The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by Mitchell, D. M.

  ‘I have to contact the police,’ Gareth said, getting to his feet, limping to the phone and lifting the receiver.

  His rescuer dashed over and took the phone off him, placed it back on the bedside unit. ‘Definitely not a good idea, Gareth, trust me. Tantamount to throwing chummy in the water to attract sharks. And anyway, there is no need; I am the police.’ He took out a wallet and wafted ID in front of Gareth’s confused eyes.’

  He caught sight of the name Detective Robert Muller. ‘You’re not British,’ he said.

  ‘As British as maple syrup,’ he quipped. ‘But being Canadian doesn’t stop me being one of the good guys.’

  ‘So what are you saying about attracting sharks; that the police are somehow involved in all this? It’s not safe to call them? That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘Might sound it, but all I can say is that at this stage is that you don’t know who you can trust.’ Gareth returned to his seat, took the weight off his throbbing feet. ‘When did you last eat?’

  Gareth shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll nip out and grab us something to bite,’ said Muller. ‘I’m famished.’

  ‘Forget the fucking food!’ Gareth burst. ‘What is going on? I need answers!’

  The man sighed heavily. ‘I am most keen that you and your sister are kept alive, unlike the bunch you just encountered who want you very much dead.’ He heard a noise he didn’t like and went over to the curtains, peering through a slit onto the service station car park below. Headlights flashed through a dull fug on the M3 motorway in the distance and there was the steady moan of tyres finding its way through the double-glazing. Relatively quiet as it was early morning. He seemed satisfied all was well. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m tired of answering that bloody question.’

  ‘Look, it is very important that we find her. If we don’t then Camael and his mob will, and if he does then she’s as good as dead. You want that?’

  ‘No, of course not. But what has she done? For that matter, what have I done?’

  Muller rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s rather sensitive information at the moment.’

  ‘Try me. Is this something to do with the gold jewellery, smuggling or something?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ Muller said, his tone of voice far away and non-committal.

  ‘Can you be more specific? And more to the point what’s your part in all this?’

  Muller shook his head. ‘I can’t say more, except that I’m here to protect you, to find your sister and protect her too.’

  He removed the bandage from its cellophane cocoon and began to wrap it carefully around Gareth’s hand. ‘Sure you are,’ he said. ‘But I can bet you’re not licensed to kill. You shot two men in cold blood back there.’ He winced as pain flashed through his hand. ‘What’s Lambert-Chide got to do with all this?’

  Muller paused briefly then finished off the dressing, fastening it with a safety pin. He indicated with a nod for the other hand. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw you at Gattenby House; I was a guest there. You were speaking to the Head of Security – Randall Tremain.’

  Muller’s lips cracked into a thin smile. ‘Let’s say his organisation is part of an on-going investigation.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘Not allowed to say.’ He fastened the bandage in place. ‘I once saw a guy who’d had nails driven through is hands and feet. That was unpleasant,’ he said, almost absently.

  ‘I’m counting my blessings,’ said Gareth grimly. ‘Who were those guys back at the mine? And who is this Camael?’

  Muller sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Camael is a dirty piece of work, but I guess you already know that. Heartless and cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch of the first order. Whatever threats he made against you back there he would have made real. Will make real if he ever gets the chance. A driven man, you might say; driven by religious fanaticism. The worst kind of fanaticism in my book, and I’ve seen a few.’

  ‘So they’re from some kind of sect...’

  He cocked his head slightly. ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘Called Doradus?’

  ‘Where’d you hear that?’

  ‘The guys back there mentioned it, but I first heard about it from a raving red-head back at Cardiff station. Turns out she might not be as crazy as I first thought. She warned me not to go home, told me I was being tracked.’ He shook his head. ‘Turns out it was all true. The black guy back in the mines – he was the one at the station cafe. She pointed him out but I refused to listen to her.’

  Muller’s interest had been sparked. ‘Describe her to me.’

  Gareth did so, as much as he could remember. ‘You know her?’ he asked. ‘She with you?’

  ‘No, can’t say that I do know her, but whoever she is she sounds like big trouble,’ said Muller darkly. ‘Stay well away from her. You see anything of her then you tell me straight away.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out a gun. Gareth flinched perceptibly. ‘You’re in deep shit here, man, and I’m the only one who can get you out. We’re OK here for now, but nowhere is truly safe; they’ll hunt us down soon enough, so we’ll make tracks in a couple of hours, after you’ve had a chance to eat and get cleaned up.’ He checked the gun and put it back into his coat. ‘Look, I gotta leave you for a while. Got to make an urgent call. Stay here in the room and you’ll be OK, you hear?’ He saw Gareth’s confused hesitation, his eyes all but glazed over in incomprehension. ‘Here, take this,’ he said, reaching back into his pocket and offering him a gun. ‘I always carry two. It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘The hell it does! Take that thing away from me! I don’t know anything about guns; I’m British!’

  ‘Now’s the time to learn,’ he said stiffly, plonking the gun into Gareth’s bandaged palm. ‘See – safety catch on, gun good; safety catch off, gun bad. Aim, pull trigger. Simple.’

  ‘You think I’ll need it?’

  ‘You really need me to answer that? Right, so you understand; do not leave the room and do not answer the door to anyone but me. Be careful not to shoot any of the hotel staff by mistake,’ he grinned wolfishly. ‘The poor things are on minimum wage as it is.’

  Gareth nodded dumbly. ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Twenty minutes tops. I’ll fetch us a pizza and a beer or something.’ He went over to the curtains one last time, his eyes squinting. ‘Remember; don’t answer the door to anyone. Do not pick up the phone if it rings. I have to check whether it’s still clear to move you on to a safe house. I’ve got a change of car ready and waiting outside.’ He smiled warmly at the door. ‘Don’t worry, Gareth, you’re in good hands now.’

  The woman watched him closely as he left the hotel and walked swiftly and with a sense of urgency across the lamp-lit car park. He paused by a parked Range Rover, popped the boot and took out a black case. He leant against the car door and made a short call on his mobile, the conversation obviously quite animated. Once finished he locked up the car and strolled across the car park, tossing the car keys into a black bin before going to another car, a Vauxhall Astra. He unlocked the boot and put the black case inside. She noticed, even at this distance, that Muller’s lips betrayed smug satisfaction.

  She watched his passage through the shining backs of ranked cars and stopped at a 24-hour MacDonald’s to order food. Her fingers flicked on the radio and she swept back her red hair, looking at the early-morning sky, plum dark still. Massaging her stiff neck she took out a stick of gum and slipped it between her lips.

  * * * *

  33

  Crazier

  Muller was whistling a tune to himself, partly, Gareth surmised, to mask the tension he was feeling. His eager, darting eyes were screwed up as if he were experiencing a throbbing migraine. He swept his gaze from wing mirrors to rear-view and back again at frequent intervals, every now and again stiffening on spying something that alerted his spring-tight suspicions, his whistling coming to a dramat
ic halt, then cranking slowly back up when he felt reassured. They’d been driving about two hours and Gareth noticed the route had largely been on back roads, avoiding any major arteries. Apart from the tune he whistled, Muller had been infuriatingly quiet, the majority of his questions being batted away like an irritating fly with the reply that he’d find out soon enough and not to worry.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ said Gareth at length.

  ‘Look in the mirror; you’re not dead yet and that’s always a good sign,’ he said lightly, allowing himself a mist-thin smile. ‘Anyhow, you’ve got a gun. How much more trust do you need?’

  The gun. The weapon sitting heavy and brutally aggressive in his pocket. He was alarmed at how quickly he was growing accustomed to carrying it. ‘True,’ he said. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gareth,’ he said for the umpteenth time, which Gareth found a trifle worrying all the same, ‘this will be all over soon enough. You’ll find out all you need to know. I just have to get you somewhere safe, so hang in there, buddy. You’ll be passed onto my colleagues – trusted colleagues. Until then you are in real danger of losing your life. For that matter, we both are. Look, you must be tired; grab a bit of shuteye – we’ve got another hour or so to go yet.’

  It was dawn when they turned off into a leafy green lane, rolling arable fields veiled in mist all around. It all looked so normal. So peaceful. They bumped down the lane for a few minutes till Muller took a sharp swing to the left, down an even narrower lane that led directly to an old dilapidated farmhouse shielded on three sides by ranks of long-established trees. Muller killed the engine and bade Gareth leave the car. He went round the back of the vehicle and took out a black case from the boot, his head swivelling from side to side as he scanned the yard, the run-down outbuildings, and the hedges and fields beyond.

  ‘Go inside,’ he said, tossing Gareth a bunch of rusting door keys. ‘I’ll hide the car from view. Put the kettle on for a coffee, eh?’

  Gareth unlocked the old door, all its paint having flaked away over the decades and revealing grey weatherworn wood. The place smelled strongly of neglect; obviously it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Gareth wasn’t sure it was even habitable, or indeed safe to go inside. The tiny living-room-cum-kitchen had an old padded sofa and armchair huddled together for comfort in front of a 1950s beige-tiled fireplace, the carpet being a survivor – just – of the 1970s, bearing a garish red and yellow flower pattern that almost hurt the eyes; the wallpaper looked far older and in parts it had come away with the damp to reveal a pattern from a previous decade lurking beneath. The windows were so mired with filth it looked like someone had washed them with mud. An empty terracotta plant pot sat alone and despondent on a dirty windowsill peppered with dead flies and wasps; it looked like someone had been careless with a bag of currants. An old, cream dial phone from the 1960s sat on the floor amid entrails of nicotine-yellow and brown cabling which led to who knew where.

  He saw Muller drive the car past the window, or a vague shape he assumed must be a car glimpsed through the fog of dirt. Heard the door opening and being slammed shut. He went to an ancient-looking fridge; the light came on when he pulled open the door, and it buzzed like a large moth in a jam jar, but all that was inside was a single carton of semi-skimmed milk. He found an old kettle by a stone Belfast sink and filled it from a rusty cold-water tap that coughed and spat and finally, with a hefty grunt, threw up a torrent of water. He sat it on a gas cooker that was so smeared with brown fat it almost disguised the fact it was once white.

  ‘All we have to do now is wait,’ said Muller brightly as he came into the room; he looked decidedly more at ease now they were in the farmhouse. He had the black case in his hand. ‘There are a few provisions in the cupboard over there, if you find you need to fix yourself something to eat. There’s even a TV through there.’ He pointed to a doorway. ‘Portable but adequate for the rubbish that’s on these days.’

  ‘How long are we going to have to wait?’ Gareth asked.

  ‘Could be some time,’ he returned. ‘We have to make special arrangements for you.’ He went over to the window and pulled back the dusty, nicotine-stained net curtains, surveying the yard as he’d surveyed the service station car park. ‘Best if you just relax and settle down.’

  ‘But if you gave me some answers,’ said Gareth shortly. ‘Why am I, of all people, being targeted, and what’s my sister’s involvement in all this?’

  Muller bent to the kettle, checked it was boiling and then went to a cupboard, taking out a couple of mugs. He set them on the grimy worktop. ‘It’s just not my place to tell you.’

  ‘So you keep saying. It’s not good enough.’

  ‘Look, fella, it really isn’t.’ He sighed, turning and leaning with his back against the worktop, his arms folded. ‘OK, time to settle up some, I guess. The least I can do.’ His eyes looked askance as he scratched the side of his neck in thought. ‘First, I was lying; this isn’t about gold, jewellery or even drugs and the like. This goes way beyond those commodities.’

  ‘So I assume we’re still talking big money being involved.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how big,’ he said.

  ‘What’s being bought and sold?’

  Muller’s eyes settled on Gareth’s questioning face. He paused, licked his lips. ‘You are.’

  Gareth frowned fractionally, then laughed out loud. ‘Yeah, right, like I’m worth a small fortune! So much so someone back there wanted me dead. It doesn’t make sense.’ His smile faltered and fell away when he saw Muller was serious. ‘Come on, Muller, I’m hardly worth a thing. I have a cottage in Wales, a small but scratched collection of Bob Marley singles and a battered old 1970s Land Rover – oh, and a couple of Premium Bonds I bought way back in ’95. Your average underworld leader is unlikely to get excited over that lot.’

  ‘Let’s say, to the right buyer you’re worth about ten million pounds – each.’

  Gareth laughed again. ‘OK, Muller, cut the fun and games, what’s all this really about? What’s the truth?’

  ‘The truth? Straight up?’

  ‘Straight up.’

  ‘I reckon it could easily be pushed up to fifteen million.’

  Silence fell over the pair of them and any semblance of humour on Gareth’s lips faded like breath on a windowpane. ‘You’re serious...’

  ‘Deadly.’

  Gareth plonked down on the sofa; the weakened cushion springs sagged beneath his weight. ‘Go on...’

  Muller shook his head solemnly. ‘You really haven’t the faintest idea, have you? What you are, what you’re capable of.’

  ‘It appears not. Enlighten me.’

  Muller opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. He turned to the boiling kettle. ‘How’d you like your coffee – strong, weak or transparent?’ He poured hot water into the mugs.

  ‘I’m just an ordinary guy.’ he said again.

  ‘Sure you are. One question: ever had a cold, Gareth?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ever had a cold, a touch of the flu maybe?’

  ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘What about a virus of any kind? In fact, think back; when was the last time you ever got ill, the last time you went to see a doctor with your average run-of-the-mill ailment?’

  Gareth thought about it. ‘I’m one of the lucky people who seem to escape catching colds, I guess.’

  ‘You think it’s lucky?’

  ‘Well, genetic, obviously. An accident of birth, that’s all. The right genes coming together. So that’s what makes me a valuable scientific wonder, is it? The man who rarely caught a cold – big deal.’

  ‘Do you know who your mother is, Gareth?’ he said with his back still turned to him, slopping milk into the mugs.

  He was taken aback by the question and change of tack. ‘Never knew her; she dumped me in Cardiff railway station as a baby. So I get my lucky no-cold gene from her, so what? It happens.’<
br />
  ‘It might surprise you, but I know a man who knew your mother pretty well.’ He passed Gareth a mug of coffee. ‘I made it medium. I don’t know how you guys drink this shit like you do.’

  Gareth was on his feet. ‘Who is this man? How did he know her?’

  ‘Let’s say they shared each other’s company for a while.’ Then Muller froze, his head whipping back to the window. He placed his mug of coffee on the worktop.

  ‘Come on, man, you can’t leave it hanging like that. Who is he?’ But Gareth was brought up short by Muller’s raised hand signalling him to be quiet.

  ‘You hear that?’

  Gareth shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘There’s someone out there.’ He reached into his coat for the gun, flicked the safety catch.

  ‘We ought to phone the police,’ said Gareth with escalating alarm.

  ‘I am the fucking police!’ he said, gliding swiftly to the front door. ‘Go through there,’ he ordered, indicating a door to another room. ‘Keep out of sight and let me handle this.’

  ‘Is it Camael?’

  ‘Maybe. The bastard’s been damn good at tracking us if so. I didn’t catch sight of anyone following us.’

  Muller put his hand on the door handle, twisted it, the gun raised almost to his cheek. He peered through the crack, then waved energetically for Gareth to do as he was told. Gareth turned, and as he did so a figure emerged from the other room, arm outstretched, a pistol gripped firmly in her hand. She bound smoothly across the kitchen, barging past Gareth before he’d even had time to register what was happening.

  ‘Put the gun down, Muller!’ she said crisply.

  Muller’s face was a mask of complete astonishment. He raised his firearm instinctively and for an instant thought about firing it, but in a second the red-haired woman had her own gun inches away from the side of his head.