Pig Island (26 page)

“What has happened? Nothing’s happened.”

“Malachi, terrible things are being said. Terrible things are being suggested about what you are doing up here. Something evil has been seen in these woods.”

“Something evil? What does that mean, something evil?”

“The thing all Christians fear, Malachi, man’s ancient enemy: a Pan, Malachi, a Dionysus, a
Satan
. Half beast, half man. A
biforme
.”

“I told you never to come here, Benjamin. Don’t come here and tell me this babble. Get away now. Before I use my axe.”

Maybe he raises the axe to show how serious he is, because Benjamin staggers away from the door in shock. Angeline hears a barrel being knocked over, the sound of feet shuffling in the soil, then the front door slamming shut and Malachi’s laboured, furious breathing in the living room. She leaps to the window, presses her nose to the pane and sees, from above, a man’s head. The moon is close to the horizon, but there’s enough light to make out the pale circle of skin showing through his thinning hair. He’s wearing a dark green jacket and Wellingtons and she stares at him in fascination as he moves his hands up and down in a strange spasmodic gesture. He turns in a complete circle, once, twice, as if he doesn’t know what to do—whether to knock again, or run. Then he stops.

Only a few yards away, outside the fence, lies a pig. Angeline hasn’t noticed it before but from the odd angle of its head she guesses it’s one of Malachi’s sacrifices, not cleaned up yet from the deliverance on Sunday. She can’t imagine what tools he’s used for the slaughter, but he’s split the animal into slices. When the insides came out he must have kicked them around in the dust because they are lying all over the place, already going a dark, hard red colour like dead liver.

Benjamin becomes very still, breathing quite hard, his shoulders going up and down. He takes a few steps forward, his hand up to his mouth, and peers down at the creature through the cloud of midges that have gathered above it. He mutters something, swishing the flies away. Hastily he holds his hands together in prayer, whispering feverishly, pointing to the heavens. She sees the creature through his eyes: she sees that its injuries look the work of a demon. It could be Faust’s ripped-apart corpse. Asunción read
Faust
to her once, sitting at the edge of the bed, whispering the words because the book was a secret between them and they’d never mention the devil in Malachi’s company.

The front door flies open behind him and Malachi steps out. Benjamin wheels round, a look of terror on his face: ‘
Malachi—please—what is this? What abomination is living on Cuag
—’ He falters. Malachi’s standing a few feet from the door, the axe held above his head, the moonlight glancing off it. ‘
Malachi
,“ he stutters, all the colour going from his face. ’
Malachi, please, I beg of you—what has happened to you? Who have you fallen into league with
?”

“Get away from my house.” Malachi takes a step forward. “Do you hear?
Get away and never come back
:

Benjamin looks at the axe. He looks back at the pig and raises his hands cautiously. “I’m going,” he mutters, backing away. “I’m going. But, Malachi, I beg you, you may have turned your heart against God but it’s not too late. He who has flung headlong from the heights of heaven the reprobate dragon has not forgotten you and He—‘

“Get away!” He takes another step forward, raises the axe a little higher, and at that Benjamin turns and staggers head first in the direction of the gorge, half stumbling and tripping over the fence. Malachi doesn’t move. He stands in silence staring after him, at the point he’s disappeared. The axe trembles in his hands.

Angeline shrinks against the wall, her head in her hands, all Benjamin’s words coming back to her:
abomination –
a Pan, a Dionysus.
Satan
. The same words Malachi uses in the monthly rituals. Something lodges under her ribs—something thick she can’t cough up or swallow. For the first time in her life she wonders whether Malachi may be right about her.

“And after that they kept coming,” she murmured. She was stony-faced, staring at the light blinking on the recorder. I didn’t remember it, but now I could see she must have cried some time in the last half an hour because her eyes were red and puffy and she kept pressing a knuckle to her nose to stop it running. “I—um, I found a tree to watch them from. They were like tourists.”

“Tourists?” I was still imagining the shock when Susan Garrick dropped the metal bowl. I could almost hear it. “Trying to see you?”

“They’d even bring cameras. It was before Dad put up the fence. Benjamin—he came back and sprinkled holy water along the bottom of the escarpment.” She broke off and thought about this for a while, her muddy brown eyes moving from side to side like she was seeing it happen again. “And that girl—the one you were with—she tried to trap me. Made a hole in the ground.”

“The one I was with?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice level. “Don’t you remember? ”
Malachi, you old bonehead. Show us your strap-on tail.“‘

I stared at her. Sovereign. I remembered the way I’d stalked along the fence, desperate to get a shot of Angeline in the grass. Something pinched at me now. Something that must have been pity or shame or something. “They wanted to kill you. They had plans.”

She shrugged, like this wasn’t a surprise. She chewed a little more on her thumbnail. Her coat hung open and I could see under the football shirt that she was thinner than I remembered, sort of starved-looking. Lexie said she looked like she was on drugs. “When they read what you write about me,” she said, nodding at the tape player, “you know, in the papers, do you think people will still be scared of me?”

“No,” I said. “Not at all.” I pressed pause on the machine and checked how long we’d been talking. Forty minutes. “But it won’t be yet. I can’t go to the papers with this. Not until they find him.”

We were silent for a while, holding each other’s eyes. And then, like we were both thinking the same thing, we turned and looked at the window. The curtains were still open, and outside the orange streetlight was flickering like it was going to short out any second.

“What do you think?” I murmured. “Angeline? Do you think he’s going to kill himself?”

She didn’t turn back to me. She kept her eyes on the streetlight. “Yes,” she said. “He’ll kill himself. But you’re right. I think he’s got something else to do first.”

Chapter 11

When I went upstairs that night and started to get undressed in the damp bedroom at the front of the house, I saw Lexie was awake. She had her hand behind her head, the duvet pulled up to her chin, and was looking at me knowingly. I paused, the ripped sweater half way up my chest.

“You weren’t asleep.”

“You made enough noise coming in.”

“You didn’t want to come down? See how we got on?”

“Didn’t want to interrupt.”

I pulled off the sweater and stepped out of my jeans. There was nowhere to hang them and my true instinct was to put them back on again and climb into bed. But she was watching me in silence. So I dutifully laid them flat on the floor and climbed into bed.

“She was talking to you.” Lex rested a hand on her chest, dropped her head sideways and looked at me. “I heard her. She didn’t stop talking.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I’ve got the story—got it all. Tomorrow I’ll speak to Danso.”

“Speak to Danso?”

“He needs to find her somewhere else to go.”

Lexie pushed herself up on her elbow and stared at me. “No, she can’t go, not yet.”

“She’s not our responsibility—‘

“Yes,” she hissed. “She is. You
can’t
just let her go.”

I turned to her. The broken streetlight outside was reflected orange in her eyes. “What?”

“We can’t let her go. Not yet. I’ve got someone to look at her. It’s in Glasgow not London, because there are some—oh, some stupid professional hoops to jump through before we get her down to see Christophe, but it’s next week so we have to keep her with us till then.” She bit her lip, searching my face. “Oakesy? Just a few more days? Monday?”

I sighed. I put a fist into one of the appalling pillows, punched it—a pathetic attempt to get some air into it—and lay back on my hands, staring at the ceiling. I think I’d just realized how knackered I was. “Go to sleep now. OK?”

But she didn’t. She was still staring at me, chewing her lip. I closed my eyes and rolled away from her. “Oakesy,” she said, tapping my shoulder, “did she say anything? Did she say what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t think she even knows herself. Can I go to sleep?”

“Hasn’t she got an idea?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, what about you? Haven’t you got an idea?”

“Lex, please, I’m not a doctor.”

“Do you think she’d let me have a look?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“You’re not interested. Are you? You’re just not interested.”

“I am,” I said. “Of course I am.”

But I was lying. I didn’t care what was wrong with Angeline. When I closed my eyes and fell back inside my head, the face I saw wasn’t Angeline’s or even Lexie’s. It was Dove’s.

Malachi. Malachi
… My head was throbbing.
What is your plan
?

Chapter 12

Danso was as scared as me about Malachi’s plans. Instinct told him to listen to me, not to Struthers. But his head had gone further than mine and he’d started thinking about those suicide bombers in London, about all the capabilities Dove had, and whether his spectacular death would take out someone more than himself. The ACC had consulted with the home secretary, and over the next few days senior officers from London’s SO 13 terrorist team flew up to meet him. Suddenly the incident room at Oban was crammed with criminal profilers and explosives experts, tearing apart the community’s computer. Every ex-member of the PHM was being tracked down, every donor, anyone who had sent a letter or email in the last ten years. They’d got HOLMES actions raised to interview anyone who might have known Dove, even people involved in the arson or IRS investigations over in New Mexico. Some of the locals and national TV stations in Scotland had run appeals for sightings of the blue Vauxhall stolen from Crinian and the usual attention-seekers crawled out of the wainscoting—at least twenty people had seen the car and more than half of them had recognized Dove. They knew he was the Pig Island killer from the press, who were busy jumping up and down on Dove’s sacred head.
Mystery of Missing Preacher: The Mad Monk of Pig Island
. All of which was funny, Danso said, because the force was still waiting for the procurator fiscal to let them name Malachi Dove publicly as their suspect.

“But what’s good,” he said one morning, standing in the kitchen at the rape suite, still wearing his raincoat, “what’s good is we might know where he went after Crinian.”

It was Friday. Six days had passed since the massacre, and that, as everyone knew, wasn’t good. The golden hours for a case, the first twenty-four, had passed. But now Danso was holding up a video-cassette for us to see. “There I was, thinking it was all going down the cludgie, when this turns up.” He went to the TV on his long, awkward, ostrich legs, slotted the tape into the machine and stood back, aiming the remote at the video player. “Inverary.” He looked at Angeline, who was sitting on the sofa, arms folded. “It’s about fifteen miles from Crinian. Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“Dad never mentioned a friend in the area? Family? Someone who’d been with the PHM?”

“All the people he knew were in America. Or London. He was born in London.”

“You can watch it as many times as you need. Don’t be afraid to say you don’t know.”

Me and Angeline and Lexie all sat hunched round the TV, staring at the screen. It was grainy black-and-white CCTV footage but continuous action—easier to watch than the cut-price time-lapse of most shopping centres. The time code clicked away in the top corner and shoppers moved back and forward along the walkway, some stopping to sit on one of the four benches arranged round a concrete planter full of palm trees. A checkout girl in the window of Holland and Barrett opposite the camera gazed out at the passers-by, idly biting her cuticles.

“In about two seconds you’re going to see him come from this side and—wait … wait …
there
. See him? Here?”

A man, the top of his head turned to the camera, appeared on the walkway. He shuffled across the screen, arms hanging listlessly at his sides. He was about to disappear off when something caught his eye in the window of a Superdrug shop. He turned his back to the camera and we had time to study his longish hair, the unremarkable sports jacket, the dark slacks.

“This is the best look you get at him. It was the sandals that did it. Sandals and socks. You both said sandals and socks in your statements. It’s the kind of detail sticks in people’s heads.”

I inched a bit nearer the screen, staring at the figure. If it was my own dad I wouldn’t‘ve been sure from this angle. I waited for him to face the camera. But he didn’t. He peered through the chemist’s window a little longer, then turned and continued off the screen. There was a long, silent pause. We all turned to Angeline. I’d expected her to look blank, but the second I saw her face I knew. She’d sat up a bit, her head was straight and she was staring at the screen. Her hands were on her knees, clenching and unclenching.

“Angeline?” Danso studied her. “Want to see it again? There’re a lot of these wee characters out in Inverary and—‘

“No. Not again.” She blew out a long breath from pursed lips, a long
fooooo
sound, like she was trying to keep calm. “Bastard,” she muttered at the TV. “That bastard.”

It was the jacket she’d recognized. She’d washed it for him at the beginning of the summer and that was how she knew it was him. It had needed to be hand washed because there was blood on it from the pigs. Danso passed the news back to the incident room, then came and sat with me on the sofa. We had the shopping-centre video in the player and were watching it over and over again. On the sixth time Malachi stopped in front of Superdrug I caught up the remote and paused the tape. I took a chair and placed it in front of the TV.