‘I’m leaving for home now,’ she said, ‘it’s probably a false alarm. I left the outer zone on today, it can be a bit temperamental. I’ll get back to you if I have any concerns. I’m sorry for the bother.’
She switched everything off and made her way down and out to the car park. Her mind was on Greg Tandy. He had committed previous offences in possession and supply of firearms but had not, in the course of his stellar criminal career, ever been found guilty of shooting someone. He was an arms dealer, not a hitman, so what had this been? Had he joined the twins on a killing spree? Or had he been doing a favour for Williams? And why? It was risky enough to be in possession of firearms but murder was a whole other league.
She drove on autopilot. Home, on the edge of the moors, was only a few minutes’ drive at this time of night when the roads were deserted. She slowed when her headlights picked out a dark shadow on the ground ahead. A ball? The ball moved, scuttling to the ditch at the side of the road. Hedgehog. They had them in the garden quite often. Sammy used to put dog food out for them. He wanted to keep one as a pet but she’d explained it was a wild animal, needed to roam and wouldn’t be happy cooped up. They’d got a gerbil instead, which kept Sammy entertained for all of two weeks until the novelty faded and Gill was left nagging him to feed and water the creature and clean it out.
Gill reached the top of the hill and glanced, as she always did, in her rear-view mirror at the lights of the town in the valley below. She took a turning between the stone walls and stopped at the end of the little lane. Ahead her gate was pushed back, wide open. No fox could’ve undone the latch. She looked at the house to her left. The alarm box was flashing. The only lights inside the property were the ones set to come on with the timer.
She considered what to do. She would investigate a little further but leave her car ready for a quick escape in case she found intruders. She had a police baton in the car and a heavy-duty torch. She took them with her. She walked up to the gate, aware that if anyone was there they would’ve heard the engine. She shone the torch along the driveway that led down the right-hand side of the house to the double garage at the end.
And saw Dave’s car.
She let out a breath, felt her shoulders slump with relief. She rang the police station and told them all was well, just the gate not properly secured.
She drove in, and parked alongside Dave’s car. Where was he? He didn’t have a key. She thought he might be sleeping it off in the back seat of the car but when she looked there was no sign.
She shook her head, exasperated by his messing about. He could be in the summerhouse, keeping warm. She needed to disable the burglar alarm first before playing bloody hide and seek in the garden.
After unlocking the door and entering the code on the panel, Sammy’s birthday backwards, she listened for a moment to make completely sure that the house was empty. It sounded and felt exactly like it usually did when she was on her own. Besides, if anyone had got into the property it would’ve triggered other zones on the alarm but only the gate LED had been flashing on the controls.
Gill went back outside, called Dave’s name. Nothing. She swung the torch around, the cone of light travelling over the grass at the far side of the garden, picking out the white pips of the cherries below the tree. The birds had taken all the fruit. No sign of him out here.
The security lights snapped on as she crossed the patio and stepped on to the lawn. The light illuminated the lawn and shrubs but didn’t quite reach as far as the summerhouse. The garden was large, it went round the house on all four sides. It was something they’d asked for when they had the plans drawn up. The front of the house faced across the narrow road to the moors. The summerhouse at the rear caught the afternoon sun. It wasn’t used much these days, usually by Sammy, who would have mates round and set up camp out there, but even that had changed in recent months with the arrival on the scene of Orla. They had electricity out there but there was no glow of light from the mullioned windows.
She pointed the beam ahead of her and walked over the grass, damp with dew and spongy from the recent rain, to the summerhouse. One of the windows was broken; fragments of glass, uneven triangles, ringed the frame. She felt her heart pick up pace.
She shone the light and peered in, saw the camping chairs, folded leaning against the wall, the clutter of bats and sticks and racquets next to them and then Dave, prone on the sun-lounger, his face white in the gloom.
The door wasn’t quite closed and Gill caught the stink of vomit, high and sharp, as she pushed it open and stepped inside, saw by torchlight that his lips and chin were speckled with sick, there was a pool of it by his right cheek and a patch on that shoulder.
He was too still.
Fear zipped through her, heart thundering in her chest, blood pounding in her ears, half-formed thoughts, risk of choking, asphyxiation, major cause of accidental death.
‘Dave!’ she shouted at him. ‘Dave!’
No response.
In the dark she heard the harsh cries of the magpie from the guttering. Those calls he’d made, the ones she’d ignored earlier in the day, would this be happening now if she had answered? Would it have made any difference?
She crouched closer, ignoring the smell, slapped his other cheek, repeating his name. Her mind raced ahead, tripping up over what she might have to do, clear the airways, start chest compressions.
A second slap and he groaned.
‘Dave!’
His upper body jerked, he made a gargling sound and bucked, flung up an arm, his hand slamming into her nose and cheekbone, sending a sickening pain through her face.
She fell back, giddy with relief, blinked away tears and got to her feet. He was breathing, harsh rasping sounds, eyes closed. ‘Dave,’ she said.
He hadn’t a clue what he was doing. Pillock, stupid pillock. Trembling with adrenaline, she pulled her phone from her pocket and took a photograph of him in all his glory. Proof, should she need it.
She saw then that there was blood on his other arm, the left one, lots of blood.
‘Dave, wake up!’
His eyelids fluttered, opened, he struggled to focus.
‘Sit up, get up,’ she said.
He moaned as if complaining.
‘Sit up, now.’
With effort he hoisted himself up on his right elbow. Gill grabbed his feet and swung them round.
He closed his eyes again. His jacket was slashed, the left sleeve, he must have cut it reaching through the shattered pane to release the latch.
Gill pulled at the sleeve, raised it a few inches, did the same with his shirt sleeve. She saw the cut, a gash on the lower edge of his arm, three inches long. Deep, gaping and glistening with blood.
‘You need stitches,’ she said. She might have been able to clean it up and dress it but what if it became infected, if he got blood poisoning? Besides, it might not heal properly without professional medical care.
‘Dave?’
He murmured, she had no idea if he could understand her.
‘Take this off.’ She tugged at his jacket, she wasn’t going to take him anywhere covered in vomit. ‘Come on.’ It was like trying to undress a sleeping fifteen-stone toddler but eventually she wrested the jacket from him and left it on the floor.
Dave swayed gently on the lounger, opening his eyes sporadically.
‘You stupid dickhead,’ she said, ‘what do you think you’re playing at?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Stay there.’
In the house she collected a damp flannel and towel, a clean cloth and some water.