by T F Muir
‘I should have killed you back there,’ Magner said. ‘Killed all three of you.’
‘Don’t do this—’
‘Shut up.’
Gilchrist held up his hands, shoulder high. ‘I’m unarmed.’
‘I said shut the fuck up.’
Gilchrist closed his eyes, and took his last breath.
The rifle shot snapped like a whip-crack.
CHAPTER 39
Jessie struggled to fight off a searing flare of panic that engulfed her like a boiling wave. Her breath pulled in and out in sharp hits that burned her throat. In the pitch black, and hyperventilating, she lost all sense of direction, and found herself struggling even to determine what was up and what was down.
Without the wall at her back, she was certain she would have toppled over.
She crawled through the darkness, her shoulders brushing the concrete, one hand sweeping the floor – dust, stones, fluff, hard bits of something that had her throat gagging at the thought of what they might be. She reached the point where the torch should be and swept her arm in a wide arc, fingers tapping, probing, until she touched—
She screamed, withdrew her hand with a primal gasp, and wiped the stickiness of Stan’s blood from her fingers. Her lungs choked then, and she could do nothing to stop the surge of bile that erupted from her mouth in spluttering vomit that threatened to take her breath away for good. But she sucked in air, and sat there in blinded horror as a spasm shuddered through her system to compete with her sobbing.
She did not know how long she sat there crying – one minute, twenty? – but she finally forced herself to take deep breaths and tried to steady her nerves. Her night-vision, too, had improved to the point where she could make out shadows – dark on black – but nothing more definitive. Grey walls stood next to darker openings. Things on the floor seemed to scuttle and shift. The workbench, with its monitor and butcher’s tools, was a lighter shade of black.
Jessie shuffled on to her hands and knees, reached forward, keeping away from the dark shadow she knew was Stan’s body, and swept the floor again with one hand. She patted around in a methodical manner, a one-eighty in front of her, then extended her arm through another arc. On the third sweep her fingers touched the rubber casing of the torch, and she let out a cry of relief.
With shivering hands and clumsy fingers, she clicked the switch.
The pitch blackness evaporated into greys through which the beam cut like a knife of light. Shadows shrank away to reveal walls, workbenches, open doorways, and beyond . . . her escape route to the entrance shaft.
She rose to her feet and tightened her grip on both torch and Beretta.
Each unsteady step forward took her closer to the ladder and away from the Meating Room, with its horrific sculptures, away from Stan’s stiffening body, away from a pervading fear that had squeezed the air from her lungs and shaken her to the bone.
With each step, she felt as if she were shedding another layer of terror.
By the time she reached the ladder, her hopes were soaring.
She put the torch in her pocket and the Beretta back in its ankle holster. Then she gripped the handrail and pulled herself up rung by rung until she reached the closed trapdoor. She felt for the hinges, then pushed up at the other edge. Locked. But she recalled what the lock looked like – nothing more than a sliding metal latch – then reached down to her ankle, and retrieved the Beretta.
She pressed the muzzle hard against the hatch, turned her head, and pulled the trigger.
Wood and metal tore apart with a splintering bang.
A thump upwards with the heel of her hand and the trapdoor crashed open.
Jessie pulled herself out, grabbed her torch from her pocket, and walked through the anteroom into the barn. The Rottweiler lay dead on the concrete floor in front of the BMW – Magner had not driven off. She stepped around the dog’s body, brushed past the car, and switched her torch off as she neared the door.
Outside, the cottage’s windows shone like a line of beacons, as if all was in order.
‘Right, you fucker,’ Jessie whispered. ‘You’ve asked for it.’
Gilchrist felt the hot buzz of the bullet zip past his left ear, heard it ricochet off the tunnel’s wall in the distance. Then his stomach spasmed at the clicking sound of the rifle’s bolt action behind him, and the metallic tinkle of the empty cartridge as it bounced off the floor.
It took all of his willpower not to wet himself.
The first shot was to scare him. The second would kill him.
He thought of just getting to his feet, putting up a fight.
‘That was a warning,’ Magner said. ‘To stay put.’
Relief flooded through Gilchrist. Without both hands on the floor, he would have collapsed. He flexed his fingers, tried to calm his nerves, and forced his mind to work beyond the fear. His ears pricked at the sound of feet on wood behind him, then the electronic beep of a call being made.
‘Got him,’ Magner said. ‘Be with you in fifteen,’ followed by a grunt and a heavy echoing thud as the cottage trapdoor slammed shut.
Gilchrist struggled to work through the rationale.
Magner had said he should have killed all three of them back in the Meating Room, yet had just passed up the perfect opportunity to execute Gilchrist.
Which meant?
The situation had changed in some way . . .
With Stan dead, and the police closing in, Magner’s whole game plan had changed.
He would not be going to court to defend himself against the rape charges. Having killed Stan, he would now have to flee. And his best chance of doing that was to keep Gilchrist alive and use him as a bargaining tool. Gilchrist could only hope that Purvis had captured Mhairi for the same reason.
‘Get up,’ Magner said.
Gilchrist struggled to his feet, bumped his head against the low ceiling, and hunched his shoulders in a stooping stance.
‘Start walking.’
Gilchrist placed one unsteady foot in front of the other. The rifle barrel prodded his back, instructing him to speed up. So he did, but not too fast. Magner’s call to Purvis told Gilchrist he had fifteen minutes to try to work out how to prevent himself and Mhairi from being killed, as well as finding the answer to a few puzzling questions.
So he started with, ‘It took me a while to figure it out.’
‘Shut it.’
‘Walking helps me think, and thinking makes me talk,’ Gilchrist tried. He knew he was taking a chance, but no response suggested that Magner might let him continue, just for the hell of it. But the echo of Magner’s voice – be with you in fifteen – told Gilchrist that as long as he was walking and talking, he was safe. Well, as safe as you could be with a loaded rifle and shotgun two steps behind you.
He took another chance with, ‘It always amazes me how the smallest things bring you down. The one thing you overlooked.’
Silence.
‘It was the cut on your hand that gave you away. At the initial interview. You’re left-handed. But your partner in crime isn’t, you see?’
Magner gave a non-committal grunt.
‘So it got me thinking, that maybe you’d cut yourself hacking poor Amy to bits.’
The rifle jabbed the nape of his neck, more instruction to speed up than stop talking, and made Gilchrist think it might be more prudent to be less direct.
‘No one remembers talking to you on Thursday afternoon at the Highland Hotel,’ he said. ‘Because Jason was standing in for you. You look alike, but not close up, so he had to stay in your room for most of the afternoon, then swap places when you returned some time during the conference that night.’ He stopped, took a breath. ‘It’s hard going down here. Not much air.’ He waited for another prod from the rifle, but when it never came, he knew Magner was finding the going just as difficult.
He pressed on, walking and talking. ‘And here was me thinking Jason was the one who cut up the bodies, disembowelled them, chopped off their heads, ripped o
ut their hearts and guts – all the stuff he needs for his artwork. But it was you all along—’
‘You know the square root of fuck all.’
‘And artwork?’ Gilchrist said. ‘I mean, that’s pushing the boat out. But it does make for an interesting concept. Whose idea was it to protect your tokens with wire mesh?’
Nothing but the hard rush of deep breaths behind him.
Gilchrist counted thirty steps until they reached a ninety-degree corner. They rounded it and he worked out that they must be under the main road that fronted the cottage. The ceiling was even lower here, and he had to stoop and shuffle forward with bended knees and thigh muscles that burned with pain. Magner was as tall as Gilchrist – six-one – but not as slim, so Gilchrist knew he must be finding it difficult, too. He slowed down a touch, but another prod in the back assured him that Magner was handling progress in the cramped space perfectly well.
‘We checked CCTV footage of the park,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Tentsmuir Forest. It’s busy, even at this time of year. Dog-walkers, hikers, fitness fanatics, and the like. We have a Ford Focus that matches the one parked outside Cauldwood Cottage entering at ten to eight. But by then, you’d already killed Amy and the kids, and I’m guessing you had Amy’s body parts wrapped in towels in the boot.
‘I’d also guess that Amy told Janice that she’d filed a complaint against you for rape under her maiden name – Charlotte Renwick. Or maybe their other sister, Siobhan, told Janice. Either way, you’d reached breaking point. The game was up. When Janice phoned you yesterday, that sealed her fate, too. So you and Purvis killed her – just as you’d killed Nichola Kelly, all those years ago.’
Gilchrist listened for some response that might confirm his theory. But Magner’s breathy silence gave nothing away, only that he was finding the going tough.
The tunnel dipped for a short stretch, taking them deeper. The sound of dripping water was closer too, the floor damp enough for their boots to slap the odd splash. Without any ventilation system – nothing to pump air in one end and suck it out the other – just the effort of walking had sweat running down his face, tickling his neck. His lungs laboured to pull in sufficient air to breathe.
But he knew he had to keep talking.
‘Most suicides put the tube from the exhaust through the rear window. It’s easier to open the door to sit in the front seat if you do it that way. And stuffing the scarf in from the outside was a bit sloppy, I have to tell you. Didn’t I tell you that it’s always the smallest things?’ The memory of Jessie’s words that morning sent hope surging through him.
He was not done and dusted yet. Just keep talking.
‘And I’m guessing it was maybe mid-afternoon when you killed Amy. Which gave you plenty of time to hack her up, shower yourself clean, and make it to Tentsmuir Forest that evening. But what did you give the kids when they got home from school? A soft drink from their favourite uncle? Spiked with enough drugs to have them unconscious within minutes, ready to be smothered?’
Nothing.
‘They were children, you murdering bastard. What harm could they do to you?’
Still no response – not even a grunt or an angry prod in the back to remind him to shut up.
‘And what did you give Brian? A celebratory spiked Grey Goose?’ Gilchrist stopped to catch his breath. ‘What did you have to celebrate? A new business deal? Another million quid in your bloated bank account? I don’t think so. I’m guessing Amy told Brian about her rape complaint. Or maybe Janice did. And Brian was going to—’
An electric shock fired through Gilchrist.
‘You’re doing a lot of guessing,’ Magner said, his tone giving the impression that the cramped walk through an ever-tightening tunnel was like a stroll in the park. But he was fooling no one. He prodded his rifle at Gilchrist’s left arm again.
Gilchrist let out another cry of pain.
‘Maybe that’ll teach you to shut it.’
Gilchrist fought back tears as the pain in his left arm subsided. But the sound of Magner’s heavy breathing assured him that Magner was faring no better, and that his facial injuries and physical bulk were working against him in the confined space.
‘Keep going,’ Magner grunted. ‘Nearly there.’
Gilchrist did as he was told, and clasped his left arm with his right hand, trying to stifle the pain. His fingers throbbed with a pulse that ticked to the beat of his heart. But that was the least of his worries. They were nearing the end of the tunnel, and more than likely the end of his life. The air seemed too thick to breathe, the cramp in his legs too strong for him to continue. But he pressed on.
Another fifteen steps brought them to another bend where the tunnel turned through forty-five degrees. When Gilchrist squeezed round the corner, he faced what he thought was a dead end, until he realised it was a door.
He stopped.
The door was metal, not as corroded as the others, but lacking a handle. He pushed it and heard the metallic rattle of the deadbolt against the latch-plate.
Locked.
It puzzled Gilchrist why this door was locked and the others not, until he worked out that this must lead to the open, and Purvis could not risk someone stumbling across the tunnel entrance, then walking all the way underground to the cottage trapdoor, or even to the Meating Room.
‘Use this.’ Magner passed a heavy key over Gilchrist’s shoulder.
He took it, slotted it into the keyhole, and turned.
The lock eased open with a heavy click. Using the key as a handle, Gilchrist pulled the door open, having to back into Magner as he did so.
Which gave him his chance.
He leaned forward to push through the door opening, but struck out with his leg in a back-heel kick. He felt the satisfying thud as his foot hit something hard, then he scurried through the opening, key in hand. As he closed the door he glanced at Magner, his broken face contorted into a grotesque mask of surprise and anger and pain, his rifle swinging Gilchrist’s way.
The first bullet struck the edge of the door and ricocheted past Gilchrist’s face with a sizzling whine. The second hit the door full on with a dull crack, almost at the same time as Gilchrist slammed it hard into its frame.
He slotted the key into the keyhole and turned.
Three more bullets thudded into the metal with frightening force.
Gilchrist scurried along yet another tunnel, worried that Magner might find some way to shoot him through the keyhole. He also worried that blood was once again dripping from his fingertips – his wounds reopened by the sudden exertion. By the time he had gone ten steps, the silence behind told him Magner was already making his way back to the cottage, from where he could use his mobile to warn Purvis.
How long would that take?
Fifteen minutes? Ten? Less?
Gilchrist gritted his teeth, and pressed on.
CHAPTER 40
Jessie reached the cottage’s rear lawn and stopped in the shadows.
If Magner was inside the cottage he could not see her. She was sure of that. She managed to convince herself she had nothing to fear – she was supposedly trapped in the Meating Room, after all. Even so, as she crept forward, her gaze darted from the windows to the door, to the driveway, to the Ford Focus, and back to the windows again.
Nothing stirred.
Without her mobile, she could not call for support. Andy had said up to an hour before the ARVs arrived, but she had expected police presence to be already here, to have blocked off the roads by now.
The smell of smoke hung in the air. Somewhere off in the distance, she caught the fading sound of a departing car. Everyone could have been settling in for an early bed on a Sunday night. She crept forward, Beretta gripped firmly, nerves stretched as tight as piano wire – Magner could be anywhere, she thought, although if he had any sense he would be well on his way to the Far East by now.
She reached the back door and tried the handle.
To her surprise, it was unlocked.
She
pushed the door open and pressed her body to the cottage wall in case Magner tried to blast his way to freedom from inside. After five seconds of silence, she risked a look, then rushed through the doorway to crouch on the floor.
Nothing.
She moved through the small dining area and into the living room.
Again, nothing.
She eyed the phone on the coffee table, resisting the urge to call the Office and tell them to be on the lookout for Magner – ‘You can’t miss him; pepper-sprayed face like a baboon’s arse.’ But first she needed to establish that the cottage was empty.
A quick look through the two bedrooms, main bathroom, front hallway and visitors’ bathroom confirmed that the building was deserted. She slid the Beretta back into its ankle holster with a sigh of relief. A second, more thorough search of cupboards, wardrobes, undersides of beds and a tight attic space assured her that both Magner and Purvis had fled, and taken every weapon from the gun cupboard with them, too.
But she failed to find a trapdoor, which led her to conclude that Andy had been wrong, that the tunnel he thought led to the cottage must terminate under one of the outbuildings – disused greenhouse, garden hut, coal shed, maybe even some manhole cover.
Back in the living room, she moved to the phone and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace, shocked to see the pale drawn face of someone who could have been a stranger staring back at her. Her reflection stunned her. She seemed to have aged ten years since putting on her make-up that morning. Shadows as deep as bruises lined her eyes. Her hair looked as if it had been blow-torched then washed in dirt. She looked at her hands, and gasped at the black grit under her fingernails, two of which were broken. Dried blood on her fingers had her rubbing her hands hard against her trousers.
From outside, she heard the first signs of police activity – sirens in the far distance – and caught the flickering light from a helicopter’s spotlights brushing over the grass in the back garden as if the pilot were trying to land. Someone had pulled out all the stops.
She picked up the phone’s receiver and dialled the Office. ‘DS Jessica Janes,’ she said. ‘I’m at Cauldwood Cottage and I—’