victoria Trent. That is Anya Blonski. He wouldn’t let us go.”
Mackinnon turned, but he couldn’t see the speaker in the darkness. “It’s okay, Victoria. We’re going to get you out of here.”
He shone the light from his phone along Anya’s body. He couldn’t see very well, but he could see the blue, nylon rope binding her wrists together.
Mackinnon plucked at the knot. His fingers felt too big and clumsy, but he finally managed to untie the ropes.
He stayed crouched next to Anya, holding her hand until he heard footsteps behind him.
Someone switched on a portable floodlight. Mackinnon blinked at the sudden dazzling brightness.
Someone swore.
Mackinnon looked down at Anya lying in front of him. Her face was bruised and swollen. He turned and saw Victoria huddled against the base of one of the cameras. Jesus. She was tied to the wall.
Mackinnon couldn’t take it all in. They were both wearing some kind of freaky stage costumes. He’d dressed the girls up like ballerinas. Their faces were painted with a Barbara Cartland amount of makeup, but it couldn’t hide the bruises. And the makeup on Anya’s face had run where tears had streaked down her face.
DI Green’s hand patted his back. “All right, Jack.”
Two female paramedics entered the room, and spoke in soothing voices. It was only then that it occurred to Mackinnon maybe he should have waited. A man barrelling into the room in the dark probably scared them even more. He should have listened to Collins.
Collins? Mackinnon looked around and saw Collins standing in the doorway, his face deathly pale. He slapped a hand over his mouth and backed away.
One of the female paramedics crouched down next to Anya. She smiled gently at Mackinnon and reached across to take Anya’s small hand from his. Anya gripped his hand tightly, and Mackinnon was surprised to feel he didn’t want to let go.