The Meating Room (31 page)

‘Who’s Aggie?’

‘Head of Special Ops.’

Magner’s mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. ‘You’re at it,’ he said.

‘You’d better hope I’m at it,’ Jessie said, ‘because if I’m not, you and your dickhead for a partner won’t be going anywhere soon, dog or no dog.’

Magner glared at her as she stepped towards him.

‘Let me have a look,’ she said. ‘What’ve you got to lose?’

‘Stay put.’ Magner’s knuckles whitened on the grip of the pistol.

Gilchrist felt a thud of fear in his gut. Whatever Jessie was up to, she was pushing Magner to the limit. It would not take much more pressure on his trigger finger to stop her in her tracks. ‘Jessie,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

Jessie snapped a look at Gilchrist, then back to Magner. ‘A big strong lad like you? Afraid of little old me? I don’t even have a gun,’ she said, and held out her hands to prove her point. ‘What’re you afraid of? That I might scratch your eyes out?’ She chuckled. ‘You should see your face,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you show me? I’ll keep my distance, I promise. I can’t be fairer than that.’

As Jessie edged closer, Magner backed off, a puzzled look on his face, as if undecided whether to shoot her or hear what she might say if he let her look at the monitor.

Then he stepped aside, still pointing the gun at her forehead. ‘Go ahead then.’

Jessie reached the monitor, pressed a key, and the screen shifted to a new quartet of webcam images. ‘I don’t see her,’ she said.

‘Step back,’ Magner ordered, and waited until Jessie backed up a couple of paces.

If Jessie was going to do anything, Gilchrist thought, she would do it now.

But Magner tapped the keyboard, said, ‘There she is,’ and stepped aside to let Jessie have another look. He glanced at Gilchrist, and received a blank stare in return.

‘Where’s that dickhead partner of yours?’ Jessie said.

‘Get on with it,’ Magner snapped.

Jessie peered at the screen. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘How do I zoom in?’

‘You don’t.’

Jessie shrugged. ‘Can’t help you then.’ She turned to walk away, but then stopped and returned to the screen. ‘Oh, now I think I know who it is,’ she said.

Gilchrist saw that Jessie had tricked Magner into half-trusting her. He was standing a little closer to the monitor, and as Jessie leaned towards the screen she slid a hand into her jacket pocket. By instinct, as if Jessie had explained it to him in advance, Gilchrist knew what he had to do.

‘Help me up,’ he shouted.

Magner glanced at Gilchrist, who had a hand outstretched for a pull up to his feet. The SIG Sauer wavered for a moment, as if Magner was undecided who to shoot first – Gilchrist or Jessie. And in that split-second of indecision, Jessie moved.

With a speed that surprised Gilchrist – and Magner, as it turned out – she slipped her hand from her pocket and squirted something into his eyes while her other hand struck out at his gun arm.

Gilchrist winced as Magner pulled the trigger – once, twice – the bullets ricocheting off the concrete wall over Jessie’s shoulder. Another couple of shots blasted at the ceiling, as Magner squealed in pain, one hand at his eyes, the other waving the gun.

The echo of the explosions reverberated back to them like rolls of thunder as Magner collapsed to the floor with a grunt and a thud that spreadeagled his body – Jessie had just hit him full in the face with one of the torches from the workbench. In a second she stood astride him, trapping his gun arm under one boot. But instead of cuffing him, she swung the torch at his face again. The splash of blood and the sound of tearing cartilage told Gilchrist she had broken Magner’s nose. One more hit for good measure cracked his jaw and knocked him unconscious.

‘Jesus, Jessie,’ Gilchrist gasped.

She turned to him then, and he saw nothing but raw fear in her eyes. Before he could reach her, she had both hands to her face and the torch clattered to the floor. Her shoulders shuddered, breath heaving, as she sobbed, ‘Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ—’

Gilchrist took hold of her, pulled her to him. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s okay.’ But he knew he had to act fast, and he pushed her away. ‘It’s Mhairi,’ he said.

That stopped Jessie mid-gasp. ‘What?’

‘At the cottage. That’s who Purvis is going to shoot.’

‘What about
him
?’ she said, glaring at Magner.

‘He’s not going anywhere,’ Gilchrist said, removing a pair of FlexiCuffs from his jacket. He cuffed Magner’s hands behind his back, and an ankle to the steel leg of the workbench. Next, he retrieved all three mobile phones from the bench and handed Jessie her Beretta. ‘I never saw that,’ he said, ‘and you never brought it,’ then picked up the torch from the floor.

‘We don’t have time,’ Jessie gasped. ‘We’ll never catch up with Purvis.’

‘We do, and we will.’ He powered up his mobile, nodded at the pepper spray in Jessie’s hand, and said, ‘Remind me never to fall out with you.’ Then he ran towards the entrance shaft.

He reached the metal rungs and clambered up, praying he was not too late. He pulled himself out of the shaft with a speed that surprised him – adrenaline will do that – and crouched on the floor of the anteroom. He clicked on the torch and shivered its beam over the bare walls and floor.

‘Give me a hand up, will you?’

He grabbed hold of Jessie’s hand, and tugged her from the shaft.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’m all puffed out.’

Gilchrist knew that Jessie was still in shock, that her heart and lungs would be working overtime to settle her system, which would take time. But they had no time. He eyed his mobile, and saw he now had a signal.

He found Mhairi’s number and pressed the phone to his ear. ‘Come on come on,’ he said, following Jessie from the anteroom, through the next small room, and into the barn. The noise from the generator was loud enough to shake bones, and he pressed a hand over his ear to block off the sound. The air smelled fresh, and felt cold enough to cut skin. He breathed it in as his sense of smell returned to him. ‘Come on, Mhairi, answer for crying out loud.’

For one insane moment, he thought of stepping outside and running across the fields to warn her. But Purvis was armed with a shotgun, and wearing night-vision goggles. Gilchrist could do nothing for Mhairi unless he reached her by phone. He watched Jessie’s beam dance across the walls as she searched for a light switch. ‘Call for back-up,’ he shouted and killed the call. He was about to try again when his blood froze at the snarling growl.

He tried to turn, but his legs seemed to have lost all connection with his brain.

By the light from his torch, his peripheral vision picked up movement as something dark rose from the shadows and powered towards him.

Just in time, reflexive instinct jerked his arm up to protect his face as the Rottweiler slammed into him with the momentum of a prop forward. His forearm felt as if a man-trap had snapped on to it, and he grunted in pain as his back hit the floor.

He could smell the dog’s hot breath, hear the primeval savagery in its snarls as its drool splattered his face, its jaws gnashing and tearing through his leather jacket and into the meat of his arm. Its back legs were scrabbling, claws tearing into his thighs, as it tried to surge forward for the kill. With his free arm, Gilchrist managed to grip the dog’s neck, fingers sinking into its short fur, and he tugged for all he was worth. But against the wild strength of an enraged Rottweiler he was barely holding off the attack, only delaying the inevitable.

If it released his arm and went for his throat, he stood no chance.

Then the barn lit up like a lightning strike.

The Rottweiler never noticed.

Gilchrist gasped, ‘Jessie,’ as he caught the firework crack of a gun and felt the thud of the bullet. The Rottweiler released his arm and turned its head to its flank, as if something had irritated it. Then it returned its attention to the task at hand and, with lips pulled back in a snarl that bared canines long and hard enough to crush bones, went for Gilchrist’s throat.

He had time only to cross his arms in front of his face.

Another firecracker popped.

The Rottweiler’s snarl turned to a pained whine.

Another pop.

Gilchrist felt the strength drain from the beast as its whine changed to a burbling growl, and its splattering drool turned pink.

Then Jessie’s boots were by his head, and he could only gasp for air as she pressed her Beretta to the dog’s head and pulled the trigger.

Not even a whine that time.

Gilchrist pushed the Rottweiler off him, rolled to his side, tried to catch his breath. His trousers were bloodied and ripped where the dog’s claws had dug in. The sleeve of his leather jacket could have been put through a shredder. He felt the warm stream of blood running the length of his forearm to drip from his fingers.

‘I’m scared to ask,’ Jessie said.

‘I’m scared to look.’ He gripped the torn sleeve and tried to staunch the flow of blood. From the amount dripping from his fingers, he knew the attack had not severed his radial or ulnar artery. He was losing blood, and in pain, but it could have been much worse.

‘Did you manage to call for back-up?’ he asked.

‘Battery’s flat,’ she said. ‘Forgot to charge it.’

Gilchrist glared at her. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’

‘It’s a woman thing.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Right. Okay. First things first. Are you any good at tourniquets?’

‘I used to be a Girl Guide.’

He pulled off his jacket to reveal a torn shirt sleeve soaked in blood, grabbed the material, and ripped most of it off. At first glance, his arm looked a mess, but he rubbed his hand over it and confirmed they were mostly flesh wounds. Just one, deeper than the rest, was pulsing blood.

‘Okay, Florence Nightingale. You’re on.’

Jessie did a fine job of making a tourniquet out of the remnants of his shirt sleeve. She assured him she did not want it too tight in case it stopped the blood flow to his fingers; just enough to stop the worst of the bleeding.

‘Where did you learn that?’ he asked.

‘You forget, I’m a mother, and mothers take care of their sons.’

He flexed his arm. It felt stiff and tight, but at least the tourniquet was doing its job. He pulled on his jacket, then said, ‘Let’s find my mobile.’

Jessie located it in less than thirty seconds – under the BMW, where it had slid from the impact of the Rottweiler’s attack. She handed it to him just as it rang.

He eyed the screen – Mhairi – and breathed a sigh of relief.

He made the connection and said, ‘Where are you, Mhairi?’

‘She’s with me,’ Purvis said. ‘Safe and sound.’

Gilchrist felt his strength leave him. The thought of what Purvis might do to Mhairi shocked him to the core. ‘We’ve cuffed Magner,’ he said. ‘It’s over. Don’t make it any worse for yourself.’

Purvis let out a demonic cackle. ‘Do you know what I’m going to do with her? With the lovely Mhairi?’ he said. ‘I’m going to set up a new studio, and Mhairi’s going to be my very first model.’

‘Listen to me, Jason,’ Gilchrist said, hoping that using the first name might help him get through to the man. ‘You can’t—’

‘She’ll make a fine model, too. She’s got lovely bone structure. And such a lovely face. I think she’ll look good on my—’

‘Listen to me. It’s over. You can’t escape.’ But words or reason were meaningless to a man like Purvis, so he changed tack. ‘Put Mhairi on. Let me speak to her.’

A pause. Then, ‘Say please.’

Gilchrist struggled for control, toying with the idea of just hanging up. But Mhairi’s life was at stake. ‘Please put Mhairi on,’ he said. ‘I won’t believe you haven’t harmed her until I speak to her.’

‘Well, believe this. The lovely Mhairi will make a perfect model, yeah?’

Purvis killed the call.

Gilchrist had no time to waste. He dialled Glenrothes HQ, requested ARVs – Armed Response Vehicles – and gave the address of the cottage. ‘It’s an emergency,’ he said. ‘We have one officer dead’ – his throat choked as he gave Stan’s full name – ‘and WPC Mhairi McBride is being held captive. The target is armed and will kill if cornered.’ He provided more details, requested an ambulance, then ended the call.

‘How long until they get here?’ Jessie asked.

‘They’ll send officers from Anstruther and North Street to close off the roads, but we’re looking at an hour – at the earliest – for the ARVs. So, until then, it’s just the two of us.’ Gilchrist shouldered open the barn door.

Together, they stepped outside.

The night air felt bitter cold, and smelled clean and fresh. In the distance, the lights from the cottage could have him believing all was well. Nothing stirred. Even the wind had died. Passing headlights momentarily lit up the Ford Focus parked to the side of the cottage.

It could be any normal Sunday night.

‘Do you think Mhairi’s tied up inside the cottage?’ Jessie asked.

Gilchrist stared into the night. It seemed a logical suggestion.

Where had Purvis been when he answered Mhairi’s mobile? Gilchrist thought back to the call, tried to remember what he had heard in the background. Nothing. Just Purvis’s voice, laughing like a lunatic, that demented cackle, and the echo on the line.

He searched for any movement in the cottage. The warm glow from the windows beckoned him inside.

But it was too calm, too natural, too still.

The echo on the line . . .

‘What’s up?’ Jessie asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Gilchrist said as he dialled Mhairi’s number. He continued to stare at the cottage while the connection was made, only for the automatic recording to kick in: ‘The person you are calling is unable to take your call.’

He tried again. Same result.

He slipped the mobile into his pocket and walked back inside the barn. The sight of the dead Rottweiler startled him. It lay on its side in a pool of blood, eyes open, tongue lolling. He stepped around it and headed for the internal door.

‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’ Jessie asked.

‘Mhairi’s phone’s not receiving.’

‘Purvis must have switched it off.’