‘No way,’ says Burgess. ‘Thom is hard line. He ain’t gonna blink on this one. These sons of bitches can wait as many years as they want, he still ain’t going to negotiate with them.’
106
Any moment now the target will appear.
He will be white, thirty to forty-five, and will perfectly fit Megan’s psychological profile. She just knows he will.
The DI is parked across the street from a big-windowed shop in Tidworth, her eyes never leaving the area beneath a sign boldly proclaiming: ‘Matt Utley. Master Butcher.’ Once she’s got a good ID on him, she’ll get a search warrant and turn his house over. See if there’s any clothing to match the snagged samples found at the Chase estate in Tollard Royal. Or maybe tools that serial-match those recovered from the kit bag he left behind.
It’s eight-thirty and she’s been sitting patiently for an hour. Her mind wanders for a moment, back to her renewed relationship with her ex-husband. Everything seems to be going well. Adam spent last night at her house — their old house — and this morning Sammy skipped in with a smile as big as a slice of melon.
At eight-forty a man jogs across the road right in front of her, opens the shop door and turns on all the lights. She watches him pull on a red-and-white-striped apron and busy himself behind worktops and freezer counters. He’s in his early twenties, she guesses. Not her target. Just after nine he flips a sign in the door window to declare the place open. She waits a while longer. At nine-thirty, Megan gets out of the car, pulls out her pocket book and wanders in.
A brass bell dings as she opens and shuts the door. She doesn’t wait for a greeting. ‘I’m Eileen Baxendale. Council rates review unit.’ She puts pen to paper. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Carl, Carl Pringle.’ He seems totally flummoxed. ‘I don’t know nothing about the rates.’
‘You don’t? Well, who does?’ She looks around pointedly.
‘You need to speak to Matt. Mr Utley. The owner. I just work for him.’
‘And when can I do that?’
‘He isn’t coming in today. Said I was in charge.’
‘He’s sick?’
‘Didn’t say. Just said I was to run the place and he’d call me later.’
She has enough information to find Utley. He will be on the electoral role, registered with the tax and health authorities. There is little point grilling the kid for any other scraps. ‘Okay, I’ll come back later in the week.’ The bell dings again as she leaves.
On the journey back to HQ, she phones in her requests for background checks on her missing butcher. With any luck they’ll be on her computer by the time she gets in.
When she walks into the CID room, Jimmy Dockery greets her with a sheet of paper and a smile. ‘I’ve been to the labs. Look at this.’
He slaps the forensic report down on her desk, points at a crucial part and summarises: ‘The field near the burned-out barn was covered in minute particles of human debris.’
Her eyes widen. ‘You got the dogs out there?’
He laughs. ‘No, not dogs. Something even better. This is going to sound insane but I read about German detectives using buzzards to search for corpses. So when I couldn’t get ground radar or sniffer dogs, I contacted an exotic bird expert and he had two Turkey vultures fly the field we visited.’ He proudly taps the report again. ‘This is what he came up with.’
Megan is impressed. She reads from the microbiologist’s paper: ‘Samples of soil were tested and contained human traces. All identified DNA was that of a single individual.’
‘You said Tony Naylor was in that field, boss. You were right.’
She forces herself to be cautious. ‘Let’s make sure it is Naylor before we tell anyone. Try to get a familial DNA match via blood from his sister or parents. Check the national database to see if we ever tested him in connection with an offence.’ She thinks of something else. ‘Oh, and get the landowner interviewed, I sure as hell want to know how he came to be crop spraying with human remains.’
107
Gideon leaves the Sanctuary in the same way he entered it. Hooded, cuffed and driven in the back of a plain looking builder’s van.
After twenty minutes the vehicle lurches off-road and stops. Its back doors creak open and he hears birdsong spill in from outside. It’s still early morning. Pre-rush hour. The floor beneath him dips as someone climbs in, swings his feet around and pulls him by the ankles across the van floor. They dangle his feet outside the vehicle, sit him upright and pull the cloth sack from his head.
It’s not Dave Smithsen staring into his face. It’s the man who almost killed him. The one who left him for dead in his father’s burning study. Gideon’s eyes drift down to the man’s hands. There, on a small finger, is the distinctive signet ring that opened up the wound on his face. Behind the man is what looks like deserted woodland. The perfect place for a grave to be dug and a body to be hidden.
Smithsen walks into view and is smiling. ‘This is Musca and from now on you will know me only as Draco. You will treat us both like long lost brothers. Either that or we’ll kill you. It’s your choice.’
Musca pulls a gun from the seat of his trousers, presses the barrel hard into Gideon’s forehead. ‘I don’t mind which.’
Draco sits casually on the back ledge of the van and puts an arm around Gideon in a gesture of mock chumminess. ‘One of our rules is secrecy. Enforced secrecy, if you get my meaning. And the Master relies on Musca and me to enforce it.’ He squeezes Gideon. ‘If you live, then you live by the rules. On no account do you speak about the Craft, the Followers or the Sacreds to any non-members. Ever. You don’t telephone us. You don’t turn up at our houses or our businesses. You never contact us. We contact you. If we call you on the phone, you don’t mention your name or our names. You use the name that you will be given, should you be initiated. You use that name at all times. Don’t forget these things. If they slip your mind, my friend’s finger might slip too.’
Musca’s eyes dance and he pushes the gun harder against Gideon’s skull. ‘Boom.’
Draco gets to his feet. ‘Put him in the front, then you can go.’
Musca guides Gideon around to the passenger’s door, helps him into the cab, slams the door and heads to a Mercedes parked nearby. The indicators flash orange as he zaps the central locking.
Draco talks as he starts up the van and drives. ‘Here’s how it goes. I take you home and stay with you while you collect these books that your father has written. You hand them over to me and I return you to the Master. It is that simple.’
‘Then you should be able to manage it, shouldn’t you?’
Draco laughs. ‘You and I need to get some things straight. The Inner Circle voted a few hours ago on your initiation. The Master’s vote carried it. One vote. That’s all. So listen rather than talk. All right?’ His eyes flash menace. ‘For the next twenty-four hours you are my responsibility. I will deliver you to the Master’s knife and hammer. If you survive the initiation, mine will be the first face that you will see. From that point on, I own your loyalty. You do what I say, when I say, how I say. Do you understand?’
Gideon can see he’s riled. ‘Clear as day. You’re acting tough but really you’re just the Master’s messenger boy. You don’t do anything unless he tells you.’
Draco hits the brakes. The van skids to a halt and the engine stalls. He throws a meaty right-hander into Gideon’s face, cannoning his head into the side window. Gideon tries to fend him off with an arm but Draco is already out of his seat, raining blows down on his head and face.
The beating lasts less than ten seconds. Draco holds him by the neck in iron-like fingers and delivers one final blow. The most painful one of all. ‘Remember this, Mr Smartmouth, when we’re alone, I am your master. I own you. I was ready to kill your father and I’m more than ready to kill you.’