It seemed like years, not days, since she’d been to the cottage.
The assault on the property, which could have cost her and Julie their lives, seemed to have faded into the mists of time. Supposedly the mind pushes unpleasant things to one side in an effort to forget them. Donna had tried to do that with the events at the cottage, but as soon as she saw the building the memories came flooding back in an unwelcome tide.
She sat in the Fiesta gazing at the structure. Even in the darkness she could see bullet holes in the stonework. The wood she’d used to board up the windows was still in place, although a couple of the sheets had come loose. One was slapping against the frame each time the wind blew.
Donna slid out from behind the wheel and approached the cottage, fumbling in her pocket for her key-ring. She selected the front door key, pausing for a moment before turning it, images of her last visit running through her mind like a video recorder on fast-forward. She could see Farrell and his men trying to break in. She could see the blood. She could see Julie.
Donna closed her eyes tightly, then took a deep breath. The image faded slightly. She entered.
There was broken glass in the hallway, still. It crunched beneath her feet as she walked, moving through into the sitting-room, not bothering to turn on the lights. She moved quickly. and assuredly in the gloom, heading for the kitchen.
There was a torch in one of the kitchen drawers. She retrieved it, flicking it on, allowing the powerful beam to cut through the blackness.
She trained it on the cellar trap door.
Donna hooked a finger into the ring on the trap and pulled, opening it. She shone the torch down into the underground chamber, ignoring the smell of damp that wafted up from below. She tucked the torch into the waistband of her jeans as she eased herself onto the ladder, climbing down slowly, afraid, as she’d always been, that the wooden rungs would give way. A spider’s web brushed against her face as she neared the bottom. Donna snatched at it, anxious to brush it away. The floor of the cellar was partly earth; it was the damp soil that she could smell so strongly.
Donna took the torch from her jeans and shone it around.
The cellar was less than fifteen feet square but it was crammed with tea chests and boxes, some of which were damp and mildewed. Spiders’ webs seemed to link the boxes like membranous skin. She shuddered as she looked around. It was the first time she’d had a proper look inside the underground room; already she felt a sense of claustrophobia. Nevertheless she moved towards the first pile of packing cases, rummaging through them, not really sure what she was looking for but fearing what she might find.
The boxes were mostly full of old newspaper, which had been used as padding around items of value. There didn’t seem to be much else lurking in there.
She heard a noise from above her and froze.
Instinctively she switched off the torch, standing completely still in the cloying darkness, her heart thudding against her ribs.
Whatever it was appeared to be coming from the sitting-room, above her to the left.
She heard it again.
Donna suddenly realized the source of the disturbance.
It was a piece of wood banging against a window-frame, blown by the wind.
Flicking the torch back on she continued her search, checking more boxes, feeling her feet sinking into the earthen floor. The dirt stuck to her trainers. She muttered to herself, scraping the sticky mud off against a wooden box.
Her efforts to remove the earth caused the box to topple over and Donna saw, beneath where it had stood, a piece of metal; a sheet of rusted iron about a foot square, only part of it showing through the dark earth. She aimed the torch at it, then dropped to her knees and began pulling at the clods. The odour of damp was thick and noxious but she continued with her task, finally exposing the metal sheet.
It was covering a small hole.
Donna laid the torch beside the hole, slipped her fingers under the sheet of iron and lifted, flipping it over.
She snatched the torch up again and shone it down into the hole.
The object inside was small, perhaps twice the size of a man’s fist, and wrapped in plastic.
Her heart beat faster as she reached for it.
She hesitated a moment.
Donna had to know. She snatched up the object, pulling the plastic from it like a child would unwrap a Christmas present.
The skull was unmistakably that of a baby.
Parts of it were not even completely formed. The fontanelles had not yet joined.
The child must have been very young indeed.
Days old when ...
She dropped the skull and closed her eyes, tears beginning to form behind her lids. When she looked down again the skull had fallen back into the hole, the eye sockets gazing sightlessly up at her.
She sat down on the wet earth, the torch still gripped in one hand, tears coursing down her cheeks.
Donna felt something digging into her backside and realized that she still had the folded pages of the Grimoire stuffed in there.
Including the page which bore her husband’s name.
She pulled it out slowly and unfolded it, shining the light over the other names on the list.
Other members of The Sons of Midnight.
Donna read the first of the names.
‘Oh, Christ,’ she murmured.
She heard the creaking above her, spun round and looked up.
There was a torch beam shining in her face now, held by the figure on the edge of the cellar opening.
It was Detective Constable David Mackenzie.
‘Come up here, Mrs Ward, and bring the pages from the book with you.’
Mackenzie’s words seemed to echo inside the small cellar.
As Donna looked more closely, she saw that he was holding a gun; too. The .38 glinted in the torchlight.
Without a second thought she began to climb the steps, the pages of the Grimoire held in her hand. There was no point in trying to run. Where the hell was she going to go?
She pulled herself out of the cellar and stood facing him, noticing that he’d taken a step back, that the pistol was levelled at her.
‘You’re part of it,’ she said flatly.
‘Drop the pages on the floor in front of you and step back,’ Mackenzie told her.
