Every Last Devil: A Chilling British Crime Thriller, page 17
“So you are,” said the man. “Can’t be too careful these days. Plenty of shits around here that will rob you blind if you’re not paying attention.”
“My name’s DCI Kett. This is DI Porter. You’re Robert Flack?”
“What’s left of him,” said Flack, gesturing to his legs. Kett realised he couldn’t see the man’s feet even beneath the hem of the blanket. “How can I help?”
“Don’t suppose we could come in?” asked Kett, the sun a blowtorch against the back of his head.
Flack seemed to think about it for a moment, running a dry tongue over drier lips. He angled his head back into the house like he was waiting for a silent permission, then he nodded.
“Can’t have you passing out on my doorstep,” he said. “Careful not to let any of the furry buggers out.”
He rolled away to let them through, the cat watching them with enormous yellow eyes. Kett stepped through the door, instantly embraced by the cool touch of the old building. Ahead was a stone-floored hallway with a staircase in the centre of it. Five open doors led into big rooms, the last of these right at the end of the corridor. It was here that Flack gestured.
“Might as well use the kitchen,” he said. “I can fix you up a drink. Don’t have much. Coke?”
“Water would be appreciated,” said Kett. “If it’s no trouble.”
They followed Flack into a kitchen that looked too big to fit inside the building, maybe eight metres wide and just as long. Sunshine gushed through angled skylights, filling the room like a pool. Two more cats basked on a sofa near the door, a third on the low counter that greeted them with a soft chirrup.
“Nice place,” said Porter.
Kett stared out of the French doors, the garden even bigger than he’d first thought. The land had been left to meadow, and past the ocean of grass and flowers, Kett could see the top of the barn.
“This all yours?” he asked.
“The garden, yes,” said Flack, following his line of sight. “The equestrian facility, no. I sold them the land after… When I couldn’t tend to it anymore. I don’t have any dealings with them.”
“You were in the military?” asked Kett.
Flack laughed bitterly.
“I was, a long time ago. Came out in one piece, too, if you can believe it.”
Kett waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He deftly crossed the room in his wheelchair, collecting two glasses from a cupboard and carrying them to the sink. Everything in the kitchen had been lowered so that he could access it. Even the oven looked custom-made. He set the drinks on the island, and Kett picked one up with a grateful nod. He could feel the water crackling down his dry throat, a cool explosion in his belly.
“Thanks,” he said, returning the empty glass. “Needed that.”
“This weather is a beast,” said Flack. “No class.”
He backed his chair to the window, gesturing to the sofa and its collection of cats.
“Don’t mind them. Sit. Tell me how I can help.”
Kett had been planning to stand, but a pang of agony in his back made him reconsider. He didn’t trust himself to be able to get up from the sofa itself, so he perched on the arm, gritting his teeth until the worst of the agony had passed. Porter dumped himself into the middle of the sofa with enough force to catapult both cats to the floor. One ran off, the other leapt straight onto his lap. He petted it, the sound of its purr like a diesel generator.
“Have you seen the news today, Mr Flack?” asked Kett.
“Robert, please,” he replied, slipping his dark glasses back on. They weren’t full tint, the shape of his eyes visible through the dull brown lenses. He had a couple of scars on his face, too, a nasty one that seemed to form a perfect curl around his ear. More disappeared into the collar of his shirt. “And no. I haven’t. Trouble?”
“You could say that.” Kett took a breath. “This morning a group of teenagers were attacked inside a ruined church in a place called East Somerton, up on the coast. One of the women was kidnapped by the attacker.”
Flack’s face didn’t so much as flinch.
“We also found a dead man inside the same church. He was killed a few days ago, and his head was used as some kind of… totem. It had been defiled.”
Still no reaction. Kett wasn’t sure if any of it was sinking in.
“Our last sighting of the missing girl was in the boot of a car this morning. The car was a silver VW Passat, registered to a woman called Bianca Caddel.”
Flack exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath. It was almost a sigh of relief.
“You’re here because of Bianca,” he said.
“You know her?”
“I do. I did.”
“A friend?” Kett prompted. “Partner? Co-worker? How?”
“All of those things, I suppose, at one point or another,” said Flack. “We were engaged to be married, many years ago. Before she lost her mind.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Kett stared at him until he got the message.
“She’s a complicated woman, Bianca. I’ve known her nearly three decades and I think I only scratched the surface. You ever met somebody who doesn’t play by the rules? Doesn’t even try? That’s her. Free as a bird, and I used to admire her for it, because one day she’d be renting a cottage by the river doing watercolour paintings, the next—literally, the next—she’d be on a plane to Myanmar, or Angola, or wherever, joining in some bloody revolution. And a few months after that she’d knock on your door like she hadn’t been gone a second.”
He shook his head, his expression almost wistful.
“Of course, you don’t bed down with a woman like that. You don’t hang your hopes on her, or your heart. Found that out the hard way.”
“When was the last time you saw her, Robert?” asked Kett.
“Going on three years,” he said without hesitation. He didn’t follow it with anything, even though Kett left the awkward silence going for almost ten seconds.
“You haven’t heard from her at all in that time?”
“You’d think she’d send a card or something, wouldn’t you? We’ve been through a lot, she and I. Like I said, Bianca’s a free spirit. When she’s with you, she’ll make you feel like you’re the only thing that matters. When she leaves, she’ll make you feel worse than death.”
“Can you tell us about the land that Bianca owns, near Horning? The field. There was planning permission for a house there, latest application back in 2019. The application was in your name, as well as hers.”
Flack’s top lip curled up in a snarl, revealing crooked teeth.
“We were going to build a house together,” he said. “Build a life. Felt too good to be true, and it was. She never let it happen, even after… even after…”
He stared at the cat on his lap, scratching at the scars on his neck like he was trying to erase them. Kett saw a river of emotion in the man, churning just beneath the surface. He felt like a grenade, the pin pulled, the explosion imminent.
“Tell me about the bunker,” Kett said. “It wasn’t part of the planning.”
“The what?” said Flack.
“The Cold War bunker in the field. Three rooms, accessed by a shaft with a ladder.”
“What are you on about?” he said. “There’s no house, let alone a fucking bunker.”
He didn’t seem to be lying.
“Do you mind if I have a quick look around while you’re talking, Mr Flack?” asked Porter, trying to push the cat off his lap so that he could get up. A look from the other man knocked him down again.
“You’re lucky I let you this far,” he said, another snarl. “I’m happy to show you the door.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Kett. “But it would be handy to have a photo of Bianca, if you have one. They’re surprisingly hard to find.”
“She’s surprisingly hard to capture,” said Flack. “I may have one or two lying about, I’d need to look for them.”
“Even though she meant the world to you?” said Kett.
“You don’t keep mementoes of the things you’ve lost,” said Flack. “What purpose do they serve other than a painful reminder of what pissed off and left you?”
“Then let me show you something,” he said.
Kett pulled his phone from his pocket and found a photo he’d taken that morning of the image on Aggie Clegg’s camera. The woman who’d attacked the teenagers was little more than a blur on the screen, her mouth screaming, her eyes dark pits. Even here, in this floodlit kitchen, Kett felt the chill creeping into his bones, goosebumps ridging his arms again.
He turned the phone to Flack, who had to lean forward in his wheelchair. He slid his glasses up, replacing them with the other set.
“Is this Bianca?” asked Kett.
Flack didn’t answer. He was staring at the image with an unnerving intensity—something that bordered on fear.
“This is the thing that attacked those children?” he asked.
“Not thing, Robert. It’s a woman. Is it Bianca?”
This time, Flack laughed, a brittle, bitter sound. He still didn’t take his eyes away from the photograph. His lips were shaping words that Kett couldn’t make out, something frantic.
“Robert,” he said, pushing the phone closer. “Answer my question.”
Flack’s whisper grew in volume, filling the kitchen like the susurration of distant birds until, with a sudden snap of his head, he raised the volume of his voice.
“You found a head,” he said, spraying flecks. “Defiled? Let me guess, black beans in the orifices, a reek of brandy, the mark of…”
“Morail,” said Kett, the word like a bullet in his mouth, louder than he had any intention of making it. The cat leapt off Flack’s lap, skittering across the smooth floor. Porter’s followed, both of them bolting into the hallway.
Kett’s hand was shaking with the effort of holding the phone, but he didn’t pull it away.
“Is this her?”
“I can’t say,” said Flack. “But I’m going to tell you this, and you need to listen. As hard as it is for you to do this, you need to walk away.”
“Walk away?” said Kett, almost laughing.
“Walk away,” Flack said. “Leave it alone. You can’t win.”
“Who is she?” asked Kett.
“I don’t know.”
“Who is she?” he asked again, almost a growl.
“I don’t know,” he said, and the fear was growing, filling every inch of his face, making those raw scars stand out like they were fresh wounds. “I don’t know, but I can tell you this. What’s happening here, you’re not prepared for it.”
Kett met Porter’s eye, the pair of them sharing an unspoken thought.
He’s mad.
But the fear in Flack’s eyes didn’t look like madness, it didn’t look like paranoia or fantasy. It certainly didn’t look like a lie.
“You think you are, but you’re not,” Flack went on. “This goes beyond anything you’ve ever experienced, anything you’ve ever known. You won’t find Bianca, not unless she lets you. You can’t see her, not now, not after what she’s done. And I can promise you this, if she lets you anywhere near her then you’re fucked. If…”
He swallowed, almost choking on his words.
“If that thing has the girl you’re looking for, she’s worse than dead. There’s no getting her back.”
He looked at Kett, his eyes bulging. His fear was contagious. Kett could feel it creep beneath his skin, seep into his bones.
“Walk away,” said Flack.
“We don’t walk away,” said Kett, pushing himself off the arm of the sofa. “Not ever.”
“Then I can’t help you,” said Flack. “Nobody can.”
Kett held the man’s eye until Flack looked away.
“Let’s go, Pete.”
Porter followed him out of the kitchen, Kett opening the front door and almost falling into the day. The world gathered them into a hug, chasing away the chill. Kett closed the door, letting a shiver rip through his body before heading back to the road.
“What, the fuck, was that?” said Porter.
“I have no idea,” said Kett. “Something scared him, though. He knows more than he’s saying.”
“Yeah, I agree. We should bring him in.”
“Not yet,” said Kett.
He reached the nearest IRV, where two young constables sat on the bonnet deep in conversation.
“Comfortable?” Kett asked, and they hopped off together. He didn’t think their blushes had much to do with the heat.
“Sorry, sir,” said the woman.
“You stay here,” he said. “Keep an eye on the place. Let me know if Flack leaves.”
“You want us to stop him if he does, sir?” she asked.
“I want him to know we’re keeping an eye on him,” said Kett. He turned to the other constable. “You, follow us.”
He dropped into the Mondeo. Porter was already behind the wheel, brushing cat hair from his trousers.
“Bloody things,” he said. “Moult everywhere this time of year.”
He paused, pulled a face, then unleashed a sneeze that made the car rock.
“Where now, sir?” he said.
“Did you believe Flack when he said he hadn’t seen Bianca for three years?” Kett asked.
“I didn’t believe a single word that came out of his mouth,” said Porter.
“Me neither.” Kett turned back to the chapel. “I don’t believe him about the equestrian place, either. So if you lived here, and you had a friend who wanted to hide from the police, who maybe had a kidnapped girl in her car, what would you do?”
Porter sneezed again, wiping his nose.
“I’d probably send them to the bloody great barn out back,” he said.
Kett smiled.
“Me too, Pete. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Porter kept his speed down, following the narrow lane as it meandered around the land surrounding the chapel. It was idyllic here, the fields bursting with wheat, the trees lining the side of the road shivering with excitement. They crossed a humpback bridge, the stream beneath glittering with sun-jewelled water. There were only a handful of other houses, none as grand as the one that Flack lived in, and Kett didn’t see a single other soul for the seven minutes it took them to reach the entrance to the stable yard.
Not that Kett could be sure this was it. There was no sign to let them know that this dirt track led to a facility of some kind, just a metal gate that did a poor job of hiding the barn up ahead. The building was big enough to hold a plane, and Kett wondered if it was an arena of some kind.
“Can you check the gate, Pete?” said Kett as the IRV pulled in behind them.
Porter grumbled his way out of the car, walking to the gate and then shaking his head.
“That’s a serious chain,” he said when he’d returned to the car. “And a bigger padlock. Somebody doesn’t want visitors.”
Kett puffed out a breath and fetched his phone from his pocket, calling Clare.
“Speak,” said the Super, his mouth full.
“You know, too many Bounties will kill you, sir,” Kett said.
“Actually, Detective,” spat Clare, “the toxic chemical in chocolate is theobromine, and in order for me to consume enough of it to kill me, I’d have to eat somewhere in the region of seven hundred Bounties.”
“Pretty sure I saw you eat that many this morning, sir.”
“Shut your tosshole, Kett, unless you called to actually tell me something.”
“We’ve just paid a visit to Robert Flack, the man who put in the planning application with Bianca on the land with the bunker. He claims he doesn’t know where she is. Hasn’t spoken to her in years.”
“But?” said Clare. “Because I’ve come to expect it with you. Every single case, you throw your giant, hairy ‘but’ right in my face, reeking of shit.”
“Uh…” There was no way around it. “But I think he’s lying, sir.”
“There you go,” muttered Clare. “Kett’s festering ‘but,’ hanging before me. What makes you think that?”
“My gut, sir.”
“Your butt?”
“Gut. Christ. I think he’s lying, I think he knows where Bianca is. There’s an equestrian yard right next to his land, good place to hide somebody.”
“So you want to waltz in and see if she’s there,” said Clare.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” he said.
“It’s a public facility?”
“I… I’m not sure, sir. Possibly.”
“You can get to it without climbing over a wall?” said the Super.
“Definitely wouldn’t need to climb over a wall…”
“If I tell you not to look, is it going to make any tossing difference whatsoever?”
Kett thought about Aggie, the young woman not even out of her teens, dragged from the woods by something from a nightmare, thrown in the boot of a car—and yet still smart enough to knock out the brake light and try to alert somebody to her presence. The chances of her being anywhere near here were unfathomably small.
But there was still a chance.
“No, sir,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Stick your apology up your hole,” said Clare. “You can pick which one. And we never had this conversation. If you Kett it up, you’re going under the bus on your own.”
He hung up, Kett’s ear ringing.
“What did he say, sir?” asked Porter, leaning through the open door.
“He’s cool with it,” said Kett.
He cranked open the door, unfolding himself in a series of painful cracks and clicks.
“Getting worse?” asked Porter.
Kett didn’t reply, but the answer was written all over his face. They walked to the gate together, the dirt track beyond leading straight towards the barn and hemmed in by woodland so thick that Kett couldn’t see anything through it. He held his breath, hearing only the same bastard, chattering magpies in the trees until a gentle, distant whinny relieved the tension.
