Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

Assuming she lived long enough.

Jenny wondered why she hadn't been raped. The lust and hate had been obvious, but for some reason the assault hadn't come. Even so, she didn't delude herself. She thought about the face she'd glimpsed in the glare of the match. There was no mercy, no hope for her there. And she was all too aware that she wasn't the first woman to be brought down here. The cuts, the dress, the dancing – they seemed almost part of some incomprehensible ritual.

One way or another, she knew she wouldn't survive it.

It was late afternoon when I reached the Brenner house. There was a haziness to the day, a faint misting of clouds beginning to encroach across the previously pure blue of the sky. I stopped at the bottom of the track, looking at the ramshackle building. It seemed even more run-down than I remembered. There was no sign of life. I watched for a moment or two longer, until I realized I was putting off what I'd come here for. Shifting the Land Rover into drive, I slowly bumped up the uneven track.

Once I'd decided what I was going to try to do, the hardest part was being patient. Every instinct in me had cried out to act straight away, to drive out to the house immediately. But I knew that any chance of success depended on Brenner not being home. Ben had suggested waiting till later, when the odds were he would either have gone to the Lamb or be out hunting. 'He's a poacher. He'll be busy either early morning or late at night. That'd be why he was still in bed when you called earlier. He'd probably been out working his snares till after dawn.'

But I couldn't stand the thought of waiting that long. Each hour that passed reduced the chances of finding Jenny alive. In the end I hit on a ridiculously obvious solution: I simply called the Brenner house and, without identifying myself, asked if Carl was in. The first time his mother answered. When she told me to wait and went to get him I hung up.

'What will you do if their phone stored your number and he calls back?' Ben asked.

'It doesn't really matter. I can say I want to talk to him. I can't see him agreeing to that anyway.'

But Brenner hadn't called back. I left it a while, then called again. This time it was Scott who answered. No, Carl was out, he told me. He'd no idea when he'd be back. I thanked him and broke the connection.

'Wish me luck,' I said to Ben, standing up to leave.

He'd wanted to come as well, but I'd refused. As much as I would have welcomed his company, it would have been asking for trouble. He and the Brenners were a volatile combination at the best of times, let alone when Ben had half a bottle of whisky inside him. And what I'd got in mind called for persuasion, not confrontation.

I'd considered telling Mackenzie what I was going to do, but quickly dismissed the notion. I'd no more to back up my suspicions now than I'd had when I spoke to him earlier. And Mackenzie had already made it clear he didn't appreciate my interference. He wasn't going to do anything without evidence.

Which was why I was going to the Brenner house.

I felt less confident now, though. My earlier certainty had ebbed as I parked outside. The same dog ran around the corner barking at the sound of the car. But it was bolder this time. Perhaps because I was alone it didn't retreat as it had before. It was a big mongrel with a torn ear. Bristling, it planted itself between me and the house. I took my first-aid kit out of the car and held it ready in case it attacked. The dog hackled as I walked towards it. I stopped, but it continued to growl.

'Jed!'

The dog gave me a last warning look as it trotted towards where Mrs Brenner had appeared in the doorway. Her narrow face was hostile.

'What do you want?'

I had my story prepared. 'I'd like another look at Scott's foot.'

She regarded me with suspicion. Or perhaps my nerves just interpreted it as that. 'You looked at it earlier.'

'I didn't have everything I needed with me then. I want to make sure it doesn't get infected. But if you don't want me to bother…'

I made as if to go back to my car. She sighed. 'No, you'd better come in.'

Trying not to show how relieved – and nervous – I was I followed her inside. Scott was in the living room, sprawled in front of the television on a grubby settee. His injured leg was stretched out along the cushions.

'The doctor's come to see you again,' his mother said as we walked in.

He pushed himself upright, looking surprised. And guilty, I thought. But again, that could have been my imagination.

'Carl's not back yet,' she said.

'That's OK. I was nearby and I thought I'd take another look at your foot. I've brought an antibacterial dressing for it.' I tried to seem relaxed, but my voice sounded horribly false to my ears.

'Was it you phoned for Carl earlier?' his mother asked, her hostility surfacing.

'Yes, I got cut off. I was on my mobile.'

'What did you want him for?'

'I wanted to apologize.' The lie came surprisingly easily. I went and sat on the chair nearest to Scott. 'But right now I'm more interested in your foot. Do you mind if I examine it again?'

He looked at his mother, then shrugged. 'No.'

I began to unwrap the bandage. His mother stood in the doorway, watching.

'I don't suppose there's any chance of a cup of tea?' I asked without looking up.

For a moment I thought she was going to refuse. Then, with a huffy sigh, she went into the kitchen. After she'd gone the only sound was the babble of the television and the whisper of the bandage as I unwound it. My mouth was dry. I risked a glance at Scott. He was watching me with a faintly worried expression.

'Tell me again how it happened,' I said.

'I stepped in a snare.'

'Whereabouts did you say it was?'

He looked down at his lap. 'Can't remember.'

I stripped away the bandage and dressing. Underneath, the stitches were as ugly as ever. 'You were lucky not to lose your foot. If it gets infected you still could.' He was past the danger stage, but I wanted to rattle him.

'It wasn't my fault,' he said, sullenly. 'I didn't step in it on purpose.'

'Perhaps not. But if there's nerve damage you're going to limp for the rest of your life. You should have had it looked at before this.' I looked up at him. 'Or didn't Carl want you to?'

His eyes flicked away from mine. 'Why shouldn't he?'

'It's common knowledge about his poaching. The last thing he wants is for the police to ask questions because his brother's stepped in a trap.'

'I told you, it wasn't one of ours,' he mumbled.

'OK,' I said, as though I didn't care one way or the other. I made a show of examining his wound, flexing his foot back and forth. 'But you didn't report it to the police, did you?'

'I told them when they came and asked me about it,' he said, defensively.

I didn't mention I'd been the one who'd told Mackenzie. 'What did Carl have to say about that?'

'What do you mean?'

'When the police came to see you. Did he tell you what to say to them?'

He suddenly pulled his foot away. 'What the fuck's it got to do with you?'

I tried to sound reasonable, even if I didn't feel it. 'Carl lied to the police, didn't he?'

He was glaring at me. I knew I'd gone too far. But I couldn't think how else to approach it.

'Get out! Go on, fuck off!'

I stood up. 'OK. But ask yourself why you're covering for someone who'd let you get gangrene rather than take you to a hospital.'

'That's bullshit!'

'Is it? So why didn't he take you straight away? Why did he come looking for me to patch you up when he could see how badly you were hurt?'

'You were closest.'

'And he knew a hospital would report it to the police. He didn't want to take you even when I said you needed stitches.'