by Shaun Hutson
‘May I go now, sir?’ he asked.
Macready nodded, watching as Wallace headed for the door. As he closed it behind him he let out an angry breath.
Inside the office the phone rang.
From the police station Wallace drove to the museum, a little puzzled to find the car park empty when he arrived. There was no sign of Kim’s Land Rover. He drove up to the main doors, got out and knocked three times. He waited several minutes for an answer, but only silence greeted his arrival. He knocked once more, then walked around the building to the window which looked into the laboratory.
The blinds were down. As he stood listening, he heard no sounds of movement from inside.
Wallace strode back to his car, clambered in and drove off.
He reached Kim’s house in less than fifteen minutes.
The Land Rover was parked outside, so Wallace drew up behind it. He climbed out and walked up to the front door, brushing a hand through his hair as he knocked. The door opened a moment later.
Kim smiled happily as she saw him.
‘Steve! Come in,’ she said, touching his hand as he entered. She felt him squeeze hers softly. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and felt that tingle they’d experienced the other night.
‘When I couldn’t get hold of you at the museum I thought something might be wrong,’ he told her, wandering through into the sitting room.
Clare was sitting on the floor in front of the television, one eye on ‘Sesame Street’, the other on the dolls which lay before her. When Wallace entered the room, she turned –and looked at him. A smile which spread from her lips to her eyes lit up her whole face.
‘Clare, this is Inspector Wallace,’ Kim told her. ‘He’s a policeman.’
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ Wallace said, smiling at the child, struck by her radiant beauty. She looked strikingly like her mother, he thought.
‘Are you friends with Mummy?’ Clare asked.
Wallace grinned and looked fleetingly at Kim.
‘You could say that,’ he answered.
‘Are you her best friend?’
It was Kim’s turn to smile.
She ushered Wallace through to the kitchen where he sat down at the table, watching while she switched on the kettle.
‘A very astute young lady,’ the inspector said, waving to Clare through the partially-open door. She waved back. ‘And very beautiful, like her mum.’
Kim coloured slightly.
‘You didn’t come round here just to pay me compliments,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Another man’s been killed, another of Cutler’s employees. The method was exactly the same. It happened last night.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ she murmured as she dropped tea bags into the mugs on the draining board.
He also told her about the arrival of Macready.
‘So you’re really no closer to finding the killer?’ she asked.
‘Or the kidnapper,’ he added. ‘Kim, it’s like looking for a bloody ghost.’ He sighed, then seemed to push the questions aside momentarily. ‘Why aren’t you working? I thought you still had things to do at the museum.’
Kim crossed to the door and pushed it shut, then spoke in a lowered voice.
‘It’s Clare,’ she said. ‘She’s been having nightmares for the past week or so, and she hasn’t been sleeping too well. I thought it best to keep her out of school for a while.’ She paused for a moment, then told him about the incident at school the previous day. From a cupboard above the sink, where it lay rolled up and held by an elastic band, Kim pulled out the drawing and unfurled it in front of Wallace.
He studied it, puzzled by the grotesque image and the scrawled words.
‘Clare says she doesn’t remember drawing it,’ Kim told him, switching off the kettle as it began to boil. ‘Or writing those words.’
Wallace picked up the drawing and held it before him as if that simple act would reveal its secrets.
‘Is she ill?’ he wanted to know.
‘In perfect physical condition, the doctor said. I took her to see him earlier today. She’s just tired. Like I said, she hasn’t been sleeping very well. She says she has bad dreams but she can never remember them the following day. At least not what they were about.’ Kim handed the policeman his tea, wandering round to stand beside him. They both looked down at the drawing.
‘Perhaps this figure is what she’s been seeing in her dreams,’ Wallace offered.
‘It’s possible,’ Kim sighed. ‘Do you believe in premonitions? Second sight?’
Wallace shrugged.
Kim picked up a notepad from the worktop nearby and handed it to him. It contained more of the transcribed words from the Celtic tablets she was working on.
‘I finished the transcription yesterday teatime,’ Kim told him, her eyes following the words across the page:
ONCE IN EACH YEAR THE TIME COMES. TIME OF FEAR FOR THEM. TIME OF FEAST. OF TARBFEIS AND OF THE OFFERINGS. THEN I AM NO LONGER A WANDERER. THE KING IS SELECTED BY THE OFFERING OF A MARE. A WHITE MARE IS SLAUGHTERED AND IN THE HOT LIOUID THE KING DRINKS AND BATHES UNTIL HE HAS ABSORBED THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD ANIMAL. FOR THOUGH DEATH COMES IT BRINGS LIFE TO OTHERS. DEATH THROUGH LIFE. THE DEATH OF ONE MAN MEANS POWER TO ANOTHER. AND THE DEATH OF MANY MEANS POWER TO HIM.
Wallace looked at the drawing done by Clare and then at the final phrase which Kim had written down. It was underlined three times.
‘His time is come,’ he read aloud.
Kim nodded.
‘Clare did that drawing and wrote those words yesterday lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Three hours before I’d deciphered the writing on the tablet.’
‘I’ll call you later,’ Wallace said as he slid behind the wheel of the Sierra. He looked up at Kim and smiled. She bent forward and kissed him on the lips, surprising him with the suddenness of her movement, but he responded, still more surprised by the passion which he felt. He felt her tongue probing against his lips, pushing past his teeth to find the warm moistness of his tongue. He gently touched her cheek as he returned the kiss with equal fervour. When they finally parted it was very reluctantly.
‘Take care,’ she said as he drove off.
He could see her in one wing mirror as he drove away, but his thoughts were interrupted by the harsh crackle of the two-way. He immediately snatched it up.
‘Wallace.’
‘It’s Dayton, guv. The C.I. wants you back here straightaway.’
Wallace didn’t ask why. He merely acknowledged and put his foot down.
He reached the police station in a little under ten minutes, parked his car and walked across the tarmac towards the entrance, wondering what Macready wanted.
As he entered the station he heard unfamiliar sounds.
A woman crying.
Puzzled, he glanced around, trying to find the source of the anguished sounds.
The frosted glass partition was down and locked, separating the entry-way of the police station from what lay behind it. There was no one in sight and the only sound was of the woman crying.
Wallace climbed the stairs to his office, knocked once and then walked in.
Macready was standing with his back to the door, gazing out of the window. He turned as the younger man entered the room and Wallace saw the worried expression on his superior’s face.
The chief inspector said nothing. He reached for something on his desk and handed it to Wallace.
It was a photograph. A wallet-sized snap of a young boy, no more than six year old, the inspector guessed. Short brown hair, one front tooth missing, the gap revealed by a wide and cheeky grin.
Wallace felt an uncomfortably familiar chill creeping up his spine as he looked at the picture.
‘Carl Taylor,’ Macready said. ‘He’s not quite six years old.’
Wallace suddenly understood why the woman down-stairs was crying.
Macready sighed and continued:
‘He disappeared from outside his home an hour ago . . .’
/>
Fifty-One
The huge Scania lorry rolled inexorably up the slope towards the site, the first of a massive convoy of steel vehicles. Belching diesel fumes in great bluish-grey clouds, the trucks and other metallic juggernauts made their way over the uneven ground as easily as a tank rolling over a shell-ravaged battlefield.
Alongside the lorry, looking curiously incongruous, was James Cutler’s Jensen. The car bumped and bounced over the ruts in the earth, but its suspension prevented the land developer from feeling the worst of the uneven ride.
Charles Cooper stood close to the entrance of the ancient shaft, watching the vehicles drawing closer, feeling the anger boiling up inside him. So, this was it. The end. The most valuable archaeological find of its type for years was to be wiped out by bulldozers and earth-movers. All in the name of profit.
‘What’s going on?’ asked George Perry, appearing beside him, his gaze also drawn to the convoy of lorries heading towards them. Other members of the dig, alerted by the roar of engines, were also watching apprehensively.
‘Cutler,’ said Cooper, angrily. ‘It looks as if he’s finally getting around to doing what he threatened.’
The Jensen sped on ahead of the heavier vehicles and came to a halt at the top of the slope. Cutler got out, muttering to himself as he saw that the mud was sticking to his shoes. He walked towards Cooper, a thin smile on his face.
‘My men won’t be starting work until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You and your people will have plenty of time to move your things out.’
Cooper clenched his fists, his anger preventing him from speaking.
‘Come on, Cooper, you knew it would happen eventually,’ Cutler said. ‘You’ve already had longer on this dig than you originally envisaged.’
‘But our work isn’t finished,’ Perry said.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ Cutler told him. ‘I’m very sorry but we made an agreement when the site was first discovered. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.’
‘How can you do this?’ Cooper said. ‘Still, asking you to appreciate true value is like asking a dog to shit in a toilet.’
Cutler waved a finger reproachfully.
‘I didn’t come here for a slanging match, or to be insulted. I came to tell you to move off my land. I hoped that it could be done amicably but I see that it can’t.’ The land developer’s tone had hardened. ‘Now I’m telling you, Cooper, I want you and all your people away from here by tonight. Otherwise I’ll call the police in and press trespass charges. Understood?’
Cooper suddenly lunged forward, hands outstretched in an effort to reach Cutler. The other man stepped back, avoiding the frantic attack. The archaeologist slipped and sprawled in the mud but he dragged himself upright immediately and went for Cutler a second time. This time he was stopped by two of his colleagues.
‘Do you want assault charges added to those for trespass?’ Cutler asked scornfully. ‘Now, get out of here. I won’t tell you again.’ He walked back to his car and climbed in. ‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning, and I don’t expect to see you here,’ he said and started the engine. The wheels spun in the mud for a moment, then the Jensen roared away. Only then did Cooper’s companions release him.
‘You bastard,’ he bellowed after the car, hurling a handful of mud in its direction.
George Perry looked on in silence.
Cooper stood for a moment longer, then turned and stalked away towards his tent.
Fifty-Two
The chink of ice against crystal sounded almost unnaturally loud in the peacefulness of the room.
James Cutler dug his hand into the ice bucket and dropped more of the frozen squares into the whiskey tumbler before pouring a generous measure of Johnny Walker.
He drank deeply, allowing the amber fluid to burn its way to his stomach. The land developer had drunk three or four scotches at the restaurant an hour or so earlier, and he wondered how he had managed to remain so stone-cold sober. He didn’t even feel a hint of light-headedness. He poured himself another drink, wondering how long it would take him to get smashed.
Even though the liquor inside him was warm and the central heating was on full-blast he still felt cold. As if icy fingers were tickling the back of his neck. He took his drink and sat down facing the television set. He didn’t bother to turn the set on but merely gazed at the blank screen, sipping his drink a little too hastily.
Beside him his dog, Rebel, a red setter, lay with its head raised as if listening to something in the distance.
Cutler reached down with one hand and stroked the animal’s head, surprised when it growled.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, withdrawing his hand an inch or two.
The dog’s ears had pricked up and it was now looking round, its head jerking from side to side. Finally it contented itself with glaring at the sitting room door.
Cutler looked at the dog a moment longer, sipping more of his drink.
‘You’re a temperamental so-and-so tonight,’ he said, patting the dog again, more cautiously this time.
Again the animal growled, low in its throat. It got to its feet, padded across to the door, and stood facing it, its growls gradually building into barks.
Cutler frowned and rose from his chair.
‘What the hell is the matter, Rebel?’ he asked as if he actually expected the dog to tell him.
Once more he felt those icy fingers at the back of his neck but with more cause now. His dog wouldn’t behave this way unless it had a reason.
The animal was now barking, growling and whimpering by turns. It stood unmoving by the door as Cutler approached. He pulled the door open, expecting the setter to run out, but it remained where it was, looking out into the darkened hall and the front door beyond.
He himself looked at the wood-panelled door, then back at the large bay window with its curtains still undrawn. Cutler suddenly felt very vulnerable.
And frightened.
Couldn’t dogs sense the presence of others? he thought.
They could tell when there was an intruder about.
An intruder.
Or a murderer perhaps?
The thought struck Cutler like a thunderbolt and he moved away from the door towards the windows, hastily drawing the curtains across, shutting out the darkness of the night.
His house stood on the outskirts of Longfield, surrounded by two acres of grounds. He was, in short, isolated. Cut off. And, with what had been happening recently to those who worked for him, the land developer felt suddenly afraid.
The dog had now moved out into the hall slightly, still growling.
Cutler followed it, moving slowly in the gloom, his ears alert for any sound from outside the house.
He listened intently but heard nothing. Still the setter growled, its lips sliding back over its canine teeth.
Cutler glanced to his right, up the stairs, then to his left, towards the dining room. The dog seemed intent on the front door and now, as he watched, it began to bark frenziedly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the house.
The land developer crossed to the door, one hand resting on the lock.
Should he let the dog out? Let it chase whoever was out there?
But if he did open the door . . .
He swallowed hard, looking down at the setter, which was now barking loudly, its body stiff. The only part of it moving was its head.
Open the door? he asked himself.
He finally slid back the bolt and pulled it open, letting the setter scurry out into the night. He slammed the door quickly behind it and stood with his back to it, shaking. If there was a burglar or prowler out there, then Rebel would soon see them off, he thought, trying to reassure himself.
The barking ceased abruptly and silence descended once again.
Cutler listened, waiting for the noise to continue.
Nothing.
Maybe the dog had been unable to find anyone. Perhaps it was even now trotting back towards the house. Cutler gla
nced at the phone on the hall table and wondered if he should call the police. If he did, what would he tell them? That his dog had been barking at sounds he himself could not hear? It was scarcely a good enough reason to bring two panda cars screeching to his door. He closed his eyes for a moment, surrounded by the darkness, wondering what to do.
He heard his dog yelp wildly and his blood froze.
The cry died away on the breeze which swirled around the house.
Cutler looked across at the phone once more.
Should he phone?
What if the killer were outside?
He had a right to be protected.
Again he hesitated, peering out of the window beside the door in an effort to see where the dog had got to. The darkness was impenetrable. The light switch which controlled the porch lamp was close to his hand. If he put that on he would be able to see. He flicked the switch.
As the front path was bathed in light, Cutler sucked in a strangled breath.
His dog was lying about ten yards from the house in a spreading pool of blood.
Its head had almost been severed. It hung at an impossible angle, twisted to one side to reveal a jawbone which was shattered into crimson mush. Both eyes had been tom out, leaving only the weeping sockets, and Cutler noticed that one of the dog’s long ears had also been ripped away by its killer. The ear lay discarded a couple of feet away. The body was still twitching spasmodically, one rear leg quivering insanely as the last muscular movements racked it.
Cutler turned immediately, snapping off the porch light, and dived for the phone. He snatched it up and dialled three nines.
The line was dead.
Shaking uncontrollably he dialled again, not stopping to think that the lines had most likely been cut.
With a final despairing moan he threw the receiver down and blundered into the sitting room, slamming the door behind him, his breath now coming in short gasps.
He heard scratching outside the front door, the sound gradually building until a series of loud bangs rang through the house.
Cutler looked around desperately for something with which to defend himself.
The bangs became blows of sledgehammer proportions and the land developer heard the strain of cracking wood.