He reached in, turned it off, and plucked the wheel brace from the passenger seat. Creaked the door shut and limped down the lane — every step making his right knee and ribs hiss — keeping low to avoid being seen.
At the end of the lane he hunkered down behind a low wall and peered around the corner.
The two-storey house was nearly buried by the weight of ivy growing up the dirty granite walls — green tendrils reaching up beneath the eaves and into the roof. Poking out through holes in the tiles. Probably looked impressive at one point, with its bay windows and portico, but not now it’d decayed to a crumbling wreck.
A rusty grey Transit van sat next to it, its bodywork slowly succumbing to green and black mould. Marooned in a sea of brambles. Didn’t look as if it’d moved in years.
Right. He tightened his grip on the wheel brace and limp-jogged across the tussocked grass to the front door. Flattened himself against the wall. So far so good. If he could—
His phone launched into its generic ringtone.
Sodding hell...
He fumbled it from his pocket, fast as possible before it started ramping up the volume. The words, ‘INSP. MCRAE’ filled the screen. Of all the stupid times to call.
He hit ‘IGNORE’.
And just to be safe, switched it off as well. Stuffed it deep in his pocket.
Trying to get him killed.
Honestly.
Frank stood on his tiptoes and peeked in through the nearest window.
A bedroom — collapsed metal bedframe and the decayed remains of what used to be a mattress. Holes in the walls and ceiling. No sign of a knife-wielding maniac.
The window on the other side of the door was too buried in bramble-barbed-wire to look inside. Which left only one option: the door.
He crept up the stairs.
Huffed out a breath.
This was definitely the right place — no one installed six shiny Yale locks on an abandoned building unless there was something inside they wanted to hide. The wood was wasp-eaten and bloated. Probably wouldn’t take much to boot it in. But then Mhari Powell would know he was there and going by what she’d done to her brother, that wasn’t a great idea.
A brass plaque sat above the letterbox, the metal pitted and stained: the words ‘RENFIELD HOUSE’ half consumed and obscured by verdigris. Someone had a sense of humour, naming their house after Dracula’s bug-eating minion, when Slains Castle was just over the hill there. Oh yes, Whitby might claim Bram Stoker wrote and set the whole thing down there, but that was the English for you, wasn’t it? Always stealing what was rightfully Scotland’s.
He reached for the door handle. After all, you never knew your...
The door swung open as he touched it.
Six Yales and not one of them locked.
About time his luck changed.
Frank slipped inside.
Gloomy in here, even with the evening sun beating down outside. Cool too. The air tasted grey with dust and mould, the sharp mucky scent of rodents. A hole in the plasterwork showed off the room he couldn’t look into from outside — a fusty kitchen with sagging units and a broken table. Straight ahead: a bathroom with black-and-white tiles littered with jagged chunks of collapsed plaster. A staircase off to one side, reaching up to the first floor, the wood rotten and treacherous, untouched beneath a thick film of pristine dust.
Which left the cupboard under the stairs and—
He froze.
Was that singing?
It was — a woman’s voice with no accompaniment:
‘And so we came to Branxton Hill, and raised our pikes on higher ground,
The guns they roared the archers shot, but dirty weather spoiled the lot,’
It was coming from down the corridor, on the right.
He inched his way over, sticking to the wall.
‘The wind and rain fought harder still, but King James’ courage, well renowned,
He led the charge at Surrey’s flank, panic spread through English ranks,’
There was a door at the far end, its paintwork blistered and peeling. The singing was coming from the other side.
‘Vengeance ours, this day, would be, for Henry’s bloody treachery,
Vengeance ours, praise God we’d see, another Scottish victory.’
He stuck his ear against the door.
‘We bathed in blood, the fields ran red, the English foe we routed,
A slash of blade, and on we rushed, Surrey’s men would soon be crushed,’
OK, she definitely hadn’t heard him coming — wouldn’t be singing away to herself otherwise. He raised the wheel brace, took hold of the door handle, and burst through into what was probably once a living room, looking out over the cliffs towards the sea. Should have been bright in here, with the sun blaring down outside, but somehow it made the room gloomier. The view through the broken windows like a vision from a past life.
‘The cowards ran, the battle fled, as we our war cries shouted!
And brave King James he spurred us on, the English ranks their courage gone.’
What?
There was no one here, just five chest freezers, three of which were smeared with dried blood, one of which was switched on, all of which had words spray-painted on them in bright-red gloss. The stomach-clenching scent of rotting meat. The droning buzz of great big shiny bluebottles. And the singing, of course.
It was coming from a mobile phone, perched on top of the chest freezer with ‘WALLACE’ on it.
‘Vengeance ours, this day, would be, for Henry’s bloody treachery,
Vengeance ours, praise God we’d see, another Scottish victory.’
He picked the phone up, slid his thumb across the screen to open it. Wasn’t locked.
‘But the Devil’s luck, upon us come, with—’
Frank hit pause. Why would Mhari record...
Oh.
Something cold and sharp pressed against his throat.
The room hadn’t been empty after all — she’d been hiding behind the door. And now she was right behind him, holding a massive hunting knife.
Her breath was warm against his ear. ‘Drop the weapon.’
He did and the wheel brace clattered against the filthy floor. Returned the phone to the chest freezer’s lid. Kept his voice level and in charge. ‘OK, let’s not do anything we’ll regret.’
‘Why would I regret anything? I’m not the one about to get my throat slit.’
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about it. You’re in charge. She’s not going to kill you. You’re going to live through this.
She killed her own brother.
King swallowed. ‘It’s not too late to—’
‘How did you find me? This place? How?’
‘I... Haiden told me. Before he died. Look, this isn’t—’
‘I should’ve slit his throat too. Still, I won’t make that mistake again.’
The knife pressed harder into Frank’s neck.
Yeah, she was definitely dangerously unhinged, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t salvage this. Calm breaths. Sound like you’re still in charge, damn it. ‘Come on, Mhari, I’m not your enemy here. You’ve seen the papers, right? I was in the PASL when your dad was in charge. We were friends.’