Should probably say something, but what was the point? Dead was dead. Flowery words weren’t going to change that.
Besides, she knew Jennifer Prentice had hired Francis and Joseph to beat the crap out of me. Helen should count herself lucky I wasn’t leaving her for the rats.
Someone had painted the window shut, but the bedside cabinet smashed through the single glazing easily enough. It landed with a splintering crump in the front garden.
Good enough.
The bed’s legs squealed across the lino floor as I dragged the thing as close to the door as I could get. One last look at the hollow body lying on the bed. And it was time to get a move on.
Back downstairs I gathered all the furniture that I could and heaped it up in the living room, directly under Helen’s final resting place, like the pile in Gordon Smith’s house. Tore down the mildewed curtains — bit damp, but they probably had enough polyester in them to counteract that. I heaped them onto the crumpled remains of the bedside cabinet I’d thrown through the window, and tucked both under the dining room table, arranging the splintered chipboard into a rough pyramid. Then pulled out Helen’s lighter and turned the cigarettes and their packet into a fire starter. Coaxing the flame as it licked its way across the chipboard to reach the mouldy curtains.
One minute it looked as if the damned thing was going out, but the next the curtains let loose a muffled fwoom, and blue light burst into the room, black smoke curling up to stain the yellowed ceiling.
I backed out of there as steam rose from the dining table, the ancient varnish blistering. Then one side of it burst into flames, catching the chairs I’d piled on top of it. Didn’t take long before they were ablaze too and it was getting difficult to breathe.
No way my bonfire was putting itself out anytime soon.
Down the hall and out into the front garden — leaving the door open for a good through draught. Flickering yellow light spilled out of the uncurtained lounge window as the flames grew.
Maybe a neighbour would wonder about the strange glow coming from the abandoned farm next door, and call the fire brigade, but it wasn’t likely. Helen’s funeral pyre would burn till there was nothing left of her but ash and a few tiny fragments of blackened bone. No DNA, no fingerprints, no dental records.
A Viking funeral.
Of sorts.
I pulled out her phone: two percent battery, complete with a warning that all unsaved data would be lost. Might as well give Alice another go.
Voicemail.
Didn’t bother leaving a message.
Why could no bastard answer their bloody phone?
There was one other option...
I pulled out the business card for J&F ~ Freelance Consultants. The mobile number was almost invisible in the firelight, but twisting it made the black ink shine against the bloodstains. Not exactly ideal, but what else was I supposed to do?
Joseph picked up on the third ring. ‘Salutations, caller, you have reached the offices of J-and-F—’
‘Joseph, it’s me: Ash Henderson.’ Hurpling my way to the barn as the farmhouse crackled and popped behind me, heat washing against my back. ‘Hello? You still there?’
‘Ah, my apologies, Mr Henderson, your call took me aback somewhat. On account of our last meeting coming to a... less than optimal conclusion for all parties concerned.’
‘You said it was only business. That true?’
‘Of course it’s true, I know I speak for my associate and myself when I say that we have nothing but respect and admiration for you, despite our occasionally adversarial encounters at the instigation of embittered third parties.’
The sledgehammer-grappling-hook lay where I’d chucked it. ‘I need a lift, no questions asked. And I need it now.’
‘Intriguing... Very well. Let me know where from and where to, and I shall see to it that you are conveyed from the former to the latter with all possible alacrity.’
Good enough.
I fumbled at the knotted baler netting with my good hand.
No point hanging around here — it might be unlikely that the next-door farm would call the fire brigade, but it was by no means impossible. And it would probably be a bad idea to still be standing here, basking in the heat of the burning building, when they arrived.
‘Mr Henderson?’
‘Going to the Lecht. Coming from Wester Brae of Kinbeachie on the Black Isle, or as far down the road as I can limp away from it.’ My walking stick came free and the sledgehammer clattered down to the concrete again. My fingerprints would be all over it, and the baler netting too. They’d need to go in the fire. Should’ve worn gloves...
Cock.
There was a packet of blue nitrile gloves in my pocket. Could’ve pulled them on over my ruined hand to keep the stump clean. Bloody idiot. Probably too late now.
I dug the pack out anyway, ripped it open with my teeth. ‘And I’ll need a doctor when I get back to Oldcastle. Stitches, antibiotics, probably a tetanus booster too.’
‘I’m sure we can facilitate such a thing. In pursuance of which, I believe it would be efficacious to text you an address where—’
Silence.
‘Hello?’ When I checked the screen it was black. The thing had finally died.
I struggled my left hand into the glove, hissing and wincing and swearing, until the bloody stump was safely cocooned in blue nitrile. Then chucked the sledgehammer and my baler-netting-rope in through the farmhouse window, one arm shielding my face from the scorching heat. Then did the same with that long stepladder. It wouldn’t burn, but hopefully, by the time they dug it out of the rubble, any forensic trace evidence would be so deteriorated it’d be sod-all use to anyone.
Course, there’d be all the bin bags and bits of plastic in the inspection pit...
I hobbled back into the barn. A wide patch of darkness marred the concrete where Helen had been stabbed. Yeah, forensics were definitely going to search this place. Maybe the bin bags would catch? I dragged a couple off the big pile at the end of the barn and ran Helen’s lighter beneath them. Took a while, but finally one caught, dripping burning tears of melted plastic as whatever it was inside burst into flame. I pitched it into the pit, then set fire to the other bag and stuck that one against the bottom of the heap where it’d come from.
Didn’t take long before the inspection pit was popping and crackling, spewing out noxious stinking clouds of grey smoke, lit from below. Two minutes later the big pile was doing the same.
Back outside, into the clean damp air.
Looked as if Peter Smith had got his wish. He’d said the place needed burning down. Writhing orange light spilled out of the barn, and the farmhouse was well on its way — now the upper floor was ablaze, flames crackling out through the broken bedroom window.
Bye, Helen.
Then I turned around and limped away into the mist.
That septic moon was a faint rancid sliver on the horizon as I hobbled along the road, in the dark, and the frigid wind. Sweat trickling between my shoulder blades. Ears like two stinging lumps of ice. Moving with an awkward rolling gait, to the constant thunk scuff, thunk scuff, thunk scuff, of my walking stick’s rubber end hitting the tarmac.
Would be easier if I could hold the bloody thing in my left hand, as usual, but no way I was risking it. Not with the whole hand throbbing like I’d battered half a dozen nails into it, then stuck it in the microwave. So instead the stick hit the ground on the same side as my bad foot.