by Iain North
Maybe he could just leave her in the car. It would only take a minute to do what he had to do. If he parked far enough away, she need never know. Maybe he should just pull over now, throw her out. But he couldn’t just leave her here. God knows what might happen to her.
They motored on in silence before finally he pulled the car off the road. Billy Reid had made his decision
‘Why have we stopped here?’ Sam sat bolt upright.
There was fear in her eyes. Fear of what might happen. She had felt this way before, many times. Always before it happened. She knew what was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.
Billy turned the engine off. His heart was pounding. Sweat seared his brow. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘This won’t take long.’ His hands were shaking.
Sam’s fingers tightened around the door lever, her body tense.
‘Just sit still.’
She closed her eyes, waited.
Sam heard him open the door, get out of the car, close it behind him. His breathing was heavy, laboured. She opened her eyes, just a little, and scanned the horizon beyond the raindrop-encrusted windscreen. It was too dark to see anything. She heard the tailgate open behind her, felt a draught of cold air on the back of her neck. She breathed in deeply, tightened every muscle in her body. Waited.
The boot lid came down with a heavy thud. Then nothing. She could hear her own heart, pushing up into her throat with every inflamed beat. In the mirror she saw Billy, slowly walking up the side of the car, short measured paces, a wheel brace clasped tight in the white knuckles of his left hand.
She looked around anxiously for something, anything she could use to fight him off him. But there was nothing. He was next to the door now, his right hand rising towards the handle. Billy’s hand rested on the side of the car for a brief moment. He steadied himself, then he walk on, determined, resolute. But still shaking.
Sam watched as he disappeared into the darkness. She let herself breath again. Her eyes narrowed. What was he doing? Would he be back for her? Now was the time to get out. Run away. Escape. It was a chance she didn’t usually have, trapped in the caravan with her uncle. She was entering into the unknown. Sam frantically fingered the neck of her sweatshirt, pulling it up. Her throat was dry, so dry. She tried to swallow, but it as too painful.
She jerked the door lever back and scrambled out. Her arm caught on the seatbelt, it pulled her back but she fought free and tumbled on to hard gravel. A slap of ice-cold rain caught her forehead as she crawled up the side of the car, hauling herself on to her feet, hugging the bodywork as she tried to stay afloat on swaying legs.
She looked around. There were mountains above, a loch below. Lights twinkled across the water, a world away. She saw Billy, in the distance, still walking away from her. Ahead of him there was a high fence, flat open land beyond. In front of him, a caravan, a faint glow illuminating the window.
Her head was spinning. She staggered around the front of the car, hands skating over the damp metal, feet crunching stone, shattering the silence. But he didn’t look back. She tripped and fell, picked herself up, left the car, wavered, hesitated, then ran. Tripped again, collapsed on to the ground.
Billy was standing outside the caravan, two feet from the door. Dizzy on adrenaline. He lifted the wheel brace, admired it for a moment. Then he stepped forward and knocked. He knocked again, much louder this time. Maurice Bennet opened the door.
‘You bastard!’ Billy roared.
He caught him on the side of the head. Bennet lunged forward, out of the caravan, on to the ground. Billy kicked him, once, twice then a third time. Ribs, spine and then ribs again, kicking for all he was worth. He slammed the wheel brace down but Bennet wriggled free, torn fingers scrapping the gravel as he staggered to his feet and fled.
Billy ran too, sprinting after him through the gate and out over the concrete. Bennet tripped on a raised brick, tumbled head over heels, tearing his elbows open. But he was on his feet in a second, running, faster and faster. Billy was closing in, following the fresh splashes of blood. His eyes were accustomed to the gloom. He saw every rise in the ground, every bump Bennet stumbled on.
‘Come here, you bastard!’ The words echoed through the crags above, pounding Bennet’s ears.
Billy pounced, fingers sinking into the running man’s shoulders, dragging him down on to the ground. He writhed, bucked, pulled free, stumbled forward and slipped over the edge, crashing down. Billy collapsed onto the deck, his chest smashing down on to the rough ground, eyes starring into the deep chasm below.
He saw Bennet clinging to a ledge, legs flailing helplessly above the water. Then he felt a sharp crack across the back of his head. And darkness.
Sam spotted a flashlight across the yard. She was standing by the gate. She saw Billy chase Bennet. Heard him shouting. Now there was silence, a light in the distance, waving up and down, sweeping over the ground and into the air. Then the beam caught her full in the face. She heard a voice, a man’s voice.
The light was moving towards her.
She turned and ran back to the car. Sam threw herself into the driver’s seat. The key was still in the ignition. She turned it. Too far! Crunching. She hauled it back and tried again. The engine sparked. The light was streaming through the windscreen. Sam couldn’t see a thing. She jammed the clutch down and crunched the gear stick into first. Handbrake down, she floored the throttle and let the clutch up. Gravel churned out from under the wheels as the Mondeo leapt forward. The car spun round, fighting for grip, then it shot away. In the mirror she saw the light.
‘Fuck!’ she screamed.
She didn’t stop. She just drove, always looking in the mirror. A lorry thundered past in the opposite direction, throwing spray up on to the windscreen. Then she saw headlights in the mirror. Far away at first, then right behind her. She heard a loud noise, grating, scraping, and she left the road. Then nothing.
Bennet erupted from under the water and inhaled greedily. He held his breath for as long as he could, maybe a minute, maybe longer, until the light dancing on the surface vanished. He saw Billy Reid floating face down in the middle of the pond, perhaps 10 metres away from where he was frantically treading water.
He splashed across the water, grabbed the boy’s shoulders and tried to turn him on to his back. It was a struggle; his chest ached and his breathing was shallow and laboured. It was cold too, so very cold. But he persevered. Eventually he managed to pull Billy Reid over. As the lifeless torso spun, a tiny white object bobbed to the surface in his wake. Bennet cupped it from the water in his hand, examined it for a brief moment, instantly recognised what it was and recoiled in horror.
*****
Jim scanned the notes taken during his telephone conversation with George. The police had done well, piecing together the events of the night based on the evidence pulled together from witness statements and forensic examination of the site and Billy Reid’ s wrecked car. Everything fitted neatly in place.
‘So Bennet’ s death had nothing to do with him being a pervert? His balls were just cut off to make it look that way. Sick bastards!’
‘Seems so,’ George said.
‘That’s Macdonald’s theory?’
‘He’s the evidence to support it. They found Bennet’s wet clothes in the washing machine, and there were witnesses who saw Billy’s car going down to the yard, with two people in it.
‘But it left with just one.’
‘Aye. And she was driving pretty erratically. A lorry driver saw the Mondeo being followed by Bennet’s car.’
‘And they’re sure he wasn’t driving?’
‘Another witness saw him walking – or rather limping – up the road to the cottage at about the same time, so he couldn’t have been.’
‘So who was?’
‘No one knows.’
‘And why would Billy Reid want to have anything to do with someone like Bennet?’
‘No idea, mate.’
Jim scribbled a coupl
e of biro squares on his pad. He was thinking.
George interrupted him. ‘Anything fresh at your end?’
‘We’re going up to the Caleypharma factory now.’
‘Best of luck.’
‘I’ll keep you posted.’
Jim placed the phone down.
Amber was flicking through the channels on the TV. She looked bored.
‘Who was that?’
‘George. ‘
Jim slouched back in his chair. He starred up at the ceiling. Macdonald had done a good job. It all fitted into place, except for the connection between Billy Reid and Maurice Bennet.
He levered himself up and padded through to the bathroom. Jim closed and locked the door, caught his reflection peering out at him from the mirror. He’d put his wife and kids first for once. It happened all to rarely. He had done the right thing, but he still felt bloody awful.
A spray of cold water engulfed him in the shower. He stood under the freezing jet for five minutes, maybe more. But it didn’t make him feel any better. It just left him cold.
A knock at the door snatched him from his thoughts.
‘I need the toilet.’
‘I’ll just be a minute.’
It wasn’t a problem that was going to go away.
He towelled off quickly and emerged, still dripping.
‘There you go.’
She noticed the chill in his voice.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Aye. Just tired.’ He brushed past her, walked over to the window, pulled the curtains back and looked out. It was raining. Pissing it down. Why didn’t that surprise him?
They had breakfast together in the restaurant before dashing out to the car.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Amber observed as Jim started the engine up. It spluttered reluctantly into life. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Like 1 said, I’m just a bit tired.’
She kept an eye on the left-hand lane as they emerged on to the main road. ‘You probably did the right thing.’
‘What? Not sleeping with you?’
She nodded.
‘Why do I feel so bad about it then?’
‘Maybe if you’d slept with me you’d be feeling a hundred times worse.’
‘I don’t think that’s possible.’
She smiled. ‘So how was the couch?’
He straightened his back. ‘Bloody uncomfortable.’
She was adjusting her blouse under the seatbelt, irresistible as ever. He was going to have to be strong, so strong.
They reached a bleak industrial estate on the edge of town. Square factory units fashioned from corrugated iron and concrete blocks. A plane rumbled overhead, circling the airport on the other side of an open field of barley.
The Mazda cruised slowly down the main drag. Jim pivoted his head from side to side, checking the names of each road as they passed.
‘This is the one,’ he said, hauling the car sharply round to the left.
‘There it is.’ Amber was pointing to a single-storey white block at the far end. A big sign on the side facing them read: ‘Caleypharma plc – Inverness Manufacturing Centre’.
Jim brought the car to a halt before they reached the main gate and let the engine idle. The factory was large, encircled by a high chain link fence topped off with three strands of barbed wire. Behind the main building, a compound containing huge metal tanks and tall steel chimneys pumping white smoke into the grey sky.
‘Are we going in?’ Amber asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
Jim took out his pad and flicked back to the notes he took from the Caleypharma business card in Siobhan Anderson’s office. There was the address, then the rep’s name: Mike Macerlane.
He chucked his pad up on to the dashboard.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
He took out his Blackberry and keyed in the factory’s number.
A young woman’s voice: ‘Caleypharma. Katie speaking. How can I help you?’
‘Can I speak to Mike Macerlane, please.’
‘I’ll check to see if he’s in. Hold on one moment, please.’
Jim held. Music. He recognised the tune, from the Braveheart film.
A few seconds later the music was abruptly interrupted: ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. I’m sorry, but Mr Macerlane’s out. Can I put you through to his secretary?’
‘Thanks. ‘
More Braveheart as the call was connected.
Another female voice: ‘Can I help?’
‘I’d like to make an appointment to see Mr Macerlane. ‘
‘Certainly, sir, when is convenient?’
‘Is he available today?’
‘I’ll just check.’
A pause. ‘He’s free at two.’
‘That’ll be fine’
‘Can I take a note of your name, sir?’
Jim thought for a minute. ‘Andy Thomson.’
‘And your company?’
He pondered for a second, looked at his companion. ‘Amber Pharmaceuticals.’
She smiled.
‘Do you know where we are?’ the secretary asked.
‘Is it possible to meet at my hotel?’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’
Jim gave her the details and hung up.
Amber threw him another of her accusing glares.
‘He might have recognised my name from the paper,’ Jim explained.
‘Fair enough.’ She looked across the rain soaked tarmac towards the factory. ‘What do we do until two?’
There was one thing that sprung to mind. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing. He shook the thought from his head.
‘Let’s get a coffee.’
Amber pulled on her seatbelt and adjusted her blouse again. ‘Great minds think alike.’
They found a little coffee shop in the centre of town. Amber grabbed a table by the window, so they could keep an eye on the car. It was a single yellow line and Jim didn’t want a ticket.
‘What did George want when he rang?’ she asked.
Jim draped his damp jacket over the back of the chair and sat down opposite her. He took a sachet of brown sugar from the condiments set on the table and fiddled with it, pushing the granules around inside the tiny sack with his finger and thumb.
‘The police have managed to piece together what happened at the yard,’ he said, explaining to Amber what George told him.
‘So it wasn’t Sam who was after revenge?’
‘Seems not. ‘
‘And the police are sure it was Billy who was after Maurice Bennet?’
‘Apparently they have a witness who saw a young man fitting Billy’s description chasing him across the yard.’
‘One of the protestors?’
‘No. George said it was an old woman who lives in the cottage down by the yard. She heard shouting and looked out.’
‘Does he have a sister?’ Amber asked.
‘Not according to the stuff that was in the papers after he died. He was an only child.’
‘Maybe a cousin?’
‘The problem with people like Bennet is that he probably had victims no one will ever know about. Kids too ashamed or too scared to report what happened to them.’
‘Maybe it was Billy who was abused.’
‘Bennet seemed to prefer little girls.’
A waitress arrived at the table, late teens, short and broad in the bottom. She held up a pad and pencil and smiled.
‘Two coffees, please,’ Jim said.
‘Anything else?’
He looked at Amber. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
She shook her head.
‘That’ll be all, thanks.’
The girl left them.
‘Perhaps we should ask Mrs McBurney,’ Amber suggested.
He dismissed her notion: ‘Billy might have been involved in some other incident. It may have nothing to do with the attack on Katrina and the other girl.’
The coffees arrived.
&n
bsp; ‘Maybe he saw it. Or was a friend of one of the girls.’
‘Maybe.’ Jim sucked the froth off the top of his cup.
‘Surely it’s worth a shot,’ Amber pressed. ‘We really know very little about the other girl.’