The guilty parties, p.17
The Guilty Parties, page 17
‘No,’ said Clarissa. ‘I asked you what she was like. Let’s see. She’d be blonde, won’t she? You look like a man that likes blondes.’
‘Yes, she is. How did you know that?’
Good guess, thought Clarissa. ‘Long legs,’ said Clarissa. ‘You are a man that likes long legs. More of an elegant girl, not like me.’ The man looked at her strangely. ‘I meant when I was younger. Hello. There’s something to be said for an older woman. Next left.’
The man looked back at the road quickly and took a left. They were a little back from the red Ford and there were two cars in between them, which was keeping Clarissa happy for the moment.
‘Well, I mean, she’s not a buxom lass, is she?’ The man looked at her again. When did the word buxom not become part of the English language? Young people nowadays, they don’t know words. They don’t know what people are saying.
‘She’s more of a beanpole than a pear?’ Clarissa was struggling now.
‘She wouldn’t like you calling her a beanpole.’
‘No, but I’m right, aren’t I? Long blonde hair, long legs, looks like a beanpole. Nice white teeth, though.’ She could see the man beginning to shake.
‘Have you got her somewhere?’
‘I haven’t got her anywhere,’ said Clarissa. ‘I haven’t even met her.’
‘Oh, that’s it,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got somebody else to get her.’
‘All I’m saying is that if you don’t drive, somebody will die,’ said Clarissa.
‘Whatever then,’ said the man. ‘Whatever, okay? Just don’t do anything rash. Don’t get them to do anything daft.’
‘I’m hoping nobody does anything daft because if they do, somebody might die.’ Clarissa was playing with her words, but inside she knew each one of them was true.’
The Ford ahead took a left and when Clarissa followed, she was the only car on the road with him. She saw it turn off, heading down a track rather than a proper road. As her impromptu taxi went past the track, Clarissa told her driver to pull in.
The rain was still coming down, and there was a certain mistiness around the area. Clarissa thought this was a good thing. She turned to the man in the car.
‘You’re going to wait here for ten minutes. After that, you’re going to drive into Aviemore. You’re going to find the nearest police station. You’re going to say to them that DI Hope McGrath needs to know that the older woman is now out of town, and you’re going to tell them exactly where this is.’
Clarissa picked up her phone and told the man to write down some coordinates from her GPS. She noted there was a signal, but barely.
‘We’re quite high up here,’ she said, ‘ten minutes back, find a police station. Don’t dilly-dally. If you do all that for me, I’m sure you’ll find your girlfriend waiting for you in town. She might not be in the best mood, but she’ll be unharmed.’
‘Whatever,’ said the man. ‘Whatever I need to do, just don’t harm her.’
‘I won’t harm her,’ said Clarissa. ‘No intentions of it.’
Clarissa walked off in the rain towards the track that the car had taken. She didn’t step onto the track, but went out into the small, wooded area beside it and walked alongside it. Keeping about twenty yards off it, she climbed up over a hill where she could see a large house. It was set back off the road. There were trees around it, and it certainly would be hard to see. There were other outbuildings around it.
Clarissa stayed down low in what cover there was. She had green tartan trews on. The outer cover of the shawl was green. Everything was in her favour except for her hair, so she pulled her hat down tight.
She picked up her phone and saw she had a small signal, but decided against calling, and put the phone back inside her shawl again. It took Clarissa a good twenty minutes to get up to the house, and from the outside, it looked bleak. It was big, but it was rather run down. A lot of the paint beginning to flake, but she saw an outhouse, a rather large barn, and she saw people occasionally walking back and forward.
They didn’t look like the people who would live here, but then again, who would live in a house like this? Somebody who liked the quiet, somebody who had been here for a long time. Or maybe someone who didn’t have the money to afford to do the place up but didn’t want to live in that metropolis they call Aviemore. She chuckled to herself.
She knew she was just trying to keep her mind from thinking about what she would find. Macleod was out there somewhere, possibly in here. She’d need to find him. Clarissa stayed in the undergrowth, staying low, and could see the occasional person outside. They were searching, scanning the area with their eyes.
That was the thing about having somewhere like this. Did they have CCTV outside? She struggled to find any cameras. If you didn’t have cameras, you couldn’t see. You’d have to send someone out, but if you had cameras, people would wonder why such a ramshackle place would have them.
The group was lying in cover, but they were lying wide out in the open. It was the best cover, to be there but not seen, to be in someone’s face but not be who they thought you were.
Clarissa moved across to the outhouse. As she did so, a large barn door swung open. Two men in grey habits appeared with masks on. They had an arm under some poor hopeless soul, each carrying him from either side. The man’s feet dragged along the ground, and he was only wearing a pair of underpants. There was blood around him. It looked like they’d smashed him to a pulp. He was breathing though, even an occasional moan.
She was some distance away, and it was hard to see, but Clarissa stole up. Reaching a tree at the edge of the driveway of the building, she got to a point where she was maybe forty yards away. She had to put her hand to her mouth to stop a gasp coming out, as the head of the man swung unintentionally towards her. It was Seoras. They’d done that to Seoras.
Clarissa’s blood was boiling, but she wasn’t stupid. She waited until they’d taken Macleod inside, and she stepped away some fifty yards into a copse of trees. She looked down at her phone. There was a signal, barely. She called Hope.
‘What is it?’ asked Hope. ‘Where are you?’
‘Where I am right now is where Seoras is. I’ve just seen him, Hope. They’ve battered him. They’ve bloody battered him. I think they’re going to kill him. They’re . . . Dear God, Hope, they have . . .’
‘Calm down,’ said Hope. ‘Where are you? Tell me where you are.’
Clarissa looked down at her phone. She pressed the app for the GPS, and she read out the coordinates.
‘Stay there. It won’t be long till we can get there. Stay there. We’re coming with a full team. We’ll get him,’ said Hope. ‘Just do nothing rash.’
‘They’ve taken him inside. They’re going to . . . I think they’re going to kill him. I think they’re going to . . .’
‘Stay put. We’re on our way. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Clarissa, do you hear me?’
But the call had gone dead.
Chapter 24
‘I can’t wait,’ Clarissa said to herself. ‘I can’t wait. Hope is wrong. I need to see him. I need to make sure he is all right.’
She stole up again through the grass and the trees and reached the driveway of the house. Everyone seemed to move inside and soon the driveway was deserted, but they were all heading to the building that they dragged Macleod into. Clarissa didn’t like the look of this.
She wasn’t great at cover or understanding the best way to approach a building with people inside. In the past she’d had to, but not with so much at stake. What could she do? Her mind was abuzz and her stomach was nearly sick having seen Macleod, but inside was a determination that had served Clarissa well for most of her career.
‘Macleod’s Rottweiler,’ she said to herself. ‘They call me Macleod’s Rottweiler. Time to bare the teeth,’ she said.
Time to do what? It was all right, building herself up, but she knew she was no one-man army. Or one-woman army, for that matter. She could handle herself in a fight. Yes, to a point, but she was no Jackie Chan. She didn’t march into a room and take out everybody else. She’d need to find out where he was, first, at least then if Hope turned up, she’d be able to point.
She stole across the driveway, wincing at the sound the stones made under her feet. But the rain was coming down so hard that she thought it might drown out any movement she made. God bless the rain, she thought. It was banging up against the windows now and the wind was picking up.
She’d read once that in Japan, back in the days of the ninjas, these assassins loved the wet nights with the wind and the rain, for it masked their approach. She doubted any of them had approached in a waterproof reversible tartan shawl and trews. Neither did she think any of them had approached with more determination to achieve their goal.
Clarissa leaned up against the wall of the house, sliding along to a window and peeking in. She could see a large room, and in the middle of that room was Macleod. They’d plonked him on the floor. His hands were now tied behind him. She was unsure of what they were going to do other than kill him, for she saw a body bag being brought into the room.
Clarissa had made a count, and there were over twenty people in that room. Outside of pitching in with a submachine gun and spraying the room with bullets, she couldn’t see how she was going to extract Macleod. If there had only been two or three, she could have given it a go. Even then, she’d have lost the element of surprise after the first one.
There needed to be a panic. There needed to be . . . Clarissa moved away from the window, back to the wall. Surely, there had to be something else around here. Something else that would cause a distraction. Preferably, it would go boom, or be something that sent out a blinding light. But what would do that?
Clarissa quickly made her way to the outbuilding. The door was shut, but she pulled it back and stepped inside. There was a corridor with several rooms off it, but she could hear no one. Had they all gone up to the big room? Were they all there to witness Macleod dying?
She’d raced down the corridor. It was plain white, with dirty marks across it, but she noticed one room had blood on the handle. She peered inside.
In the middle of the floor, there was copious amounts of blood, as if someone had bled onto it. Was that where they’d had Seoras? She saw whips, she saw cudgels, and then she said, ‘Stop it. Focus, Clarissa, focus on what you have to do.’
She ran down to the next room. There was nothing. The room after that, however, was a store. There were methylated spirits and other painting items. Spirits to clean your brushes, but spirits were light. She looked around and saw a stick and several blocks of wood. There were rags in the far corner. She could make a brand out of these items. She could certainly get a fire going.
Quickly, she grabbed one of the larger sticks, wrapped some rags around it, and poured methylated spirits over it. But there were no matches because why would you keep matches along with methylated spirits? You’d be asking for trouble. She needed to find something to light it.
Clarissa searched the room, but there was nothing. She went back out and searched each room along the corridor. There was nothing to light the damn thing with. She exited the building still carrying the stick with the methylated spirits rag on the end.
She’d have to go inside the main house, and she didn’t have time to mess about. Quickly, she ran around the back of the house, hoping that everyone was stuck in that room in the front. The back door was open. She wandered around the kitchen.
The room was warm, unlike the outbuilding, and she realised there were old-style radiators here. There must have been a boiler somewhere. She looked around the kitchen, opening cupboards as quietly as she could. Where were the matches? There must be some matches.
She found a blowtorch, the small catering variety. What the hell was that doing here? Finishing the top of meringues while they killed people? She looked through a small drawer that held knives and forks and other accoutrements, and she saw one of those clickers for igniting a gas cooker.
She looked around and saw it, the gas cooker. There must be bottles outside. She turned on the gas, opening it up fully, but not using the clicker. She closed the back door, took the clicker with her as well as the blowtorch, and then shut all the kitchen doors behind her.
‘Think,’ she said to herself. ‘Think, how do I do this?’
From inside the front room, she heard people talking, and she snuck up to the door. It was old style, had a lock with a keyhole. She was able to bend down and look through that keyhole. From what she could make out, Macleod was now hung up.
His hands above him. In front of him stood a man in a mask. They were all in masks now. All in grey monks’ habits and masks. Clarissa stepped away from the door. She took the blowtorch and, using the clicker, lit it. With it, she lit the rag around her stick and watched the fire burn on it. She went over to the wallpaper, held it close, and the wallpaper started to take.
Clarissa didn’t know how many layers of wallpaper were underneath, but this house was old. This was no fireproof, modern building designed to extinguish and control any fire that happened. This was old school. It would burn. She watched as the fire spread along the wall. From inside, she could hear voices.
‘Tell us about her. Tell us about Mary Smith. How did you cover it up? Tell us what you did to her.’
‘Don’t know. Don’t know Mary Smith.’
Macleod’s voice was weak, but he was fighting with everything he could to tell them. From her viewpoint, she could see his toes were barely touching the ground while his hands were held up above him. The man stepped forward, hitting Macleod again in the stomach, over and over until he made him vomit.
‘We’ve asked you to admit your crime, but no more. We’ll slice you open like they used to do. You can watch your entrails as you die. Appropriate for a man with no guts. A man not able to stand up for others.’
Clarissa looked around her. Where the hell was Hope? Why wasn’t she here yet? There was no time. She grabbed the brand that she’d made for herself, that was still burning, and with the other hand, she took the door handle. It turned and Clarissa threw open the door.
‘You don’t lay a finger on him. Get the hell away.’
Clarissa ran forward and hit one of the monk’s robes with the brand. It lit up immediately, and the man started screaming.
‘Get her,’ shouted the man who had been in front of Macleod. Several turned, and Clarissa swung the brand back and forward. She didn’t know what to do. How was she going to face all of them? How was she going to . . .
An almighty explosion rocked the building. The wall behind them blew out into the room, knocking everyone off their feet except for Macleod. He was swinging from his bonds.
As Clarissa tried to recover a sense of what was going on, she realised that the gas in the kitchen had exploded. Windows at the front of the room had blown out, and a fire was raging. Several of the monk’s habits had caught fire, and they were screaming and running here and there.
Clarissa ran for Macleod, desperate to get him down. She flung her arms around him, trying to pull him, but all he did was cry out in pain. She turned to where she’d dropped her own brand. It was still alight. She ran for it, picked it up as one monk approached her. She swung at him, but he turned and fled. His mask had been knocked to one side, and part of him was bleeding heavily.
Clarissa ignored him, ran back to Macleod, and lifted the brand up above him. She watched as the flames took the rope and it burned. He was still hanging thirty seconds later until the last of the strands had caught fire. He dropped like a sack of potatoes to the floor, his feet unable to support him.
Clarissa reached down, put Macleod’s arm around her neck, and tried to pick him up. She could barely do it and half dragged him away from a room that was becoming an inferno. The path to the hallway was blocked off. Too many of the monks were running around. She took the door on the other side of the room. Only when she got through, did she realise it led to a single room, a little annex off the larger room.
She went to turn with Macleod to leave, but someone pushed her and, together with Macleod, she clattered into the wall behind them. Clarissa’s head smacked off it and she felt distinctly woozy, but when her eyes looked up, there was no mistaking the man in the gown. That grey, evil mask looking at her, motionless. The other thing that caught her eye was the machete in the man’s hand.
‘I’d said I’d gut him in there. He can watch his own entrails. You can watch yours as well.’
‘He’s innocent,’ said Clarissa. ‘Listen here, he’s innocent.’
‘Oh, no!’ cried to man. ‘He let them do it to Mary Smith. He didn’t come after them. A policeman! He’s meant to protect people. He’s meant to ensure justice. Well, this time the justice comes to him.’
The man raised the machete, about to throw it down onto Macleod’s head, when Clarissa reached up, grabbing the man’s wrist. He kept pushing, and she could barely hold his hand up. The man took her hand off his wrist, reached down, and grabbed Clarissa by the throat. He squeezed hard, and she struggled. Her hand desperately reached for his.
‘An old bloody woman. An old bloody bitch comes to save you. Not this time, Macleod. Not this time. You’re going to pay.’
Clarissa was pushed, driven back into the wall, where her head again connected. She almost blacked out, but her eyes opened to the horror of the man lifting the machete again with two hands and about to come down on top of Macleod. As he went to swing, Clarissa saw someone come through the door.
They jumped at the man, grabbing both his wrists, stopping the blade from descending. But the man was big, and he was strong. He turned around.
Clarissa saw Hope hanging onto the back of the man. He went to shake her off, but he was struggling as Hope worked her hand around his neck. He was then hit from the front. A blonde-haired figure, throwing punches at him, but the man reached out with a hand, slapping her aside.
Hope had slid off him, and was standing in front of Macleod and Clarissa. Cunningham had got back up off the floor, as the man turned and looked at them. Behind him, fire raged in the room. There were screams. The man looked round, and could hear the cries of ‘police’. He flung the machete away, into the room behind him, and turned and ran.
