Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  As Phil approached, he could see an open upstairs window. He noted Lindsey’s green Mazda wasn’t in the drive, or under the carport. A check through the small garage windows proved it wasn’t there. Phil went to the back door, peered through the window, and could see a dark liquid on the kitchen and hallway floors.

  He stood back and assessed the windows and door, ready to make a quiet, forced entry. On the glass pane of the door, nearest to the lock was a small yellow smiley, but it wasn’t there when he and Annabel had left Kirsten there.

  Phil remembered Lindsey was a big fan of Agatha Christie, and she teased him about his love of cryptic crosswords. She used to suggest his puzzles were a step away from reading or writing a good suspense story.

  Lindsey would have a contingency plan, Phil thought. She would have left clues, knowing he would come to investigate. He looked around the garden. It was busy, but tidy, with flower beds, a vegetable patch, a small shed, and a miniature pond with three garden gnomes sitting around the edge; fishing.

  The two outside gnomes were glum. Their rods were held high and had empty hooks. The middle gnome’s fishing line was dipping in the pond, and his expression was a smile. Phil glanced back at the yellow sticker on the door and shook his head. A few seconds later, the grinning gnome no longer had a key in a plastic container on his line.

  Phil kept his weapon ready. When inside the house he locked the door and continued with stealth, knowing there might be bad company. He moved forward, holding his gun two-handed, aiming where his gaze fell.

  In the kitchen, the cutlery drawer was open, and a selection of knives, forks and spoons were scattered across the worktop and the floor. Flies and ants were enjoying the spilt food from the two overturned saucepans. A knife block lay on its side, the contents spread out on the worktop.

  Phil made a judgement as to what was missing—a carving knife judging by those remaining. Blood was smeared over the kitchen surfaces, walls and floor, and flies were feasting. Phil moved on, avoiding the small puddles of claret-coloured liquid.

  The path of destruction continued into the hallway where blood decorated every surface. Phil recalled Lindsey had her bedroom on the ground floor, keeping it separate from guest accommodation. He used his toecap to push the door which had the brass ‘Private’ sign.

  In the room was a tidy double bed, a dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, and an assortment of makeup and jewellery on the dressing table. The en-suite bathroom was immaculate, except for smudge marks on the mirror. As he moved to the guest’s dining room, Phil noted the hallway telephone was smashed on the floor.

  Instead of a neat room with six identical tables and their matching chairs, it was a wooden disaster zone, laced with crockery and cutlery. A small silver carriage clock above the fireplace was the single undamaged item in the room. Blood was in evidence on the walls and floor, and somebody had been dealing with a hand injury from early in the struggle.

  As he moved up the stairs, Phil noted blood smeared on the walls and bannister, and stains marked the fitted carpet. Every room had en-suite, and Phil cleared the rooms steadily, including bathrooms and wardrobes. One bedroom had seen the continuance of the battle, but the other two were untouched, having been locked. Phil tapped gently on the locked doors and called out. “Lindsey ... Kirsten.” No reply.

  He moved to the next area to find bloodstained walls and stair carpet. It reminded him of the pirate movies he’d seen as a child, where the opponents in a swordfight always end up fencing on stairs.

  On the top floor, he found three more rooms. One had blood smeared across the door and handle, but the room was locked. Phil could hear laboured breathing. He pushed the second door open with his foot, but the room was tidy and presentable. He checked the bathroom. It was empty.

  He returned to the landing and levelled his pistol. He aimed as he entered the final bedroom. It resembled a scene from a horror movie. Blood was smeared or daubed on every available surface which indicated a titanic struggle had taken place. People had been fighting with a life and death attitude.

  Phil stepped further into the bedroom over the broken lampshade and once tasteful, now shattered ornaments. He checked the bathroom. It was clear, but as he turned, he heard laboured breathing. Phil moved carefully around the piles of bedclothes, avoiding the damages, and the bloodstained carpet. The victim was lying on the floor by the window, his head caught between the wall and a bedside table.

  It was a man in his thirties, dressed in a suit and tie. He lay staring at the ceiling, gasping. An ivory-handled switchblade lay beside him on the blood-soaked carpet.

  Both the man’s palms were slashed open which led Phil to believe he had attempted to take a blade from someone, or he’d been defending himself. Whoever this guy’s opponent was, they’d been using at least one dangerous weapon. The casualty had cuts all over his face, arms, chest and abdomen. His Armani suit, expensive shirt, and tie were shredded and soaked in blood.

  Evidence of a possible second assailant was the long piece of broken mirror sticking in the man’s neck. Had it struck the carotid artery he would have died mercifully quickly, but it missed. He was left to bleed slowly to death. The knife wounds had created injuries, but none were life-threatening, unlike the slither of glass.

  Uppermost in Phil’s mind was, this guy had aimed to kill a friend. “Your problem was, you didn’t fear death or defeat, as much as your enemy.” Phil didn’t feel a shred of compassion for the hired killer.

  The man’s expression was hard to read, and he couldn’t talk. He made a gurgling noise when he breathed. Around him, the walls, and carpet were severely stained.

  Phil holstered his Sig Sauer and squatted, facing the assassin. “There’s good news and bad news.” He leant over to look at the neck injury. “The bad news is, you’ll get no help from me. The good news is, you’re gonna be dead in half an hour.”

  Before leaving the devastation, Phil rifled through the dying man’s pockets. He found a wallet, which contained a few banknotes and four credit cards. Tucked into a small pocket was a receipt for fuel. Phil wrote a short list of names on it and folded it back into the tiny crevice in the leather wallet.

  Phil stepped over the broken items and bedding and went downstairs. Lindsey would leave him a sign, and though in a state of shock she would try to think logically. He searched the house rapidly, looking for the obvious. For a few minutes, he paused in the hallway. He had to think outside the box—the way Lindsey would have been thinking.

  18. Getting In, Getting Out

  Judging by the trail of destruction, the fight had rushed through the ground floor before going upstairs. Phil recalled Lindsey’s message came from a landline, not her mobile. If she’d felt trapped and was whispering on the phone, the intruder must have been close.

  Lindsey would leave a clue, but something subtle. It was her style.

  Nothing was out of place in the bedroom. Phil pushed the bathroom door open with his foot. In all the neatness, as he’d noted previously, the bathroom mirror was smudged. He stared at it, and on a whim, switched on the hot tap. “Clever girl,” he whispered.

  As the steam rose across the glass, Phil clearly read the print made by a finger. “THINK OF A DAY - A DATE - A MONTH.”

  It struck him like a bolt from the blue. CALENDAR, but she didn’t mean the type with pretty pictures. Lindsey would mean Callandar, the small town which was pronounced the same way but spelt differently. It was situated west of Perth, on the fringe of the Trossachs Highland Park. Before he left the room, Phil wiped the mirror clean with a tissue.

  He called a number in Hereford, England.

  Phil recalled what Lindsey had told him and Annabel on their visit. Ken and Lindsey had owned a luxury caravan in Gart Caravan Park, east of Callandar. It had been Ken’s dream to own a Bed and Breakfast but keep their holiday home nearby. After Ken’s death, with the insurance money and their savings, Lindsey had bought the B & B.

  Phil and Rachel were on the outskirts o
f Callander within thirty minutes of leaving the house. They cruised past the reception of the campsite, and Rachel rode around the perimeter of the large grass area slowly, the big bike’s engine growling.

  When Phil spotted the green Mazda, he pointed, and Rachel cruised around the campsite at a snail’s pace. She parked out of sight behind the large caravan. Phil removed his helmet and went straight around to the front of the large caravan.

  He tapped on the door and stood back. The net curtain moved before the door opened. Phil stepped inside and was hugged by a relieved, sobbing Lindsey. Phil didn’t speak, but held Lindsey’s trembling body close, to reassure her.

  While Phil had Lindsey clinging to him and crying, he glanced over her shoulder to see Kirsten composed and relaxed. He imagined the Croatian must have witnessed many terrible things in her young life. She gave a weak smile.

  Although she’d spent many years married to a member of the Special Forces, Lindsey was distanced from the violence and death. The military had been Ken’s job. Lindsey was a wife.

  “Did we kill the man?” Lindsey asked.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Phil said. “He wasn’t a man - he was a piece of shit.” He stepped back to hold her by the shoulders. “It’s you girls I’m concerned about. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve got a few scratches,” Lindsey said. “Kirsten wrapped my arms in tea towels and drove us here with my directions. She cleaned and dressed my arms.”

  A knock at the door caused the two women to freeze, eyes wide.

  “It’s okay,” Phil said. “It’s Rachel.”

  When Rachel was inside, she closed the door. The two younger women hugged each other.

  Kirsten said, “I think this is when you British would say, ‘It’s time for cup of tea’.” It was an apparent attempt at acting and sounding brave, but it was post-traumatic relief.

  Lindsey gave a nervous laugh.

  Phil kissed Lindsey on the forehead as if she was an injured toddler. “Right, my girl, you sit and try to relax.”

  Lindsey gripped one of Phil’s strong hands. “You won’t leave us will you?” She sat on the plush seating. Phil sat beside her, mainly because she wouldn’t let go of him.

  He avoided the question. “While we have our tea, I want you to tell me about your visitor, and take your time.”

  Cups of tea were placed in front of them on the large table. Kirsten sat opposite, her cup held in both hands. Rachel remained standing and occasionally peered through the net curtain out into the camping area.

  Lindsey sipped her tea. “It was early morning. The man had a police identity card. I told him I had no guests, and asked why he came to the back door. He said he didn’t want the neighbours to see him.”

  “How close is your nearest neighbour?”

  “My nearest is about one hundred metres away and obscured by trees. Anyway, he looked past me. He must have seen I’d prepared the table for two, but he nodded and left.”

  “Where was Kirsten?”

  “She was upstairs taking a shower.” Lindsey smiled at Kirsten. “I went into my bedroom to call you, Phil, but my mobile had no credit. Luckily, I have a landline in there.” She paused. “I’d hardly dialled when I heard a noise in the dining room. I realised the guy must have come through the French windows, which was why I whispered to you.” She swallowed hard and sipped her tea. “I wrote my message on the mirror because I’d decided to get us out of there.”

  “Did you take a knife when you went to your bedroom?”

  “No, but when the phone went dead, I figured he’d picked up the extension in the hallway. I opened my door, and he walked toward me, grinning.”

  “Heartless bastard,” Rachel said.

  Lindsey said, “I reached the kitchen before him, and I stood with my back to the cutlery drawer. He was at the kitchen door, shaking his head. He said if I let him have the girl, I’d be left alone. He wasn’t wearing a mask or anything. It was clear, he’d kill us both. When I opened the cutlery drawer with my back to it, he lunged, and I stumbled against the cooker.”

  Rachel and Kirsten sat, wide-eyed, and silent.

  “I was desperate, and I remembered my knife block. It was out of reach, but I glanced behind him, and he turned.” Her lips formed a faint smile. It had been a moment of triumph. “I reached out, and pulled the longest knife from the block and waved it in his face. He jumped back and laughed at me. ‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ he said, and pulled a switch-blade from his pocket.”

  “Take your time,” Phil said. “You’re doing well.”

  “I can’t remember clearly after he pulled the knife, except I grabbed a second knife from the drawer, and fought him off, slashing at him. I remember shouting to Kirsten to get out. I forced him into the dining room away from the stairs. I cut him several times.”

  Phil was confident, somewhere in Warrior Heaven, an old friend was looking down on his widow with pride.

  Lindsey said, “He repeated, he wanted the girl, and I said to him, ‘You’ll have to fucking kill me first.’ He said, ‘Okay bitch’. He lunged at me and slipped on something, and I ran to the stairs.”

  Tears rolled down Kirsten’s cheeks.

  “It’s over now,” Phil said. “I want to get you two away from here for a few days.” He glanced at Kirsten. “I’ve arranged something, but I need you to get rest.”

  When Lindsey lay down, Rachel fetched a blanket and covered her. Lindsey was exhausted, and fell asleep in two minutes; holding Phil’s hand.

  Phil turned to Kirsten. “Are you okay?”

  “I am fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I have not known this before. I come out of shower, and hear Lindsey scream my name, ‘Kirsten get out! Kirsten get out!’ I dress quickly and hear ... commotion. They come upstairs. I look for weapon. I break bathroom mirror, and hold piece in towel.” Kirsten closed her eyes briefly.

  “The man didn’t see you approach?” Phil asked.

  “No. I come from bathroom, and they are fighting in next bedroom. Lindsey is near window, crying and screaming, ‘Fuck you!’ She is holding two large knives, waving them. She make him angry, to let me escape, but I come up behind him.”

  Kirsten swallowed hard. “He have Lindsey in corner, near bed. I shout, ‘Bastard!’ He turn, and I stick mirror glass in him. He fall, and I help Lindsey climb over bed.”

  Phil took her hand across the table - it was cold, and trembling. “You’re both brave girls. You get some rest, Kirsten. You’re safe now.”

  Like Lindsey, Kirsten lay down on the seating, and Rachel covered her with a blanket.

  “I remember another name.” Kirsten sat up.

  “You remember which name?”

  “I told you I hear talk of Margarita when we arrive your country.”

  “Yes, I noted the name, Margarita.”

  “In woods near truck, One man say, ‘Margarita will be working hard.’ Other man say, ‘Hartley expects her to work hard.’ I think maybe Hartley is Margarita’s boyfriend.”

  “When you told me about your journey you said you came in a ship. Was it a ship or a boat?”

  “They are same. Is this not so?”

  “Yes of course,” Phil reassured her. “How many people were on the ship?”

  “I count twenty get off,” Kirsten said. “We have twenty-five when we get on ship.”

  “You get some rest. You’ve both done well.”

  Phil sat on a small stool at the galley in the centre of the caravan. He shook his head in wonder at the ordeals the two women had gone through in such a short period.

  Rachel said, “I think they’re bloody amazing.” She made tea for two. “How do you think they could set out with twenty-five people and end with twenty?”

  “I shudder to think Rachel, but remember what they were brought here to do.”

  “Are you saying they might have taken their money, and ditched them?”

  “You helped them into the van. How many unattractive girls did you see?”

  �
�Oh my God,” Rachel closed her eyes. “They killed those who wouldn’t earn.”

  Lindsey and Kirsten lay sleeping soundly on either side of the spacious living area.

  Phil had more phone calls to make.

  Rachel kept an eye on the campsite, and entrance area from the window.

  In mid-morning, while Phil and Rachel were on the way to Loch Lomond, Jake was using every tree, bush and camera blind-spot to get close to Cameron’s house. He watched the Jaguar leave, and Cameron was driving. His wife was in the front passenger seat.

  Jake had already ridden past on his Suzuki in both directions to see what could be seen by passing motorists. He recalled from his earlier recce—the woodland reached close to the back of the house. The woods were to be his route of entry.

  It took twenty minutes to reach the trees, by running in a wide arc around a nearby field to avoid the range of security cameras. The house was situated on a plot of land three miles out from Kirkintilloch on the town boundary. The nearest neighbouring properties were two farms; one a mile away, and the other two miles away.

  When Jake worked his way through the woods at the back of the house, he could see why no camera was sited at the back. A two-metre-high mesh fence was erected inside the tree line. Along its length, brambles and nettles were growing freely. It would take some work to get through. He’d show he was good enough, and impress Rachel by being daring.

  Jake checked his watch before crossing the large back garden to the house. It had taken twenty minutes to reach the woodland, fifteen minutes to cut through to the fence, and another thirty minutes digging underneath.

  He had been on site for over an hour and wasn’t inside yet. He dropped off his backpack, fitted the plastic covers over his shoes, and pulled on his latex gloves. The rest would be easy.