menthol gel under his nose. Cop trick, to keep the stench at bay. It seemed that, like me, Hartlaub had been around enough dead bodies for it no longer to affect him.
Brigham opened the door and the warm rush of wind almost took my breath away. The overriding odour was the coppery tang of spilled blood. But worse than that was the gag-inducing putridity of voided bowels and spilled stomach contents.
Despite being inured to the after-effects of slaughter, I couldn’t stop myself from pinching my nose. Beside me Hartlaub stood stoically, but his eyes were watering as much as mine. We moved tentatively into the room, squeezing past Brigham who looked content to remain at the threshold.
Investigators had been and gone, bodies tagged and shrouded and carried away, so only the aftermath bore witness to what had happened here.
It was like a maniacal artist had taken a couple of gallons of red paint to the walls and floor, with splashes and ribbons of blood everywhere. Other pools on the floor made nightmarish Rorschach designs, and there were hunks of skin and hair adhering to the carpet and furniture. Bullet holes stitched patterns in the walls. A chair had been knocked over, a settee thrown down on its back. I didn’t have the expert eye of a detective, but even I could tell that at least three men had died here. Something else: this wasn’t the result of a normal hit. This was the work of someone — or some thing — demented.
I turned from the scene of horror and met Hartlaub’s eyes.
‘You told me Walter didn’t suffer.’
Hartlaub shrugged. ‘He didn’t. Most of the blood you see here was from post-mortem dismemberment.’
Chapter 5
Two days earlier…
Prisoner 1854 was reborn.
He arrived at his rebirth in a sleek, black limousine, and a flunkey reached down and opened the rear door for him, like he was an honoured guest. Stepping out of the limousine on to a driveway bordered by shrubs and tinkling fountains, he cast his gaze over a building that spoke of opulence rivalling that of movie stars and pop legends. He tipped a genteel nod at the servant who held open the door. The
man grunted, then waved him forward with the barrel of a. 38. So much for that illusion.
Behind him, two more guards took up position as he was marched unceremoniously towards the entrance of the mansion. Other guards flanked the doors, grim-faced men with hard bodies. Beneath their jackets, they wore automatic handguns in shoulder harnesses. Out in the sculptured gardens other men moved, some craning for a look at him. He returned their looks of disdain with a slight lifting of his chin.
Inside the foyer, a man waited. He was conventionally dressed in grey slacks, white shirt and a deep blue sports jacket, but that was where convention ended. His short dark hair was gelled and spiked, and he was wearing sunglasses that changed colour according to the strength of the light. Right now they were a yellowish green: the colour of decomposing flesh.
He held a semi-automatic pistol loosely by his side.
The prisoner held up his cuffed wrists. ‘Do you think these could come off now? Either that, or you put away your guns?’ His voice sounded like tearing paper.
‘The cuffs stay on for now.’
The prisoner shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But, just so you understand.. I didn’t trade one cell for another.’
‘That all depends on what the boss decides.’ The gunman, dismissing the others with a jerk of his head, led the prisoner through a sumptuous vestibule and into an equally lavish dining room.
Sitting at the head of a large table was a grey-haired man who watched the prisoner with eyes like slivers of Arctic winter. The prisoner looked back. His own pale eyes were a match for the seated man’s. Killer’s eyes. Well met, he thought.
‘Please,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘Take a seat.’
The table was large enough that, when he sat down, the prisoner remained well out of grasping range of his host.
The man with spiked hair went around to the other side of the table and sat opposite him. He slipped off his sunglasses, hooking them in the top pocket of his jacket. He placed the handgun on the table, alongside cutlery that had been laid out for a meal.
The prisoner noted that his hosts had the best silverware, but on his side was a plastic spork, one of those utensils you get with a pre-packed salad from a delicatessen.
‘You know who I am?’ The grey-hair was a square-faced man, his features a natural swarthy tan, offset by the vividness of his eyes.
The prisoner placed his cuffed wrists on the table. ‘Of course I do. You are my benefactor.’
The host smiled. He waved and his maitre d’ came forward pushing a trolley. The severe looking man began serving entrees. Around his feverishly working hands, the grey-haired man watched his guest. ‘I admit to being surprised when you contacted me. I didn’t think it would be possible from inside a prison as secure as Fort Conchar.’
‘I had my ways. It’s frightening how easy a prison guard’s greed can be played upon, don’t you think?’
‘You were certain that I would help you escape,’ said the host.
‘You had the finances available. We both share a mutual hatred of a certain individual. It was a done deal in my opinion.’ The prisoner lifted his cuffs. ‘ These I did not anticipate.’
Giving his pursuers the slip by way of the off-road motorbike, he had made for a pre-arranged rendezvous. He’d expected to be picked up and shuttled eastward to this meeting, but he hadn’t thought that he’d be treated like an animal. There were ten armed men in the party that had confronted him; they’d stripped him of his weapons and then cuffed him. He could have done for some of them at any time, but he wanted this meeting more than he desired to satiate his blood lust. That would come soon enough.
‘You’re a very dangerous man. I need reassurances before freeing you. After all, you murdered the guard I paid to help get you out.’
‘I had to make my escape look genuine.’ The prisoner smiled at his own cunning. ‘We don’t want the authorities realising that I had outside help. The guard would’ve squealed like a pig the first time he was interrogated. That would’ve caused us problems, would it not?’
‘You have a point.’ The host steepled his fingers as he studied the prisoner. ‘All of this would’ve been pointless if I’d been implicated in your escape — or what you do next.’
The prisoner shrugged. ‘So you agree that the guard’s death was necessary?’
‘As long as he’s the last of my people you harm.’
The prisoner didn’t reply. The maitre d’ placed a bowl of soup in front of him, unaware of how close he was to a man who could deal death whether his hands were chained or not.
‘Am I expected to eat with these cuffs on?’
The host and his henchman exchanged glances.
The prisoner said, ‘Five-star food with plastic silverware? Maybe you’re afraid I’ll assassinate you with an expertly thrown silver spoon?’ He chortled to himself, a whistling noise that made a bellows of his scarred throat. ‘Have you considered how dangerous a bowl of hot soup can be? Perhaps gazpacho should’ve been on the menu instead?’
The host lifted his glass and sipped the heady wine. He didn’t immediately respond, savouring the prisoner’s humour as much as the rich claret. Placing down the glass, he turned to his henchman. ‘You can release him, Getz.’
Getz stood up slowly. He picked up his handgun. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir.’
The host turned to the prisoner. ‘Like I said, I need reassurances. How can I be sure I can trust you?’
‘You helped me escape. In return I swore that I’d help you.’
‘But is that enough? You’re an indiscriminate murderer who has killed some of my employees before.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘What’s to stop you doing so again?’
‘Things were different then. Your men were going to take away someone very important to me. I had no
