The Killing Club (42 page)

‘I’ve had busier days,’ Heck replied, ‘but not many.’

Back at the crossroads, Ben Kane knew he was in trouble.

It had always seemed likely the Nice Guys would prove to be fair-weather friends, if any kind of friends at all. He perhaps should have expected them to abandon him in his hour of need. But he found it odd they would do so when it was potentially so much to their disadvantage. If he got picked up now, the only living presence at the scene of a mass shooting, with two dead bodies on the road, two bullet-riddled cars, a bullet hole in his own shoulder, bullet casings strewn like grass cuttings, an orgy of evidence to connect the many rounds discharged here with those discharged in the various other shooting and bombing murders to have occurred in the last few weeks, and all that only ten minutes from a house they had rented, how did they think he could explain it away?

It all served to underline Kane’s increasing concerns, the ones that had brought him up here to the Northeast in the first place – namely that Kurt Klausen was out of control. Kane didn’t know him that well, but by all accounts Klausen had always been muscle rather than a thinker; an arrow compared to Mad Mike’s bow. In getting rid of Silver, he’d thought he was taking charge of the entire operation. Clearly the rest of the men had at least partly bought into that. Thanks to Kane’s regular reports, they’d quickly become concerned that Mad Mike was about to cut a deal with Gemma and Tasker, and had taken to this second mission in Britain with determination and no little relish. But Klausen’s insistence on cowboying his targets, making an example of each and every one, instead of doing it covertly and subtly, as Kane had suggested, had backfired. On top of that, Heck had been his usual infuriating self, refusing to relinquish the case, doggedly chasing every lead until it had finally, miraculously, got him somewhere. And wherever Heck was, Gemma wouldn’t be far behind. It was like they were telepathically linked, those two. Whatever was going on here, it was highly likely the police powers in Northeast England would be mustering by now. In which case, it was time for Kane to cut out, though this wouldn’t be easy either. The initial gut-thumping agony of his wound had subsided a little, but there was no question he’d broken at least one bone in his shoulder. The bullet had passed clean through, and now the bleeding had staunched itself, which meant no major blood vessel had been damaged, but though he was on his feet, he could only stumble around in an agonised daze, his left arm hanging like a piece of lead. If he was having trouble walking, he didn’t have the first idea how he was going to drive, but he had to find out.

Groggily, he folded his body into the driving seat of his Land Rover Discovery. The car was Swiss cheese. He’d already seen that. Its interior was slashed and torn, filled with broken glass and splintered metal. God knew what state the engine was in. He was under no illusion that, even if he managed to get it started, it wouldn’t take him far – not without being noticed. But he needed to try. The trouble was, when he scrabbled at the ignition port, the key was missing.

Sweat dripped from Kane’s face as he gazed at it uncomprehendingly. He fumbled in his pocket, but there was nothing there. He felt sure he’d left the key in the ignition in the event he’d need a quick getaway.

That was when someone dangled it outside his shattered window.

It hurt Kane just to turn and look. But he was still stupefied to see Jerry Farthing on his feet. The Northumbrian copper was pale as ice, with congealed blood speckled up his right cheek, as though it had spurted from under his collar.

‘I actually learned two things when I was a shot,’ Farthing said, breathing hard. ‘Always keep out of the line of fire …’ He yanked open the remnants of his jumper, exposing a cluster of flattened-out slugs embedded in body armour. ‘And always wear your vest.’

Then he reached into the car – but not with the key, with his CS canister, which he emptied into Kane’s face. Kane jerked away, but it was too late. His eyes and nose immediately began sizzling, feeling as if they were clogged with pepper. He glugged and choked, and as such he didn’t see Farthing snap his left wrist to the steering wheel with a pair of handcuffs.

‘For … for Christ’s sake,’ Kane gagged. ‘I can’t breathe … get me to hospital …’

Farthing turned and tottered away. Slowly, gingerly, he filched his mobile phone from his jeans pocket. The problem was, reality was ebbing around him. Though his vest had saved his life, he knew that at least one of the slugs had penetrated. It had taken a momentous effort to reach the car, had taken so much out of him that he now struggled to make sense of his own phone. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, spattering its keypad. He so wanted to make a call, so wanted to help Heck – but his head was seething, his vision fogged, his legs giving way at the knees. He toppled a couple more yards across the tarmac, and when he finally collapsed, it was into the roadside undergrowth.

Chapter 34

Heck glanced back along the line of walkers several times as the path now veered hundreds of yards inland, rising towards the castle entrance on its west side. It was difficult to tell how many of the Nice Guys had joined the group, but behind the tall Dane, every six yards or so there was a face that didn’t quite fit: cold, sneering, feral.

To his left, there was only moor and rising meadow, though a farm track led straight west from the castle, presumably connecting with a main road of some sort. The tour guide diverted along a narrower sub-path, which curved sharply north, ascending ever more steeply but finally bringing them around to the front of the ancient structure.

Dunstanburgh towered over them, but now they were close to it, it was clear there wasn’t a great deal of it left. Its encircling outer wall rose in some sections to about twenty feet, but there were big gaps and fissures, and beyond that very little else. The gatehouse itself, through which they were to enter, was more impressive. Much of that remained, and its arched access tunnel passed between two immense towers, the lower halves of which were intact, though their upper portions had long ago collapsed, leaving jagged monoliths of weed-grown stone. As they approached the tunnel entrance, they passed a floor plan of the structure. According to this, there were almost no other buildings after the gatehouse. The bulk of the castle’s interior, though it projected right back to the shoreline, mainly comprised open grassy space. This was a bit of a gut-punch, as it meant the maze of rooms and corridors Heck had been banking on to lose himself in didn’t exist.

Before entry, there was a prefabricated kiosk on the right with an English Heritage logo on it and a smiling elderly lady waiting inside. The tour guide, shorts flapping in the breeze, skipped ahead to speak with her. Heck glanced behind again. The majority of the group were removing their headphones and digging into haversacks, bringing out flasks of tea and packages of sandwiches. The Nice Guys walked stiffly and in silence, most of them making their way to the front. Fleetingly, Heck locked eyes with Klausen. The Dane’s disfigured face creased into a mocking smile.

‘This way, ladies and gentlemen!’ the tour guide called, standing to the left of the arch, ushering them through.

The stony footpath gave way to ancient cobbles worn by time. Heck led the way, his footfalls echoing in the arched passage. Some ten yards ahead, the vast emptiness of the interior beckoned, all paved walks, green grass and blue sky. Before reaching it, they passed an entrance on the right, but a barred gate was drawn across this, blackness skulking beyond. The next entrance was on the left, but this had been adapted for modern use. Its wooden door stood open; Heck glimpsed electric lighting and shelves cluttered with mugs, pens and cuddly toys in knitted chainmail.

He turned abruptly, stepping through, hoping no one would follow but sensing immediately that someone had.

It was similar to many ‘ancient monument’ shops – not a large room, but well stocked; more mugs and toys arrayed along the walls, along with guidebooks and local crafts, while in the middle several rotatable racks carried postcards. Another English Heritage lady stood behind a small counter. She smiled politely on seeing Heck. Then she glanced at those behind him – and her face fell.

He recalled that age-old tenet so beloved of homicide investigators: ‘Monsters rarely look like monsters.’ Though occasionally it was possible to
sense
what they were, and then again – he thought about that disfiguring scar on Klausen’s cheek – sometimes they looked the part too.

Ahead, just left of a fire-extinguisher suspended in a basket, there was an internal door marked ‘Staff Only’. Heck turned towards it. Behind him meanwhile, numerous feet now scuffed the linoleum. Some might be innocent – but another quick backwards glance told otherwise. Klausen was closest, his jack o’ lantern grin plastered in place.

Heck darted at the internal door without warning, but stopped to grab the extinguisher and twirl around, knocking out its safety pin. The exploding fountain of foam caught Klausen full in the face. The Dane coughed and choked, clawing at it with both hands, but gallons of the stuff had been compressed into the sealed vessel, and jetted out in a frenzy, filling his eyes, nose, mouth, coating him from hairline to crotch. As the counter lady squawked in outrage, Heck launched the extinguisher over Klausen’s shoulder, the white spray arcing, the cylinder catching the Nice Guy behind him on the left temple. The Nice Guy went down, the one behind him falling over as well.

Blinded and coughing, Klausen dug through foam to reach under his coat, but Heck now swung a foot, making a crunching impact in the Dane’s groin. As Klausen dropped to his knees, Heck spun to the door, pulling down a postcard rack. Two more of them fell over it, while he dashed out into a bare corridor.

On his immediate left stood a room with nothing in it except coats hanging on hooks. The other way, a stone stair spiralled up into dimness.

Heck took the stair, and within seconds was in the ruined section of the gatehouse. There was no modernisation here: no lighting, no heating. The first window he came to was a recessed arrow embrasure, too narrow to fit through. Guttural shouts echoed after him as he hurried up to the next level. In several places here there was no roof – just crumpled polythene supported by scaffolding, but passages still led off in various directions. The immediate one on his right terminated at an open aperture with a knee-high chain looped across it. Heck estimated there’d be at least a thirty-foot drop from there, so he went left, and then left again, now hearing many pairs of feet on the spiral stair. He came abruptly to a door-shaped gap with pitch-darkness beyond it. Some vague instinct prevented him blundering straight through it – and with good reason. Venturing forward, he found himself teetering on the brink of an abyss, which stank of mould and damp.

Hair prickling, he gazed up a hollow stone cylinder, some twenty-five feet in diameter and ascending maybe seventy-five feet to a diminutive patch of sky. In the faint bluish light this cast down, some thirty feet below – his estimation had been correct – lay nothing but stones, thistles and a few bits of broken scaffolding.

More shouts bounced along the passage behind. Heck contemplated the gutted tower. There was no obvious way he could climb down – but as his vision adjusted, he saw there might be a way he could climb up. The eroded stubs of a stairway wound up the interior wall, but at no point protruding out more than a foot or so. It was so narrow he’d only be able to ascend with his back braced on the stonework, much of which was rugged and thick with vegetation. And how greasy would those stair treads be?

‘Find him and kill him!’
came Klausen’s semi-hysterical voice.

Ben Kane had been right about that at least. The Nice Guys should be fleeing this place by now; they were acting beyond reason, or at least their leader was.

Just to reach the internal stair, which began on his left, Heck had to cross a crevice of nearly four feet. He made it with a single leap, but the tread he landed on was loose, grating out of place under his weight. Only by hooking his fingers into the moss-damp wall did he avoid toppling into the chasm.

‘No fucking arguments!’ an American voice snapped. ‘It’s the company phone, Goddammit!’

Heck started up, his body flattened backwards against the bricks, the horrific drop only inches in front. To avoid looking down, his eyes remained riveted on the doorway. Shadows flickered inside it. It was a miracle they hadn’t already reached this point. There were various places to search in the gatehouse – but not many.

Another tread shifted under his foot. This one jutted out no more than seven inches as it was. He could barely perch both heels on it. He held his breath as it shifted again in its rotted socket. Only a rash, desperate lurch took him onto the next step, but there were further perils after that. In some cases, treads were not just short and slippery, they actually sloped downward. In others, entire treads were missing; he had to step sideways over those, constantly sure that he was about to overbalance; the blackness below yawning in expectation.

But he
was
ascending. The entry door was soon directly opposite, and lower down by a good ten feet. Such signs of progress emboldened him. He increased his pace, the entry door sliding round to his left; in a minute or so, it would be under him again. That would be the opportune moment for one of the bastards to stick his head through – Heck would be completely out of sight.

But he’d never had much luck.

A dark form appeared in the narrow slice of light when Heck was perhaps at eleven o’clock to it. He froze, flattening himself again, arms outspread, not daring to breathe. Whichever Nice Guy it was, he scanned the interior of the tower from top to bottom; for several moments he peered straight at Heck – and then withdrew.

Heck’s breath burst from his chest with such force that he almost toppled forward. He was briefly baffled, but then it occurred to him that he was wearing dark clothing. And whoever that was, they couldn’t possibly have taken sufficient time scanning the tower for their eyes to attune to the gloom.