Last Breath

by Robert Bryndza

  He only had one chance to do this. He drove around the block a couple of times and then parked a hundred yards down from the bar, switching off his engine and lights. The bar was playing music, but it looked quiet. The smoked glass windows glowed red, and cast a hue over the snow-covered pavement. A bouncer was stationed outside in a huge coat and woolly hat, but he was absorbed in his phone.

  The minutes ticked by, as Darryl sat in the dark. The car growing colder, his breath coming out in a stream of vapour, and then he saw her.

  Ella Wilkinson appeared further down the street. She wore a long coat, boots and had a bag slung over her shoulder. Her long dark hair flowed behind her as she moved with purpose toward the bar. She wasn’t wearing a scarf or a hat; clearly, she wanted her body to be seen, appreciated.

  He reached down to the ignition, started the car and pulled out, passing the bar where Ella stood waiting on the corner. His heart skipped a little. She came! She’s really there to meet me! he thought. Then he felt anger. She was there to meet Harry Gordon. He indicated and slowed, turning right into a side street, parking at the kerb. The entrance to the bar was now just around the corner, where soft red light was spilling out into the darkness and onto Ella waiting on the icy pavement. She wore a long fur coat (fake; he knew she was anti-fur), and had a small black-and-white handbag slinging from her shoulder. Her long hair spilled down her back. She shifted onto her other leg and checked her watch. Her striking beauty took his breath away, and he started to sweat despite the cold in the car.

  A taxi came rattling round the corner and trundled past. He used the delay to reach into the glove compartment and pull out a map. Underneath was a square leather sap with white stitching. He felt its weight in his hand. When the taxi passed he checked the road. He was parked in a pool of shadows just a few yards down from the corner. There were no lights on in the houses either side.

  He took a deep breath. It wasn’t too late… He could just go. His heart raced and he felt sick, but the adrenalin was pumping through him, and he looked back at Ella, waiting, for him. Keeping the sap under the map, he opened the door and got out.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ella Wilkinson checked her watch. It was quarter past eight. Her date, Harry, had said he’d be here at eight. She was freezing cold, waiting on the pavement outside the bar, and it was eerily quiet. Behind her a tall, dark-haired bouncer was shifting on his feet in the doorway, absorbed in a game on his phone. A low hum of chatter, and the click-clack of pool balls floated over. She glanced round, and the bouncer looked her up and down, taking in her low-cut black top and skinny jeans. She turned away again, buttoning up her coat, a sense of unease growing inside her.

  When she’d left the house, her housemate, Maggie, had been lying in front of the TV wearing her tartan pyjamas, ready to watch The Voice.

  ‘Ella, at least put on a scarf and a woolly hat. No man’s worth getting pneumonia for,’ she’d said, peering over her little round glasses.

  ‘This is the first time he’ll see me properly, not just from pictures online. I want to look even better in the flesh,’ she’d replied, twirling her hand over her cleavage in the low-cut black top. ‘First impressions are important.’

  ‘His first impression will be that you’re a sure thing,’ Maggie replied. ‘Text me when you get there, and text me if you stay out?’

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Feeling the bouncer’s gaze on her back, Ella opened her bag, and rummaged inside for her phone.

  ‘Sorry, excuse me,’ said a voice. She turned. A strange geeky-looking guy with brown hair was standing in the shadows, just around the corner of the building. He wore an ill-fitting black suit with a spotted bow tie. She ignored him and turned back to her phone.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, hello? Can you help me?’ he asked.

  She turned back again as he moved closer into the pool of light cast by the streetlights. He was holding up a map and squinting. ‘I’m trying to find the Hooligans theme pub? I’m singing there tonight for a birthday party.’

  You look more like a bad comedian than a singer, she thought.

  ‘Hooligans is further down there, towards Angel tube,’ she said, pointing dismissively. Her hands were now numb. She turned back to her phone and opened her messages.

  ‘Look, I’m so sorry to pester you, but I’ve got no clue about London; can you show me on the map?’ he said. He had the map opened out on top of a car by the kerb, and was wrestling comically with the paper in the cold breeze. ‘I’m supposed to be on stage any minute for a ninetieth birthday… I have to get there before the old girl kicks the bucket!’ He looked up at her and grinned.

  Despite everything, she grinned back.

  ‘Go on. Make it quick, I’m freezing,’ she said, slipping her phone back into her bag and moving over to him. ‘Haven’t you got GPS?’

  ‘I should do… But I’m a bit of a technophobe,’ he said, starting to fold up the map. ‘I’m not from round here. If you can just show me quickly, I’m running a bit late.’

  ‘Why are you putting the map away?’ she said.

  He folded it down to the last square, and placed it on the roof of the car.

  ‘Harry’s not coming to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  He was staring at her intently, his geeky amiable face now hard. Before she could say anything more, he raised his arm and she felt something hit her on the back of the head, and then everything went black.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Darryl caught Ella before she slid down between the car and the kerb. Moving quickly, he dragged her limp body round to the boot, opened it and placed her neatly on the dark green bath towels he had laid out in preparation.

  The bar around the corner remained quiet, but the road lit up behind with a car’s headlights, and he quickly closed the boot. The car whooshed past, indicating right at the junction before pulling out. Darryl spied one of Ella’s high heels in the kerb by the back wheel. He retrieved it and got in the car.

  He’d been torn; he knew he’d had to move fast, to knock her out and get her in the car, but she’d looked so beautiful. He’d never seen her so close up; her green eyes were cat-like, and the smell of her perfume mixed in with the smell of her shampoo had wafted over. Mangoes. She had really gone to town for Harry.

  He started the engine and pulled away, driving along a little way and then taking a left into a quiet cul-de-sac ending with a row of lock-up garages. He pulled into the shadows and got out. When he opened the boot, Ella lay on her side, moaning, her eyes fluttering. He punched her in the face, once, twice and had to stop himself giving her a third fist as her nose started to bleed. He took out a pale flannel which had his initials embroidered in red, and stuffed it into her mouth. Then he taped it over with silver masking tape, looping it around the back of her head twice. He bound her wrists tightly, and her legs, then finally he put a grain sack over her head and tied it loosely at the neck. He checked the pockets of her coat, and grabbed her bag still hooked over her arm. He took out her mobile and turned it off, then slipped it back into the bag. He covered her with a blanket and closed the boot, not forgetting to add the shoe which had fallen off.

  He checked the cul-de-sac. Lights were on in the upstairs window in one house. He walked along the lock-up garages to the end, and then chucked her handbag down a tiny, rubbish-filled alleyway.

  Darryl got back into the car, adjusted the rear-view mirror, did a U-turn, and started the long drive back to the farm.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Fresh snow started to fall when Darryl reached the M25, and despite the late hour, traffic was heavy. He kept some distance with the car in front, but a small blue Honda kept up his tail, just as impatient as he was to get home. Every time the traffic surged forward he worried that the driver would misjudge speed and road conditions and slam into the back of him.

  It wasn’t until he pulled off at the junc
tion to the M20 that he relaxed. The road was empty, save for a gritter which rumbled past on the other carriageway. He drove past the front gates of the farm, and along the quiet road for a few minutes. He had the wipers on, but the snow was now coming down so thick that he almost drove past a gate in between two hedgerows. He turned too fast, and had to slam on the brakes. The car slowed, but nudged into the metal bars with a nasty crunch.

  ‘Shit!’ he shouted, getting out. He went around to the front of the car. The hood was slightly puckered and the paintwork scratched. ‘Shit!’ He opened the gate, drove the car through onto the edge of a snow-covered track, then closed it.

  He had wanted to turn off the headlights on the half mile stretch of track, but visibility was dreadful and he didn’t want to risk straying into a ditch. The half mile seemed to go on forever as the car creaked and lurched, the wheels sticking a couple of times and spinning on the snow. Eventually the Oast House appeared around a bank of bare trees. The round tower with the funnel-shaped chimney looked grey and alien lit up by the car headlights. He passed the trees and drew up to the tall round tower, killing the lights and the engine.

  The wind roaring across the open fields shook the car, and when he climbed out he could hear the moaning sound as it blew across the spout-like chimney. Darryl waited until his eyes became accustomed to the dark and then went to the back seat of the car, taking out a metal steering wheel lock. Janelle Robinson had surprised him, kicking and scratching when he’d gone to get her out of the boot. Back in August, he’d been winging it when he’d abducted her, with no plan, and she’d fought him hard, almost getting away.

  He went to the boot of the car, wiped away the snow and leaned down to listen. Nothing. He gripped the wheel lock, and pulled it open. Snow immediately began to cover the blanket over Ella. He peeled it away, and couldn’t tell if her chest was moving. He pulled off the grain sack and saw she was very pale. He pressed the wheel lock into her ribs; there was a faint moan.

  ‘I’m going to lift you out now,’ he said, having to raise his voice above the wind and the moaning tower. ‘If you’re good you’ll have shelter, and you can have some water.’

  He leaned in, hooked one hand under her neck and the other under her legs, and heaved her out. She was taller and heavier than he’d expected. He shuffled through the snow to a large metal sliding door at the base of the circular tower. He put her down on the floor and took out a set of keys, finding the correct one, and opening a padlock. He slid the door open, and picked Ella up off the floor. It was cold inside, but not freezing. There was an electric light which he flicked on with his elbow, a bare bulb attached to the wall.

  In the centre of the circular room was a small furnace chamber where the fire had once been lit. There was a small door into it, and its walls went straight up for six feet or so before spreading out like an inverted funnel to meet the ceiling. Darryl used his foot to open the door. Inside the furnace chamber it was a windowless square of red brick, three metres by three, and scorched by years of fires. Above it was a thick metal grate, leading to the inverted funnel of bricks, where the heat rose, drying the hops in a small chamber above. Above this chamber was a series of vents leading up to the conical-shaped funnel, or cowl.

  Darryl had placed a large cage in the centre of the chamber, which had originally been used for transporting Grendel to the vet. He’d lined the bottom with blankets. He ducked down, and placed Ella inside the cage. He peeled the tape away from her mouth. He could just make out in the gloom that her nose was crusted with dried blood. She moaned.

  She was still alive.

  Two lengths of chain and padlocks were hooked over one side of the cage. He wound one around her neck and looped it through the bars of the cage before padlocking it. In one corner of the cage was a large two litre bottle of water, which he placed beside her hands.

  He came out of the cage and went to a table in the corner where there was a small orange plastic box. He opened it, and prepared a 10ml syringe of Ketalar. He moved back inside, and could see that her eyes were now open and darting around, confused. She tried to talk, but her mouth was dry. He opened the bottle of water and offered her some.

  ‘Go on, it’s water,’ he said.

  She took a sip and swallowed.

  ‘Who are you?’ she croaked. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘I’m just going to roll up this sleeve,’ he said, pulling up the thick sleeve of her fur coat.

  ‘Where am I?’ she croaked. ‘Please. Why are you doing this?’

  He kneeled on her bound legs, and she squealed. With his free hand he pinned her against the bars of the cage and slid the needle into her bare arm, slowly pushing the drug into her vein. He removed the needle and applied pressure with his thumb. She groaned and her eyes rolled back.

  She went limp and he removed his thumb, sucking the small drop of her blood from its tip. Taking the second chain, he wound it around her wrists and padlocked it to the bars opposite. He taped up her mouth again, and tucked the blankets around her.

  ‘There. You get some rest. You’ll need your wits about you… You’re on a date with Harry. Harry Gordon.’ He smiled.

  He came out of the furnace chamber and closed the door. Then, switching off the light, he left the Oast House, and slid the door shut with a soft clang. He fastened the padlock, and drove back down to the road.

  * * *

  It was warm when he entered the boot room, and Grendel came bounding up and licked his hand. His parents were in the living room watching television when he poked his head through the door. His father was bolt upright in his armchair by the window, and his mother lay on the sofa with a large gin and tonic. They were watching an episode of Inspector Morse on ITV4.

  ‘Alright love,’ said Mary, her eyes not leaving the screen. The fake flame fire rippled in the fireplace, throwing reddish light along the wall with the television. The picture cut out on the large flat-screen TV and went black. ‘For God’s sake,’ she added.

  ‘Now, let’s see who this is,’ said John, picking up the remote and leaning forward eagerly.

  Mary got up unsteadily and shuffled over to the small bar at the back of the living room by the bay window. The CCTV cameras on the front gate and yard were motion activated, and the picture was beamed through to the living room TV.

  ‘Would you fill this up, love?’ said Mary, holding out the little ice bucket to Darryl.

  On the screen a white van had stopped outside the front gates. It inched forward and the gates began to open. The CCTV angle changed to a close-up of the side of the van, where two lads inside were looking up the driveway, weighing up their options. Their features were a ghostly green and eyes two white circles in the night-vision camera.

  ‘They’ll be on their way if they know what’s best for them,’ said John.

  On the television, the van sat there for a moment, then slowly reversed and drove away, as the gates swung shut. The screen flicked back to the episode of Inspector Morse.

  ‘Gyppos,’ said John. ‘Up to no good.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re lost,’ slurred Mary, settling back down into the sofa.

  ‘You didn’t see anything odd when you just drove back in?’ asked John over his shoulder as Darryl left to fetch the ice.

  ‘Nothing…’

  ‘Did you have a nice drink at the pub?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Yeah. I met up with a couple of mates…’

  He didn’t bother to continue, they were both absorbed by Inspector Morse. Darryl watched them for a moment, bathed in the glow on the television, lost in the fictitious world of murder, unaware of the reality at the bottom of the yard.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Erika’s phone rang early on Sunday morning. She opened her eyes, disorientated, and saw Peterson’s smooth dark muscular back beside her. She’d stayed over at his flat for the second time, and it took her a minute to remember her phone wasn’t plugged in beside the bed, but in the kitchen. She padded through just as it stopped ringing. It was Crane,
and she called him back.

  ‘Boss?’ he answered. ‘I’ve got CCTV footage of Janelle Robinson. I think it’s the night she vanished.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at the nick, I’ve been up all night.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll grab you some breakfast, and I can be there asap.’ She hung up.

  Peterson appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed, pulling on a dressing gown.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Crane thinks he has footage of Janelle’s abduction. I need to dash,’ said Erika, moving to the sink and running the water. She filled up a glass and was taking a drink when she noticed the curtains were open. A couple of old ladies were standing at the bus stop on the road out front, peering in and tut-tutting. She looked down and saw she was only wearing her knickers. ‘Bollocks!’ she said, ducking down. Peterson went to the window and pulled the curtains shut. He started to laugh. ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘That’s Mrs Harper. She lives in the flat next door,’ he said. ‘She’s probably on her way to do the church flowers.’

  ‘Great, so I can’t show my face here again,’ said Erika.

  ‘You’ve shown her pretty much everything else!’ he laughed. He went to her and took the glass from her hand and gave her a kiss. ‘I’m glad you stayed over.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. She pushed the ever-present spectre of guilt from her mind. Guilt that she had enjoyed herself. Guilt that for a few hours she hadn’t thought about Mark. She looked up at Peterson and she could see he was reading her thoughts.