On automatic now, he unclipped the cuff from his own wrist, pulled Reid’s other arm behind his back, and clicked the wrists together. He pushed away, brushed the floor with his hands, found what he was looking for, and turned it on.
A beam of light shot out from his hand.
A quick flash at Reid to show him lying on his stomach, face twisted in pain, arms behind his back, the hunting knife with its serrated edge within easy reach.
Gilchrist kicked it to the corner.
He found Nance six feet away, on her front, her right shoulder a bloodied mess. But she was moving, pulling herself forward like some dying animal. He kneeled beside her, placed the flashlight on the floor, eased her jacket from her shoulder.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He grimaced at her humour, but could tell she was hurting. He pushed his fingers through the bloodied cut in her blouse and ripped the material apart. In the flashlight’s beam, the wound was wide, as if the blade had plunged into skin and been tugged back. But he saw, too, that it had not cut any major blood vessels, and that her sports bra was helping to hold the flesh together, keep the wound tight.
He pulled off his jacket, gripped his shirt, and almost tore it from his body. Shirt in teeth, he ripped off a sleeve and whipped it under her arm and around and over her shoulder. And again. He tied a quick knot. Could be better, he thought, but it would stanch the flow.
From behind, he heard a grunt.
Reid had twisted onto his side, his body long and lean, crawling out of the shadows like an alligator from a night swamp. From the way he was shifting, Gilchrist knew he was trying to find his feet.
Not so fast.
Gilchrist took one step, two, and booted him in the face. Reid grunted and slumped to the floor. Gilchrist stomped down hard on Reid’s torn shoulder and almost flinched from the animal roar. “Stay put,” he growled, then retrieved the flashlight.
The patch in the carpet had been cut and stitched like a proper opening. He could see the trapdoor, but no handle. He found Reid’s knife in the corner of the room and used it to jemmy the trapdoor open.
He pulled the wooden frame up and off and threw it to the side, stuck his head into the dusty underfloor space. He danced the beam beneath the floor, almost cried out in anguish as it flickered over four bare walls.
He pulled himself upright, shone the flashlight into Reid’s eyes. “What have you done with her?” he shouted, and saw from their puzzled reflection that he was missing something.
Back under the floor.
This time he saw it.
What he had taken at first glance to be a solid wall was a piece of sheetrock cut to fit the space and jammed in to stay upright. He lowered himself through the opening, bent double in the tight space, pulled the sheetrock back, and exposed a small door.
Padlocked.
He thudded the heel of his fist against it. “Maureen?” But he heard nothing. He gripped the padlock and tugged. The hasp was secure. He thumped the door. “Maureen?” And again. But the wood was solid. Out with the knife, thudded down and behind the hasp, in as hard as he could, then pulled.
He grunted with effort, but the knife slipped free.
Down again. Harder that time. He tugged, felt the hasp pull from the wood, the screws or nails or whatever was holding it in draw out from the rough grain.
Slipped again. Damn it.
Another stab. Missed. Again. Got it that time.
He gritted his teeth, pulled hard, held it, pulled harder-
The hasp ripped off with splintering wood.
He opened the door, shone his flashlight in, saw her body curled in a foetal position, not moving, and knew from the way she was lying with one arm out that he was too late. He scrambled through the opening, his voice coming at him in whimpers he failed to recognise as his own.
He reached her, lifted her, cradled her in his arms, and watched in horror as her head lolled back and eyes as lifeless as death stared at nothing.
Oh, dear God, dear God.
No…
Chapter 41
THE SMELL OF urine still hung in the cold room.
Gilchrist glanced at his watch-11:27. He removed her photograph from his jacket pocket, the same one he had passed around. Dark eyes smiled at him, filled with the youthful promise of life. He rubbed his thumb across her face and startled as the door opened.
A guard pushed at Bully as he shuffled in.
Gilchrist thought Bully had aged, as if a few more days in jail had added years to the man. Bully scowled as the guard shoved him onto his seat and shackled his legs to the floor. Then the guard stood and backed up to the door.
Bully’s face broke into a cruel smile. “My oh my. How the mighty have fallen.”
Gilchrist knew he looked a mess. His left cheek was swollen and bruised. Common sense told him he would need to have it x-rayed. His leather jacket was slashed at the sleeve where Reid had plunged his knife but failed to cut flesh. Underneath, his one-sleeved shirt was missing four buttons and stained with a mixture of his and Nance’s blood. The knees of his jeans were caked with dirt. He placed Maureen’s photograph on the table, as if laying down a trump card, then stood with his back against the opposite wall.
“You masturbate to my daughter,” Gilchrist said.
Bully blinked, as slow as a reptile.
“You masturbate to my princess.”
“Your princess?” Bully coughed a laugh. “I hear your princess is a good ride.”
Gilchrist pushed off the wall and paced the short length of the room, eyes to the floor, away from Bully, always away, he thought, and felt wonder at the fear the man was able to instil in him. “We’ve contacted the Spanish authorities,” he said to the floor. “Suggested it would be appropriate to impound your villas.” He glanced at Bully. “They do that for drug-associated crimes these days.”
The chains rattled.
He concentrated on the floor, did not want Bully to read anything from his eyes, to see how he scared him, even now. The chains clattered as Bully shuffled in his seat.
“We’ve also been in contact with your solicitor, Rory Ingles.”
“You’ll be hearing from Rory,” Bully growled.
“Word on the street is that you think you’re getting out in two years.”
“Sooner, now you lot are fucking it up.”
Gilchrist kept pacing. “I’m not here to argue that point.”
“What the fuck’re you here for then? To give me new wanking material?”
Gilchrist stepped to the table with a speed that almost had Bully tensing. He grabbed the photograph. “You could do yourself a favour,” he said, and held it up for Bully to leer at. “And confess.”
“To what?”
“That you ordered Chloe’s murder. My daughter’s, too. That you devised the whole scheme, the body parts, the notes, the kidnapping, all to satisfy your sick psycho needs.”
Bully looked pleased to find himself back in control. “Not a fucking clue what you’re on about,” he said.
“That’s a pity.” Gilchrist slipped Maureen’s photograph into his pocket, safe from Bully’s lecherous eyes. He started pacing again. “We’ll just have to let Jimmy tell us, then. Won’t we?”
Bully hawked phlegm from the back of his throat. “In your dreams, big man.”
“No dreams. Try nightmares.” He gave Bully a passing glance. “Yours.”
Bully smiled, an ugly grimace that settled somewhere between confusion and anger. “Jimmy’ll tell you fuck all. He knows what would happen to him when I get out.”
Gilchrist stopped. He faced Bully. “Don’t you mean if you get out?”
Bully’s eyes tightened. His lips pursed. Sweat dotted his upper lip. “Wait till I talk to Rory,” he growled.