They stepped further in and their eyes adjusted more to the darkness.
Old machinery was piled everywhere. An old truck with a Leyland badge on the front sat facing the double doors. It had once been red, but it looked old and rusty now, like it had bled out and died a long time ago. It had a flat bed and old machinery was piled on it. A snow plough was over to one side and they could see the attachment on the front of the truck where the plough would have been put on in the winter.
‘Bingo,’ Dunbar said.
‘This looks like it. Maybe the Wolf family bought it from the local council to keep their airstrip clear in the winter. Who knows?’
They walked round the side of the truck, where there was more scrap metal. It was like a scavenger’s dream come true. There was a pathway between the junk and they walked back into the darkness, which wasn’t totally pitch black. They could see a tarpaulin stretched over the top of something.
Harry looked down and saw the front wheel sticking out, its tyre flat. He nudged Dunbar.
‘I think we just found Murdo Wolf’s plane.’
They walked tentatively past the metal junk, careful not to tear their clothes or their skin. The whole place smelled musty and oily.
Junk had been placed on the wings, maybe in a clumsy attempt to disguise its shape should anybody ever have a quick peek in here, but it was obvious what it was up close.
Another tarpaulin covered the cab. Harry squeezed by some old machines and reached out to grab hold of the plastic sheet and he pulled.
Two faces stared back at them.
Twenty-Six
Zachary and Fenton Wolf looked back at them with dead eyes. Both of them had had their heads split open with what Harry could only imagine was a hammer.
‘Jesus Christ, all the Wolf kids are dead,’ Dunbar said, looking back at the plane.
‘Not quite,’ said a figure from the shadows.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Harry said to Crail Shaw.
‘What do you think, Harry?’ Dunbar said. ‘The bastard’s come to finish off the job.’
Boxer smiled in the darkness. Harry took a step towards him, the flashlight from his phone still glinting off some of the metal that wasn’t rusty.
‘You killed Murdo all those years ago,’ Harry said matter-of-factly.
‘I did. He was an old bastard. I worked for him, worked so damn hard, going the extra mile, but he treated me like shit.’
‘That was no reason to kill him,’ Dunbar said.
Boxer laughed loudly. ‘You dumb fuck. That wasn’t the reason I killed him. But the why doesn’t concern you.’
‘You were a pilot, obviously,’ Harry said.
‘Ironically, it was Murdo who taught me to fly. I never did get my pilot’s licence, which helped because when they did a search back in the day, wondering if it really was Murdo in the plane, nobody else had a pilot’s licence. But yes, I used to fly the plane with Murdo all the time. Oliver didn’t, because he was shit-scared of the small planes, but I loved it. It’s easy when you know how.’
‘You took him up in the plane and killed him, then flew it back here,’ Harry said.
‘Correct. I had planned it well, making sure the snow was cleared off the airstrip, or the back lawn as the hospital called it. It was perfect for landing the small plane.’
‘The why is irrelevant now anyway,’ Dunbar said as they walked into the clear space in front of the truck. ‘You’re under arrest.’
He stepped forward, taking his handcuffs out of a pocket, and was about to slap a cuff on one of Boxer’s wrists when the older man hit him with a left hook. Dunbar went down hard, hitting the hard-packed floor.
‘Jimmy!’ Harry said, rushing forward to check on his friend, keeping an eye on Boxer at the same time.
Boxer stepped forward and tried to punch Harry, but Harry knew it was coming and ducked, jabbing Boxer in the face with a right fist. It was enough to knock the man back, and suddenly all the frustrations Harry had felt over the months rushed out. His ex-wife trying to keep his son from him; his mother’s murder; people trying to kill him.
Boxer grinned and moved in with a classic boxer’s stance and tried jabbing at Harry, but Harry was having none of it. He sidestepped and punched Boxer hard in the face. The older man was stunned, and Harry moved in, pummelling him with his fists, until the man fell back onto the floor.
‘Enough! I’ve had enough, please.’ Boxer lay still, his breath coming fast now, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. ‘You win.’
Harry turned away and bent down to see that Jimmy was doing okay and still breathing.
‘Fucking drop it!’ a voice suddenly shouted.
Harry looked up and saw Muckle McInsh standing just inside the doorway. He also saw Boxer had silently got back up on his feet and was standing with a hammer in his hand, holding it up like he was going to strike with it.
‘You big piece of shit,’ Boxer said. ‘I’ll kill you after I’ve killed this pair.’
‘I said fucking drop the hammer.’
Boxer smiled through the blood pouring out of his mouth. ‘Who’s going to fucking make me? You?’
‘No. Jesus will. Fuckwit.’
Boxer saw the distance between himself and Muckle and knew he wouldn’t be able to rush the man, so he turned his attention to Harry and Dunbar instead.
‘Harry, down!’ Muckle said, and as he brought his arm round, Harry didn’t think twice about throwing himself down on top of Dunbar.
The shot rang out in the darkness and the buckshot caught Boxer in the chest before he could bring down the hammer. He flew backwards and landed on his back, the life ebbing out of him.
Muckle ran over, not turning his back on Boxer, and
