Buried Slaughter (22 page)

DS Carter and he followed a few steps behind. Stephen Molfer pushed open Darren Anderson’s small, black gate. It scraped against the concrete pathway, which led up to the side door of Carnel House. It seemed like ages since Brian had been here, sitting in Darren Anderson’s dining area, drinking a glass of water. Everything he’d told Brian, about the fear he’d experienced at the bottom of that trench. About Harold Harvey, and how he’d hired Davidson Archeological Contractors, for fuck’s sake. He’d thrown him on a wild goose chase through 17
^th
Century Britain and beyond. A wild goose chase that brought Brian right back to his doorstep.

But why?

“Here’s how we’re going to do things,” Stephen said, as he reached the top of the elevated pathway, surrounded by withered, yellowing grass on either side. He pointed at the porch extension. Crusty white paint flaked from its wood. “I’ll knock at this door, and you two get the other doors. Keep an eye on the windows. And for God’s sake, if he’s armed, then we call for backup. But we don’t know he will be for certain. Not yet. Got it?”

Brian looked at DS Carter, who cleared her throat and kicked a few of the loose autumn leaves.

“You want me to get a door on my own?” Brian asked. “Even though I’m not technically‌—‌”

“Yes, Brian,” Stephen said, rolling his eyes. “Call it Neighbourhood-fucking-Watch or something. We’re in this together. Now are you with me?”

Brian nodded at Stephen. Even though he hated the idea of being bossed around by this pathetic little excuse of a man, DS Molfer was actually a pretty damn good officer out on the job. That surprised Brian. A lot.

“Good luck,” Brian said, in a hushed tone. He raised his eyebrows and nodded at DS Carter, who half-smiled in return.

Then, Brian jogged onto the grass, around the left-hand side of the whitewashed house, and towards the door at the other end of the garden.

He lowered himself as he passed the dusty windows, but it didn’t look like there was anybody inside. Every light was switched off. The whole place had a grey hue, like a cloud had settled inside and was refusing to budge. Brian bit his lip and passed the greenhouse, where plants had grown out of control, nature’s assault winning the battle with the man-made.

He stopped at the wooden door and crouched down even further. As he did, he heard a knock from where he’d run. He held his breath. Stephen’s knock. If Darren was in, he’d go to that door.

Or he’d try to escape.

One way or another, they’d be meeting Darren Anderson again very soon.

He hoped.

There was no more sound from the doorway. Brian looked back around. Fallen conkers coated the garden. A crow cawed from a branch of a leafless tree. Somewhere in the distance, a car drove past, its inhabitant getting on with their everyday life with not a clue of what was happening so close by.

Brian heard another knock. Stephen again. What was taking Darren Anderson so long? He must’ve known they were there. He must’ve suspected something.

Brian’s stomach tensed. This was a guy who’d shot dead then beheaded a bunch of people. In Marie’s case, he hadn’t even shot her dead first. He’d put her through unimaginable pain. And still, they had no idea why.

“The door’s open!”

The voice was DS Carter’s. It came from approximately opposite to where Brian was. He rose to his feet, taking another look inside the greyed-out, spider-covered window just in case Darren Anderson might be hiding inside, but it still looked vacant.

“Heading your way,” Brian shouted, as he ran around the house and in the direction of DS Carter’s voice.

Stephen Molfer was already beside DS Carter, but he kept on looking over his shoulder to check that Darren Anderson hadn’t slipped out the main door and down the pathway. DS Carter was holding the thick, brown wooden door, which was ajar. Her eyes were wide as she peered inside, then looked from Stephen to Brian and back again.

“Do we go in?” she asked.

Stephen grabbed the door and pulled it further open. “We didn’t come here to stand outside. Let’s go.”

Brian caught up with the pair and followed them in through the door. The first thing he noticed was just how muggy the place was. It felt like the heating had been left on at thirty degrees Celsius for weeks, dampening the inside of his nostrils as he took in a breath.

“This place is a fucking tip,” Stephen said, kicking aside a golden photo frame, cracked on the floor.

Stephen was right. It was a tip. Brian had no idea of knowing whether the place was in this state when he’d last visited, but he had to assume that somewhere couldn’t just get this messy in a matter of two weeks. This was an accumulated mess. Besides, he’d only seen the kitchen/dining area when he’d last been here. It was like another planet altogether. Flowers withered in their pots. Lone glasses of water sat on the edge of dusty desks, spores and mould clinging to their surface, gasping for air.

“I don’t like this,” DS Carter said, as Stephen Molfer pushed open the door to what appeared to be the lounge. Sofas were overturned. More photo frames were scattered around the green carpet, which had a film of dust over it. Photos of Darren Anderson, smiling with that familiar gap-toothed grin. The sun shining behind him. And beside him, a dark-haired woman wearing a straw hat, and a little girl in front of them, no older than two. They were beside a sand castle.

“Did Darren ever say anything about a family?” Brian asked, as they moved on from the lounge to the next door.

“He said he’d never had one,” Stephen said.

“But…‌”

“Like Carter said,” Stephen said, turning to Brian, “something very weird about all this. It stinks.”

“Too right,” DS Carter muttered, pinching her nostrils as she prodded a black banana with the end of her shoe. It spewed out at the end when she made contact with it.

Something rustled to their right.

“Anyone else hear that?” DS Carter whispered.

“I didn’t hear owt. Let’s check this room.”

The shuffling sounded again.

“I think there’s somebody in there,” Brian said.

All of them stopped moving.

There was a definite rustling movement coming from behind the brown wooden door on the right. Stephen Molfer reached for a white ornament that was at his feet and moved it around in his hands like a club.

The noise continued. It sounded like there was somebody in there, trying to keep still. A kid too excited about a game of hide and seek.

Only Brian had a sense that this was much more than a game of hide and frigging seek.

Stephen lifted his finger to his mouth. Then, with the same hand, he grabbed the antique black door handle. He kept his hand rested on it for a few seconds, as Brian’s heart raced.

He lowered it, and he pushed the door wide open.

The moment the door opened, Brian realised that it wasn’t a rustling noise at all.

It was talking. Voices. Voices, but too quiet to be human. Static, almost.

“It’s a fucking TV,” Stephen said, shaking his head and smacking the vase against his palm.

Brian took a look inside the room. An old CRT television was playing, the volume low, but loud enough for them to hear. A video player looked to be linked up to it, as a little red light emanated from it. This room was dusty too, and gloomy, as the green curtains blocked out any sunlight. But compared to the other rooms, it was relatively intact. The sofas were upright. The ornaments were all in place.

“Wait,” DS Carter said. “This isn’t just any TV station.”

Stephen peered at her.

“She’s right,” Brian said, as he approached the set. On the screen, he could see Darren Anderson. He was on a beach. Water kicked up against his feet, the static from the video recording crackling. Darren Anderson was shirtless, and he was smiling. He was talking, too. Chatting to somebody in a faux-childish voice.

“What’s this crap?” Stephen Molfer said.

Darren Anderson spun the camera around. There was a woman, dark-haired, wearing a black one-piece swimsuit. She hopped as the waves crashed against her pale legs.

By her side, there was a little girl holding her hand, wearing a pink Powerpuff Girls swimming outfit. She was smiling, pulling herself into the water, dropping to her knees as the water crashed against them. All of them smiling. Laughing.

“Come on,” Stephen Molfer said, raising his hand at the TV and turning around. “Nothing to see in here. It’s just an old tape. Let’s move on to the next room.”

But Brian didn’t budge. There was something about the tape that caught his eye. He wasn’t sure how relevant it was, but it seemed curious that it should be playing, and why, especially when Darren Anderson had been so adamant he didn’t have a family.

“It’s not an old tape,” Brian said.

Stephen Molfer frowned. “You what? Come on. It’s a VCR, for fuck’s sake. It’s worthless.”

“Brian’s right,” DS Carter said. She raised her hand and pointed at the screen. “Look at the date. 1
^st
June 2012.”

“So it’s a recent tape. So what? I don’t see anything of any worth here. Come on.”

“Wait,” Brian said. The hairs on his arms rose. He knew why it’d caught his attention. “1
^st
June 2012. The first of the sixth, twenty-twelve. One, six, twelve. 1612. The year of the Pendle witch massacre. There’s something in this. There has to be.”

Stephen and DS Carter looked at one another, mouths slightly agape. Stephen had given up his protestations now. He turned to look at the screen. Darren Anderson laughing as the wild water splashed against him. The dark-haired, pale-skinned woman and the little girl, also laughing along.

“It can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be.”

At that moment, the recording stopped. It came to a halt, just like that, with a little click. But the image stayed on the screen. The three of them stared at it. Was that the end of the recording? There had to be more, surely?

Brian noticed a strong smell of alcohol in the room. It hadn’t been there before. It couldn’t have been. They’d have noticed something that strong.

It was only when DS Carter turned to look at Brian and her eyes froze, looking over his shoulder, that he had an idea of what had happened.

Brian could hear feet behind him. Shuffling feet, by the doorway. He turned around, holding his breath.

Darren Anderson stood at the door. He had a remote control in one hand, his finger hovering over the pause button.

In the other hand, he had a gun.

Brian wanted to say all sorts of things to Darren, but his voice had failed him.

“Now,” Darren said, staggering into the room. His eyes wandered all over the place. His gingery beard had grown, and the gap between his teeth was all the more apparent. “We’re going to…‌to have a chat. A chat about…‌about who comes into my home, and who doesn’t…‌” His speech was slurred as he stumbled from side to side.

Stephen stepped towards Darren. “Darren, you put that fucking gun down. We know what’s going on. We know what’s‌—‌”

A gunshot cracked through the air. It pierced and rang in Brian’s ears. He didn’t understand it at first. He knew it must’ve come from Darren Anderson’s gun.

But then, wasn’t Darren Anderson’s gun pointed at Stephen?

He looked up. Stephen was on the floor, clutching at his left thigh. Blood spewed out. Stephen had gone completely pale. He winced and cried out as he gripped his bleeding upper thigh tighter and tighter.

Darren tilted the gun in Brian’s and DS Carter’s direction. “Now…‌are we gonna have that…‌that talk, or what?”

Chapter Twenty Five

“Put the gun down, Darren. We can‌—‌we can talk about this. Please.”

Darren Anderson held the gun loosely in his hand. It looked like it might tumble out any second, but Brian didn’t want to try to disarm him. DS Stephen Molfer had already tried that, and now he was lying on his back, clutching the top of his left thigh and clenching his teeth in agony.

“We…‌we know you’re involved.” DS Carter’s voice was shaky but firm. “The rest of our unit‌—‌they know too. So whatever happens here, they’ll find you. But right now, you need to let that officer get to a hospital or he…‌he’ll bleed out.”

Darren Anderson looked at the gun in his hand, as if it were an alien object. Then, he looked at Stephen Molfer, who winced and turned onto his side. He looked back at DS Carter, then at Brian, and he shrugged. “Not a fraction of the…‌the pain I’ve been through.” His speech was slurred and he wobbled to the side again. “Not a fraction. No. No.”

Brian bit his lip. There was no way they were bargaining a way out of Darren Anderson’s clutches. He’d shot a police officer. He meant business.

But he was drunk. He seemed like all his walls and boundaries had been torn down, and he was showing a raw, inner core, full of hate and self-pity. A core that everyone had inside them, but that rarely surfaced.

“Why, Darren?” Brian said, taking a step back and raising his hands to show that he was offering no threat. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why your own work colleagues? Why those from Brabiner’s? And why…‌why Marie? What did she ever do to you? What did
I
ever do to you?”

Darren Anderson blinked a few times, as if he were trying to regain focus. Then, his eyes met Brian’s. A twitchy grin stretched across his face. “He said you’d be like this. Acting all innocent, as if you didn’t have a clue.”

“Who said‌—‌”

Darren lifted the hand with the remote control in and pointed at the television screen. “My girlfriend. Dara. And my beautiful, beautiful little girl, Katie. Did you see them? Did you?”

“Fucking…‌nut job…‌” Stephen shouted between clenched teeth. He was going more pale by the second.

Darren disregarded him and stepped around him, keeping the gun pointed in Brian’s and DS Carter’s general direction. He stopped in front of the screen. It was just a black and white blur of static, with an out-of-focus beach scene in the background. Darren got on his knees in front of the television and smiled.

“Come on,” DS Carter whispered, tugging Brian’s coat. She tilted her head towards the door, which Darren had left vacant and was a good ten feet or so away from now.