The Devil's Landscape

by Ken McClure

  ‘No one has left Moorlock. Any thoughts?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you, John.’

  Steven needed to end the call because the stimulant he’d taken was allowing a succession of nightmare thoughts to enter his head. One emerged as a clear favourite. Barrowman hadn’t called because . . . Barrowman wasn’t going to call . . . Barrowman had never intended to call. He just wanted to torture him for as long as possible . . . maybe until he had worked this out for himself and . . . now that he had . . . there was worse to come. Barrowman didn’t want his data back because he didn’t need it. The proposed exchange for Tally had been an elaborate hoax. There never was going to be an exchange . . . Tally could be dead.

  Steven struggled to face the big question. Was he going to gamble everything on what he’d just imagined to be the case and give up on waiting for a phone call that he now believed wasn’t coming . . . or should he concede that he could be wrong and wait for the call, leaving the others to mount an inevitable assault on Moorlock Hall when time and their patience ran out?

  Steven called Macmillan to say he was on his way to Moorlock. He cut off any argument by asking where Macmillan actually was.’

  ‘We’ve set up headquarters about two miles past the entrance to the lane leading to Moorlock. There’s an old abandoned farm building off the main road to the left. You’ll find a police mobile unit round the back.’

  Steven grabbed the keys for the Porsche then thought better of it. He didn’t want a Porsche being seen anywhere near Moorlock in case it aroused suspicion – unlikely, but he would take no chances. He ran round to where he’d asked for an old car to be left and saw the Land Rover Defender. It was old, filthy and ideal. Defenders were as anonymous as grass in the countryside. Every farmer and his dog had one. Steven smiled at the noise of the engine – no sound-proofing, no concession to comfort, the only thing Defenders had going for them was that they could go absolutely anywhere and keep going. Steven permitted himself a small smile before turning his attention to just how they were going to break in to a maximum-security prison. By the time he’d found what looked like a large black horsebox at the back of the farm building and noted that there was another Land Rover parked beside it, he’d had an idea.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘What possessed you, man?’ asked Macmillan as Steven entered the mobile command centre and was stopped by a gun in his face. ‘This is Dr Steven Dunbar,’ said Macmillan.

  ‘Hello,’ said the man lowering the gun.

  Eight other men were there, two were in black, police Special Firearms Officer gear, the other six were dressed in variations on a camouflage theme and appeared more relaxed.

  In answer to Macmillan’s question, Steven told him how he’d come to his conclusions and of the gamble he’d just taken.

  ‘Then we should all pray your phone doesn’t ring,’ said Macmillan.

  Macmillan did the introductions to two police commanders and six SAS soldiers who had travelled as an advance party from their Credenhill base. Steven nodded and said hello.

  Macmillan said to one of them, ‘Dr Dunbar was with your lot.’

  ‘We heard,’ said the soldier, introduced simply as Andy. ‘Mark Leyden said to say hello.’

  Steven felt embarrassed at not recognising the name.

  ‘He says you saved his life.’

  ‘He’s probably exaggerating,’ said Steven.

  Smiles all round told him it was the right thing to say.

  ‘I think we’re all agreed this isn’t going to be easy,’ said Macmillan. ‘Nobody breaks into a high security prison. We’ve been trying to scale down our thoughts from rocket-launchers and bulldozers.’

  ‘I had an idea on the way down,’ said Steven.

  All eyes turned to him.

  ‘Moorlock is a high security unit but it was built as a self-contained module inside the ground floor of an old, derelict hospital. It is very secure, but I’ve been in there and I think there may be an Achilles heel.’

  ‘Give that man a bow and arrow,’ said one of the policemen.

  Steven continued, ‘The medical director’s office is attached to the secure unit but it’s not actually inside it and not that far from the prison entrance although that certainly is secure.’

  ‘How does that help?’

  ‘The ceiling,’ said Steven. ‘When I was sitting in the director’s office I noticed that the ceiling was very high, very dirty and cracked in places. That suggests it’s the original hospital ceiling in that room.

  ‘Got you,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘If we could get access to it from the floor above, we could get down into the office.’

  ‘Okay, that gets us past the front entrance, but we’ll still be outside the main unit,’ another of the soldiers pointed out.

  ’It’s the unit director’s office,’ Steven emphasised, ‘there’s a chance we’ll be able to lay our hands on the codes for the alarms and doors. It’s just possible we might be able to get into the secure unit without a shot being fired.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  Questions followed thick and fast.

  ‘Why is this guy’s office outside the unit?’

  ‘I’m no psychiatrist, but having met him, I think it would be his choice,’ said Steven. ‘Although the room’s attached to the unit, it’s outside it and I think that would be important to him – a sort of psychological barrier between him and them. It certainly wasn’t because it’s a pleasant room, it’s grotty.’

  ‘Does the secure unit extend back through the entire width of the old building?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Steven. ‘It extends along most of the front elevation, but looking at the side elevation of the original building, it probably only reaches half way back.’

  ‘I tried to get plans. No luck,’ said Macmillan.

  Macmillan summarised. ‘Entry through the back of the building should be achieved with the objective of gaining access to the first floor. Once there, it would be a case of . . . moving to where it’s thought the room above the office is situated. How do we know that?

  Steven said, ‘Without plans, I agree that could be a problem. All I can suggest is that I make a rough sketch of the layout as I remember it and we wing it from there.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Andy, ‘we’ll have to drill small holes in the floor anyway to see what’s below, whether there’s a light on, whether it’s the right room, whether there’s anyone in it.’

  Steven accepted the pen and paper Macmillan found for him in his briefcase while the others discussed what they would need for the operation and who should do what. He thought carefully through his one and only visit to Moorlock, trying to remember in detail his route through the main gate, the pause at the first security halt, the entrance to the main hospital building, the walk along a short corridor parallel to the front elevation . . . how long? . . . twenty metres, thirty metres? The right turn into Groves’ office just outside the modern, combination-guarded entrance to the secure unit.

  Steven said, ‘You know, it would help to have a photograph of the hospital building.’

  One of the police commanders radioed Steven’s request and a photograph was transmitted back within eight minutes.

  ‘Just one man on the ground who knows what he’s doing,’ said the commander, noticing the look on Steven’s face, which seemed to question the wisdom of anyone getting too close to Moorlock.

  Steven nodded and accepted the photo. He matched his calculations to the first floor of the building and found his best guess took him along to the third window in from the corner at the east end. That room would not be directly above Groves’ office – his office had no window facing the front – it would have to be the room on the other side of the corridor. He said so to Macmillan.

  ‘Providing it is a room,’ said Macmillan, ‘It’s an old hospital, the window might well be in what was an open ward.’

  Good point,’ said Steven. He did another calculation in his head and said, ‘Okay, as we don’t kn
ow what’s behind the third window on the first floor, it would be safer to say that the area we are looking for should be around fifteen to twenty metres back from it in a straight line.’

  With this clear objective established and general agreement that everyone had what they needed in terms of equipment and personnel – Andy reported back to his unit that no back-up was required – attention turned to details. After a short discussion, Macmillan listed them.

  The operation would begin at midnight. Those detailed to enter the building – Steven and the six soldiers – would be dropped off at the end of the lane leading up to Moorlock by the army Land Rover and left to make the final approach on foot. On achieving a successful entrance to Groves’ office, two of the soldiers would deploy to explore the possibility of opening up the front entrance – hopefully armed with codes and combinations obtained either from the office or the security stop just behind the entrance. Steven and the remaining four soldiers would effect entry to the secure unit. Again, it was hoped that this would be achieved with codes found in the office. If not, the explosives expert of the group, Luke, would do his thing and the others would follow up with stun grenades.

  If they did manage to enter the secure unit without the use of . . .

  Steven’s old mobile phone rang and caused a heart-stopping interruption. His blood turned to ice as he faced his worst fears – Barrowman wasn’t in Moorlock at all, he was somewhere else entirely. He was about to give instructions for an exchange meeting he couldn’t possibly keep.

  Everyone seemed hypnotised, rendered immobile like figures in a renaissance painting.

  Steven snatched at the phone. ‘I’m here, Barrowman.’

  ‘You took your time, Dunbar. And here was me thinking you’d be worried out of your mind.’

  ‘Where’s Tally? What have you done with her. If you’ve hurt her I’ll . . .’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dunbar. You’re in no position to do anything . . . Oh, and if you have a little squad of elves trying to trace the call, tell them not to bother, I’m using a shielded satellite job.’

  ‘What’s the deal?’ asked Steven with his eyes tight shut and afraid of the coming reply.

  ‘There is no deal, Dunbar. There never was. I must say I like your lady a lot, I’m enjoying her . . . and I’m going to keep her, I just thought I’d give you a bit of a whirl on the old mental roundabout.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Tut tut.’

  ‘You need your data.’

  ‘No, you do. It’s true I’d rather you lot didn’t have it, but maybe you’ll never break it. I don’t need to. I already know what I know and how to apply it.’

  ‘Is there no decency left in you, Barrowman? No hint of the person you once were? Is there really no way back?’

  ‘Boring. Bye.’

  Steven was left staring at a silent phone. He felt as if he’d just cut his one and only lifeline to Tally.

  Macmillan quickly broke the silence. ‘Let’s concentrate on the positives. He didn’t ring to make a rendezvous you couldn’t keep and Dr Simmons is still alive. What’s more, you could still be right about Moorlock Hall and surprise is still on our side. Until we know different, nothing changes.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed one of the policemen.’

  ‘We’ll get her back, mate,’ said Andy.

  Macmillan’s briefing resumed. ‘We can assume that members of staff, if alive, are being held under lock and key. Any man moving around freely can be regarded as the enemy and shot without question – all the inmates are killers. We know that Barrowman is armed. It’s reasonable to assume that any firearms normally held on the premises are now in the hands of the prisoners. No chances are to be taken. Armed police officers will continue with their cordon round Moorlock and deal with any escape attempt should things go wrong. The same policy will apply. Shoot to kill.

  The relief at finally being on the move after what seemed like an eternity waiting for darkness to fall and the midnight hour to register was almost palpable in the long-base army Land Rover taking them up to the end of the lane. The moon wasn’t full but it gave them some light when clouds weren’t passing across it. Two SAS men equipped with night vision equipment led the way and the others, carrying a variety of equipment, followed along in their footsteps, listening out for murmured warnings of any major obstacle. Steven was excused donkey work – one of the soldiers suggesting this was in deference to his age to the amusement of the others. He affected a half-hearted laugh, so half-hearted that Andy said, ‘Don’t worry, mate, you wouldn’t be with us if we thought you couldn’t cut it.’

  Steven had dressed in the clothes he’d brought with him, close fitting black gear, and balaclava and his shoulder holster promoted to the outside of his clothing. Lightweight Berghaus hill boots gave him security underfoot.

  They circled the building at a distance and approached the back fence where they found no great effort had been made to secure it; any security measures had obviously been saved for the prison unit itself. The hospital was just a crumbling shell around it.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ muttered one of the soldiers as he checked the wire for electrification and found none. He snipped through old wire to give them entrance to the grounds.

  They made their way through knee high weeds to the rear elevation of the building where the moon allowed them to examine the wall.

  ‘Spoilt for choice,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Pick a drainpipe . . . any drainpipe.’

  ‘He was detailed by Andy to climb a pipe that ran in close proximity to a first-floor window with an almost horizontal section leading off under it. It would provide something to stand on. He had a coil of rope over his head and shoulder. ‘Got the tape and diamond?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Affirmative.’

  Steven watched as the man tried to open the window and failed. It wasn’t unexpected, the old, rotten sash and case windows were probably never going to open again. The soldier moved on to scoring the lower pane with a diamond point cutter. He marked out a square, tracing the edge of the frame and then attached strong, sticky tape at strategic points before elbowing the glass smartly until it gave way and parted company with the frame. The soldier loosened the tape carefully from the frame and fed the pane slowly inside the window opening to lower and prop it up against the inside wall before climbing in himself and finding a secure anchor for the rope. A minute or so later he lowered the other end to start pulling up the equipment bags. They were followed by the men themselves. All seven of them were standing inside on the first floor of the hospital building inside eleven minutes. None of the soldiers showed any signs of exertion, Steven felt as if his arms had become six feet long.

  They were in a large, narrow room with a row of sinks against the wall they just climbed. The horizontal section of the pipe they’d used to stand on was the waste pipe from the sinks leading to the down pipe. ‘Looks like a laundry,’ Andy suggested.

  ‘It was probably the sluice room,’ said Steven, ‘waste from the ward would be washed away here. I think we’ll find there’s an open ward out here . . .’ He made his way over to the door and the others followed.

  ‘It’s a bloody ballroom,’ said one of the soldiers as moonlight lit up a long open ward where rows of beds on either side would once have stood in days gone by. It was empty.

  ‘Right,’ said Andy. ‘We should be heading over this way ‘We need to find the ward on the other side of the building.’

  They exited the ward into a short corridor running at right angles to it and shared between the ward they’d just left and the one next to it, the one that they found faced the front of the building.

  ‘Yo!’ said Andy.

  ‘And it stretches right up to the east wall,’ said Steven. He pointed to the third window along on the far wall. ‘That’s what we’re looking for.’

  Steven approached the window, turned his back and measured out seventeen walking paces. He traced a circle in the air with his finger as he turned around i
n a full revolution. ‘I think the office is down there,’ he said, pointing at the floor.

  One of the soldiers got to work with a small-bore drill, constantly sensing the resistance of the floor until he felt it lessen. He stopped before the drill bit had gone right through the ceiling below and withdrew it to be replaced by what looked to Steven to be a rod with a needle point on the end. The soldier pushed the needle through the remaining plug in the drill hole and then withdrew it to look down through shielded eyes. ‘No light on,’ he said. Steven understood that the soldier hadn’t wanted a small plug to fall from the ceiling into an occupied room. He watched as the drill was allowed to finish its job. A flexible cable camera was inserted in its place.

  ‘Desk . . . couple of chairs . . . books . . . picture on the wall, boats.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Steven. ‘Can you point to where the desk is?’

  The soldier indicated and Steven chose an area where he thought it would be clear to drop down.

  ‘Couldn’t we drop down on to the desk without using ropes?’ Andy asked.

  Steven said not. ‘The ceiling’s too high. Even hanging at full stretch, we’d still have a six foot drop on to the surface of the desk.’

  ‘Broken leg territory,’ said Andy. He set about looking for a rope anchor while two of the others set about cutting a circular hole in the floor. Steven expected noise but, whatever they were using, it made very little and even less when it came to cutting an opening in the ceiling below. ‘Bit of a tight squeeze,’ said one. They had to make the opening between joists.

  ‘This is where we find out who ate all the pies,’ said Andy who had come up with an old iron bed frame they could press into use as an anchor.

  All seven made it down safely although Steven felt his rib cage had been pushed through his spine He resisted a strong desire to hug himself.

  There were no windows in the office so shielded torches could be used to search for useful information. This was made more difficult however, by the room having been searched already and its contents scattered everywhere.