John Harvey - Good Bait

‘The lottery?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Do tell.’

‘CCTV on the approach roads to Stansted — nothing at the storage units themselves, as we know, so that’s been our best bet. Poor bastards going swivel eyed, hour after hour of sodding tape. Concentrating on vans, seemed the most likely, and you can imagine how many of those there are shuttling in and out. Need checking, each and every one, but it looks like in the end it might’ve paid off. Clocked a Ford van coming off the slip road from the M11 just after four in the morning, heading for the airport, Volvo saloon following, S60 by the look of it, dark green. An hour, give or take, later, the same journey in reverse. Van’s a Transit 360, registration clear as a bell at one point, leased six weeks before from a garage in Milton Keynes.’

‘Leased to? False name, don’t tell me.’

‘Thought at first it was, but no, I don’t think so. D amp; J Foods. Office in Milton Keynes. Dennis Broderick, director. His name on the letterhead.’

‘Good work. And Cormack, he’s up to speed on all this?’

‘Thought you’d like to do the honours.’

Smiling her thanks, Karen punched in Warren Cormack’s number.

A little over twenty-four hours later, prompt as before, Cormack got back to her with positive news. As well as Broderick’s office in Milton Keynes, there was another in Luton, plus storage facilities in a small industrial park off the Al close to Bedford and, until six months previously, on a disused airfield at Wing, close to the Bucks-Beds border.

‘Bit of help from the local force, we’ve been checking those out. Nothing at Bedford, not so far, but a patrol car from County Division went out to the airfield first thing. Not immediately clear which of the buildings Broderick might’ve rented, so they looked around. Found, maybe, more than they bargained for. One of the older buildings, disused for quite a while by the look of it. Blood all over the place inside. A lot of blood. Not new but no doubting what it was. Burned clothing. And more. Hooks and chains where somebody might have been tied.’

Karen could feel the adrenalin beginning to race. ‘They’ve got the place secured?’

‘Tight as a nut. Their words.’

‘And where is it exactly? Wing, you said?’

‘M1 north. A5, then west. An hour’s drive, give or take. I’ll meet you there.’

The airfield had been the home of No. 26 Operational Training Unit for RAF Bomber Command during the Second World War, and then was used as a gateway for large numbers of returning servicemen during the late spring and early summer of ’45. After the war it squandered into disuse, weeds growing up through the cracks that spidered across its two runways; Nissen huts and hangars falling into disrepair. Now, partly reclaimed as farmland, it was also the home to a small number of light industrial units along the edge closest to the road, though a few of the old buildings still remained.

It was in one of these that the local officers had made their find.

Cormack was waiting when Karen arrived, smart in a blue-black overcoat, unbuttoned, grey cashmere scarf. And not alone. Scene of Crime officers in attendance, others from the project team Cormack was heading.

‘It’s this way,’ he said, and Karen fell into step beside him, others following.

When they reached the outbuilding, Cormack pushed open the high-arched wooden door and stepped back, letting Karen enter first. She took three paces and then stopped, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the levels of light.

Chains slowly sharpened into focus, hanging from hooks attached to beams above, and switching her, in her mind’s eye, back to the container shed at Stansted, the butchered bodies, the smell of butchered flesh. Chains that would have held men fast while others did their work. Slow, careful work essayed with relish and not a little skill.

Karen fancied she could scent the blood rising still from where it had congealed, near black, impasto like, close to where she stood. Something rustled amongst the mouldering debris in the farthest corner and scuttled away.

‘Seen enough?’ Cormack said, moving quietly alongside her.

‘Yes.’ She could taste it in her throat, like bile, thick enough to choke.

‘We ought to move back. Let Forensics get started.’

They stood outside under an opaque sky, not speaking, not yet. Cormack kicking gently at a tuft of grass that had squeezed up between the slabs of concrete, small concentrated prods with the end of his toe. Karen brought her hand to her mouth and shivered, little to do with the wind that scythed across from the perimeter, the eastern edge of the field.

Cormack reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, offered one to Karen, who shook her head, then accepted.

‘I’ve given up,’ Karen said, as Cormack, cupping a hand round his lighter, flicked it to life.

‘Me, too.’

The soft grey of their smoke dissipated upwards and was lost.

‘Until Forensics have got a match from the blood,’ Cormack said, ‘there’s no way to be sure. It could be animal blood even, not human.’

‘A little black-market butchery on the sly?’

‘Not impossible.’

‘This was the place Broderick used for storage till recently?’

‘This and one of the newer buildings, down by the road.’ Cormack swivelled slowly round. ‘Quiet, the immediate area pretty deserted. At night, especially. Not what you’d call a busy road.’

‘And Stansted — that’s how far?’

‘Seventy-eight point four-two miles. Estimated time of journey, one hour, twenty-seven minutes.’ Cormack grinned. ‘The wonders of modern technology.’

‘You’ve spoken to him? Broderick?’

‘Not yet. But he’s got a house just outside Cublington, just a few miles west of here. Why don’t we go and see if he’s home?’

The house was just beyond the village, set amongst mostly arable land, a low wall winding towards a five-bar gate and then a line of trees, bare branched, and curving away. The original farmhouse had been translated into something L-shaped, contemporary; a new wing, mostly steel and glass, extending at right angles to the refaced brick of the main building.

Of the two barns, one was in use as a garage: a Land Rover and an empty space. The second seemed to contain nothing but old farm equipment, rusting over, a haphazard collection of ancient tools, spades, long-handled rakes and scythes. Perhaps someone was considering starting a farm museum? How we used to live.

In a smaller shed, wood had been neatly stacked after sawing; enough to last out what was left of the winter. The sun little more than a suggestion overhead.

There was another vehicle on the drive in front of the house, sporty, red, expensive — the distinctive Alfa Romeo crest. Karen thought she had seen Uma Thurman behind the wheel of one, courtesy of Pearl amp; Dean, at her local cinema.

No bell in sight, Cormack used the knocker, brass on brass. Once, twice, once again.

The woman who opened the door was above average height, shoulder-length hair nicely, expensively cut; a cashmere sweater, grey skirt snug at the hips, red shoes with a low heel. A figure that suggested the right number of hours spent in the gym, the pool. A little work around the face, Karen thought, but not too much. Careful make-up. Green eyes. Mid- to late forties? Fifty at a pinch.

‘Mrs Broderick?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Cormack showed identification, rank and name.

She nodded, smiled. A flicker, then it was gone. ‘For another seven days, five hours and so many minutes, guilty as charged. After that …’ She reached out both hands, fingers spread wide. ‘Divorce, it’s a wonderful thing. Either that or kill the bastard. What does Shakespeare say? Lug the guts into the other room? Leave him for the cleaner to trip over next morning.’