Concrete Evidence (45 page)

Tod could feel their hatred. He began to tremble with fear and his knees trembled again. He looked to his right and the two men moved along the walkway opposite towards him. Beast moved along the landing to his left and took a toothbrush handle from his pocket. He held it up and Tod could see razor blades glinting in the light. They were melted side by side into the plastic. He was trapped with less than twenty metres between him and the sinister inmates. Tod walked back to the railings and looked down. There was still some activity on the lower landings but he quickly realised what they were doing. The prisoners were barricading the wing entrance gates with everything that they could rip loose. Mattresses, tables, chairs and the pool table had been piled against the gates to prevent the guards returning in force. As he looked around the lower floors, it seemed to Tod that every inmate on the wing was looking up at him.           

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Peter Barton felt a rush of stale air hit him as he looked beyond the door. A staircase climbed to a loft room and the smell of unwashed humans wafted to him. The stench evoked fear and frustration inside him, deep rooted emotions from his past. Stale urine, sweat, vomit and excrement. All the odours of his prison days. He felt gripped by a sense of foreboding and trepidation.
Don’t go up there, Peter.
A voice whispered to him.
Get Ryder first!

Commonsense deserted him. He knew that he should wait. He also knew that if he had applied his commonsense at any point since Simon went missing then things would be different. He wanted to see what Ryder had upstairs. His mind nagged him.
No, you need to see. That’s always been your problem, Peter, you don’t think before you act.
He climbed the first steps and pulled the door to behind him. As soon as it closed, he regretted his decision. The air was thick and cloying. Sweat trickled down his back and he felt wet and uncomfortable beneath the arms. He placed his feet close to the walls as he climbed. His progress was slow but silent. As he reached the top of the staircase, the stench intensified. Barton took a small torch from his pocket and switched it on. He aimed it at the roof and moved it from one side to the other. The rafters and tiles were bare. As he brought the beam lower, it settled on metal bars. He stepped closer and swept the beam along the bars.
They are cells! Ryder has cells in his loft!
He heard shuffling at the far end of the loft; shuffling and breathing. Then a whimper, like an injured cat. Chains clinked and rattled. Barton felt sick to his stomach as he crept forward. He drew level with the first cell and aimed the torchlight inside. A filthy mattress lay empty at the back of the cell. Handcuffs dangled loosely from the bars. An upturned water bowl designed for a dog was pressed against the bars. The door to the cage was ajar. He heard whimpering behind him and turned the torch towards it. The figure of a girl crouched in the corner, naked and trembling. A chain was anchored to the bars and padlocked into a metal necklace that was locked around her neck. Her long hair reached past her shoulders touching deep scars of various age. He could see her ribs protruding through skin. Her emaciated frame belonged to a holocaust survivor. She buried her face into the mattress and shivered with terror. Barton wanted to free her right there but he knew that he couldn’t. He tugged at the door but heavy chains fastened it. The shotgun was capable of blasting the lock but she still wouldn’t be free. He needed the keys.          

A shuffling sound made him turn around quickly. He aimed the torchlight at a second cage. He crept towards it with a morbid curiosity and a feeling of dread in his stomach. Another whimper from the shadows. Chains rattled and the floorboards creaked. He shone the beam at the source of the noise. The form of a young boy lay curled on the mattress in a foetal position. The disks of his spine protruded like the teeth on a cog. Scar tissue ran across his back from his shoulders down his buttocks to his thighs. His sandy blond hair was long and matted and hadn’t been cut for an age. Barton felt his breath coming in short sharp blasts. His pulse was racing. The boy looked emaciated, his skin bruised and filthy. He could smell excrement from a plastic bucket at the rear of the cage. Barton winced when he saw a deep gash that ran from the boy’s elbow to his shoulder. The congealed blood had not yet scabbed. Barton followed the wound with his torch and stopped at a blemish on the shoulder. Lights flashed in his mind. He recognised a pinkish birthmark on the boy’s shoulder. It was shaped like the African continent. “Simon!” he hissed. He had to see his face. The boy curled up tighter still. The chain around his neck clinked. “Simon!” His anger coursed through his veins making his blood boil. He couldn’t think straight. The urge to shout and call for help was overwhelming but he couldn’t. He had to tackle Ryder. He needed the keys and then he needed to take Simon back home where he belonged. “Simon, it’s me, Uncle Peter!” he hissed again. He shook the gate as hard as he dared. “Simon!” He had to be sure that it was him.
Could it be Simon?
“Simon!” He had to quell the urge to shout. “Simon, it’s Uncle Peter!” The boy stiffened and tilted his head. “Simon!” The boy turned slowly and squinted at the light. Barton recognised his blue eyes although the life that used to shine in them was gone. There was a spark or recognition in them. Just a glint in his eye. “Simon, it’s me, Uncle Peter!” The boy cowered away from him, his face frozen in fear. “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to take you home,” he said in a whisper. The boy shook his head and shut his eyes tight. “I’ll get you out of here.” The boy began to shake uncontrollably and raised his index finger. “Don’t be afraid.”

Peter felt a heavy blow to the back of his head. A flash of blinding white light shot through his brain like a giant camera flash before the world went dark.        

CHAPTER 53

There was an air of anticipation in the MIT office. Annie stood in front of the screens and an image of Benidorm and the surrounding area appeared. “We know that Geoff Ryder bought a villa near Benidorm,” Annie added. “The Guardia have been trying to trace, which properties are owned by Brits.”

“They’ve narrowed it down and this is their target. It’s a villa purchased from a UK bank account.” Alec explained. “It’s somewhere here in the hills north of the resort in a forest reserve called Cocentaina.” He pointed to the aerial map of the area on one of the screens. “It’s a secluded property in a wooded area with no neighbours in the vicinity. The closest house is five kilometres away.”

“Our friends in Spain are in a spin because of the death of Officer Peres, their top brass are taking it very seriously. They’re going to hit the villa with an armed unit and their bomb squad at dawn tomorrow.” Murmurs spread between the desks. “If there’s anyone home, they’re in for a nasty shock.” She nodded at Alec. “You said that we’ll have someone on the ground, Guv.”

              “There’s a DI Rind working on Organised Crime with Interpol. I’ve asked him to go along as our observer. He’s meeting up with the
Grupo de Acción Rápida tonight.” Alec said. “There’s nothing more that we can do from here regarding Geoff Ryder. Go home, get some sleep and keep your mobiles on just in case.” Annie needed a decent night’s sleep. They all did but she wasn’t sure that sleep would come easily without the aid of a bottle of Merlot.

CHAPTER 54

Tod Harris edged along the wall with his back pressed to the bricks. Despite having just showered, his shirt was drenched with sweat. His mouth felt painfully dry and he couldn’t swallow. He wanted to scream for help but it was pointless. The guards were barricaded out. No one would hear him crying for help and if they did, they couldn’t do anything. The sense of dread and helplessness was overwhelming. He could hardly draw his breath. Beast was only metres away. His steps were measured and purposely slow. He was toying with his prey, enjoying his fear.
It’s all about control, Tod
.
Like you did to so many of us, remember?
He watched in horror as the landing filled with the other inmates. Each one carried a weapon, some sharp, some blunt and heavy. Their eyes were filled with loathing.

As they approached, his survival instincts kicked in. He did the only thing that he could do. He turned and ran into the washrooms. Running away sparked his stalkers into action. He could hear them running along the metal walkways, their heavy footsteps echoed through the wing. ‘Kill, kill, kill, kill,’ he heard them chanting. Tod bolted through the showers into the toilets. ‘Nonce, nonce, nonce,’ their voices boomed in unison. He lost his footing on the slippery tiles and fell hard onto his elbows. Tod tried to scramble to his feet as the inmates streamed through the shower room. He looked around in panic as if some imaginary door would appear and let him through but none appeared. The walls were thick and the windows were barred. There was nowhere to run; nowhere to hide. He ran for the toilet cubicles and skidded as he reached them. He was gasping for air as he slammed the door and put his weight behind it. Beast hit the door at full speed with his shoulder. The wood cracked and Tod was catapulted across the cubicle. His head met the bricks with an audible crack. A wicked gash opened on his forehead and blood poured into his eyes. He could smell its coppery tang and taste it at the back of his throat. His legs couldn’t support him any longer. He fell onto the stainless steel toilet pan, splitting his top lip and splintering his front teeth. As he tried to clear the blood and fractured teeth from his mouth, Beast grabbed his ankles and yanked him violently backwards from the cubicle. Rough hands grabbed at his clothes. They lifted him above their heads and carried him into the wider space of the shower room.

“Switch on the water,” Beast growled over the clamour. “This could get messy, Harris,” he goaded. “Drop him!” he ordered. Tod hit the tiles face up. The impact knocked the wind from him. Blood blocked his airways and choked him. He tried to scream but it came out as a gurgle. Blood and vomit spurted from his mouth and splattered onto the tiles. “Hold him down,” Beast said gruffly. He held the razorblades in front of Tod’s eyes and a smile touched his lips. “You can watch yourself running down the drains piece by piece.”

Tod felt a warmth spreading through his pants as his bladder released its contents. He trembled uncontrollably, his vision blurred by blood and tears. He whimpered like so many had at his hands. “Mum,” he whispered.

“She can’t help you now,” Beast said slowly. He pulled his hair violently and looked into his eyes. “This is going to hurt,” he whispered as the blades sliced through his lips. Tod prayed for unconsciousness to take him and spare him from the pain but God wasn’t listening.

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Peter Barton felt his face being slapped. He opened his eyes and pain flashed in his brains. His head felt as if it was full of molten lead. He tried to focus on what was directly in front of him. His understanding of what had happened became crystal clear when he realised that he was staring down the barrel of his own shotgun. Geoff Ryder gestured with his head. “Get up,” he ordered. Ryder’s breathing sounded laboured. “Make a move and I’ll blow your head off, clear?”

“Clear,” Barton nodded.

“Put your hands on your head and walk towards the stairs.” Ryder waved the gun. Barton glanced at Simon but the boy was cowering in the corner of his cage. The girl followed his lead, her body racked with sobs. The sound was pitiful. “Stop there,” he said sharply. Ryder kept the shotgun aimed at his head as he backed down the stairs. “Walk very slowly. I really have no qualms about spreading your brains across the ceiling.”

Barton followed his orders. They progressed down the stairs and Ryder forced him into the living room. “Lie down on the floor, face down, hands behind your head. Move and you’re dead.”

Barton did as he was told. Ryder sat on the settee and kept the gun aimed at him while he reached for his oxygen mask. He placed it over his face and sucked in greedily. Barton clung to the thought that without the shotgun, he would be easy to overpower. He took one last deep lungful and put the mask down. “Now then,” he aimed the shotgun at Barton’s groin. “Would you like to tell me why you’re creeping around my home with a shotgun?”

“An ex-client of yours called Brian Taylor told me that you might be here. Do you remember him?”