The Sacrifice
Page 7
“In your kitchen.”
Sure enough, as she scanned the room, she found herself lying on the tiled floor surrounded by a clutter of emptied drawers. Cutlery, crockery, the toaster, her microwave oven; every item either bashed and dented or completely destroyed.
“What the hell happened?” Billy said. “Who did this?”
Eliza scrambled to her feet, shrugging Billy away when he tried to hold her still. “There’s a man in the hallway. He needs help.”
“What man? There’s no man out there.”
Eliza reached the doorway. As with the kitchen, the hall looked as though a tornado had rattled through. Broken pieces once belonging to beautiful tables and clocks, and every other item her grandmother had cherished, lay trashed across the floor. “Where is he?” Eliza rushed into the lounge, easily the worst of the three rooms.
“Eliza,” Billy said. “Tell me what the hell happened here.”
Eliza turned to him. She knew the next three words about to leave her lips would sound utterly ridiculous. Even she didn’t completely understand what had happened. Regardless, she said them anyway. “I did it.”
Billy paused for a moment, and Eliza could only imagine what thoughts raced through his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly to take time to digest the explanation she’d offered. Either that, or he was deciding what nut home to put her in. He shuffled closer and pushed strands of hair from her face. “You are not making any sense. You couldn’t have done this.”
“Billy, I don’t understand it either, but there was a man lying right there in the middle of my hallway.” She pointed towards the rug, now covered with her gran’s broken possessions…but no body. “I need to find him.”
“You need a hospital.”
“But he has the answers.”
“Is this the same man you say was at the train station last night?”
“Yes, but—”
“What are you not telling me? Who is this man?”
“I don’t know. On my life, I’d never seen him before last night.”
“Then how did he know where you lived?”
“He brought my bag back.”
“And then what? He destroyed your house?”
“I told you, I did it.”
Billy scoffed and clicked the side button on his radio, muttering something about a 10-33 and 10-52.
“I’m telling you the truth,” Eliza said.
Billy turned back to her. “Why should I believe you when all you’re doing is lying to me?”
“I’m not lying.” Eliza blinked back the tears. “Please find him, Billy. Prove I’m not insane.”
Billy stared at her, and for a full minute he did not blink. Then his shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, and he took out his notepad. “Give me his description again.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Roman made it out just in time.
He looked back towards Eliza’s house, nestled in the hills some thirty yards up the small, gravelled lane. The front door was still open – as, he assumed, was the back, after he’d rushed out when he heard the cop arrive. Damn it. He’d had Eliza in his arms, and had been so close to escaping with her. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette and cursed when he saw the box was empty. He sighed and took a moment for his head to clear. The situation hadn’t changed. He still needed to get the girl; other than the wood, which remained in Paris, his kidnapping plan still appeared to be the only viable option against the old man double-crossing him.
He crushed the cigarette pack in his hand and threw it to the ground. The short walk back towards Eliza’s house felt as though he was walking to his death. A strange feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t shake it. He needed time to think. He needed time to plan. He needed time to kill this fucking feeling of guilt.
Rain had slowed to little more than a drizzle, but the steady stream of rainwater that gushed along the gutter was as ferocious as ever. He reached Eliza’s house and took shelter underneath the old oak tree opposite. Through the open door, he saw Eliza sitting on the stairs. She seemed okay. At least she was awake now.
A light breeze brushed against the remaining leaves, and water dripped onto his hat and down the back of his neck. His lightweight coat was useless, and he pulled the hood of his jumper over his baseball cap. The tree hadn’t provided the adequate cover he’d first anticipated. Freakin’ rain.
An engine revved somewhere down the hill, and two headlights pierced the darkness like the eyes of a cat. Roman lowered the rim of his cap and ducked further behind the oak’s trunk. The ground squelched beneath his feet, but he remained still and waited for the ambulance to park before he looked out again. Two paramedics ran inside, and it was a while before they emerged and helped Eliza into the back of the van. The cop leaned in and said something to her, and then the ambulance took off down the lane. The cop watched them leave, checked his watch, and then disappeared back inside the house.
Neighbours had gathered. Roman stepped out from behind the tree, confident of blending in. With the sun now completely eclipsed, the lack of light made it hard to see, but under the nearby lamp he saw lumps of mud clinging around the sides of his boots. He let out a sigh, and lowered his head. The water in the gutter gushed past and, seeing no other option, he stepped in and cleaned his shoes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
James hung up the phone and reached for his whiskey.
He could feel the pressure building in the back of his head, but he pushed the pain aside. For now.
A cigar smouldered in a nearby ashtray, but he no longer wanted it. Around him, books filled the shelves of several floor-to-ceiling bookcases: horror novels, Cornish history, legal paraphernalia, the UK taxing system. Photographs hung in a designed order across the wall: childhood holidays, Eliza’s university graduation, himself with Richard Branson and the Prime Minister. James smiled. He was a very powerful man, and he liked everyone to know it.
He turned to the window and sipped his drink. In daylight, the waters of Fowey Estuary lapped against his private jetty. Tonight, though, the darkness outside caused the window to mirror his reflection. He hadn’t slept in twenty hours, which on any other day didn’t cause a problem. But tonight, his eyes fought to remain open.
His daughter was back in hospital. He didn’t know whether to be alarmed or relieved. He did know one thing, though: this time, Eliza was coming home to his house, where he could keep a closer eye on her and properly protect her.
He rubbed his temples. The pain in his head wasn’t dulling. He took another sip of his drink, but didn’t swallow. Instead, the liquid rolled across his tongue until its burning sensation refreshed the inside of his mouth. When he finally gulped it back, it was warm and had lost its potent taste. He heard movement behind him but didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could see his butler’s reflection in the window. “She’s back in hospital, Davis.” He swirled the remainder of the drink around his glass and turned to face the old man.
“Would you like me to get the car ready for you?”
“Is the plane ready?”
“Yes, sir, but I meant would you like the car to take you to the hospital?”
James downed his drink and reached for the decanter. It only slightly numbed the pain but, at this stage, he’d take whatever was offered. “No. She’s safe for the time being, and that little stunt of hers earlier has delayed my business meeting enough already. Just make sure she stays there until I return.”
At last, pain ripped open inside his head. His first reaction was to scream for his painkillers. Instead, he filled his glass and gulped back another whiskey. Then he quickly poured himself another. Swallowing it in one mouthful, he took a deep breath and paused for a moment. Every new day brought with it longer, more intense pain, and it seemed minutes before his head cleared enough for him to continue.
Davis remained quiet. James knew the butler was smarter than to comment on his
discomfort. He dutifully waited for James to compose himself, then said, “Mr. Pope is waiting in the lounge.”
James felt his mood darken. He placed his glass on the desk and pulled at the cuff on his jumper. “Tell him I’ve already left.”
Davis nodded and began to leave, but James called on him again. “Davis, get me my medication, and make it quick. My head feels as though it’s about to explode.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Billy had zilch to go on.
No name. No address. No nothing.
Eliza’s vague description of a tall man with a scar around the side of his mouth, wearing a baseball cap and Timberland boots, and whose name began with an R was just that – vague, and this led Billy to the conclusion that either Eliza was in fact experiencing temporary insanity, which was something that didn’t sit well with him, or she was lying. And that really didn’t sit well with him.
Several other officers had arrived at Eliza’s house. Outside, nosey neighbours peered in through the open door from across the street. Their intrusion made Billy sick to his stomach. He walked to the door and stepped out onto the porch with every intention of telling everyone outside to piss off back to their own lives.
That’s when Billy saw him.
A man, little over six feet tall, coat collars gripped together at the neck, his chin nuzzled to his chest. He glanced in Billy’s direction, letting the streetlamp duck beneath the rim of his cap to light his face, and in particular the crescent scar around the corner of his mouth. He held that stare for a second or two, then stepped out from underneath the shelter of the oak and strode off down the lane – in his Timberland boots.
Billy remained still, his fingers gripped around his open notebook, and contemplated his next move. Was this the man Eliza had described? Did he actually exist? The man had all but reached the bottom of the lane when he stopped. He glanced up and down the street, then crossed the road to a small, silver sports car. Billy’s knowledge of automobiles was about as expansive as his understanding of women’s waxing, but even he knew an Aston Martin badge when he saw one.
The Aston’s lights lit up and the car swerved away from the kerb, did a complete one-eighty without stopping, and accelerated down the road.
The guy was rich. Typical. As Billy glared after the glow of the back lights, the chance to give chase or follow slowly slipped away. He noted the number plate and hurried to his police car, needed a five-point turn before he faced the opposite direction, and took off after the Aston.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It took Roman just ten minutes to get back to his place.
He rushed into his tiny bedroom and, satisfied he was alone, shook his jacket free and dropped it to the floor. He glanced down at his bloodstained shirt, the sodden fabric already hardened. Several small holes ripped the cotton. This had been his favourite shirt…and the only clean item of clothing he currently possessed. He yanked it open, causing the buttons to pop in every direction, but it no longer mattered. The shirt was ruined.
His reflection in the mirror cheered him slightly when he saw his bruised and anaemic skin had once again returned to its normal bronzed gleam. He traced his fingers across his bicep. Smooth, silky skin showed no signs of where the earlier glass had stabbed him, and when he twisted, he noted his shoulder, too, was clear of any marks. His neck still ached, but then it always did after he’d broken it. Dying sure was a pain in the backside.
His jeans were still damp from the rain, but there wasn’t any time to change them. Besides, he had nothing else to wear and was in a hurry. He needed to get to the hospital. He needed to get to Eliza. Yesterday’s shirt remained by the side of the bed, this morning’s dried noodles encrusted onto the cotton. He picked it up and scratched at them with bitten-down nails. The noodles flaked and crumbled until there was nothing left but a stain. A whiff of body odour wafted to his nostrils, and his nose crinkled in response. Sniffing under the arms, he gagged. Shit. It was this or the blood-soaked shirt that lay at his feet. Why the hell didn’t he just go to the launderette once a week?
He ruffled his hair and shook the remaining noodles from the shirt. Oh, this was an all-time low, even for him. Still, he turned his head away from the stench and slipped it on. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror again, he paused. Staring back out at him, he glimpsed the man he’d once been, albeit briefly – a man who, when faced with a life-changing choice, had taken the easy way out. The repercussions of that decision had weighed heavy on his shoulders ever since. Could he really do it all again to Eliza and allow history to repeat itself?
Yes, he could. He would do anything to be with his Jane again – and nobody was going to stop him from achieving that.
He cleared his throat. God, he needed a smoke, and scooted through the bedside table drawer until he found another cigarette box. There was one cigarette left, perfect for a couple of drags. He lit it, sucked in the nicotine, and walked to the window. The cop had parked down the street, but Roman still saw him. It was the car parked right outside his house that concerned him. The black limousine hadn’t been there when he’d arrived a couple of minutes ago, of that he was sure. His mobile buzzed, and he retrieved it from the jacket he’d thrown on the bed. Unknown caller. Roman answered anyway.
“Mr. Holbrook. I thought you were going to Paris?”
“Just packing now.”
The old man’s hesitation, although only for a second, proved he watched from the car outside. “Mr. Holbrook, what exactly are you up to?”
Roman dragged on his cigarette. He really hated this arsehole. “Like I said, right now I am packing.”
Another hesitation, this one a second or two longer. Then Roman heard the snap. His little finger jerked outwards and cracked. Pain erupted through his hand, and the cry left his lips before he had the chance to suppress it. “You fucker. When I get my hands—”
“Hands?”
Roman’s index finger snapped upwards. A clean break.
Roman bit down on his lip. “I will kill you.”
The old man laughed. “And then you will never have the wood to open the Gateway.”
The cigarette quickly found its way back between Roman’s lips, and he sucked on it as if his life depended on it. He gripped his hand, readied himself, and cracked his fingers back into place. He stifled the frustrated yell that tried to punch through, and puffed harder on the cigarette.
“Don’t mess with me, Mr. Holbrook. Stay away from the girl and just concentrate on getting the wood. Leave everything else to me and you’ll get your entry into Heaven. I promise.”
The line went dead.
Roman dropped the phone and clutched his hand close against his chest. He would kill the old man for this, and it would be slow and bloody painful. After the fourth puff, the pain dulled a little, and his fingers were already healing. He stubbed the cigarette out on the window seal, slipping what was left into his shirt pocket for later.
He was going to enjoy killing the old bastard, but first things first.
Ditch the cop.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Davis was wafer-thin, and his seventy-eight-year-old body weighed less than seven stone.
Yet, James always heard his approach.
However, James was no longer here. James was on his way to Switzerland.
Davis opened the library door and entered, a single sherry glass balanced expertly in the centre of a silver tray.
Edward Pope sat nestled comfortably in the tapestry-covered armchair. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been sitting here for the best part of an hour.”
“I’m here now.”
Pope leaned forward as Davis neared, and swiped the offered glass. “My father would have my scalp if he could see me now.”
“Just as well he’s dead then, isn’t it? Now, do you have good news for me?”
“Yes.” Pope held out a tube of rolled paper bound only by an elastic band. “The location is on that.”
&nb
sp; The open fire roared, its flames licking the flu above. It provided the only light in the room. Davis put the tray down on the nearby desk and pulled the rubber band free. The paper sprang open to reveal a blueprint of his Eliza’s house. “You’re sure it’s in this house?”
“I’m sure.” Pope took a sip of sherry. “Why, do you know it?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“What about James’ daughter?”
“Eliza will be brought here later tonight.”
A look of anxiety clouded Pope’s eyes. He downed the rest of the drink, leaving the sherry glass empty. “What about Paris?”
“What about it?”
“Have you acquired what’s there?”
Davis thought of Roman, and smiled. “I have my best man on it.”
He lifted a poker from its stand and prodded the coals. Flames soared higher into the air, lighting the sweat beading Pope’s forehead. “Is this too hot for you?”
Pope felt his face. “No, not at all.” He pulled a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed it across his brow.
Davis turned from the fire and raised the poker, the tip glowing red.
Pope eyed it for a second, a look of uncertainty in his eyes. “I don’t think I can be a part of this anymore.”
Davis licked his finger and brushed the end of the poker. An abrupt hiss finished as quickly as it started. The tip dulled and Davis stabbed the poker back into the flames. “Okay. You want out, you’re out.”
“Just like that?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course.”
Davis turned his back, letting the heat of the flames warm his face. “Have you mentioned any of this to anyone else? Your wife? Your mistress? That Soho prostitute you frequent on Sunday mornings?”