Relics (30 page)

‘It won’t,’ he assured her, raising a hand for silence when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside the room. A second later Henry Dexter entered the room. He looked closely at his two young companions, particularly Laura, who was lying on the leather sofa with both legs drawn up to her chest, her face contorted.

‘She’s strung out,’ Gary said. ‘She needs some stuff now.’

Dexter eyed Gary for a moment and the youngster found that he couldn’t hold the older man’s gaze.

Laura moaned softly and rubbed at the crook of her left arm.

‘Please, Henry,’ she said, sucking in a sharp breath as she feigned a contraction that made her wince.

Like a doctor, the older man crossed to the sofa and sat down on the edge, looking at Laura impassively, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She squirmed beneath his gaze and closed her eyes in mock pain, waiting until he got up once more and crossed the room towards the wall safe where the heroin was kept. Gary edged closer to the mantelpiece, one eye on the ornamental dagger which hung above it.

‘Open it,’ he said, swallowing hard as Dexter turned to look at him.

The older man hesitated.

‘What would you do with all this heroin?’ he asked. ‘Sell it? Use it yourselves? And the money? How would you spend that?’

‘Just open the safe,’ snapped Gary.

Dexter grinned broadly.

‘Subtlety was never one of your strong points, was it, Gary?’ he said, the grin fading. ‘I wondered how long it would take for you to try this.’

Gary snatched the dagger from the wall and moved towards the older man.

‘Open that fucking safe now. I don’t want to hurt you but I will if I have to,’ he said.

Laura sat up and looked anxiously at the two men.

‘And if you kill me, who’s going to open the safe?’ Dexter asked, fixing the youth in a cold stare. ‘Put that knife down before I use it on
you
.’

Gary took another step forward, the blade glinting wickedly.

Dexter braced his foot against the coffee table nearby and kicked out, sending the object skidding towards Gary. It slammed into his shins, the suddenness of the assault causing him to lose balance. Dexter was on him in an instant, one hand grabbing for the knife.

Laura screamed as the two of them grappled. She leapt up off the sofa, moving towards the fireplace, her hand reaching for the poker which stood beside it.

Gary, despite being at a disadvantage, managed to turn the blade on his attacker and Dexter grunted as he felt the cold steel cut into his forearm. He slammed Gary’s hand down hard against the floor and the knife skidded from the youth’s grip. Blood from the cut ran down Dexter’s arm as he reached for the boy’s throat and fastened both hands around it, squeezing hard. Gary first gripped his assailant’s wrists and then, unable to relieve the pressure on his throat, struck out at Dexter’s face with a punch which sent him sprawling sideways. Gary leapt to his feet, his eye on the knife, but the older man swung his left foot and kicked the youth’s legs out from under him.

He fell forward heavily, cracking his head on the floor, stunned by the impact.

Dexter leapt on him, one knee pressed between the lad’s shoulder blades while he slipped both hands beneath his chin and tugged his head back. Gary could feel unbelievable pressure on his neck and spine and he actually felt the muscles tearing. Another moment or two and Dexter would break his spine.

Laura, galvanized into action by this sight, lunged forward and brought the poker down with bone-crushing force onto the back of Dexter’s head, opening a large gash on his scalp. The loud crack of bone filled the room and the older man sagged forward, collapsing onto Gary, who tried to roll free. Laura helped him shift the motionless form of Dexter and then supported him as he got to his feet. Gary took the poker from her and aimed a blow at the combination lock of the safe. The metal rod sang off it and vibrated in his hand, so he struck again. And again.

It wouldn’t budge.

Behind them, his head throbbing from the powerful blow, Dexter began to crawl towards the momentarily forgotten dagger.

Gary struck the safe again, desperation now aiding his efforts. Laura looked on anxiously, both of them too intent on their task to see that Dexter had reached the knife and was dragging himself upright.

Still the safe door would not give and Gary paused for a moment, his breath coming in gasps, the pain at the back of his neck growing with each movement.

It was Laura who heard the sounds from behind them.

She screamed as she saw Dexter run at Gary, his face a mask of rage.

The warning came too late and Gary turned only to take the knife-thrust in the stomach.

He felt as if he’d been punched, the wind knocked from him. Dexter dragged the blade free and drove it home with even greater ferocity, up under the boy’s sternum, feeling it grate against bone as he tugged the bloodied weapon out, ripping open the upper part of Gary’s torso in the process. He gripped his victim by the hair, powering more knife strokes home with ferocious strength.

Blood splattered the floor as Gary began to sag to his knees. As he fell, Dexter drove the knife forward once more. ‘The blade tore into his open mouth, slicing through gums and tongue before bursting from the base of his skull.

Laura screamed once more and jumped at Dexter, scratching at his eyes, forcing him to drop the knife. Her desperate fingers found the hilt and, with a blow that owed more to luck than judgement, she brought the knife down with terrifying force, driving it through Dexter’s left eye, pressing down on the hilt until she felt the blade puncture the floor beneath.

The dying man screamed in agony and writhed helplessly, held firm by the blade through his eye, blood shooting from the wound like crimson rain.

She collapsed, sobbing, between the two bodies, looking up at the door of the safe.

It had swung open, revealing the money and the heroin inside.

Laura smiled bitterly through her sobs, looking at the bags of white powder, smelling the stench of death all around her.

Seconds later, she heard the loud knocking on the front door.

As Wallace swung the Sierra around the corner of the road he could see the police car already parked across the entrance to the field leading up to the archaeological site.

One of the two uniformed men was caught in the glow of the Sierra’s headlamps as he stood urinating into the long grass.

Neither Kim nor Wallace paid him any heed.

The nearest of the two policemen crossed to Wallace’s car and looked in at the inspector.

‘How long have you been here?’ the inspector asked.

‘A couple of minutes, sir,’ Buchanan told him.

‘Right. Follow me up to the site. Get that bloody car out of the way.’ He jabbed a finger at the panda car and Buchanan signalled to his colleague, Kendall, to move it. The constable reversed leaving a clear path.

‘A message just came through from the other car,’ Buchanan said. ‘They found Dexter in his house. He’d been killed.’

Wallace chewed his lip contemplatively, listening as Buchanan recounted the details. Then the inspector nodded and pressed down on his accelerator.

‘Follow me,’ he instructed and the constable sprinted back to the waiting police car.

Both vehicles skidded over the uneven ground, the wheels of the Sierra spinning as they reached the crest of the rise. The headlamps cut through the darkness, illuminating the rope barrier which was around the entrance to the shaft.

Wallace swung himself out of the car, snatching a torch from the glove compartment in the process. Kim joined him along with the two uniformed men.

‘Kendall, you stay up top,’ Wallace said. ‘If we’re not back here in thirty minutes you’d better get help.’

Kim took the policeman’s torch from him and looked at Wallace.

‘I’m going with you,’ she said determinedly.

Wallace thought about protesting but finally merely nodded his agreement. He turned towards the rope ladder which dropped away into the black abyss.

‘Thirty minutes,’ said Kendall, checking his watch.

Wallace nodded.

They began to descend.

It was 11:32.

The torch beam was swallowed up by the murky blackness, unable to penetrate the tenebrous depths for more than a few feet.

Wallace finally switched it off, jamming it into his belt, leaving two hands free to grip the rope ladder. He shivered as he climbed down, the icy air searing his throat, filling his chest so that it was difficult to breathe. He moved with agonizing slowness, as if unable to coax any more speed out of his legs. Already he felt as if he’d run twenty miles. His muscles were throbbing with the effort of the climb although, he guessed, they couldn’t have been on the ladder more than a couple of minutes.

Above him, moving just as cautiously, Kim and Buchanan clambered downward.

The inspector gritted his teeth. Trying to push through the darkness was like fighting against a solid object. He grunted loudly, the sound bouncing back off the walls of the shaft. He pulled the torch from his belt and shone it down into the depths.

The beam glinted off something metallic and he realized that they had almost reached the bottom.

He tried to move quicker but the effort was beyond him.

The air itself seemed thick and oppressive. Unclean, he thought.

As he reached the bottom a particularly noxious odour reached him for the first time, a dank, cloying stench which seemed to float about like invisible tendrils, filling his nostrils and lungs until he thought he was going to be sick.

Kim jumped down beside him. Then the two of them were joined by Buchanan who also coughed as he drew breath and smelled the rank scent.

‘What the hell is that?’ he croaked, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his face. But even the fabric couldn’t mask the fetor, such was its intensity.

Wallace shone his torch over the floor of the shaft, the beam picking out many relics left behind by the archaeologists. Spears, swords, torcs, the odd piece of pottery.

But there was something which
didn’t
belong.

On the tall pointed stake which formed the centrepiece of the pit was a piece of fabric. Clean and new.

Wallace pulled it free and turned it over in his palm.

It was brushed cotton.

The sort of fabric that might be used to make a child’s dressing gown or similar garment.

Kim took the fragment from him, her hand shaking slightly.

She said nothing, merely followed Wallace as he advanced towards the first tunnel entrance, his torch cutting a path through the blackness.

The smell remained as strong as ever.

They moved quickly, sure-footedly through the tunnel until they came to a fork.

The two tunnels yawned like hungry mouths and Wallace exhaled deeply, his breath forming a white fog in the freezing air.

‘We should split up,’ said Kim.

‘No,’ Wallace whispered. ‘If the murderer
is
down here we’re better off together.’

‘But it could take all night to search these tunnels. We haven’t got all night,’ Kim reminded him, clutching the piece of fabric. ‘I know these tunnels. Let me search that one.’ She pointed to the stone corridor on the right.

Wallace shook his head.

‘Buchanan.
You
search it. If you find anything, shout. If you hear me, then come running. Meet us back here in twenty minutes.’

The young constable swallowed hard, his face, already drained of colour, looked sickly yellow in the reflected beam of the torch. He hesitated a moment, then nodded uncertainly and headed for the opening. Wallace watched as his torch beam slowly disappeared, consumed by the darkness.

‘Come on,’ he whispered to Kim, and they too pressed on, down the left-hand tunnel.

Wallace had his right hand outstretched, feeling his way along the walls. He suddenly recoiled as his fingers slipped into something wet and slimy. The putrescent moss stuck to the policeman’s fingers like noxious porridge. The stench was unbelievable. They moved on, treading carefully now over piles of bones and more relics.

There was another tunnel immediately to the left.

An icy breeze was blowing from it, further lowering the already sub-zero temperatures in the tunnels. Wallace was convinced, anyway, that it must be below freezing. His hands and face felt numb and he only forced himself to continue walking by a supreme effort of will.

He passed the tunnel entrance, the torch flickering as he reached the other side.

‘Shit,’ he murmured, shaking the light, cursing when the bulb failed completely, plunging them into total blackness.

‘Kim,’ he whispered. ‘Give me your torch.’

No answer.

‘Kim.’

The silence was as total as the gloom.

He reached out a hand behind him, trying to touch her.

His fingers clutched only empty air.

The policeman banged his torch on the tunnel wall, and to his surprise it came back on, flooding the narrow stone passageway with light, momentarily driving back the dark. He turned and shone the torch behind him.

Kim had gone.

He was alone in the tunnel.

It was then that he heard the sound ahead of him.

For interminable seconds Wallace froze, unsure of what to do.

Should he go back and look for Kim?

The muffled sound from ahead came again, distracting him once more.

He frowned, trying to make out what the sound was. It was muted. A soft, almost asthmatic wheezing punctuated by low moans.

‘Kim,’ he whispered again, shining the torch into the secondary tunnel. She must have stepped down there. She’d told him she knew the network of underground walkways. Perhaps she knew a quicker route.

But to where?

The children?

The murderer?

Wallace shuddered and moved on, the sound ahead of him growing louder, then suddenly dying away. Only the silence remained. He paused again, his heart thudding just that little bit faster, then, gripping the heavy torch like a weapon, he moved on.