by Shaun Hutson
Kim began to climb slowly, her eyes never leaving the black-shrouded landing.
‘Clare,’ she called, feeling a much stronger fear now.
Was her daughter alone in the house?’
There was no answer.
‘Clare!’
Still nothing.
She reached the landing and paused before her daughter’s room.
There was a dark stain on the white paintwork of the doorframe, visible in the dull sodium glare from the street lights which penetrated the landing window.
Kim froze, her hand shaking as it hovered near the dark smear.
She touched it and almost screamed.
It was blood.
The smell was unmistakable.
From inside her daughter’s room there was a thud, followed by a low moan.
Kim gritted her teeth until her jaws ached; then, bracing herself, she flung open the door, her shaking hand reaching for the fight switch. She felt more of the sticky fluid on the switch. The light came on, and she saw that there was blood on the walls, too. And on the sheets, which had been ripped away from the bed.
Of her daughter there was no sign, but huddled in one corner of the room was a crumpled shape which she recognized as Wendy Barratt.
Kim rushed to the other woman who, she now saw, was bleeding badly from two savage wounds on her head. One of them, just above the right ear, seemed to be the worst of the two. The other had almost laid open her forehead, though, and blood had poured down her face and into her eyes.
‘Wendy, can you hear me?’ Kim said, frantically, squatting beside the injured woman. ‘Who did this to you?’
Wendy could only look at her with eyes full of fear and pain and gently shake her head.
‘Did you see who it was?’
‘No,’ she croaked, her eyes widening as she saw the amount of blood she was losing.
‘Where’s Clare?’ Kim demanded.
‘Oh God, I’m hurt badly. Get an ambulance.’
‘Where’s Clare?’ Kim rasped.
‘I don’t know.’
Kim felt her stomach contract.
‘Who took her?’ she demanded, her concern for the injured woman now secondary to her fear for her daughter. ‘Who took her, Wendy? You have to remember, please.’ Her voice had risen close to a shout. Unable to help herself, she shook Wendy. ‘Who took her?’
‘I didn’t see who it was.’
With one despairing moan the woman blacked out.
‘Oh God,’ Kim gasped, scrambling to her feet, blundering down the stairs, almost stumbling at the bottom. She crashed into the sitting room, tears brimming in her eyes. Tears of desperation and fear.
She snatched up the phone, praying that it hadn’t been cutoff, almost crying out loud when she heard the dial tone.
With shaking hands she dialled Longfield police station.
Sixty-Two
From the time she put the phone down until the time the ambulance screeched to a halt outside her house, each minute seemed an eternity to Kim Nichols.
She’d sat with Wendy, holding the woman’s hand as she burbled incoherently, occasionally drifting off into unconsciousness. Throughout that time, Kim’s only thoughts had been for her kidnapped daughter. Fear and foreboding such as she’d never experienced before filled her. When the emergency vehicle and its stricken cargo had finally left she’d begun pacing the floor.
Now, as she heard the squeal of tyres from outside, she dashed to open the front door.
Wallace hauled himself from the Sierra and sprinted up the path towards her, ignoring the pain from his injured leg.
‘It’s Clare,’ she blurted. ‘She’s been taken.’
‘Come on,’ the policeman said, unhesitatingly, beckoning her towards the car.
She looked puzzled.
‘Kim,’ he said, a note of urgency in his voice as he slipped back behind the wheel and re-started the engine.
She clambered into the passenger seat and the car sped off.
As the inspector glanced across at her he could see that her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from crying. He tried to coax some more details from her, and tears began to course down her face. He squeezed her hand tightly.
‘We’ll find her,’ he said.
‘She could already be dead,’ Kim said, wiping the tears from her eyes with a sodden handkerchief.
Wallace didn’t answer.
The streets of Longfield seemed strangely deserted as Wallace guided the car towards its destination. Here and there street lamps had gone out, adding further darkness to the gloom which already seemed to hang over the town like a blanket.
The lamp outside Charles Cooper’s house burned brightly, though, and Kim looked up in surprise as she saw where they were. Wallace was already out of the car and heading towards the front door when Kim scuttled after him.
‘Why would Charles take her?’ she wanted to know, aghast at the prospect of her colleague being a kidnapper.
‘He would have known about Dagda, wouldn’t he?’ Wallace said. ‘About the need for sacrifices.’
Kim swallowed hard and watched as the inspector banged hard on the front door.
There was no answer.
The house remained in darkness, silent and defiant.
Wallace hurried around to the back of the building, Kim following breathlessly. Without waiting he drove one foot hard again the back door, hearing wood splinter under the impact.
‘What if you’re wrong?’ she asked.
‘Then I’m wrong,’ he said, using even more power against the barrier. It swung back on its hinges and crashed against the wall. Wallace stepped inside, moving quickly through the kitchen, flicking on lights as he went.
The smell reached him as he came to the sitting room.
A cloying odour which he thought he recognized.
He slowed his pace, moving more quietly now, listening for any sounds of movement from upstairs. Kim followed, her heart thudding against her ribs as they began to climb the stairs. This time Wallace did not turn the light on. They climbed in darkness, one of the steps creaking in protest, the sound echoing through the silent house.
The smell was getting stronger.
He paused as they reached the landing, peering into the gloom, trying to make out the dark shape ahead.
Kim stifled a gasp.
The inspector fumbled for the light switch at the top of the stairs and the sixty-watt bulb burst into life.
This time Kim screamed.
Dangling by his neck from the attic trapdoor was Charles Cooper.
The step ladder which he had used to climb up lay beneath him, kicked aside before he jumped. Wallace approached the body, reaching out to touch the cold, rigored flesh. He ran appraising eyes over the corpse, trying to ignore the smell as he stood close by.
Cooper’s eyes bulged in their sockets, the flesh beneath them blackened, the skin of his cheeks as white as milk. He’d obviously been dead for some time, thought the inspector. The rope was thin and poorly suited for the job. It had cut deeply into the archaeologist’s neck, drawing blood which had caked hard over the hemp itself. There was no knot at the back of the neck. Cooper had probably choked to death. Dark stains at the front and back of his trousers had dried stiffly and Wallace saw a puddle of stale urine beneath the body. A swollen tongue protruded from his mouth like a bloated leech.
Wallace exhaled deeply and looked around at Kim, who was standing at the top of the stairs, her gaze lowered slightly.
It took the policeman a second or two to spot the piece of paper sticking out of Cooper’s trouser pocket. He pulled it free and unrolled it. Kim looked up as he began to read the note aloud:
‘I realize that suicide is the coward’s way out, or so they say, but it takes more strength than anyone knows to take your own life. I know I am going to die soon. We all will.’
Wallace frowned, looked at Kim, then continued reading:
‘No one would have believed me anyway if I’d told them what I had discovered in the ch
amber of skulls. I knew how to stop this horror, how to prevent it, but I could not bring myself to take the lives of children. Someone else may have seen the writing on the wall of the chamber. If so, then I pray that he has the strength. I am sorry for the children but there is no other way. If there is a God, let him help us all. The children in the chamber must die but l cannot do it. When the end comes I don’t want to see it.’
Wallace folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Come on.’ He gripped Kim’s arm and together they hurried down the stairs.
‘If Cooper couldn’t kill the children then he might have an accomplice,’ Kim said as Wallace snatched up the phone from the hall table. He dialled and waited for the receiver to be picked up at the other end.
It was finally answered and he recognized Sergeant Dayton’s voice.
‘Listen to me, Bill,’ he snapped. ‘This is Wallace. I want a car sent to Dexter Grange now. If the men can’t find Dexter there, then tell them to search that wood nearby.’
‘But guv,’ the sergeant began.
‘Don’t argue with me,’ Wallace said . ‘Do it. I also want another car to meet me at the archaeological site in twenty minutes. Got that?’
‘I can’t do that. The Chief Inspector told me to disregard any orders you gave me,’ Dayton protested.
Wallace gripped the receiver so tightly it seemed he would snap it in two.
‘Fuck Macready. Just do it. Do what I tell you, Bill, please. I think I know where those kids are.’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end.
‘Did you hear me?’ he repeated.
‘The cars are on their way, guv.’
Wallace managed a small grin of triumph. He told the sergeant to send an ambulance to 12 Elm Street but didn’t say why and, before Dayton could ask, Wallace had replaced the receiver.
He and Kim dashed out to the waiting Sierra.
Sixty-Three
‘And don’t forget, make it convincing,’ said Gary Webb. ‘Dexter’s no fool.’
‘What if something goes wrong?’ Laura Price wanted to know.
‘It won’t,’ he assured her, raising a hand for silence when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside the room. A second later Henry Dexter entered the room. He looked closely at his two young companions, particularly Laura, who was lying on the leather sofa with both legs drawn up to her chest, her face contorted.
‘She’s strung out,’ Gary said. ‘She needs some stuff now.’
Dexter eyed Gary for a moment and the youngster found that he couldn’t hold the older man’s gaze.
Laura moaned softly and rubbed at the crook of her left arm.
‘Please, Henry,’ she said, sucking in a sharp breath as she feigned a contraction that made her wince.
Like a doctor, the older man crossed to the sofa and sat down on the edge, looking at Laura impassively, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She squirmed beneath his gaze and closed her eyes in mock pain, waiting until he got up once more and crossed the room towards the wall safe where the heroin was kept. Gary edged closer to the mantelpiece, one eye on the ornamental dagger which hung above it.
‘Open it,’ he said, swallowing hard as Dexter turned to look at him.
The older man hesitated.
‘What would you do with all this heroin?’ he asked. ‘Sell it? Use it yourselves? And the money? How would you spend that?’
‘Just open the safe,’ snapped Gary.
Dexter grinned broadly.
‘Subtlety was never one of your strong points, was it, Gary?’ he said, the grin fading. ‘I wondered how long it would take for you to try this.’
Gary snatched the dagger from the wall and moved towards the older man.
‘Open that fucking safe now. I don’t want to hurt you but I will if I have to,’ he said.
Laura sat up and looked anxiously at the two men.
‘And if you kill me, who’s going to open the safe?’ Dexter asked, fixing the youth in a cold stare. ‘Put that knife down before I use it on you.’
Gary took another step forward, the blade glinting wickedly.
Dexter braced his foot against the coffee table nearby and kicked out, sending the object skidding towards Gary. It slammed into his shins, the suddenness of the assault causing him to lose balance. Dexter was on him in an instant, one hand grabbing for the knife.
Laura screamed as the two of them grappled. She leapt up off the sofa, moving towards the fireplace, her hand reaching for the poker which stood beside it.
Gary, despite being at a disadvantage, managed to turn the blade on his attacker and Dexter grunted as he felt the cold steel cut into his forearm. He slammed Gary’s hand down hard against the floor and the knife skidded from the youth’s grip. Blood from the cut ran down Dexter’s arm as he reached for the boy’s throat and fastened both hands around it, squeezing hard. Gary first gripped his assailant’s wrists and then, unable to relieve the pressure on his throat, struck out at Dexter’s face with a punch which sent him sprawling sideways. Gary leapt to his feet, his eye on the knife, but the older man swung his left foot and kicked the youth’s legs out from under him.
He fell forward heavily, cracking his head on the floor, stunned by the impact.
Dexter leapt on him, one knee pressed between the lad’s shoulder blades while he slipped both hands beneath his chin and tugged his head back. Gary could feel unbelievable pressure on his neck and spine and he actually felt the muscles tearing. Another moment or two and Dexter would break his spine.
Laura, galvanized into action by this sight, lunged forward and brought the poker down with bone-crushing force onto the back of Dexter’s head, opening a large gash on his scalp. The loud crack of bone filled the room and the older man sagged forward, collapsing onto Gary, who tried to roll free. Laura helped him shift the motionless form of Dexter and then supported him as he got to his feet. Gary took the poker from her and aimed a blow at the combination lock of the safe. The metal rod sang off it and vibrated in his hand, so he struck again. And again.
It wouldn’t budge.
Behind them, his head throbbing from the powerful blow, Dexter began to crawl towards the momentarily forgotten dagger.
Gary struck the safe again, desperation now aiding his efforts. Laura looked on anxiously, both of them too intent on their task to see that Dexter had reached the knife and was dragging himself upright.
Still the safe door would not give and Gary paused for a moment, his breath coming in gasps, the pain at the back of his neck growing with each movement.
It was Laura who heard the sounds from behind them.
She screamed as she saw Dexter run at Gary, his face a mask of rage.
The warning came too late and Gary turned only to take the knife-thrust in the stomach.
He felt as if he’d been punched, the wind knocked from him. Dexter dragged the blade free and drove it home with even greater ferocity, up under the boy’s sternum, feeling it grate against bone as he tugged the bloodied weapon out, ripping open the upper part of Gary’s torso in the process. He gripped his victim by the hair, powering more knife strokes home with ferocious strength.
Blood splattered the floor as Gary began to sag to his knees. As he fell, Dexter drove the knife forward once more. ‘The blade tore into his open mouth, slicing through gums and tongue before bursting from the base of his skull.
Laura screamed once more and jumped at Dexter, scratching at his eyes, forcing him to drop the knife. Her desperate fingers found the hilt and, with a blow that owed more to luck than judgement, she brought the knife down with terrifying force, driving it through Dexter’s left eye, pressing down on the hilt until she felt the blade puncture the floor beneath.
The dying man screamed in agony and writhed helplessly, held firm by the blade through his eye, blood shooting from the wound like crimson rain.
She collapsed, sobbing, between the two bodies, looking up at the door of the safe.
>
It had swung open, revealing the money and the heroin inside.
Laura smiled bitterly through her sobs, looking at the bags of white powder, smelling the stench of death all around her.
Seconds later, she heard the loud knocking on the front door.
Sixty-Four
As Wallace swung the Sierra around the corner of the road he could see the police car already parked across the entrance to the field leading up to the archaeological site.
One of the two uniformed men was caught in the glow of the Sierra’s headlamps as he stood urinating into the long grass.
Neither Kim nor Wallace paid him any heed.
The nearest of the two policemen crossed to Wallace’s car and looked in at the inspector.
‘How long have you been here?’ the inspector asked.
‘A couple of minutes, sir,’ Buchanan told him.
‘Right. Follow me up to the site. Get that bloody car out of the way.’ He jabbed a finger at the panda car and Buchanan signalled to his colleague, Kendall, to move it. The constable reversed leaving a clear path.
‘A message just came through from the other car,’ Buchanan said. ‘They found Dexter in his house. He’d been killed.’
Wallace chewed his lip contemplatively, listening as Buchanan recounted the details. Then the inspector nodded and pressed down on his accelerator.
‘Follow me,’ he instructed and the constable sprinted back to the waiting police car.
Both vehicles skidded over the uneven ground, the wheels of the Sierra spinning as they reached the crest of the rise. The headlamps cut through the darkness, illuminating the rope barrier which was around the entrance to the shaft.
Wallace swung himself out of the car, snatching a torch from the glove compartment in the process. Kim joined him along with the two uniformed men.
‘Kendall, you stay up top,’ Wallace said. ‘If we’re not back here in thirty minutes you’d better get help.’
Kim took the policeman’s torch from him and looked at Wallace.
‘I’m going with you,’ she said determinedly.
Wallace thought about protesting but finally merely nodded his agreement. He turned towards the rope ladder which dropped away into the black abyss.