‘Aren’t you going to get a shock,’ Muckle said, toeing the door open wider. He put his keys away and pulled out the Maglite from an inside pocket and held it up in such a way that he could bring it down hard on somebody, like a baton. There were no lights on downstairs and the sharp light picked out a little table in the main hallway.
Muckle knew he should shout out, but why give Clive a warning? He shouldn’t be here, and Muckle wanted to see the look of shock on his face when he was confronted by one man and his dog.
Muckle wanted to check downstairs first, even though Sparky was pulling towards the upper level, where the light had been coming from. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise, so he looked into the dark rooms on the ground floor, including the large kitchen in the extension, where the confrontation with the small man had taken place.
Nobody was there.
‘Come on, Sparky, let’s go upstairs.’ He shone the light about as Sparky led him back out of the room, and they went up the staircase to the first floor. No light spilled out from under any of the doors here.
Muckle stood and thought for a second. He knew the light had been coming from a room at the side of the house, in the extension, which was a two-level add-on to match the original house. The master bedroom was there, at the back, a big affair with its own bathroom. That must be where the light was coming from. Not one of the other two bedrooms, used by the teenagers when the tenant had lived here with his brood. Little bastards, the lot of them.
Muckle didn’t have kids and was happy with his dog. When he had met his wife a few years ago, she’d had a Beagle and both dogs had hit it off, which sealed the deal for Muckle. Love me, love my dog.
‘Go and find him, Sparky boy,’ he said to the dog, shining the flashlight around the landing and down the hallway that led along the extension.
He gave the dog a clue by walking towards the master bedroom. He stopped by the door and leaned in closer, not wanting to seem like he was spying, but he was security and had every right to be here. He knew for a fact that Clive Wolf didn’t have the right.
He put the flashlight in his left hand, which was holding Sparky’s leash, and put his right hand on the ornate door handle.
‘Feel free to go at it, boy, if you feel we’re being threatened.’ He pushed down on the handle and shoved the door open.
There was only one person in the room: Clive Wolf. He was sitting on a chair in the little sitting area, illuminated by a small table lamp. He was facing away from Muckle and didn’t move when the man came in with his dog.
Sparky started barking and not in a Let’s play ball kind of way. He pulled against the vest, straining at it so hard he was off his front legs.
‘Easy, Sparks!’ Muckle shouted. Then, to the young man in the room: ‘Clive! It’s Muckle McInsh, security. You okay?’
Christ, maybe he’s pished and fallen asleep. ‘Too bad if he has,’ he said to the dog, who wasn’t listening but was in full growling and barking mode now. The hairs on Muckle’s neck stood up. Usually by now, the person who wasn’t holding back the dog would at least show some interest in keeping their body parts attached, but Clive was out of it.
‘Clive!’ Muckle shouted, not wanting to get too close at this point, but knowing he had to. He walked forward, leaning back a little so the dog wouldn’t pull him over.
Sparky stopped, the hair on his back now standing up. Muckle could see the red stain on the carpet under the chair. Then he saw the hole in the wall where somebody had smashed it with a hammer, the one that was lying on the carpet.
Muckle stepped forward and shone his light into Clive’s eyes, a trick he’d learned to disable a person for a few seconds. But Clive didn’t complain or put a hand up to shield his eyes. He’d never complain again.
Muckle shone the light at the hole in the wall. And saw the face looking back out at him.
Two
‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ the elderly solicitor said, standing at the head of the huge dining table in the great hall. ‘To Oliver Wolf. A man who was born and died on this fine piece of rock in the Atlantic Ocean. Wolf Island. A place you can now all call home. Oliver Wolf!’ He raised his glass higher and drank the Scotch, then slammed the glass down on the table.
‘Oliver Wolf!’ the others chanted, all of them knocking back the first of many drinks that would be consumed over the course of the weekend. All except Shona, Oliver’s daughter and the baby of the family.
And her twin brother, Clive, who hadn’t bothered to show after yesterday’s little tantrum.
The solicitor shuffled some papers and put them in the ratty old briefcase on the dining table, and then he closed it and picked it up.
‘God help you all,’ he said under his breath.
‘Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m away to have a squint at the property the old man left me,’ Zachary Wolf said, tossing the keys up in the air and catching them with one hand.
‘The old man must have been off his head,’ Fenton Wolf said, curling his lip in barely disguised contempt.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Zachary said, standing back from the table.
‘At least this place isn’t crappy,’ Shona said.
Fenton looked at her. ‘I don’t know why you’re so happy; he left you that shitty little lodge up on Mount Arse Crack.’
‘It has a nice view,’ Shona countered.
‘So did Alcatraz, but
