Buried Slaughter (6 page)

A bit of the heat‌—‌just a fraction‌—‌that engulfed Brian’s body disappeared as he brushed down his coat and stepped into Darren Anderson’s kitchen area. He pulled aside a white-painted wooden dining chair and perched himself onto it. It creaked under his weight. Fuck‌—‌good job he wasn’t as fat as he used to be or it’d have crumbled away by now no doubt.

“So,” Darren said, holding out a glass of water for Brian. “Do you want to start with the sudden gunshots and head-fucking screams, or seeing my best workmates’ heads in a pile?”

Brian held his half-empty cup of water in hand. Darren Anderson sat opposite him at the dining table, sporadically crunching from a bowl of stale-looking crisps. Every few moments, he turned and glared at Brian, as if he were weighing him up. There was a silence about the room. A deathly silence.

“Can you describe your version of events to me, please?”

Darren puffed out his lips. “My version of events? If you’ve seen the massacre scene, there’s very little to say. I…‌I was speaking to my friend. My friend, Wayne. He was making jokes. Just messing around, as per usual.” He froze. Stopped speaking.

“And then…‌?”

“And then I heard him protesting something. I thought he was just fooling around again at first, but…‌but then I heard the gunshots and I just froze.” His voice crumbled away and he reached a hand into the almost empty crisp bowl.

“It’s okay, Darren. Take your time.”

Darren inhaled a shaky breath and peered across the table at Brian. His eyes watered as he replayed events. “I must have been down there for an hour. I would have done something, I swear I would. But I could hear somebody walking around up there. I…‌I could hear them and I just didn’t want to die.”

“What happened when you stepped out of that trench?” Brian asked.

“What do you think happened? I walked over to the other trench and I saw them. I saw their heads. Wayne’s head. And I just broke down for the day. Just couldn’t get my head around it.”

Brian pondered Darren’s words in his head. His tale matched the official story. David Wallson wasn’t going to be too impressed if this was all he had to give him. “The bones,” Brian said.

Darren’s eyes narrowed. “Stripped of their flesh? Yeah. Sick fuck. Sick, twisted fuck.”

“I have reason to believe that these bones were unrelated to the severed heads of your friends.”

Darren frowned. “But…‌But there were seven heads. And there were seven skeletons.”

“Indeed. But the skeletons, I’ve…‌I’ve had a word with my superiors and they date much further back than the heads. Do you have any idea what you were searching for?”

Darren shrugged. His eyes wandered, as if the information was new to him. Damn. What was he doing, sitting here leaking classified information? This could really get him in the shit. “I…‌I don’t know. We weren’t told. We were just hired to do the dig. But if the bones and the heads weren’t related, then where are their bodies?”

Nausea welled up in Brian’s stomach as the silence of the kitchen/dining area grew in intensity. “I don’t know the answer to that right now, Mr. Anderson. But the people who hired you‌—‌what are they called?”

After a few moments of silence, Darren slipped back into reality again. “I, er…‌I don’t know. Bloke who went by the name of Harold Harvey. But I’ve already told this to the police and they told me they couldn’t identify this guy.”

Brian yanked his notepad out of his pocket and jotted down the name. Harold Harvey. The name didn’t sound familiar in any way. “And the police said they couldn’t identify the guy?”

Darren shrugged. “The police said they were speaking to my superiors this afternoon to try and pin him down. Bank details, things like that. But I’m guessing you have other ideas.”

All of a sudden, Brian felt as if the spotlight had switched to him, and was glowing brightly all over his body. His chest tightened. “What…‌Yes. I think we are speaking to him this afternoon‌—‌”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know you aren’t a police officer. You seem way too keen to listen to be a member of that pig-headed organisation.” He rose to his feet and took Brian’s water glass away from him. “Besides, I recognise you from the news stories.”

“News stories?”

Damon slapped down the
Blackburn Telegraph
onto the table. On the front, in a small image in the bottom right corner, Brian saw himself being dragged away from the scene of the massacre. He wanted to fall into a hole in the ground. Fuck‌—‌he’d happily disappear into one of those trenches until his embarrassment receded.

“I don’t care who you are,” Darren added, opening the back door and holding his hand to gesture Brian to leave. “You seem to be actively pursuing this case. That counts for something.”

Brian stumbled to his feet and headed to the door. His head was lowered, like a kid caught nicking sweets from the treats cupboard. “I apologise. I was a detective. I’m technically still‌—‌”

“Just stop, and leave. Pretend this never happened.”

A small amount of weight lifted from Brian’s shoulders. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

He stepped out of the door and back into the cold of outdoors. The name, Harold Harvey, spun around his head. An unidentifiable person hiring an archeological contractor to find an unidentified treasure. Then the group were massacred. Something wasn’t right about all this. Something was desperately wrong, in fact.

“Wait a second,” Brian said. He shouldn’t have pursued Darren anymore than he already had, but he couldn’t just let this lie. “How did you know what it was you were supposed to be searching for?”

Darren had already partly closed the door, but stopped when Brian spoke. He considered the question for a few moments, glancing around the garden. “We were just told we’d know it when we found it. That’s it.”

He closed the door and disappeared out of sight, into his kitchen.

Brian headed down the path to the car. He’d been at Darren’s for roughly half an hour, which meant that he had three hours or so before Hannah would start expecting him home for lunch. He sat in his car. Held the name up in front of him.
Harold Harvey.

“Who are you?” Brian asked, speaking to himself more than anyone.

He shoved the notepad in his pocket, lifted out his phone, and Googled “Davidson Archeological Contractors” for information on their offices. When he’d memorised the address, he opened up his contacts and hit David Wallson’s name, which was still down as “Dickhead Dave”.

The dialling tone rang three times before David’s raspy voice answered.

“Brian! Pleasure to hear from you. Did you enjoy your anniversary card? Have a think about my proposal?”

“I more than thought about it. I’ve just spoken to Darren Anderson. And I’ve got a few hours to go speak to Davidson Archeological Contractors before the police beat me to it, so I’m heading there right now. Darren tells me a crook named Harold Harvey hired them, but apparently the police have no positive ID.”

David didn’t respond for a few seconds, but from knowing him long enough, Brian could sense him smiling away, grinning with that slimy face. “Knew that detective was inside still, Brian. Just knew it. Because I knew you’d come good, I’ll make sure we pull those pictures of you being dragged away from the scene.”

“Too late. The wankers at the
Blackburn Telegraph
beat you to it.”

“Ah well. It’ll make a nice side-heading. Few extra quid for me. I’ll look into this Harold Harvey dude for you. Now you get back to that detective work of yours.”

“Right on it,” Brian said, cancelling the call before David had a chance to get another word in. He stared at the digital clock on his dashboard. 09:17. The police would be speaking to Davidson Archeological Contractors some time this afternoon. Brian had to make sure he got there first. And in the meantime, he had to make sure he got back to Hannah before she got suspicious, or before work called home with his suspension details.

Fuck. That wasn’t even worth thinking about.

He revved up the engine and sped down the road, away from the fallen leaves of the trees, away from the shadow of Darren Anderson’s house.

Darren Anderson sat at his table. The kettle squeaked as it began to boil. He stared at the floor in front of him. Images of the events at Pendle Hill flashed in his consciousness. The things he’d seen. The things he’d heard.

The phone started to ring. His heart raced. His throat felt like a vice grip had wrapped around it and was tightening and tightening by the second.

He thought about leaving it. Leaving it to ring. But that would do nobody any good. He wasn’t in a position to be making those decisions, not yet.

As the phone reached its sixth ring, Darren grabbed the phone with his shaking hand and pulled it to his ear.

“Hello? Yes. The police have been, yes. But there’s…‌No, I didn’t. But there’s another problem. There’s something else. Somebody else.”

Chapter Six

Davidson Archeological Contractors’ depot was slap-bang in the middle of an industrial estate which spread for miles across Preston. The sound of lorries passing by was constant, and the lack of residential homes and human presence made it feel like some kind of alien world.

Brian glanced at his watch as he made for the entrance to the large, grey depot. Just before ten a.m. He had to make this quick. He couldn’t risk the police turning up in the afternoon, and he couldn’t risk Hannah finding out about his suspension. He had to find out more about Harold Harvey, the man who had hired Davidson to carry out the dig. Surely there would be some kind of record on the system, or account details at least.

Taking a few steadying breaths, he jogged down the disabled ramp into a pathway that ran at the side of the murky building, hidden away in the corner. When he reached the understated door, he tried to push it open, only to find it was locked.

A voice buzzed from a receiver beside the door. “Can I have some identification, please?”

Brian bit his lip. Did he lie? “I’m here to…‌to ask some questions about the Pendle Hill killings. I believe you’re expecting me this afternoon.” He hadn’t said the word “police”. He wasn’t technically lying.

Not technically.

After a few moments of hesitation, the receiver buzzed and the door clicked. Brian pushed the door, growing ever more convinced that what he was doing was a bad idea, and entered the reception area.

A woman sat at the desk. Glasses were perched atop her arched nose. She leafed through some documents, sniffing every few seconds. There was a strong smell of damp cardboard in the room, as Brian edged closer to the desk and waited.

“Name?” The woman didn’t even look at him as she spoke.

“Erm…‌Cooper. Detective Constable Cooper.” Fuck. He’d said it. He’d gone and thrown himself right into it. Now he really did have to get this done with. He had to hope nobody would ask to see his warrant card. “I’m here about the‌—‌”

“The massacre,” the woman spat, looking up from her documents and peering at Brian with her small, beady eyes. “Right. If you’d like to come on through, please, Mr. Davidson will meet with you.”

The woman hopped to her feet, the decline in height signalling to Brian that she had been sitting on a tall chair, and pointed at a brown door to her left. Typical. She’d just gone and believed him. Then again, wouldn’t anybody? If somebody tells you they’re a police officer, you’d be a gutsy fool not to believe them.

Brian took a final look at the exit door. He could leave. He could walk away, right now, and he wouldn’t have to get any more involved.

“Are you okay, Detective?”

Brian swung around and forced a smile. The woman was peering at him as she held open the door.

“Yes,” Brian said. “Yes. Sorry.”

Then, he followed her into the room.

The office was even less spectacular than the reception. It was clear upon entry that this was where the damp cardboard smell was emanating from. The floor was carpeted, but there were holes revealing the concrete underneath. Four lone computers sat at the far right-hand side of the room.

And in the middle of the room, at the opposite side of a round table, a chubby moustached man sat.

“Detective,” he said, holding out his hand in the direction of the chair opposite.

Brian nodded his head and sat in the seat. “You must be Mr. Davidson?”

“Who else?” he said.

Brian cleared his throat. His voice didn’t sound as confident or convincing as it used to, not to himself anyway. That could easily be a trick of the mind, but he didn’t want to take any chances, not after Darren Anderson had so easily sussed him earlier. “I don’t want to ask many questions. I have colleagues who will be seeing to the technicalities. But I would like to get straight to the point and‌—‌”

“Can I interest you in a cup of tea?” Mr. Davidson asked. He chewed at his bushy moustache as it curled over his lips.

“That’s okay,” Brian said, scribbling on his notepad with a temperamental pen.

“It’s a great shame what happened,” Mr. Davidson said. “If I wasn’t a man of God, I might just have given up on life right now. All my team dead, and in such a brutal and depraved way. I just can’t understand it.”

Brian stared at his notepad. Stared at the name in front of him. Harold Harvey. “I…‌I understand it can’t be easy. But I’d just like to know‌—‌”

“Almost didn’t even take this contract, you know?”

Brian was about to interrupt but he realised Mr. Davidson was leading him to his preferred discussion point himself. “Tell me about the contract offer.”

Mr. Davidson sighed. “Well, usually, the way we work is somebody contacts us and books us for a job well in advance. We go through all sorts of paperwork and legalities, and usually there’s no problem.”

“What’s so different about the Pendle Hill contract? About…‌about Harold Harvey?”

Mr. Davidson’s eyes shifted from side to side. He leaned forward and scratched at his dandruff-filled greying hair. “I mean, I would’ve admitted this to…‌to the police eventually. But I didn’t see the importance at the time. I couldn’t have predicted…‌”

“Just tell me, Mr. Davidson. I…‌We only want to help.”