The Meating Room (29 page)

‘Turn around.’

Jessie wondered why he was so insistent when he could see her clearly. The only logical answer was that he was going to shoot her. She tried to reason with him. ‘My son’s deaf,’ she said. ‘He needs me.’

‘I said turn around.’

‘Please.’

‘Last chance.’

Jessie swallowed the lump in her throat, and shuffled around. Every nerve in her body was jumping, while her mind tried to reassure her that she was not about to die. The sound of shoes – or boots – crunching over the dust and dirt sent a wild flash of panic through her and her heart into overdrive, thudding in her chest like some caged animal kicking to free itself.

She did not want to die.

Leather scraped concrete.

Closer now. Too close. As if . . .

The footsteps stopped.

Silence, save for the rush of her breath and the frenzied beating of her heart.

She could feel his presence now, sense he was leaning closer.

Making sure he could not miss—

Her world exploded in a blast of white light.

Gilchrist tilted his head to the ceiling. To his side, Stan stirred from unconsciousness with a long groan, as if he had caught it too – the momentary stutter of the generator’s engine in the barn above, which caused the lights in the basement to flicker.

‘We have company,’ Purvis announced.

Gilchrist risked taking another hit from the shotgun’s stock by turning his head and saying, ‘Magner?’

Purvis smiled down at him. ‘Clever you.’

As Gilchrist’s mind flashed back to that first interview with Magner, the cut on the base of the thumb, the question – you’re left-handed? – he saw where he had made the most basic of errors, stunned into silence that not one of them had picked up on it. CCTV footage of the Highland Hotel – on the night Brian McCulloch was seated in his Jag in Tentsmuir Forest, supposedly committing suicide after having murdered his entire family – and Magner standing in the hallway outside the conference room, about to enter, mobile phone in hand, powering it down – and all of it done with his mobile in his left hand, while he prodded at the keypad with his right.

‘You stood in for him,’ he said.

Purvis cocked his head, a silent question in his eyes.

‘The conference in the Highland Hotel. It wasn’t Magner. It was you that night.’

Purvis grimaced as he stared down at Gilchrist, as if deciding whether to hit him with the stock of the shotgun again, or blast him with both barrels. It took him two seconds to choose the former, and he stepped forward and thudded the gun into Gilchrist’s face.

Gilchrist had time only to turn away, take the blow to the side of the head. Even so, the hit sent a flash of light through his brain, and he grunted with surprise as the concrete floor rose up to meet his face with a grit-laden slap.

The next second – well, it felt as if it was the next second, although he failed to see how he had missed Magner’s entrance – Gilchrist rolled on to his back, confused for a moment as to where Purvis had gone. The skin by his left eye felt thick and sticky to the touch, as he struggled to focus. Another dab at the side of his head had him wincing with pain, trying to gauge the extent of the wound through hair clotted with blood and dust. And Jessie was here, too, seated on the concrete floor beside Stan, their backs to the wall. He struggled to push himself upright, which caused Magner to stride towards him, and glare down at him.

‘You’re a silly man,’ Magner said. ‘Persistent, I have to give you full marks for that, but silly.’

If Gilchrist could have spoken, he would have agreed. Silly sounded about right. He had been silly not to arrest the bastard sooner; silly not to see how the resemblance between Magner and Purvis was crucial to the case; silly to have led Stan and Jessie into this basement. He would have agreed with all of that, but his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth, and all he could do was shake his head in silent acknowledgement of his abject silliness.

Magner held up a mobile, which Gilchrist recognised as his own. ‘Been looking through all your Call Logs, and it’s good to see that not one of you called for back-up.’

Oh, that, too. He was silly for not calling for back-up; silly to think that he and Stan could have gone it all alone. But not silly, really, when you thought about it. Just stupid.

Downright fucking stupid.

‘We didn’t need to call for back-up,’ Gilchrist said, working spittle into his mouth, ‘because they already know where we are.’

‘Really?’

‘If we don’t check in, they’ll send uniforms to the cottage. They’re probably already on their way.’

‘On a Sunday night?’ Magner sounded incredulous.

‘Never heard of twenty-four/seven?’ Jessie said. ‘That’s the constabulary for you.’

‘Every day a working day. Is that it?’ Magner’s smile evaporated the instant his lips curled.

The clanging of metal on metal had everyone turning their heads towards the access ladder. Light shone through the shaft, revealing Purvis working his way down, rung by rung, into the basement.

Gilchrist counted twenty-seven steps from the foot of the ladder to Purvis standing in front of him, and noticed for the first time that he was dressed in camouflage gear. Magner, on the other hand, was wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a red tie. A matching handkerchief poked from his top pocket.

Purvis took one step closer to Gilchrist.

The kick to his chest took Gilchrist by surprise, the power behind it staggering. For one frightening moment his world turned black again, and he thought his heart had stopped.

‘
That
’s for killing Bruce,’ Purvis gasped.

Gilchrist’s system came to with a grunt. He sucked in air and winced from the fresh pain.

‘Bruce was one of Jason’s dogs,’ Magner explained.

‘I thought psychos didn’t like pets,’ Jessie quipped. ‘Cruelty to animals, and all that.’

Purvis gave her a look that could have boiled the air between them. But Magner raised his hand and Purvis took a couple of steps back, distancing himself from Jessie, as if not trusting his right boot. If looks could speak, Purvis was telling Jessie just how high over the crossbar he was going to punt her.

‘You’ve put us in a dilemma,’ Magner said. ‘What should we do with you?’

‘I know what to fucking do with them,’ Purvis countered. ‘Turn them into dog food.’

Another raised hand from Magner shut Purvis down, and told Gilchrist who was in charge. But he also knew that no matter who was pulling the strings, the situation could end only one way, with one of them – likely Purvis – pulling the trigger.

He glanced into the darkness, where the lights failed to reach, at sarcophagal chambers that resembled square mouths to dark caves, in each of which dangled skeletal wire-mesh cages that housed human artefacts. Or, as Gilchrist’s numbed mind came to understand, symbolic tokens from each kill, prizes to be treasured or fondled, through which the killer – read
killers
– could relive that glorious moment of ultimate pleasure, when they watched the light of life in each of their victims flicker, then die.

Purvis turned to the workbench and reached for something. When he turned back, the sight of the shotgun turned Gilchrist’s blood to ice.

‘My son needs me,’ Jessie pleaded.

‘You should’ve thought of that before you became a cop,’ Purvis said, shouldering the gun.

This time, Magner did not raise his hand. Instead, he reached for the gun and pushed the barrels down so they pointed at the floor. ‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ he said.

Purvis almost sulked, like a child being told he could not watch TV, and Gilchrist realised that Magner wanted to talk. He needed to know how much they knew, how close they had come to nailing him for the McCulloch massacre.

Of course, asking questions could work both ways.

‘How’s your hand?’ Gilchrist asked.

Magner frowned, but said nothing.

‘How did you kill Janice?’

Magner narrowed his eyes. ‘Interesting question,’ he said. ‘
How?
Not
why
?’

‘I know why,’ Gilchrist said. ‘She had seen too much. She was going to talk. She was the weak link between you and McCulloch. And after we questioned her, she called you up in a panic.’

‘And . . .?’

‘Well, I have to admit I’m guessing here, but I’d say you arranged to meet her, maybe even drove behind her and gave her a last-minute phone call to tell her to pull into the side of the road so you could talk where no one could overhear you. Maybe you opened your car door to invite her to cross the road, but you were really just timing it right so your guard-dog there’ – Gilchrist nodded at Purvis – ‘could run her down. And that makes you an accessory even if—’

‘Who the fuck’re you calling a guard-dog?’

Again, Magner raised his hand. ‘Sticks and stones, Jason. Really, you must learn to control that temper of yours.’

‘Ah, fuck.’ Purvis stepped back, raised his shotgun and aimed it at Gilchrist’s face.

Jessie screamed.

The sudden noise of both barrels releasing thudded through the basement like a solid wave that shocked Gilchrist’s body like a punch. If Magner hadn’t swatted at the shotgun, Gilchrist’s head would have been blasted from his shoulders. As it was, the tight formation of pellets made a ten-inch crater in the wall to the side of his head, scattering fragments of concrete over his hair and shoulders like confetti.

The noise reverberated through the basement like a war beat.

Magner took hold of the shotgun and jerked it from Purvis’s grip.

They faced each other in a silent stand-off that seemed to last minutes, but was no more than a few seconds. If the shotgun had still been loaded, Gilchrist was convinced one of them would have blasted both barrels at the other.

Then he caught a hint of movement by his side, and turned his head to catch Jessie fumbling with an ankle holster.

Purvis shouted, ‘Ah, fuck,’ and pushed Magner to the side. He was on Jessie in four athletic steps, just as she retrieved the Beretta from its holster and pulled the trigger.

In the tight chamber, the shot from the .22 echoed like a cannon firing.

Purvis cursed – a guttural grunt that sounded like a wild animal being hit – but his momentum carried him forward and he lashed out at Jessie’s arm, sending the gun flying.

Gilchrist was on his feet at the same time as Stan, but his world had the disconcerting feeling of having its axis tilted in the wrong direction. He stumbled to the side and landed on the concrete floor with a heavy thud that punched the wind from him.

And Stan, as if realising that the shotgun was now out of ammunition, tried to catch Jessie’s gun as it bounced off the wall. He almost had it, but fumbled trying to take hold of the grip, and it skittered to the floor.

Purvis toppled over Jessie, his hands scrabbling for her gun, too.

But Stan was too fast for him. He reached Jessie’s gun, which seemed to go off without him pulling the trigger.

Stan froze, eyes white.

Magner said, ‘The next one won’t miss.’

Purvis groaned, pushed himself to his knees, his face twisted in an ugly grimace that could have destroyed any suggestion that he and Magner, with his pretty hardman looks, were in any way related. He stretched for Jessie’s gun.

‘Leave it.’

Purvis glared at Magner.

‘You can’t be trusted with guns, Jason,’ Magner explained. ‘Now get to your feet and let’s have a look at that arm of yours.’

From his position on the concrete floor, Gilchrist watched the scene unfold before him as if in slow motion . . .

Purvis reached up to Magner, hand outstretched for help to his feet, leaving Jessie’s gun abandoned on the floor; Stan, still on his knees, glanced at Gilchrist who, even in that fleeting moment, read the intention from the desperation in Stan’s eyes and tried to warn him off by shaking his head. As Purvis was pulled upright, Stan reached for the Beretta, his fingers working around the grip and through the trigger guard.

Magner aimed his pistol and shot him.

Stan hit the floor like a dead weight.

Jessie gasped a scream, then pressed a hand hard to her mouth, tears squeezing through clenched eyelids.

Gilchrist groaned, and tried to say, ‘Stan,’ but the word came out flat and lifeless.

Magner said, ‘I told him the next one wouldn’t miss.’

Gilchrist struggled to his feet, aware of Magner’s eyes on him, his every move covered by a gun – a Sig Sauer P250, he thought, although he never had been the best at identifying pistols.

‘You’ve killed him,’ Gilchrist said.

‘I have indeed,’ Magner agreed. ‘So why don’t you sit next to Miss Piggy while I attend to Jason here?’

Gilchrist felt too exhausted to resist. His body could have been drained of blood. He sat beside Jessie – more collapsed than sat – and placed an arm around her shoulder in a vain attempt to still the tremors that jumped through her body like electric shocks. Her head seemed to fall on to him, and her breath jerked in shivering sobs until he placed a hand over her eyes and turned her face to his chest, away from the morbid stare of Stan’s sightless eyes.

Stan lay less than six feet from them, body motionless, blood pooling around his face. His blond hair above his right temple glistened with a mixture of brains and blood.

Gilchrist had to close his eyes, but images of himself and Stan flickered through his mind in stroboscopic strikes. He struggled to blank them out, but his mind fired through the logic, until a sudden realisation hit him.

‘You’re shutting up shop,’ he said.

Magner looked up from Purvis’s arm, which was leaking blood.

‘That’s why you’re here,’ Gilchrist continued. ‘You’re getting ready to leave.’

Purvis glanced at Magner, who shook his head as if to suggest Gilchrist’s conclusion was pure fantasy.

‘Didn’t he tell you?’ Gilchrist said to Purvis.

Silence.

‘Was it meant to be a surprise? Sorry. Have I ruined it for you?’

Silence.

‘You knew it was only a matter of time until we found this place,’ Gilchrist pressed on. If he could have raised his arm and cast it around him in an expansive gesture, he would have. But his head ached with a pain that had his left eye wincing and his logic firing in fits and starts. Even so, ideas flickered and held for a moment before fading away, none of them bringing him any closer to finding a way out of their hopeless predicament.