Chasing Innocence (23 page)

Three things occurred to Brian as he moved fully into the kitchen. First, the place had been ripped apart. Just about everything that had been in the cupboards was now on the floor, including most of the cupboard doors. Second, he could smell gas, not strong but distinct. Third, he could also smell burnt flesh. A smell he was never going to forget. Adam stepped into the kitchen behind him.

‘Stay there,’ Brian instructed, keeping his voice low. ‘Lock the door. If anyone runs at you just get out the way, I’ll be right behind them.’

He stepped through the clutter on the floor into the dining room, finding the same carnage. A table on its side with chairs scattered around it. A broken laptop in the corner with a boot-sized hole in the screen. There were drawers on the floor with paper everywhere, spaces on the wall where pictures once hung, now lying broken on the floor. He walked through to the living room and the same chaos. Someone had been looking for something and they had really wanted it. The cloying smell of burnt flesh.

He tracked back through the kitchen, past Adam looking questioning, and into the hallway, finding a hissing Calor bottle in the middle of the floor. He shut off the valve and stood and listened. He could hear the groan of central heating, the tick of a clock. His own shallow breathing. He looked up the stairs, stepped onto the stairs. One step then two and up onto the landing, the smell overpowering, now mixed with the heavy odour of excrement and petrol. He checked through each room, finding the same chaos in each. Then he moved into the spare room, which he had saved for last because he had a pretty good idea he knew what was in there.

It was impossible to tell the man’s age by his face. Brian had thought him sixty plus from the photos downstairs. He was naked on a chair that matched the others in the dining room. The man’s legs and arms were bound to the chair using grey industrial tape, which was also stretched across the man’s mouth. His body was covered in burns, but that was far from the worst of it. He heard Adam’s tentative steps up the stairs.

There was a hobby table to one side. On top lay a bloody knife and a blowtorch still with a vivid blue flame. The trigger was taped down. The blowtorch was connected to a dirty rubber hose that wound across to a propane cylinder. The blowtorch would have looked benign if not for the evidence etched across the man’s body. Brian looked at the man as he peeled the tape from the trigger and shut off the flame.

The man was dead, that was for sure. His last hours had not gone well. Death, Brian guessed, was probably caused by a heart attack, the tape across his mouth to stop the screaming. There would have been a lot of screaming.

On and all around the chair were faeces and blood mixed with urine, burnt flesh cut free. Cuts and burns not only covered the man’s body, they delved into it. Long valleys of burnt flesh stretched along each limb, deep cuts slashing across his chest and stomach. Two charred holes had once been his eyes, burnt right out of his head, the same with the flesh and gristle of his nose and ears, just not there anymore. The smell.

Brian heard Adam step into the room, a gurgled moan, then a second of total silence. Then Adam stumbled back out to the landing.

FORTY-THREE

Sarah woke with her head resting on her arm, her arm on the mattress. At some point she must have slid sideways as her body was curled on the carpeted floor. She could feel something else draped over her; the red blanket.

She looked up. The girl was in the same position in the corner, now with her legs crossed and a large book open on her lap. Her mouth moved in small motions, her teeth grinding; biscuits from the sound of it. Sarah pushed herself up and pulled the blanket down into her lap. ‘You did this?’

The girl kept chewing, then her chin dipped in acknowledgement. She swallowed. ‘You were shivering and groaning. I thought you were cold.’

The girl pulled another biscuit from a small packet and pushed it whole into her mouth, manoeuvring it into position, with a brief look of concentration as she bit down.

‘That was sweet, thank you.’ And then it dawned on her,
biscuits!

Her eyes fell on a collection of new shapes beside the light, an open box full of biscuits wrapped in plastic, a bottle of water. A glass bowl of red grapes pulled from the stalk and a large empty porcelain basin.

‘Him?’ She asked.

The chin dipped again and the mouth kept working.

For a brief moment Sarah considered refusing the food but her stomach’s need propelled her forward and onto all fours. She forced herself to take a drink of water first – a beautiful taste and a welcome sensation that reached out through her whole body – trying not to gulp it down. She screwed the cap back on.

The grapes were soft and the biscuits past their sell-by date but she did not care. She scooped a handful of packets and grapes into her arms, walking back on her knees to her spot at the end of the mattress. She dropped the grapes into her lap and ripped open the first packet, aware of the girl’s eyes following her every movement, calculating.

Sarah ate five packets, each containing three flat biscuits made largely of seeds and nuts. She could have kept eating but forced herself to stop. Instead she popped the grapes in turn into her mouth, the taste sharply sweet but still a forgotten luxury for the senses. When she was finished she dusted the crumbs from her trousers onto the carpet, a small act of defiance but in reality there was nowhere else for them to go. She looked across at the porcelain basin. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Another dip of the chin. Sarah screwed her face in disgust which prompted a slightly more vigorous nod of the head. Then the girl realised and studiously averted her attention back to the book.

‘Have you slept?’ Sarah asked.

No response.

‘What book are you reading?’

No response.

‘Is it good?’

No response.

‘How old are you?’ With this last Sarah placed her hand on the edge of the mattress.

The defiant face looked up. ‘Stay away!’

She tried to recall the children of friends, how to win over child minds, but the reality was she made an effort not to be near children. Her only point of reference was herself. She had loved silly stories as a child.

‘We have to help each other, don’t we? To be in this horrid place together and not be friends would be worse than being here alone, don’t you think?’

Still no response, but she could see something of what she said had hit a nerve. She kept talking, not sure where the words came from, making it up as she went.

‘Maybe you’re not a girl after all?’

No response.

‘Maybe you’re a troll and I mistakenly thought you were a girl.’

No response, but she could see the girl was no longer focused on the book.

‘A mute troll, with a big fat nose and eyes like saucers.’

The girl looked up. ‘I know what you’re trying to do!’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, you’re trying to make me talk, I’m not stupid.’

Sarah continued, ‘The cleverest troll there ever was with ears like cauliflowers and little teeth that gnawed at rocks. Munch, munch, munch.’

No response.

‘They would say, “Who is that troll over there making all that noise?” And everybody would shout at once, “Why that’s the cleverest troll ever was. Just like her mother.” “Mother troll?” they would ask. And everybody would shout, “Yes, you know, old Mrs Cleverest down the road.”’

Still no response but now a smile forced itself onto the girl’s face.

‘“Old Mrs Cleverest, she can’t be her mother. This one’s far too grumpy and mean and munchy and mute to be one of hers. Her father must be the meanest, grumpiest troll there ever was.” “Oh him,” everybody chanted, “Old man Everwas, nasty piece of work.”’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my dad!’

The forcefulness in the girl’s voice took Sarah by surprise.

‘I didn’t say there was.’

‘You said he was mean and nasty, he just isn’t.’

‘I made that up. I wanted to talk, that’s all.’

‘I’m not talking to you.’ The girl looked back at the book.

‘Tell me what your dad is like then, that can’t do any harm. Can it?’

The girl looked at her, despair pulling at the muscles in her face. ‘They said this was his fault and you’re one of them.’

‘I’m not, but I understand why you think that. I do know these people are not nice, very not nice. So if they say your daddy has done something wrong, then that is reason to believe he has not. And if these people say I’m here to snoop that is reason to believe I am not.’

The girl’s expression morphed to hopeful. ‘Really?’

‘Yes of course. I would never believe a single word they say, people like that lie all the time.’

‘You’re not just doing tricks, to confuse me?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘I saw you in the High Street, remember? You…reminded me of a girl I once knew, that’s all. And then the next second you were gone. So I wondered where you went.’

The girl looked at Sarah, appraising her, her hands flat on the book in her lap. It seemed she was deliberating the hardest decision she might ever have made. Finally the girl drew in a long breath. ‘Everything here is wrong, nothing is right. The tall man looks nice but he’s the one that took me. The little man with the small eyes, he looks horrible but he was nice to me. You look very nice. They said you were in the street to watch me, to make sure I went in the alley. I don’t believe you, you’re here to check on me.’

The girl looked back at the book and did not say anything else. After a few seconds a tear wound its way down her nose and dropped free, falling onto the page.

Sarah fought a desperate urge to lean across and wrap her arms around those small shoulders. Instead she reached across for more grapes, making sure she brushed against the girl’s leg as she returned. She pushed a grape into her mouth and they sat in silence.

FORTY-FOUR

Adam was sitting slumped on the floor downstairs, propped against the dining room wall. He was in shock. To this point he had managed to romanticise death by wrapping it in mortuary hues of blue and green. The reality of the man upstairs was horrifying, a body with the life literally ripped from it. The pain of that death etched all over the body. He kept hoping this man’s death and the kidnapping were not related. The thought of Sarah at the hands of the same people was more than his mind could comprehend. It struck a cold fear to the very heart of him.

Brian appeared in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded. ‘Whatever they came for, I’m pretty sure they got it.’

Adam tried to recall. The thin premise for them being there was the hope of discovering something useful from the Rover’s actual owner, something to narrow the search. Brian thought Simon was unlikely to use a stolen car or one he was actually registered as owning.

A question burned for Adam. ‘You’re sure this is connected to your daughter?’

Brian stepped into the room and pulled out one of the chairs. He sat with one arm rested on the dining table he had righted earlier. ‘It would be a hell of a coincidence in a village like this. Doubt it was Simon though, he already has his hands full. My guess is Simon messed something up and somebody is covering his tracks. I’d say they wanted the vehicle documentation.’

Adam thought about that. ‘Surely if you’re buying a car to kidnap a child you wouldn’t leave your address behind?’

‘Shit happens. There’s not a lot of people would say no to Simon, not a big guy like that. If he offers to do the paperwork it saves them the job. Except our guy upstairs fixed cars for a hobby. Like a real hobby. He kept before and after photos of the cars, copies of all the paperwork. All in colour and neatly filed in folders, like they were mementoes. If Simon was here Friday or even yesterday, he’d have a schedule to keep to. Then he comes across some old guy who won’t let him leave without the documentation properly filled out. At least that’s what I’m hoping. If your eagle-eyed wife hadn’t screwed things up for him, it might never have mattered. The old fella might be sat over there right now daydreaming about the Mondeo on the drive.’

‘So they were after the documentation? Maybe they didn’t find what they were looking for, and that’s why they did what they did?’

‘For a start they probably didn’t kill him, not directly. And they already had what they wanted, so they either needed something else from him or were blowtorching for the hell of it.’

‘What makes you think they got what they wanted?’

‘The old fella’s got a safe in the garage. Door’s wide open and not forced. There’s some decent jewellery in there, gold necklaces and rings. All sorts of trinkets. They didn’t touch them. I’d say that’s where he kept the original documents. If he’d printed copies then they got them as well, his neat little collection is ripped to shreds upstairs. Can’t imagine him holding on to any secrets once they turned on the blowtorch.’

Adam moved unsteadily onto his knees with the intention of standing. Brian leaned over and offered his hand. Adam stared at it. It was shaking again, and he could also see a stretch of skin just back from the jacket cuff. The skin looked like melted plastic. He took the hand and Brian pulled him up. He leaned back against the wall.

Brian continued, ‘Before they left they turned on the propane tank in the hallway and upstairs, and left the blowtorch on. It would eventually ignite, setting a chain reaction through the house. Combined with the fuel they splashed about there’d be an explosion and a fire. Not enough gas for something serious. Doubt it would’ve done more than scorch off the wallpaper and burn the curtains, maybe take out a few windows. That and fry any circumstantial evidence.’

‘You said they?’ Adam asked.

‘Sure, two probably. Too much can go wrong with just one and three’s a crowd, people might remember. Two is a good number for a clean-up. Probably blokes, statistically.’

Adam’s whole body felt numb, he stretched out both arms and flexed the joints, looking at the dining room table. Various bits of gadgetry were lined up on its shiny surface. The broken laptop, a wrecked printer and a scanner with the glass smashed and the lid missing. Adam had watched Brian put them there, had been too busy trying not to retch or pass out to ask why. He knew enough of Brian now to know there would be a purpose.