Steven Dunne - The Disciple

All the male victims were killed almost immediately. For the female victims, standing in for the late Mrs Ashwell no doubt, the nightmare had just begun.

Brook was disturbed by the slamming of a door and stood up to see Drexler walking out to his car. He nipped to the front door.

‘Morning.’

‘Good morning, Damen.’

‘Thanks again for last night. I had a good time.’

‘No problem.’

‘You’re away early?’

‘Work, I’m afraid. I’m not the best sleeper and books don’t write themselves. Am I right in thinking Ashbourne’s easy to find?’

‘Very easy. Turn right at the bottom of the hill. Up to the A515, turn right again and keep going until you hit it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Do you need a map?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’m enjoying your book.’

Drexler turned from the car and fixed Brook in his sights. ‘Enjoying?’

‘You know what I mean. It’s very well written.’

Drexler gave an imperceptible nod and just stood there waiting, as though Brook had more to say. Then he turned back to the car and got in behind the wheel. ‘Any questions?’ he said enigmatically.

When Brook shook his head, Drexler started the car and drove away.

Dupree, Drexler and McQuarry stood by the glass partition trying not to stare too hard at the decomposing cadaver of little Sally Bailey on the stainless steel gurney. Her corpse had the tagged summation of a lifetime tied round her big toe. Name. Sex. Date of Birth. Date and Cause of Death. Case number. No intangibles, no memories, no laughter, no pain, no Little League, no prom nights, no nights of love. No future. Her mother, in a more advanced state of decomposition, was on the adjacent trolley.

Drexler stole a glance at the other two. Dupree the father had been locked in the deepest recesses and only Dupree the law officer had turned up. McQuarry too had eyes like flint. The medical examiner bent over the microphone for the last time then tossed the last of his instruments into a steel bowl for a steam clean. He picked up a small bowl with the remains of the bullet and held it up to the glass.

‘Same bullet as the others, seems like, Andy,’ he said, so the microphone could just about pick it up. He nodded at an assistant, who began bagging and labelling the various organs.

The examiner, whose nametag said John Taybor, walked through a small door at the end of the room. He held out his hand, which each shook in turn after an initial hesitation to check his latex gloves had been removed.

‘Andy. Special Agents.’ He nodded.

‘Well, John?’

‘We’re getting there, Andy. Gradually. We’ll have the little girl’s internals tomorrow. Promise. But I can give you one thing now. She was no longer a virgin and had been subjected to repeated sexual assault. The mother had engaged in sexual activity before she died too.’

‘We figured as much.’

‘As for Caleb and Billy, I’ll have the official report typed up for you tonight but you know the summary. Before his throat was cut Caleb was struck with a heavy instrument. Front of the skull too. There was no violence against the boy before he was hung because he was drugged. The coffee he had drunk contained the toxin hyoscine, sometimes called scopolamine. There are also traces of morphine which is interesting. A combination of the two, carefully applied can cause cerebral sedation.’

‘He was anaesthetised,’ said McQuarry.

‘Effectively,’ nodded Taybor. ‘The subject would have been completely unable to think or act. Even speech would have been almost impossible. Physically they might have basic motor functions, but the subject would be very easy to control. I’m told a variation of this stuff is used as a date rape drug so you get the idea. The interesting thing is I found traces of the same drug combination in George and Tania Bailey’s systems.’

‘That’s not a surprise, John.’

‘I can’t tell you about the girl yet.’

‘If we’re right, John, the drugs would be confined to the coffee drinkers. What about the other families? We’re thinking they were also drugged. At least the adults.’

‘I’m afraid our equipment isn’t sophisticated enough for samples that age. We’ve sent them off to Quantico for further analysis.’

Laura Grant looked at her watch, then round at the entrance to the breakfast room. Nearly ten o’clock. She’d finished her scrambled eggs some time ago and now the staff were clearing the tables. This wasn’t like her boss. He was old school. People of his generation never passed up a free meal. Whenever she and Hudson were away on work, he always made a point of eating a gargantuan breakfast. ‘If the taxpayer is footing the bill for this, we owe it to them to get VFM,’ he always said. Why men of a certain age associated lining their arteries with saturated fat and Value For Money was a complete mystery.

She drained her Earl Grey tea and marched to Hudson’s room, banging on the door.

‘Guv. You’ve missed breakfast,’ she said loudly. No answer. She banged again. ‘Guv!’ Still no answer. ‘It’s checkout in two hours. Are you okay?’ She rattled the handle and the door opened.

Grant pushed into the room. It was in darkness. The smell hit her first, then the faint noise from the bed. She walked over to the motionless form sprawled across the high mattress.

‘Guv,’ she said softly, reaching an arm out to rouse him.

Jason woke as usual, panting and clutching his throat. After an urgent inspection for gaping wounds his breathing began to slow and he slid his damp frame from under the moistened sheets. It was a cold morning and the sweat on Jason’s brow and chest was transformed into salty goose bumps within seconds. He pulled aside the heavy green curtain and peeked out at the winter morning. The sky was clear and blue and the ground covered in a light frost.

Jason checked his mobile. He had a text from Stinger.

My place 7 2nite got news be their

Wassup he texted back. A moment later the text was answered. Jason read it. Then he read it again. A puzzled smile creased his pale visage and he threw himself back on his bed. He took a deep breath and nodded.

‘I’m ready,’ he muttered, staring saucer-eyed at the ceiling.

Laura Grant walked quickly past the railway station back towards the Midland. The sun still shone and although it was lowering it still felt unseasonably warm.

She trotted up to the first-floor landing and opened the door to Hudson’s room.

The room was still in darkness. ‘Guv?’

This time the figure on the bed croaked out an answer. ‘That you, Laura?’

‘No, it’s Britney Spears.’

Hudson managed a chuckle before moaning long and low. ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, darlin’. My stomach can’t cope.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Like death would be a blessed release.’

‘But you managed to get some sleep?’

‘Between projectile vomits and having the shits, yeah.’

‘Good.’

‘You know, I think there’s a competition going on to see which of my orifices can expel the most stuff. I could sell tickets.’

‘As long as we don’t see it in the Olympics. Here,’ she said, drawing out a paper cup from a brown paper bag.

‘What’s that?’

‘Chicken soup.’

‘No, I couldn’t, honestly.’

‘You’ve got to eat something, guv. It’s good for you.’

‘Not yet. Not after that bloody curry. Just the smell…’

‘Maybe some Lucozade?’

‘I’ll try. Leave it by the bed. Everything sorted?’

Grant nodded. ‘We’ve got the rooms until tomorrow. And I rang Maddy’s office to tell him we needed an extra day to follow something up.’

Hudson nodded minutely. ‘Fingers crossed I’ll be okay by then.’