Satnav was truly a magical thing, thought McGuigan. To find a house in the middle of a forest, where the only road in or out was a single lane barely wide enough for a small car, in his opinion, defied logic. They got there just after midday. They came to a small building, constructed of timber, built in a flat, grassed area with a driveway of uneven slabs. It overlooked the loch. On a nice day, the view would be extraordinary. A place beautiful and yet tinged with melancholy. McGuigan could understand perfectly why Bronson would regard this as a retreat. His ‘boat house’.
Parked to one side were two cars. A black BMW, and a silver Jaguar F-Pace.
“Interesting,” remarked Dawson. He parked the car on the side of the road adjacent to the house. “The BMW is Bronson’s. Looks like you were right. And it seems he has company.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we should call backup.”
“Perhaps we should,” said McGuigan. “But then again, perhaps we shouldn’t. We’ve driven all this way. A shame for uniform to spoil the surprise. And the tranquillity. And how dangerous can a middle-aged lawyer be?”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” replied Dawson. “Rather the company he keeps.”
“Let us see.”
They got out of the car. The day was overcast. Here, the world was still. No sound, the water flat calm and undisturbed. On the far side, the trees, tightly packed, formed a shimmering green wall. They got to the front door – the only door.
It was open. McGuigan and Dawson exchanged glances. Dawson rapped it with the back of his hand.
“Hello? Anyone in?”
Silence. A particular silence, thought McGuigan. Intense. The type of silence to make the hairs on the nape of the neck tingle.
“Mind if we come in?” Dawson stepped forward, into a short hall. Hanging on pegs, outdoor gear – a ski jacket, a Barbour walking jacket, a light cagoule. In an umbrella stand fashioned in the shape of a flamingo, several walking sticks. On a rack beneath the jackets, a line of shoes – trainers, office brogues, casual shoes, a pair of hiking boots, encrusted with mud.
They emerged into an open-plan kitchen and living area. The kitchen was uncluttered, the units decorated in strange bright-red dots and sprays. As if someone had flicked a wet paint brush here and there, in a careless manner. On the floor lay a man, torso soaked red, lower jaw gone. Odd shapes of bone and gristle sat stuck in the congealed blood around him.
The living room had a suite comprising a beige leather couch and two matching chairs. In the corner, a television. On the walls, some paintings. In another corner, a tall cabinet with glass doors, containing a cluster of bottles – whisky, vodka, gin. One wall was almost entirely glass, and on any other day, would provide a clear and unrestricted view of the loch, and the trees and mountains beyond. But not today. Today, the glass was speckled and streaked, like the scribblings of a small child.
Sitting upright in a chair was Bronson Chapel, his pose such, one might have mistaken him languid and absorbing the view. His throat, however, was torn open, exposing the bone. The top of his head, from just above the eyebrows, was a messy tangle of veins and skull. Otherwise, his expression was almost serene. The kill, so McGuigan surmised, was quick and unexpected.
The third man was sprawled half on the couch, half on the floor, his face, if he had one, staring at the ceiling. But the face had imploded, folded in on itself. As if someone had spiked a hoover though the back of the brain, and sucked in eyes, nose, mouth, rendering it into something alien.
Red was the predominant colour. Red floor, red furniture, red walls.
The place was not dissimilar to an abattoir.
“Now you can call it in,” said McGuigan softly. Dawson nodded. He tapped on his mobile, spoke in a low, tight voice.
If this is God’s plan, thought McGuigan, then he’s got to be stopped.
Movement caught his attention. He saw, through a clear patch on the glass, a bird flap down onto the side of the loch. A raven, all dark and glossy. McGuigan was reminded of the raven lying stiff and dead in a bucket in Mrs. Shawbridge’s house.
Perhaps we’ve already been judged, he thought, and none of us know it. Perhaps this is our penance. Perhaps this is hell.