Half an hour of this and my back was joining the chorus of aches and pains.
The sky above was awash with stars, gleaming and indifferent in the ink-black sky. The landscape rendered in shades of dark, dark grey. The yellowy lights of cottages and farmhouses in the distance.
Thunk scuff, thunk scuff, thunk scuff...
Keep moving.
Imagine all the horrible things you’re going to do to Gordon Smith when you catch him. How many different ways you can make him—
Light bloomed in the darkness ahead, getting closer, bringing with it the growl of a diesel engine as the greeny-yellow grass verges glowed in the approaching headlights. I hobbled off the road, but the big four-by-four didn’t drive on past. Instead it pulled to a halt when I was level with the passenger window.
A proper teuchtermobile: one of those flatbed trucks with mud streaked up from the wheel arches, tree rash turning the dark-blue paint matt along the sides. The passenger window buzzed down and a man scowled across the car at me — overweight and balding; one eye narrowed, the other all puffy and bruised; a line of sticking plaster across the bridge of his nose; two of the fingers on his right hand taped together. The thick Highlands accent wasn’t helped by the nasal twang. ‘You Henderson?’
‘Might be.’
‘You look like shit.’ He pointed. ‘Get in.’
Inside, the cab was covered in a layer of dust, the rubber floor mats nearly invisible under all the dried mud and wee stones. Probably stank as well, going by the mangy collie sitting on the back seat, but with my nose packed with cotton wool, I’d just have to imagine the smell.
My driver didn’t wait for me to fasten my seatbelt before grinding the truck into gear again and lurching off down the road.
I stretched my gammy leg out in the footwell. ‘You got a name?’
‘No.’ Then he clicked on the radio and that was it as far as conversation went for the next hour and a half.
Some sort of crappy country and western drivelled away as we pulled off the tarmac onto the gravel car park. The ski lodge sat in darkness, not a soul to be seen as my driver came to a halt beside Helen MacNeil’s mouldy old Renault.
My driver hauled on the handbrake. ‘Out.’ Bringing the total number of words he’d spoken to ten.
‘Thanks, it’s been a real pleasure.’
Another my-dang-dawg-done-died-and-my-cheatin’-wife-done-left-me lament started up in a blizzard of banjos and wailing. I climbed out and watched him swing his truck around and back onto the road. Heading north again, red tail-lights disappearing into the darkness.
Tosser.
Sweat chilled on my forehead.
Probably got a touch of a fever. That would be the infection spreading. The wind turbine’s whoomp, whoomp, whoomp, marking time with my pulse. Mouth dry as cornflour.
I unlocked Helen’s car and collapsed in behind the wheel.
Slipped the key into the ignition and turned it, getting a low guttering chud-chud-chud in return. ‘Come on you rusty piece of shite...’ Chud-chud-chud — then finally it caught and a rattling gurgle burst free from the engine.
A cable poked out of the cigarette lighter, and a minute’s fiddling plugged it into the bottom of Helen’s phone. The light came on — charging. First piece of luck I’d had all sodding day. Which didn’t even vaguely make up for the Renault being a manual.
My blue-nitriled left hand squeaked against the gearstick, missing finger radiating snarls of heat all the way up my arm as I put the thing in first and hauled the wheel around, making a wide circle in the car park until the Renault was pointing the right way. Bumping up onto the tarmac.
An hour and forty minutes back to Oldcastle.
At least I wouldn’t have to listen to any more country and bloody western: I could drive south in silence. Plotting my revenge.
40
I checked the phone again:
Unit 6,
Haversham Industrial Estate,
Shortstaine,
OC19 3FG
It was a manky cluster of corrugated lockups and warehouses, lurking behind barbed wire and chain-link, the signage faded. The road more pothole than tarmac. I parked in front of Unit Six — painted an unappealing shade of khaki, washed in the sodium glow of a lonely streetlight — next to the shiny black Transit van that sat outside it.
Killed the engine.
Curled forward until my forehead rested against the steering wheel’s rough plastic.
Let the breath trickle out of me.
Hand: on fire. Bullet-hole foot: ablaze. Back: made of roasted gravel. Head: thumping like a drum solo.
Come on, Ash. Up.
What if it’s a trap?
Then Joseph and Francis kill you. Which, to be honest, would be an improvement right now.
OK.
Out into the night, letting the wind slam the car door for me.
Unit Six was locked, but I leaned on the bell with my gloved thumb anyway. If this really was the headquarters of J&F ~ Freelance Consultants, probably best not to leave any fingerprints.
Two minutes later, the door swung open, and there was Joseph. A large wad of cotton padding made a lopsided hat, secured to the crown of his scarred head by strips of white tape. Left arm encased in a fibreglass cast from elbow to palm — pale stubby fingers poking out of the end. Big smile. Which slipped as he looked me up and down. No doubt taking in all the bloodstains and dirt. Then the smile was back again. ‘Ah, Mr Henderson, you appear to have made excellent time. Do come in, do come in.’ Stepping backwards and ushering me through into a large-ish open space, big enough to fit a two-up two-down semi. Workbenches ran along the back, with a pair of big stainless-steel sinks set into them. A small office area was walled off on one side, its flat roof covered with stacks of cardboard boxes. But what really drew the eye lay in the middle of the concrete floor. Literally.
A young man, couldn’t have been much over twenty-five, lay on his front, his thin face turned towards us — streaked with tears and dust and snot. Denim jacket, stone-washed jeans. Wrists fastened behind his back with cable ties. Ankles held together the same way. Francis stood over him, one booted foot between the guy’s shoulder blades, leaning on a golf club. Sand wedge, going by the steeply angled head.
‘Francis, look who’s joined us, it’s Mr Henderson.’
He nodded in my direction. ‘’Spector.’ His face was a swollen mess of puffy purple-and-blue skin, fading to yellow at the edges. He sported a wad of cotton too, only his was taped to the side of his forehead, above a thick black eye.
The three of us must’ve looked a proper sight.
Francis pulled a golf ball from his pocket and placed it into the cup of the young man’s ear.
When I looked at Joseph, he shrugged.
‘I’m sorry to say that Albert here has breached his employer’s terms and conditions regarding the organisation’s sales and accounting practices. To wit: skimming ten percent off both the merchandise and monies received. Luckily, Francis is fully qualified to supply a remedial training course on retail ethics.’
A high-pitched, ‘Please! Please, I won’t do it again, I swear!’ burst out of Albert’s mouth.
‘Do you like golf, Mr Henderson?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, that is a shame. What could be finer than a good-natured sporting contest, with hearty companions, out in the glory of nature’s bounty?’