by Liz Mistry
Kennedy laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s what Alice Cooper thought too. That’s why she signed the statement. Stupid bitch! She should’ve known I’d go straight for the jugular. She has to suffer. And there’s only one sure way to do that.’
They had the evidence. Now all they had to do was work out a way to get it to the people that could use it without incriminating themselves. Taffy had faith that Compo would work it out.
51
06:50 Saddleworth Moor
‘About bloody time too.’ Gus was beginning to think they’d never arrive, but when he’d thought they could force Gore’s Volvo no further, the Satnav had chimed up: ‘You have reached your destination.’
Peering through the window, Gus shuddered. If this was their destination he couldn’t see a damn thing and certainly no farmhouse. Nothing. The landscape was an undulating, unrelenting wave of white – stark and primal in the pre-dawn glow. The blizzard had blown itself into a breeze, but Gus worried about being able to drive out again. The snow chains had been a godsend, but Gus wasn’t prepared to rely solely on them – a bit of logic was in order. ‘Reckon you should turn the car round so we’re facing the right way.’
Gore complied, accelerating carefully over snow mounds, leaving a mishmash of tyre tracks in the otherwise pristine snow until, at last, the car was pointing back the way they’d come. Gus took out his phone and checked for a signal so he could contact the team but there was none. Oh well, they’d just have to manage on their own.
‘Now we walk’ said Gus, wishing he had another layer of clothes to add under his fisherman’s jacket. He patted his pockets and discovered a bottle of Wee Bru lurking in their depths. After pulling it out he tossed it onto the back seat with a shudder. A caffeine loaded coffee was what he craved. The very thought of the cold drink in the present conditions made his stomach shrivel in protest. They got out and, with no need to consult with each other, they trudged round to the boot and took out two extendable batons, pepper spray, a crow bar and a heavy-duty spanner.
Gore looked at Gus and grinned, ‘Toss you for the crow bar.’
Gus laughed, ‘You have it. I’ll stick with the spanner. Always wanted to play Cluedo in a deserted farmhouse on Saddleworth Moor.’ He peered through the gloom, wondering exactly what direction to go. ‘Can’t see any sign of a building far less a farmhouse.’
Gore had trudged a few feet to one side and was bending over in the snow. ‘Look at this.’
Gus waded through inches of snow till he could see what Gore was so interested in.
‘Mostly covered, but think it looks like tyre marks – big fucking tyre marks.’ And he blew lightly on the snow, displacing the topmost layer.
Gus grinned. Gore was right. At least now they had a direction to go in – although, on the downside, it seemed that they also had some company. And most likely not of the friendly sort.
‘Hope back-up arrives soon,’ Gus said, moving in the direction of the nearly covered tracks. The wind, although gentler than it had been, still made progress slow and Gus was unsure whether snow was still falling or just being dislodged from the sparse trees that were dotted around. They walked on for minutes in silence, conserving their energy and focussing on making sure they didn’t veer off the trail. Every breath was an effort as the frosty air caught in their throats, making the simple act of simultaneous walking and breathing excruciatingly difficult.
‘How far do you reckon we’ll have to walk?’ said Gore, panting slightly.
‘No idea, but hopefully not much further. When we get the lay of the land, we’ll have to come up with a plan.’
Fifteen minutes later they came across a dilapidated fence and just beyond it a series of buildings. ‘The tracks veer to the right here, but I reckon we could cut across the field and approach the farmhouse from that side.’
‘Let’s try to keep as much under cover as possible. We’ll stick to the tree lines where we can. It’ll take a bit longer but we don’t actually know what to expect when we get there.’
Gus could see the sense of Gore’s proposal. Cutting across the field would speed things up, but they’d also be exposed. Looked like they’d have to take the long route and hope that the element of surprise would pay dividends when they neared the house. At the back of Gus’ mind was the hope that they’d find Daniel, although he tried to keep that quashed. Logistically, the chances of finding a dead body were much higher and judging by the scene at Jordan Beaumont’s house, their adversaries didn’t appear to possess much in the way of compassion.
As they struggled through the snow, occasionally toppling over when their feet caught an unsuspecting obstacle hidden beneath the white blanket, Gus wondered what condition they’d find Jordan Beaumont in – if indeed they’d find him at all! When they were yards away from the nearest building they paused under a tree, partly to catch their breath and partly to consider a plan of action. Just visible between two buildings was a car. The roof and bonnet were covered with a few inches of snow indicating it had been there for a while. He listened, but apart from the wind and trees, Gus could hear nothing else.
Gore grabbed Gus’ arm and nodded to the right. ‘Someone smoking.’
Gus strained his eyes. He could just about see the faint glow of a lit cigarette. Someone was about. They waited till they saw a sputter of flame as the cigarette flew through the air. As the smoker moved, Gus was aware of the stranger’s bulk. He would be one tricky fucker to take down. Pointing to the next tree, Gus indicated they should move closer. Step by step – keeping an eye on the buildings – Gus and Gore crept through the snow. When they reached the next tree, Gus realised that the wall of what looked like a shed that stood a bit away from the main two-storied building was their next source of cover. He was now near enough to study the farmhouse. Its roof was decked with snow and Gus reckoned that the walls were made of sandstone, similar to his parents’ house. According to Compo’s information, it had been lying empty for a couple of years, ever since Beaumont’s mother had died.
He looked around. It was such a bleak place and Gus couldn’t imagine living here. He suspected there would be no phone line and his phone had no signal, so he hoped that whatever was about to go down – they wouldn’t need an ambulance. His mind flashed to the last time Gore had needed an ambulance. It was after nearly dying at the hands of a tattooing serial killer. He remembered speaking with Gore’s wife and he was determined that no matter what happened today, Gore would go home to his wife and baby. That family had been through too much already.
‘The shed.’ Gus nodded towards the building and when Gore nodded back he took off. Half way to the building his foot caught in something. He stopped and looked down. The snow was hollowed, as if something had been lying there and then been moved. But what was really interesting was the item he’d tripped over. It was a rucksack. He picked it up and taking off his gloves, wrestled with the buckles. Inside were tins of soup and a kitchen knife. He looked at Gore who nodded. ‘Take it. We might need it,’ so he pocketed the knife, swung the rucksack on his back and put his gloves back on.
‘Look at this. ‘Gore pointed to two sets of boot prints, with unmistakable drag marks in the snow between the prints, leading towards the farmhouse. A dead body being dragged?
It didn’t seem likely that the rucksack and its contents could belong to Beaumont, so maybe, just maybe – if they were lucky – they’d belong to Daniel and maybe – just maybe – if they had a little bit of extra luck, he’d be still alive. Any alternative to that would be awful. Gabriella was on his case enough, but if he failed to bring her brother back to her in one piece, who knew what she’d do.
With renewed energy they set off, keeping an eye out for any movement from the farmhouse. As they neared, a light was visible from a front window sending an eerie amber glow over the snow. Reaching the side of the building – with Gus in the lead – they sidled along, careful to hug the walls. Snowdrifts had built up beside the wall, making it more difficult to walk, but at least it offer
ed a welcome relief from the unrelenting breeze and offered some cover. As they reached the corner, the light seemed brighter. Gus poked his head round and waited, listening for any sounds from nearby – nothing that sounded human. He skirted the corner and approached the window from which the light shone. It had one of those high sills typical of solid farmhouses, meant to withstand all sorts of conditions. He reached the side of the window, Gore just behind him – so close he could hear his breathing. Taking a chance, Gus popped his head up and had a quick peek inside.
He glimpsed a spacious old-fashioned living room with the sort of furniture he remembered from his grandparents’ house. From the light of the single unshaded light bulb he saw one man sitting on a saggy looking chair. Another stood, shoulders hunched, leaning against the wall next to the fire, warming his hands. Standing up against the chair, within arm’s reach of either man, were two machetes. Not good. Bundled on the sofa was another person. The sound of coughing drifted out. They’d lit a fire in the grate and as the coughing got worse, the man who was sitting down stood up and threw another blanket over the prone man. Was that Jordan Beaumont? Didn’t seem likely they’d be so kind to him. Perhaps it was Daniel? They’d want to keep him alive if they needed information about the USB stick from him.
Gus ducked down and turned to Gore. ‘Two men with machetes and one in a poor condition lying on the sofa.’
‘Shit!’
‘Best bet is to head round to the back of the house and see if we can make an entry there. We want to surprise them if at all possible.’
‘Yeah, the only good thing is that, unless they also have a firearm, machetes’ are an up-close sort of weapon. Hmm, machetes against our extendable batons, what do you think? Fancy our chances?
Gus shook his head, ‘We have to assume they’ll have guns too. Although it looks like the machete is the weapon of choice.’
‘Well you know what they say about men and their machetes?’
Gus looked at Gore with a frown, ‘Em, no?’
‘Small dicks.’ And he wiggled his gloved small finger and shook his head, his expression woeful.
Gus snorted. Gore had a habit of using his humour to diffuse tension and, right now, Gus needed to get rid of some. Leading the way, he circled back to the house. When Gus glanced back he saw that Gore was attempting to smooth their tracks as best he could by using the crowbar to fill their footsteps. No point in leaving anything to alert them if they came out for a smoke.
‘So, what do you want to do?’
Gus weighed up the odds. Whoever was on the couch in there was in a bad way and who knew how long he’d last if the other two decided to get nasty. They’d no way of ascertaining the ETA of their backup. Weapons were an issue. ‘Let’s see what’s round the back. Maybe something will pop up. Maybe the farmer’s left a conveniently loaded shotgun by the back door, maybe back-up will arrive by the time we get there.’
Gore snorted, ‘Your optimism never ceases to amaze me.’
Heavy snow clouds obscured the moonlight, making visibility poor as they rounded the corner. Approaching what turned out to be the kitchen’s window, a breeze caught the curtains, wafting them outwards. Gus jolted backwards, assuming it was one of the men from the living room and berated himself for being such a wuss. Looks like someone’s done our job for us. Getting closer, Gus saw that the window was broken and the glass cleared from round the rotten wooden frames. Gore tugged his sleeve and pointed to a deep furrow that was half filled by the recent snowfall. Gus studied it for a minute, understood its implication and looked upwards. Someone had jumped from an upper window Looks like they’d had an uncomfortable landing as, when Gore swept some of the snow away, a brick-built barbecue was revealed. Did these tracks belong to the same person who’d left the rucksack in the field and been dragged towards the farmhouse?
There was no light coming from inside, so Gus used his phone torch to see inside, shielding the light with his hand. The kitchen was empty except for an array of dated furniture dotted around the walls with a central table covered with a variety of open cans and used dishes. The old gas cooker in the corner was slathered with food, beans or tomato soup by the looks of it and Gus’ desire to climb in, rush over and turn on the gas burners to warm his entire body, was almost irresistible.
Gore nudged him and, bent from the knees, linked his gloved fingers together indicating that he’d give Gus a foot-up. Gus placed his hands on the sill, balanced one foot on Gore’s proffered hands and hoisted himself upwards. He got one leg up and over the sill and froze. A voice speaking in another language was coming closer. He propelled himself backwards and fell, landing on Gore who let out a great whoof of air. Before Gore had a chance to speak, Gus placed his hand over the other man’s mouth. For long minutes, the two of them lay there in the snow beneath the window. Tuneless humming drifted out to them, accompanied by the occasional sound of furniture being moved and stuff being banged around. Gus’ heart pounded against his chest and he hoped Gore couldn’t feel it through his layers. Last thing he needed was to be teased.
A cramp developed in Gus’ leg where it was wedged under one of Gore’s, but he’d no intention of moving in case they made a noise. At one point he was sure he’d seen a shadow pass the window and he held his breath, imagining the machete man looking out. As long as he didn’t look downwards they’d be okay. As his leg became more numb, Gus cursed, Fuck’s sake! Come on, come on. What the hell are you doing in there, preparing a fucking banquet?
Finally, all went quiet. They waited another couple of minutes, ears straining for any tell-tale noises from indoors. Nothing. Gus began to extricate his leg from Gore’s, cursing again as waves of pain shot up it as the blood began to circulate. He rolled off the other man who lay there for a few seconds, said ‘Fuck – you’re heavier than I thought, man.’
Dusting himself off, Gus shook his leg and did a couple of preparatory stomps to see if full sensation had returned. ‘Try again?’
Gore snorted, ‘Right, but don’t expect a cushioned landing this time if you fall. Soon as you’ve got your grip, I’m backing off.’
Grinning, Gus repeated his earlier manoeuvre, swung both legs over the sill and into the large sink. As quietly as he could, he climbed from the sink, padded over to the solid wood door that their earlier visitor had left ajar and with care closed it. By the time he’d turned round Gore’s upper body was through the window, but when Gore tried to pull his lower body through, he did a sort of slippery forward motion and landed on the floor with a bang.
Startled, they both held their positions for a minute, then, hearing nothing from beyond the door, Gus helped Gore to his feet and said right in his ear, ‘talk about making a fucking entrance, Gore.’
‘Got a plan?’
Gus shrugged. He had no answer to the question. Seeing a door to the side, an idea came to him. He walked over, pulled gently at the handle and grinned. Now here was a way to even the odds a little.
52
06:50 North Park Road
Mo, hunched over, sat in a well-used armchair next to a wood stove with only a few glowing embers left in the grate. He glared at it, and then at the single log left in the basket next to the fireplace. This was not the damn weather to be traipsing out to their garden shed. Naila had told him to bring in extra wood – nag, nag, nag – and, as usual, he’d put it off and, as usual, she’d been right. Picking up the log, he opened the stove door, flicked the vent half open and bunged it in.
Naila, bundled under a blanket on the chair opposite him, yawned and said, ‘So, you going down to the shed?’
Mo glowered at her, wondering if he could get away with just shoving a jumper and his big coat over his pyjamas and dressing gown before going out. Sodding neighbours had eagle eyes and last thing he needed was for it to be broadcast at the mosque that he was roaming about in his pyjamas in the early hours. A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn’t actually the early hours, but that didn’t matter – they’d still find summat to criticise
. They’d had it in for Mo ever since he’d chopped down the part of their Buddleia tree that was infiltrating his garden. For about the fiftieth time he glared at his phone and then at his wife, ‘No reply. Where the hell is he, Naila? Why’s he not picking up?’
Naila yawned again, her tangled hair loose around her face and a frown etched across her brow. ‘I don’t know, love. He’s in the middle of it though, in’t he? Izzie’s murder and Daniel’s disappearance must be his top priority. He’ll get back to us when he can.’
Mo jumped to his feet and paced the room, ‘Yeah, and when’s that going to be? What the hell are we supposed to do in the meantime, huh?’
Naila rose and walked over to her husband, placing a hand on his arm and turning him towards her, ‘We’ll do what we’ve been asked to do, okay?’
He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, taking strength from her warm body. ‘It’s not okay though, is it? I’ve got you and the kids to think about. Last thing we need, with Zarqa the way she is, is more hassle, more upset – and what if it’s dangerous?’
Calm as ever, Naila gave a small laugh, ‘It’ll be fine. Gus’ll phone back in a bit and everything will be sorted.’ She pulled away from him and pushed him towards the door, ‘Go. Get. The. Wood.’
Mo pouted and she made a shooing motion with her hands. ‘Go on. I’ll put some chai and toast on.’
Halfway to the door, Mo turned back and hugged her, ‘Love you, Naila.’
She wound her arms round his neck and kissed him, ‘Love you too.’
Flinging on his old jumper and his coat over his PJ’s, Mo peeked out the kitchen window. Shit, Nosy Nazir’s kitchen light was on. He walked over to the switches by the back door and disabled the motion sensor on their external lights. No sense in advertising his pre-dawn, half -dressed trek to the shed.
Wellies on, he cracked open the back door, shuddering when a blast of cold hit his face. Effing Beast from the effing East. He stepped out and immediately his feet went from under him and he landed on his backside. The earlier activity from his nocturnal visitors had compacted the snow and, with a new layer on top, it was lethal. Using the wall to help him, he scrambled back onto his feet, with a quick glance over to see if his antics had been spotted by next door. All quiet on the Western Front. Placing his feet with care, he picked his way towards the shed, trying to use the half-filled tracks left earlier. God it was cold. He tugged at the hasp, his fingers sticking to the frozen metal as he tried to flick it open. Effing Storm effing Emma. He’d just released it when a voice penetrated the darkness causing him to slip, ending up, once more, on his arse in the snow.