It took Gilchrist’s silent counting to ten before he opened his eyes, and another ten to twenty before he took a breath and let his hopes cling to the slimmest of beliefs that it might not be his last. Of course, with encaged human body parts in wire-mesh sculptures all around them, logic told him that Purvis was only toying with them, and that there could only ever be one outcome.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Gilchrist said.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Give yourself up.’
‘And do what? Go back inside?’ Purvis chuckled.
‘You’ll get a fair trial.’
‘My arse. They’ll lock me up as soon as look at me.’
Stan cocked his head, risking a glance. ‘Do you have family?’
‘Shut it, you. Don’t try to give me any of that sentimental shite. It don’t work on psychos.’
‘Is that what you are, then?’ Stan said. ‘A psycho?’
‘I told you to shut it,’ Purvis snapped, and clipped the side of Stan’s head with the stock of the gun.
Stan keeled over, the side of his head gushing blood.
Gilchrist rose from his knees and felt the stock slam into his back with a force that sent him sprawling. He struggled to his knees, a burning ache telling him that the blow had either torn a muscle or cracked his scapula.
He winced as he turned to Stan. ‘Let me stop the bleeding—’
‘Stay the fuck where you are.’
Gilchrist froze, arms by his side, the flat of his hands pressing on the concrete floor. He curled his fingers, managed to scrape some dust into his loose grip. But his logic was telling him something was wrong – they should both be dead by now.
‘Why are you keeping us here?’ he asked.
‘You’ll see. Eyes to the front.’
Another hit from the stock reminded Gilchrist that Purvis was still calling the shots. What he had learned was that Purvis was waiting for something or, as it was gradually becoming clearer to him, waiting for someone.
And if Gilchrist had been a betting man, he might have risked a punt.
But he had also learned that with Purvis you could never be too careful.
Jessie reached the compound fence, and a rare break in the clouds gave her a moonlit glimpse of the barn. She stopped, her heart in her mouth as she searched for the dogs.
But she saw nothing.
Something else was niggling at the back of her senses, the noise of a running engine coming from the barn. She edged her way along the compound fence to the corner. In the distance, the lights of the cottage glittered. She turned her back to them, and removed her mobile and tried Andy’s number, then Stan’s, but the connection was well and truly dead. She thought again of calling the Office for back-up, but reasoned that by the time it arrived, she would likely have found a simple explanation for the lack of communication.
So she decided just to press on.
She resisted the urge to click on her torch, but held it tight as she edged onwards. She reached the gate to find the padlock dangling open. The night sky shifted again, killing light from the moon, and blackness settled all around her like a cloak. Her senses felt raw to the touch, as if her every nerve was exposed. A hard lump threatened to choke her throat as she strained for signs of movement. She gripped the cold metal, and caught her breath as the chain-links rattled. The memory of the dogs rushing the fence chilled her blood, and she waited in the darkness, afraid to take another step.
But nothing stirred.
She eased the gate open, all the while staring blindly into the black shadows for any sign of the Rottweilers. Then she stepped inside the compound and pulled the gate behind her. The latch clicked with a metallic ring, and she felt her blood turn to water as something shifted in the grass by her side.
She froze stock still, and peered into the darkness.
Movement.
Black on black.
Then she heard a low growl that rose for a terrifying moment, only to fade to a whine and the cutting song of the wind as it brushed over the grass.
She reached the barn door in fifteen quick strides. The sound of the engine was louder here, drowning out the wind. She grappled with the loose padlock, her fingers feeling thick, rattling metal on metal as they fumbled for the latch.
Then she found it and tugged the barn door open.
Inside was as black as night, and the noise from the generator deafening. She shut the door behind her, held her breath, and waited for any signs of movement. Then, for the first time since crossing the fields, she flicked on her torch.
Its beam shimmered across the floor and settled on the generator. Her ears had become accustomed to the noise, the beat of its racing engine now less invasive. She shone the torch around the barn and its beam fell on the BMW.
‘Nice one, Andy.’
She walked the length of the car, shining her torch through the side windows – to confirm it was unoccupied – noticing the cracked windscreen, the dent in the window pillar. The generator thrummed in the background. Had it been running when Andy called earlier? In the inexplicable absence of two senior officers, she knew she should phone the Office and report the discovery of the BMW, call in the registration number and ask them to check the VIN.
She laid her torch on the barn floor, removed her mobile, and started to scroll down.
‘Cut the call.’
Jessie jolted, and spun around to face the darkness from where the voice had come.
‘I said cut the call.’
In the black of the barn, Jessie could see nothing. She looked down at the torch on the concrete floor, its beam shining aimlessly under the BMW, which stood between her and the source of the voice. She shifted her feet . . .
If she could only . . .
She slowly bent her knees, lowered her hand—
‘Don’t even think about it,’ the voice said. ‘I have a gun, and I will shoot.’
The man had moved around to the front of the car, and Jessie realised with a stab of fear that he must be able to see her clearly, even though she could see nothing.
‘Cut the call,’ he repeated, his voice taking on a steely tone that left Jessie in no doubt that the last warning had just been issued.
She killed the connection.
‘Now drop it.’
The voice had crept closer, although still some distance away – maybe ten feet. Jessie thought she caught some movement – shadow on shadow – but she could not be sure. One part of her wished she had the strength and the courage to put up a fight, just go for it. Another part reminded her that Robert needed her, and what would he do if she was not around for him?
‘I’m waiting.’
Jessie dropped her mobile to the floor.
‘Step to the side and turn around.’
Something in the cold finality of his words caused Jessie to picture the man steadying himself and aiming the gun straight at her head. She raised both hands in the air. ‘I’m unarmed,’ she said to the darkness. ‘Don’t shoot.’
‘Turn around.’
Jessie wondered why he was so insistent when he could see her clearly. The only logical answer was that he was going to shoot her. She tried to reason with him. ‘My son’s deaf,’ she said. ‘He needs me.’
‘I said turn around.’
‘Please.’
‘Last chance.’
Jessie swallowed the lump in her throat, and shuffled around. Every nerve in her body was jumping, while her mind tried to reassure her that she was not about to die. The sound of shoes – or boots – crunching over the dust and dirt sent a wild flash of panic through her and her heart into overdrive, thudding in her chest like some caged animal kicking to free itself.
She did not want to die.
Leather scraped concrete.
Closer now. Too close. As if . . .
The footsteps stopped.
Silence, save for the rush of her breath and the frenzied beating of her heart.
She could feel his presence now, sense he was leaning closer.
Making sure he could not miss—
Her world exploded in a blast of white light.