The Exiled (13 page)

And John had been right. They found one ten minutes later—a small cluster of log cabins, all of them empty save for the one closest to the road that was manned by an ancient caretaker who paid them no attention at all after they gave him twenty quid as deposit.

John left Alan in the cabin.

“Get online, find out what the score is—I’m presuming the heat’s still on us, but we might have got lucky. I’ll rustle up some grub. You got any cash?”

“Fifty quid. We’ll need that for petrol tomorrow if we’re going anywhere.”

“I’ve got thirty. It’ll have to do for now. We can’t use our cards.”

It was staring to hit Alan just how quickly their situation could become one of desperation. He got the laptop out and hooked in to what the caretaker had promised was a stable Wi-Fi connection.

The brothers made the front pages of the nationals. And John was wrong about their luck—none of the news was good. Brian Ferguson’s murder had been particularly savage, and on that John had been right—reports mentioned severe trauma to the head and shoulders. “Unconfirmed reports” mentioned an eyewitness who saw the brothers “flee” the scene.

Worse still, reading between the lines Alan spotted that people were starting to query whether the Grainger brothers might not in fact be behind the child abductions in the first place. Luckily there were few hard facts in evidence in any of the reports, and it seemed they had evaded detection long enough to get out of the city and away without being spotted.

But what in God’s name do we do now?

He needed a drink, but a quick search of the cabin came up empty. He hoped John might buy a bottle, but doubted it—John had his cop head on completely now, focused on the task at hand. Even food came second in his list of things to do when this mood took charge. Besides, John had his smokes when he needed calm.

And I’ve got the laptop.

He tried to concentrate, going back over some of his research into the myth and folklore of swans. He spent nearly an hour on it and got nowhere, particularly near the end of the time when worry about where John had got to started to sneak into his brain. He was about to give up and head for the door when the key turned in the lock. At almost the same moment the laptop pinged to tell him he had an email.

He opened it up and read it. John came in and asked him a question, but the email blasted all other thoughts from his mind. It was just two sentences.

“I know all about Ferguson, the cliff top and the black bird. Meet me at the Galloway farm after dark tonight.”

The email handle—donotforsake123—didn’t give away the identity of the sender, and there was no name. He tried to trace the header and ping the I.P. address, but he wasn’t the only one who knew how to remain anonymous online—it got him nowhere.

In the meantime, John stood in the doorway, a quizzical expression on his face.

“What have you got?” he said.

Alan wondered how to reply.

“I think our new player just made another move,” he said. “Somebody wants our attention.”

“It looks like they got yours,” John replied. He put down a bag of groceries and came round to read the message.

“It’s probably a trap?” Alan said.

“Probably,” John replied. “But I meant to go to the farm anyway, and if there’s going to be somebody there with more answers than we have, then I think it’s worth the risk.”

Alan brought John up to speed on the news reports.

“Yep—I saw a report on the telly behind the counter at the shop. Our pictures are all over the place,” John replied. “If we’re going to get this sorted, we’ve got to do it quick, otherwise Bermuda might be our only option.”

* * *

John’s shopping consisted of prepackaged sandwiches, lukewarm coffee and more smokes. The bread was stale and the cheese inside had the consistency of rubber gloves, but the coffee, although too bland for Alan’s taste—washed it down well enough. He wasn’t really in much of a mood for eating in any case.

“We still don’t know what we’re getting into here,” he said, pushing the last of the sandwiches aside. “If all that’s going to happen is we get sent straight back to where we started, then what’s the point?”

“There’s something we’re not seeing,” John replied. “Both you and I were drawn to the place without any mumbo jumbo. I think something—or someone—wants us there. We just have to avoid Galloway and that fucking bird long enough to find out why.”

“And you think whoever called us to the farm can help?”

John shrugged.

“Have you got a better idea?”

Ten minutes later they were back on the road.

“What about our deposit?” Alan said.

“Leave it for now. We might have to come back. I don’t think our money is going to be legal tender where we’re headed tonight.”

Alan drove in the gathering dark, heading up through south Scotland in a meandering route that avoided the bigger towns but meant a lot of slower progress on low-quality roads. He had a tension headache by the time they finally approached the Galloway farm driveway nearly three hours later and had to continually flex his fingers to work out a stiffness that was settling there.

Despite his own aches and pains, he felt more worried for John. The older man hadn’t said much in the last hour, and had a gray pallor that Alan didn’t like the look of.

“You okay, big man?” Alan asked as he cut the lights and drove as carefully as he could up the driveway. He only got a grunt in reply.

“At least you’re not dead,” Alan said, trying for a laugh. He didn’t get one.

“Not yet.”

* * *

As before, the farmhouse sat quiet and dark. All traces of the small army of police, forensics, reporters and medical personnel who had swarmed around in the aftermath of their last visit were long gone. If anyone was waiting for them inside, they hadn’t left a vehicle in the farmyard. Alan killed the engine and they sat with the windows rolled down, listening. The only noise was the ticking of the cooling car and a soft murmur of wind in the trees above.

“Let’s give it five,” John said, and lit up a smoke.

They sat in silence, both watching the farm and outbuildings. A cloud flitted over the moon, sending shadows capering and dancing—and swooping—like a huge bird. Alan cursed his imagination—he needed a clear head and clearer thinking. He had a feeling it was going to a long, wild night to come.

John rubbed his cigarette out with thumb and forefinger.

“Let’s see what’s what then, shall we?”

They got out of the car and headed for the main building. Alan regretted not hunting for something to use as a weapon—a tire iron would feel good in his hand right about now.

“Shall I take the back…” he started, and shut up when he saw the look that crossed John’s face. “Shit, John, I didn’t mean…”

The older brother waved him to silence.

“Just stay behind me,” he said as they approached the main door. “And if anything moves, kick it in the nuts.”

The door swung open as John reached for it.

“You’re welcome to try and find them,” a soft voice said.

17

Grainger couldn’t make out who stood in the doorway—all he knew was it was too slight a figure to be Galloway—and it had sounded like a woman. And there was no immediate attack forthcoming. The mere fact that she had spoken and given away her position allowed him to relax slightly. If there had been a trap, it hadn’t been sprung.

“I take it you were expecting us?”

The woman walked away from them into the hallway.

“And I take it you got my message?”

She threw a switch, the hall light came on, and finally Grainger got a good look at her. She was small, almost petite, slightly stocky, and wore full combat fatigues and a flak vest. She had a pistol in a holster at her hip, and a thick bladed knife in a sheath on the other side. Her boots looked like they were made for hard walking in thick mud—and were dirty enough that they might well have done so recently.

As he looked her up and down, she did the same to him and Alan, taking in their casual clothes and training shoes.

“You came prepared then,” she said sarcastically, and walked away into the main living area. She carried herself like a fighter.

When Grainger and Alan reached the doorway, she was already sitting in an armchair with a small table in front of her. A bottle of Scotch and three glasses sat on the table. She motioned the brothers to the sofa opposite the chair.

“I thought we’d start with introductions,” she said. “I’m Sandy, and I’ll be your guide for the tour.”

She laughed at Grainger’s obvious astonishment.

“I take it I’m not what you expected?” she said, pouring three drinks and sitting back in the chair.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” Grainger replied. “And I’m not even sure why we’re all here. But I’ll have a drink with you and maybe you can fill us in on what you know…” He leaned over and took the two other glasses, passing one to Alan before lighting up a smoke. “For instance, do we have you to thank for the eyewitness reports from Ferguson’s lockup?”

If the woman was thrown by the question, she didn’t show it.

“No. That was somebody in the force—somebody you’ve pissed off in the past. I hear you’re good at that. I have been watching you though, ever since the youngster here found his way to Loch Leven. I thought Ferguson and I were the only two who knew, so you pair were a wee bit of a surprise.”

“Knew? About…the other place?”

“I call it Narnia,” she said, and laughed again.

Grainger realized he was going to like her, even more so as she downed her Scotch and poured herself another large one.

“So what can you tell us?” Alan asked as Grainger puffed at his smoke.

She smiled.

“What do you want to know?”

Grainger knew that Alan was full of questions, so he let his younger brother take the lead while he watched the woman—Sandy—looking for signs of lying or evasion.

She answered the first one readily enough.

“How did you find out about the black bird?”

She sipped at her Scotch as if deciding how to reply.

“It found me,” she finally said. “Three years ago—I was on Salisbury Plain on an exercise—then I suddenly wasn’t. You know what I saw—cliffs, sea and decaying buildings. And the bird—that bloody bird. And then I was back on the plain again, getting a dressing-down from my lieutenant.”

She stopped and sipped more Scotch.

“After that I spent all my spare time trying to find out what had happened. Over that first year I went over twice more—and both times the bloody bird chased me off. I made up my mind that I was going to get past it—I needed to know why this was happening to me, and getting to the next level—to use a gaming analogy—seemed the best way to go about it.”

“And did you?” Alan asked.

“It’ll be easier if I just show you,” she said, and stood. “Are you ready?”

Neither Grainger nor Alan moved from the sofa. She hadn’t been telling the whole truth—he’d conducted enough interviews to know the signs. But she hadn’t been lying either—just been evasive, and that might just be because they were all strangers to each other. But either way, he didn’t feel he knew her well enough yet to trust her.

“No—I don’t think we are,” Grainger said softly. “Galloway’s over there too and we haven’t come off too well so far. We were hoping you had a better plan.”

“I do,” she replied, equally softly. “But as I said, it’s better if I just show you.”

“I’m running a little low on faith right now,” Grainger said. “And trust. I take it you’ve found a way to evade the bird?”

“Not exactly,” she replied. “I just found a way to go somewhere it can’t get to—I can get us inside the ruins up on the rocky outcrop—I found a way to come and go there and I don’t think either the bird—or the big man—knows about it. I’ve been back three times this week and—”

“Here’s my last question,” Alan said softly, interrupting her. “How many kids did you have to kill?”

If she’d laughed at that point, Grainger was quite prepared to launch himself at her and be damned with the consequences, but instead she looked grim.

“None. That bastard Galloway took the route he was offered. The three of us are different somehow—we can do it ourselves. As Ferguson said to me, all magic is an act of will. I’ve been willing myself to go over—it doesn’t work everywhere, but it does in thin places—like this one.”

She closed her eyes. The walls wavered and swam as before, but this time it wasn’t a cliff-top scene they saw beyond, but rough-hewn rock walls with empty window frames high above letting in thin, watery light. Grainger smelled dust and wood smoke.

She opened her eyes. They were all fully back in the farmhouse once again.

“I’m pretty sure all of us can go over,” she said. “And I can bring us all back if there’s any trouble.”

“You’re asking us to trust you on not a lot of evidence that we should,” Grainger said.