‘Very fucking carefully,’ he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small penknife.
Come on. Get it over with. If it’s going to blow, it’s going to blow.
Doyle rested the blade against the tape and swallowed hard. He drew the cutting edge along the masking tape as slowly as he could, the blade slicing the tape easily.
‘I’m opening it,’ he said into the pin-mike.
Just like old times.
He dropped the penknife back into his pocket and slid his thumbs beneath the flaps of the box. With infinite slowness he began to raise them.
If there’s a trigger attached you’ll know about it pretty soon.
The flaps opened a little more. Doyle continued to raise them.
There was a smell coming from inside the box. It was rancid. Not the marzipan scent of plastic explosive. This was more pungent.
He wrinkled his nose as he opened the box wider.
There was tissue paper inside.
Doyle frowned. As he removed some of it he saw that the sheets further down were spotted with blood.
There was something at the bottom of the box. Something wrapped in sodden, red tissue paper.
Doyle retrieved the penknife and used the tip of the blade to remove the last few sheets. He gazed down at the contents of the package.
‘It’s not a bomb,’ he said quietly.
Thank God,’ Mel murmured. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m bringing the box inside. I think Mrs Duncan should see this.’
CAUGHT ON CAMERA
Ward had bought the video camera in New York about eight or nine years ago. In the days when money was no object.
Now he set it up in one corner of the office, squinting through the viewfinder until he was satisfied that the cyclopean machine was trained on his desk. He readjusted the focus once again then pressed the red record button.
The tape inside the machine was a ninety-minute one. He’d return in an hour and a half and replace it. Check out what was on the first one.
He locked the office door behind him as he left.
It was 9.15 p.m.
PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE
10.50 p.m.
Ward got to his feet and made his way swiftly through the house to the back door. He paused for a moment, looking at the office.
In the darkness it seemed a hundred yards away. Almost invisible in the impenetrable gloom.
He made his way quickly along the path that connected the house to his place of work. His hand was shaking as he pushed the key into its lock and turned it.
Ward climbed the stairs and glanced at the monitor. It was blank. There were no pages overflowing from the printer.
He moved to the camcorder and checked the battery. There was still some power left in it. The tape had run out. He had a full ninety minutes to view.
But ninety minutes of what? Empty air?
As he took the camera from its tripod he wondered what he was really expecting to see on the tape.
He retreated back into the house and connected the necessary leads and wires from the camcorder to the television. Then he sat back on the sofa and pressed the play button.
For forty minutes he gazed at the screen, waiting for something to happen. He was still waiting twenty minutes later.
He fast-forwarded the remainder of the tape then slumped back wearily.
Nothing. Just an endless shot of his desk and computer. No words appearing mysteriously on the screen. No paper pumping from the printer with newly created chapters on.
Nothing.
He sucked in a deep breath.
The phenomenon, for want of a better word, seemed to happen more often at night. In the dead of night when he was sleeping.
He decided to set up the camcorder again. It was already after midnight.
Whatever he imagined he might record on film, he might have a better chance of getting in the small hours.
He checked another battery for power then attached it to the camcorder and headed back out to the office where he went through the same procedure as before. He trained the lens on his desk, peering through the viewfinder like a scientist squinting through a microscope at some newly discovered organism.
Then he pressed the record button and slipped quietly down the stairs.
It was 1.17 a.m.
MOVING PICTURES
Ward woke at 8.45 the next morning. He was lying on the sofa, still fully clothed, the television burbling in the background.
He could remember little of the previous night. Checking the camcorder the first time. Coming back inside the house. That was about it.
He had no idea what time he’d fallen asleep. Or blacked out. Whatever the hell he had done.
He got to his feet and wandered through to the downstairs bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. It did little to clear his head but he could at least see a little better by the time he emerged.
With a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, Ward made his way to the back door, let himself out and made for the office. He ran up the stairs.
Sheets of paper had spilled from the printer. The screen still had words on it.
He swallowed hard and crossed to the camcorder.
The tape was still. There was nothing but blackness when he looked through the viewfmder.
He clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.
What time had the camcorder battery run out? How much did he have on tape?
Thirty
minutes? An hour? Had the unblinking eye of the camera caught what he wanted?
There was only one way to find out.
However, before he made his way back inside the house, he crossed to the desk, sat down and carefully numbered each newly printed page. There were over two hundred and fifty. The manuscript must be close to completion.
Ward wished he knew how close.
Helen Duncan sniffed back more tears and shook her head uncomprehending!/.
Doyle and Mel hung back, wondering whether or not to approach the woman who stood motionless inside the stable. She was gazing at a bay that was tossing its head agitatediy. Occasionally kicking out with one powerful hind leg.
‘What kind of people are they?’ Helen Duncan said finally.
‘What I want to know is how the hell did they get inside the stables to do this?’ Mel murmured quietly.
Doyle merely shook his head, his eyes fixed on the bay.
Both of its ears had been hacked off. The mane and coat around them were
matted with dried blood. Flies buzzed around the horse, attracted both by the excrement in the stall but also by the open wounds.
‘An animal that size isn’t just going to stand there while its fucking ears are cut off, is it?’ Doyle mused. They must have sedated it.’
Helen Duncan clapped ironically. ‘You should have been a detective, Mr Doyle,’
she said.
‘When was the last time you were in here, Mrs Duncan?’ Mel asked.
Two days ago,’ Helen Duncan said, her voice catching. ‘Christ, you’re meant to know where I’ve been, I can’t move a fucking muscle without one of you following me.’ She rounded angrily on the two bodyguards. ‘Why did you let this happen?’
‘We had no way of stopping it,’ Mel answered.
‘Someone breaks into my stables and cuts the ears off one of my horses and you can’t stop them. What makes you so sure you’ll be able to stop them when they come after myself and my husband?’
The horse whinneyed as if in agreement.
‘You’d better check the others,’ Doyle said. There were two more horses in the stable. A grey and a chestnut.
Helen wiped her face hurriedly then moved to each stall in turn. The other two animals seemed unharmed although both were understandably skittish. The grey in particular tossed its head wildly as Helen reached out to touch its muzzle.