Time to Die

35

Half an hour later Hanlon emerged from the sea, downwind of the jetty, just in case Conquest had brought his dogs. She was bitterly cold and her body ached with effort. Natural swimming, as opposed to a pool, is by its very nature unpredictable. She had guessed before she entered the water that it would be tough, but the current had been stronger than she’d imagined and the sea viciously choppy. It was only as she reached a few hundred metres from shore and entered the protection from the offshore breeze of the lee of the island that the water became calmer and she could relax. It had been more of a battle than she’d anticipated.

She was now about a hundred metres from the simple, blockstone jetty. The rocks around her were large and black, their surface a mixture of slick, slippery stone and cheesegrater-rough barnacles, fringed with iodine-smelling bladderwrack seaweed. She felt her way to the dryness of the tideline, careful not to cut her feet on the sharp edges of the mussels that were attached to the boulders, unzipped her bag and quickly put on her clothes and shoes. Now she pulled a ski mask over her head, so that only her eyes were visible. On her hands were dark, fingerless gloves. There would be no white flash of skin colour to give her away. She was completely invisible in the shadows. She studied the house in greater detail while her heart rate slowed after the exertion of the swim.

Like the lodge on the mainland, it was brightly lit by spotlights. She couldn’t see or hear any dogs, which she was grateful for. The building was Victorian, fairly unremarkable. She guessed it would have half a dozen bedrooms upstairs. She had no way of knowing how many people it contained. The two front rooms had lights on behind drawn curtains. The front of the house gave on to a lawn and a grey stone balustrade with a stone staircase, both mottled with patches of lichen, which led down to the illuminated jetty. The side and rear of the house were in darkness.

Hanlon made her way to the back of the house. The fact that there were lights on in the front rooms led her to think that was probably where Conquest was. She guessed that one would be a living room with a sea view, it was the obvious place for a lounge; the other, she had no way of knowing. She crept round the side of the house. The hill she had seen from the shore of the mainland was directly behind it. The house was practically built in to the rock, snuggled up to it as if for comfort. She guessed that the winds coming from the sea would be so strong that it made sense to position the house in the lee of the high ground. It was this shelter too that protected the small harbour and made it viable.

She climbed up the hill through pungent low bracken and tall grass — the gradient was practically sheer — on hands and knees until she was parallel with the eaves and guttering, and looked again at the back of the house.

From her current position, she could see into the windows of three rooms at the rear. One, on the right, was in darkness; the one in the middle was brightly lit. It had no curtains and its windows were frosted glass. Obviously a bathroom, she thought. The third set of windows on the left were curtained. They’d been drawn but not fully and, from where she was crouching, some six or seven metres away, she could see the end of a bed and a pair of naked legs. As she watched, the legs swung off the bed and in a sudden movement the curtains were drawn back. There, framed in the window, the open robe exposing his stick-like limbs and naked chest with its sparse, grey hair and pendulous, aged, man-breasts, was the figure of Lord Justice Reece.

He lifted up the sash of the window about thirty centimetres and lit a cigar. It was sizeable, about the length and thickness of a candle, and she could see its tip glow red periodically as he puffed on it. Momentarily she wondered why he was leaning out of the window to smoke it, like a guilty schoolboy. Then she saw the plastic circle and flashing warning light of a smoke alarm on the ornate ceiling with its moulded decorative plaster friezework. She guessed that any smoking inside the room would trip the alarm.

Reece turned round as if summoned by someone, so she could see his back, and the door to the bedroom opened. As she watched, the muscular back of a freakishly tattooed shaven-headed man came in, carefully walking in reverse, pulling a trolley. It was like room service in a hotel, except lying on the trolley, without moving, was the body of a fair-haired boy. Her heart beat faster; this had to be Peter. She saw the man speak to the judge and the latter point to the bed. The tattooed skinhead lifted the boy carefully as if he weighed nothing, the huge muscles standing out on his body like an anatomically correct drawing, and laid him gently down. Then he withdrew from the room, taking the trolley with him and closing the door. There was a bolt on the door and she watched the judge as he pushed it home to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbed. He stood looking at the boy, one hand playing gently with himself, the other holding a glass of red wine that he sipped carefully. He shrugged off his robe and Hanlon saw his flabby, elderly buttocks, their loose skin swaying as he walked round the bed like a predator eyeing its prey, on his spindly legs. Then he turned and went to the curtains and pulled them across. As he did so, Hanlon saw he was fully aroused, the shaft of his tumescent penis swollen with heavy, dark blue veins.

She unrolled herself from the crouch she was in and slipped gracefully down the hill to the back of the house. Below the lighted window of the bathroom was a thick drainpipe. As she had hoped, it was the same age as the house, made of cast iron. It wasn’t a modern, thin plastic one. It would easily take her weight. She pulled her shoes and socks off, tied the laces together and hung the shoes over her neck. She started climbing the drainpipe. Its surface was pitted and corroded and it provided a wonderful non-slip surface for her powerful grip, while the rough stone of the walls of the house gave her purchase with her toes and the soles of her feet. Like all climbers, she leaned hard into the surface she was climbing up. She excelled at climbing. She had that wonderful mix of a head for heights, balance, mental and physical, and huge strength. Hanlon could do one-armed push-ups and she could also pull her own body weight up by her fingertips on one hand. The ascent for her was ridiculously easy.

She hung from the window ledge of the bathroom by the fingertips of her right hand and reached over with her left hand to the ledge of the bedroom. Then she tightened the muscles in her arms and pulled herself up so she could see through the crack in the curtain. The judge had lifted the boy’s T-shirt up to his chin and was staring lustfully at his naked chest. He leaned forward and gently stroked the boy’s nipples. He sat down on the bed next to the boy and licked his thin lips. Hanlon placed her shoes on the window sill and slid silently into the room, lithe as a snake. As she did so, she pulled a length of cord from the right-hand pocket of her zipped top. At each end was a loop. She slipped her hands through these loops. The judge’s back was to her. His tongue extended as he bent his head forward to lick the boy’s body. As he did so, in one swift motion, Hanlon threw the cord over his head, around his neck, planted her knee in the judge’s back and pulled. While she did this, her hands crossed over each other and the cord bit savagely into the scrawny neck. She stood up, pulling the judge with her, the man making almost inaudible choking sounds, his eyes bulging, his erect penis, a bulging, blue-veined pole, maintained by two Viagra, incongruously dancing and jerking in front of him as they moved, in an obscene shuffling dance. His hands clawed ineffectually at the cord which closed his windpipe, cutting off his air supply. Then his knees gave way as he lost consciousness and he slid to the floor.

Hanlon checked her watch, five past nine. She went over to the boy and examined him. He seemed unhurt, there were no visible injuries and there were no marks on his wrists to suggest he’d been restrained. He was breathing comfortably and deeply; he’d obviously been drugged. On the bedside table was an unfamiliar type of syringe with a very small needle and next to it was a small, black, plastic machine about the size of a pack of cards. She remembered that the boy was diabetic; this then must be his insulin and the machine for checking his blood-sugar levels. Well, if all went to plan, she’d be able to get him into the hands of a doctor soon enough and if things didn’t work out, then maybe he’d be better off not waking up. She knew that Conquest would never release him alive. His body would either never be found, or be dumped somewhere prominent with the number eighteen written nearby.

She slid her arms under the boy and lifted him up, then laid him gently down on a rug on the floor. She looked at the now empty bed. It had a sturdy wooden headboard and the posts which formed the legs at the bottom rose in twin carved wooden columns above the mattress. There were buckled restraints attached to both headboard and posts so a body could be tied down on the bed, legs and arms splayed out. She picked the judge up and secured him tightly, face upwards, like a skinny, wrinkled starfish. He stirred and moaned.

There was a jug of water on the table next to a bottle of red wine with a faded label, and a mirror, a razor blade, a silver straw and a folded bag of what she guessed was coke. Next to the table was a shoulder-high, Victorian, ladies’ screen with three hinged panels so you could conceal yourself whilst undressing or dressing. She looked behind it and there on a dainty ormulu table with ornately gilded legs was a mask and a studded codpiece. Her lips curled in contempt. She picked the mask up and looked at it. The mask’s eyes were covered in a kind of gauze so you could see out but not in. She guessed that the judge was too cowardly to meet the gaze of his victim. He had to hide behind a disguise. Above this table was another set of drawn curtains. Hanlon opened them a crack and looked out.

These windows overlooked more lawn surrounded by a wall which had a section of fence and through there, in a field partially lit by the house’s floodlights, she could see a large animal. A pig was standing looking in her direction. She was aware of movement behind it and guessed that maybe there were more pigs in the field. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out in the moonlight a couple of rudimentary shelters for the animals to provide shade from the sun.

Satisfied, she closed the curtains and picked up the jug of water. She also selected a couple of items from a coffee table that contained sex toys. One of these was a ball gag. She leaned over the judge and pinched his nostrils closed. He automatically opened his mouth to breathe and she inserted the black rubber ball into the opening, releasing his nose, then slid the straps round his head and secured them tightly. She slowly tipped the water over the judge’s face and his eyes flickered and opened as he regained consciousness.

Then, as his oxygen-starved brain readjusted itself, he focused on Hanlon. His head jerked wildly as he struggled in his restraints and he made muffled noises behind his gag. She held one of the nipple-clamps she’d taken from the table in front of his eyes and watched as they widened slightly. She leaned forward and positioned it over the judge’s left nipple and then started screwing it tight. She watched as his eyes filled with tears and his body tautened with pain.

‘Good. I can see I’ve got your attention,’ said Hanlon. ‘When I take this gag off you’re going to tell me how many people there are in this house, do you understand?’ She screwed the nipple clamp tighter and the trickle of blood running down his chest intensified. ‘Another turn on this and you’ll be able to wear a nipple ring.’

The judge nodded frantically. Hanlon showed the judge the razor blade she had taken from the table. The judge now looked absolutely terrified. ‘Don’t try and scream for help,’ said Hanlon. ‘If you do, I’ll cut your throat.’ She pulled the ball of the gag down. Reece swallowed nervously.

‘Three,’ said the judge. ‘Me, Conquest and the girl, Clarissa.’

Hanlon replaced the gag and took hold of the clamp. She screwed it as tight as it would go, completely through the soft flesh of his nipple. The judge’s body bucked against his restraints. Blood trickled down his chest through the pierced nipple. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ said Hanlon. She stood up and walked to the table. She picked up a paddle and returned to the judge. His erection had subsided now and she could plainly see the wrinkled sac of his scrotum. Three times she slammed the paddle into his testicles. The judge writhed and whimpered through his rubber gag.

‘I’d tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God, if I were you,’ said Hanlon.

The judge nodded frantically. She removed the gag. Lord Justice Reece was crying with pain, tears pouring from his eyes, and mucus dribbled thickly from his nose. His chest heaved as he sucked in air to vainly try and dampen the fires of agony that burnt in his groin and chest. It was hard to know which hurt more.

‘Four,’ he gasped. ‘Me, Conquest, the girl and Robbo. I swear. I swear it’s only the four of us. Please don’t hurt me any more.’

‘Robbo will be the skinhead?’

The judge nodded. Hanlon was pleased. It was better than she could have hoped for. Only four. And one of them was tied to a bed. Not that the judge, bereft of a supportive legal apparatus, was much of a threat to anyone. She guessed it was maybe the first time in his life anyone had deliberately hurt him. He would have no point of reference. He could hand it out, but he couldn’t take it.

‘Can you get him up here?’

The judge nodded. He moved his head so he was looking at an old-fashioned bell pull. ‘With that,’ he said. He was eager to be cooperative now.

Hanlon looked around the room. The only weapon she had with her was her knife and she did not want to be in a fight in close proximity to the massively muscled Robbo. She guessed, well, she knew, he would be no stranger to violence. She would bet it was Robbo who had slammed Mehmet’s head into the kitchen counter, shattering his skull. If he managed to pin her down with his weight, she would in all probability lose. To lose meant to lose everything. She had no intention of doing that.

The bedroom was dominated by a huge Victorian fireplace, its hearth decorated with glazed tileware. There was a set of fire irons of a scale in keeping with the large fireplace, including a poker the length and thickness of a crowbar. Hanlon replaced the gag in the judge’s mouth and went over and picked it up. She hefted it thoughtfully in her hand, feeling its solid weight. It was perfect.

She covered the judge with a blanket so only his bound wrists and ankles were visible; the rest of him, including his head, was an amorphous mass under the cloth. Then she unbolted the bedroom door, tugged the bell-pull and stood behind the old-fashioned screen. The judge’s mask stared at her balefully with its faceted eyes.

A couple of minutes later, she heard the stairs creak under a man’s heavy weight and the handle of the bedroom started to turn. Her grip tightened on the iron bar as she waited.