The Blood Road Page 38

  He could do this. He could and he would.

  Because if he didn’t, Steel was going to kill him.

  Roberta scowled at her phone. ‘NO SIGNAL’, as if she couldn’t tell that by the complete and utter lack of being able to talk to Tufty, let alone give him the biblical bollocking he so desperately deserved. ‘Useless lanky wee fudgemonkey.’

  Rennie looked over from the driver’s seat. ‘No joy?’

  ‘Pfff…’ She stuffed her phone in her pocket and scowled out the car window at the dark fields whooshing past in the rain. ‘The idiot’s lost Laz. How do you lose a stupid great big-eared lump of Professional Standards like that?’

  Roberta snapped her right hand out, catching Rennie a stinger, right across the arm.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘I should drag the lot of you down the vets and have you all tagged. And neutered as well.’

  You could hear the wee sulker sticking his bottom lip out. ‘You decided where we’re going yet?’

  Gah…

  No point returning to the station – they’d nearly made it as far as Inverurie. And it was no’ as if they could stop at the next petrol station and ask for directions to the nearest auction house specialising in buying and selling abducted wee kids.

  She slumped in her seat and gave her armpit a good rummage. Chasing the itch. ‘Given we’ve sod-all idea where the Livestock Mart is and Tufty the Idiot’s let our only lead drive off into the sunset, suppose we’d better go help him find Laz.’

  And after all this Logan had better be in real motherfunking trouble. Because if she had to go sodding about in the rain looking for him and he wasn’t in trouble? He bloody well soon would be.

  The figure in black tries to pull away as he’s dragged down the walkway towards the Auctioneer. He’s shouting something, but all that makes it out through the gag in his mouth and the bag over his head are muffled grunts.

  The Auctioneer leans forwards, forearms resting on the handrail, looking down at them. ‘That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, we have an uninvited guest! And you know what we do to uninvited guests, don’t you?’

  Everyone but Sally and Rooster belts it out in unison: ‘Discipline them!’

  Rooster tries to join in, but he’s two seconds too late. ‘Discipline them…’ He shuffles his feet. Looks away.

  A nod from the Auctioneer. ‘Number One?’

  There’s a small pause, then Number One shoves the man onto the plastic sheeting and slams a fist into his kidneys. A muffled cry as knees bend, spine arching, head thrown back in its black fabric bag.

  Number One batters an elbow down on the man’s face and he collapses onto the plastic sheet, moaning and writhing, hands fixed behind him as the blows hammer down. Fists first, then feet.

  Sally gasps, retreats a couple of steps, but Rabbit grabs her arm.

  Rabbit doesn’t look at her, keeps his face turned towards the walkway and his voice at a whisper. ‘Don’t. You show weakness and they’ll turn on you.’

  So she stands there and watches as boots slam into the man’s ribs and stomach. On and on and on. Hard and furious and unrelenting. The sound of muted crunching and dull thumps coils out across the cattle court, punctuated by muffled screams and grunts of exertion.

  Number One keeps on going, even when the muffled screams fade away – stamping on his victim’s chest and head. Then more kicking and punching: on and on and on and on, long after the poor man is nothing more than a ragdoll made of meat and bone and Number One’s mask is peppered with tiny red dots.

  Then, finally, the crunching, thumping noises stop and Number One sags against the railings, puffing and panting. ‘Fin … finished… Pfff…’

  And through it all, the Auctioneer doesn’t even bother turning to watch. ‘We discipline them.’

  Sally forces herself to breathe.

  They killed him. Beat him to death. Right there, in front of everyone. Like it doesn’t even matter.

  Number Five climbs up onto the walkway and folds the bloodstained plastic sheeting over the body. Wrapping it up. By the time he’s finished, Number One is upright again and together they drag the package out through the door.

  ‘There we go.’ The Auctioneer claps his hands, voice cheerful and warm, like a man hasn’t just been murdered right behind him. ‘Now, let’s begin. Our first item in tonight’s catalogue is lot number one: Stephen MacGuire all the way from East Kilbride!’

  Number Three appears through the same door, pulling a small fair-haired boy by the arm across the pen. He shoves Stephen and the boy stumbles forwards, then stands there, blinking up at the Animals with his tearstained face full of freckles and an angry claret birthmark.

  They move in, making a semicircle with Stephen at the centre, staring at him.

  ‘Stephen is four, a natural blond, and he likes kittens and chocolate-chip ice cream. He’s never been touched.’

  Monkey put his hand up. ‘Can he sing? I like it when they sing.’

  ‘He has the voice of an angel. Now, who wants to start the bidding? Do I hear “five thousand”?’

  Monkey blurts it out. ‘Five thousand!’

  Pig shakes his head. ‘Six thousand.’

  ‘Eight thousand.’

  Becca pressed her face against the wall of her crate, peering out through the gaps. A lightbulb hung in the middle of the big metal room, making loads of thick dark shadows. They lurked behind the rusty old tractor and the chunks of metal stuff piled up next to it. Made a stripy pattern on the wall underneath the racks of shovels and rakes and things. Made a jungle of dark bits and light bits between the six crates from the Grey Man’s garage.

  Six crates, one open and empty, the rest of them full of little children – looking out through the gaps, like her. Someone was crying – louder now that the Grey Man had taken off their gags and untied their hands so they’d look ‘pretty for the nice people’.

  Well, the ‘nice people’ could go poo themselves, because Becca was getting out of here.

  She shuffled into the middle of her crate, bunched her legs under her and shoved her back against the lid. The crate rocked, but she was still stuck.

  Another go… Thump.

  A little boy’s voice came from one of the other crates. ‘Shhh! You’ll get us into trouble!’

  Come on Becca: big fierce strong girl!

  She squatted down as far as she could and banged her whole self up into the lid, pushing at it with her shoulders till they were all achy and her legs trembled and shook.

  No use. The bolty thing was too hard.

  She sagged against the crate wall and hugged her teddy. ‘Don’t worry, Orgalorg, we’ll get out of here. We will. I promise.’ Becca kissed him on the head. ‘Don’t cry.’

  Orgalorg was probably just tired. And cold – all the crates were near a big slidy door that was open a bit, letting the rain in, making the straw on the floor all damp and soggy.

  On the other side of the room, a littler door banged against the metal wall and two of the tits backed in, dragging a big plastic parcel between them. Shuffling backwards with their bums sticking out until they’d pulled the parcel onto another sheet of plastic.

  It looked like a dead person. You could see it through the stuff! All red and black and icky.

  Becca stared. A real dead person. Right there. In the same room!

  The tit with a number five on his face wiped his gloves on his trousers. ‘You got this, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The number one tit wrapped the other plastic sheet around the dead person and fixed it all together with a big roll of scritchy sticky tape. Like a really nasty Christmas present.

  Then he stood and flexed his fist. Nudged the parcel with his foot. ‘Serves you right.’

  He turned and looked at the crates – the light reflecting off his nasty blue mask with a big number one on it – looking at them with those horrid black slits for eyes. The tit marched over to Becca’s crate, undid the bolty thing, and threw the lid open.

  She bared her t
eeth at him and growled like an angry cat.

  He reached in with a big gloved hand and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Any more of that and I break your arm, understand?’ He lifted her out of the crate and took a handful of her dungarees, dragging her and Orgalorg towards the door he’d come in through. ‘Come on: smile, Princess. You want to look pretty for the nice people, don’t you?’

  No. No she didn’t.

  She wanted them all to die.

  Andy kept his voice down, face hidden by his Number Seven mask. ‘I don’t like it, Danners. I really, really don’t.’

  The space between the cattle court and the machine shed was home to three dirty hatchbacks, an estate car, a couple of big four-by-fours, the Auctioneer’s black Range Rover, and Danielle’s pristine-white Renault Clio, all lurking in the gloom of a low-wattage bulkhead light. And not a single one of them was wearing a number plate.

  Suppose it was quite telling – the difference between the workers’ cars, parked back here, out of the way, and the customers’ ones round the front. But then, if you were the kind of person who could afford to splurge tens of thousands on buying a child to molest, why wouldn’t you drive something a bit more fancy?

  But round here, everything smelled of engine oil and cow dung.

  She popped open the Clio’s boot, lifted the bass board, and gestured Andy closer.

  He edged over and peered inside. Hissed some air in through his teeth. ‘Is he dead?’

  McRae lay on his side: bound and gagged, still as a headstone.

  She shrugged. ‘I barely touched him.’

  ‘Yeah, Danners, but … he’s police.’

  ‘He’s Professional Standards.’

  ‘Oh…’ Andy nodded. ‘True. What we going to do with him?’

  ‘Could hand him over?’

  ‘Nah, they’d kill him. Better keep him here and hope no one finds out. Cos if they do…’

  The bass board clunked into place again, hiding McRae’s top half. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You saw what they did to that journalist: battered him to death.’

  As if she hadn’t been standing right there, watching it happen. Stomach full of wasps. Bile churning at the base of her throat. ‘I know, Andy.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘Right in front of everyone.’

  ‘Oh shut up.’ She closed the boot again, hiding the rest of Inspector McRae. ‘We’ll just have to hope no one finds him, then, won’t we?’

  ‘Well, I think we can all agree that’s an excellent start to the evening!’ The Auctioneer rubs his hands as Number Five drags Stephen MacGuire off. The little boy’s whining cries fade away into the other room as Number One marches in with Becky.

  She’s still got Mr Bibble-Bobble with her, hugging him to her chest. The sight of it makes something inside Sally burst, stinging, causing the cattle court to swim as tears run down her cheeks. Hidden by the mask.

  ‘Lot number two: Rebecca Oliver! Rebecca’s five and, if you’re local, you’ll know there’s been a good furore whipped up in the media about her disappearance. Ooh, exciting!’

  Number One shoves her into the semicircle, where she glares at all the animal masks. A defiant set to her chin and shoulders.

  ‘Rebecca plays the recorder and wants to be a famous footballer when she grows up. Assuming her new owner lets her live that long.’

  That draws a couple of chuckles from Tiger and Dog.

  Sally stands there, staring at the girl she abducted. Blinking through the tears.

  ‘Given the media interest, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to start the bidding at fifteen thousand. Who’ll give me—’

  ‘I will!’ Rabbit’s first: ‘Fifteen thousand.’

  Bull steps forward, circling Becky. ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Thank you, Ox. I have seventeen, any advance on seventeen?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  Becky bares her teeth, snarling it out. ‘My mummy will kill all of you tits!’

  ‘Well, aren’t you feisty?’ Horse’s voice drips with hunger. ‘I bid twenty!’

  44

  ‘Mmmmmnnnnghph!’ Logan’s eyes snapped open on darkness.

  Still alive. Still alive…

  Something cottony filled his mouth and a hard rectangle pulled at the skin of his cheeks and lips – holding the cottony thing in. A gag. He wriggled and cramp twisted its way up his arms and across his shoulders.

  Gah… Sodding… Oh that hurt.

  Then it did the same with his legs.

  ‘Mmmmmmmnngnggphhh!’ With bells on.

  He screwed his eyes shut again. Deep breaths through his nose. Deep breaths. Relax. Let it pass. Let the cramp—

  It surged back for another go.

  ‘Mmmmgn fggggnnn mmmgggsssttmmmmnd!’

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

  And at last it passed.

  He rested his head against something crinkly that smelled of fresh bin-bags. Reached up with his right elbow and clunked into something solid and hollow sounding. Wood? He gave it another thump, but it wouldn’t move. Legs next: but he couldn’t straighten them more than halfway without his feet bashing into … metal? Sounded like metal anyway.

  Rocking back and forth and back and forth set the whole thing bouncing. Not a lot, but enough to know there were springs involved. Big ones, because as soon as he stopped rocking the world settled down again.

  Well, there you were then: he was in a car boot. A car boot lined with bin-bags.

  Yeah, not a good sign.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough: his ankles were fastened together, wrists too – something thin and hard. Not handcuffs. Not rope. Cable ties?

  Today just got better and better.

  OK. He could do this.

  He took another deep breath and curled up into as small a ball as he could, reaching with both arms at full stretch … down his back, thighs, knees, calves … feet!

  And now his hands were at the front of his body instead of behind him.

  He sagged against the bin-bags and panted for a bit. Then scrabbled his fingers at whatever it was holding the gag in. Duct tape. Definitely duct tape. Logan found the edge and ripped it off his mouth then dug out the cotton wad and spat. Coughed. Gasped for air.

  The world rotated around him once, twice, three times…

  He screwed his eyes shut again, slowing his breathing until everything stopped spinning.

  OK. Two things down. Three to go. Four, if you counted getting out of the boot.

  Next up: whatever it was holding his wrists together.

  He raised them to his stinging lips, feeling his way along them. Definitely cable ties. Question was, were they the industrial heavy-duty max-strength ones, or your common-or-garden domestic variety?

  Only one way to find out.

  He twisted his wrists to the side and gnawed on the ties like a hungry rat. Teeth clicking and clacking as they slipped over the tough plastic.

  God, this was going to take forever.

  ‘Lot number four is an old Livestock Mart favourite: Vernon Booker!’ The Auctioneer sweeps an arm out as Number Five shoves a skinny boy into the circle.

  He’s older than the first three children, dressed in nothing but pyjama bottoms, with heavy bags under his sunken eyes. Shoulders hunched, head low, not looking at anyone. Shivering. His bare arms and chest are peppered with tiny circular scars – the skin puckered, pink, and shiny against his pale skin. Like someone’s stubbed a million cigarettes out on him.

  ‘Back for his fifth auction, eight-year-old Vernon has been fully housebroken. Who’ll start the bidding at three thousand pounds?’

  Silence.

  ‘Three thousand pounds for this compliant, well-trained young man.’

  No one moves.

  ‘Two thousand?’

  No one speaks.

  ‘Well, one thousand then.’

  Vernon’s bare feet scuff on the straw-covered floor as he shrinks a bit more with every drop in price.

  ‘Come on, people, this is a perfec
tly serviceable boy here! A bit worn, but there’s life in him yet.’

  He’s so thin, so terrified…

  Sally licks her lips. Maybe she should buy him? It’s only a thousand pounds. She’ll still have more than sixty-two thousand to spend on Aiden, plus the money Horse bid for Becky.

  And Vernon’s so small and cowed. So broken.

  She can save him. Hand him over to the police, or social services. Anonymously, of course. Raymond will know how to do it so they don’t get into trouble.

  ‘OK, do I hear five hundred?’

  But what if she doesn’t have enough left afterwards? What if she needs every penny to get Aiden back and she can’t because she’s spent this money on Vernon?

  ‘Two fifty? Come on, I’m practically giving him away!’

  The breath catches in her throat.

  What if Aiden gets sold to one of these horrible perverts and she – can’t – stop – it?

  Why, because she feels sorry for this boy? This stranger? What makes him more deserving than her own flesh and blood?

  ‘Going once, going twice…’ The Auctioneer sighs. Shrugs. ‘Bad luck, Vernon. Never mind, I’m sure you did your best.’ He turns his grey mask to the Animals. ‘This lot is officially withdrawn.’ Then snaps his fingers and points. ‘Number Five? Ex-stock.’

  Number Five grabs the boy by the arm and hauls him away.

  ‘No!’ Vernon looks at them for the first time since he was brought in. Eyes darting from one bestial mask to the next as he’s dragged out. ‘I’ll be good, I promise! I swear I’ll be a good boy!’

  He breaks free of Number Five and runs towards the Animals. Throws himself at Rat’s feet, hands clasped together in prayer. ‘Please! I’m a good boy, I’ll do whatever you—’

  ‘Urgh!’ Rat backs away. ‘Get off me!’

  ‘Please, I can—’

  Number Five backhands him, sending him sprawling across the straw. Then grabs a handful of Vernon’s hair and starts towards the door again.

  ‘PLEASE! I’M A GOOD BOY! I AM! DON’T LET THEM KILL ME! DON’T—’

  Blood sprays from his nose as Number Five smashes a fist into it.

  The Animals look away, shuffling their feet as he’s dragged away.

  Come on, come on, come on…