Authors: James Herbert
‘Get the bastard!’ he heard Leather Jacket wheeze and the three men closed in.
Kelso sprinted towards the cruiser and grabbed the handrail, swinging himself up onto the prow. He slipped, his sneakers still wet from his journey along the riverbank, and felt rough hands
pulling at his shoulders. He was hauled from the boat, and allowed to crash down onto the concrete flooring. Fists rained down on him and pain shot through his body as wildly aimed boots sank into
his flesh. He tried to roll himself into a ball, but they lifted him to his feet and propelled him back towards the boat which, once again, shifted in the water.
‘Hold him there, just fuckin hold him there!’ Leather Jacket came lurching away from the shelves, his eyes full of malice above a red mask.
Kelso’s arms were pushed backwards against the side of the cruiser and the wrench poked him hard in the stomach. Leather Jacket pushed the wrench-wielding man aside and stood in front of
the detective.
‘Right, you little bastard. You got this comin!’
He grabbed Kelso’s hair and pulled his head up; he smashed his fist into the detective’s face, once, twice, once more for good measure. The rings cut into Kelso’s skin, grazing
both cheekbones and closing one eye. He prevented his nose from being broken by shifting his head fractionally as each punch landed; by the third blow, his senses would not even allow that. He
slumped, but his body was held upright.
His attacker stepped back. ‘Gimme the wrench!’ he shouted at the man behind.
‘Hold it, Bannen, you’d better . . .’
‘Gimme the fuckin wrench!’ He snatched the tool and advanced on Kelso once more. He lifted the limp man’s head, again using a grip on his hair. ‘I can’t kill you
yet, cunt, but I can give you something to be gettin on with.’
He brought the wrench up hard between the detective’s legs.
Kelso screamed as the fire exploded in his groin. The two men at his side could hardly hold him as he doubled up, a stream of saliva spurting from his lips. They let him sink to his knees and
his forehead almost touched the concrete floor in his agony. His low moan turned into a sharp gasp as, yet again, his head was yanked upwards. His one good eye was blurred as he looked into the
sneering face only inches away. ‘When we’ve done with you, mate,’ the man called Bannen said softly, ‘I’m going to cut off your ears. Then your nose.’ He roughly
tweaked Kelso’s nose between thumb and finger. Then, cocker, I’m going to split your eyeballs with a razor blade.’
He stood upright and his swiftly raised knee brought Kelso a painless blackness that he welcomed.
The darkness persisted even when he knew he was awake again; it was the pain that informed him of his returned consciousness. The left side of his face felt strangely frozen
yet throbbing and, when he tried to blink, it felt as though the eyelids on that side had been sewn together. His right eye seemed to be still moist from pain-induced tears. He raised a hand to his
face, and the effort was slow, forced. He touched the area around his left eye and it felt like someone had packed quick-drying putty over his skin; he winced as his finger probed deeper,
deliberately causing himself the hurt because it was better than the numbness. His mouth and throat were clogged with bile and he knew that he must have been sick during his consciousless state. He
was lucky he hadn’t choked to death on his own vomit.
Kelso spat out what he could of the remaining sickness and fumbled for a handkerchief in his pocket. A shuddering groan escaped him as the ache between his legs became a sharp dagger pressing
into his testicles. He lay inert for several long minutes, afraid that movement would cause the stabbing sensation again.
Gradually, a thin band of light came into focus and he realized it was shining from beneath a door. He tried to remember what had happened and his thoughts were hazy, too jumbled to make sense
of. Then it came back to him in a rush: finding the drain, the dead animal; the crawl along the riverbank to the boathouse; inside the boathouse, the discreet stairwell, the metal door. He
remembered only vaguely the beating he had taken, but Leather Jacket’s ugly face only inches away from his was sharp and clear.
How long had he been unconscious? It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. For all he knew, it might well have been days. Kelso tried to raise himself, taking it steady, each inch
an aching misery. Feeling a rough wall behind him, he leaned against it, his right temple becoming damp from the brickwork. Where was he? Somewhere in the tunnel running from the boathouse? Maybe
beneath Eshley Hall itself. He eased his back round against the wall and slowly drew up his legs. His groin was still tender, but he knew he had not suffered a rupture; the pain would have been
much more intense. Kelso licked his lips to smooth away dried blood.
Thank God Ellie hadn’t been with him – he dreaded to think what they might have done to her. She would have sense enough to get the estate raided when she found he hadn’t
returned to the caravan. Perhaps he should have listened to her from the beginning and had the place turned over as soon as they had known something was wrong. He touched a hand to his injured face
again. Shit, what a mess! At least he was the only one involved this time.
Kelso tried to stand, but found he was still too weak. Instead, he crawled towards the narrow band of light, puddles on the floor making his knees and hands wet. Although dried blood clogged his
nostrils, he was aware of the damp, musty smell of the room; he was definitely beneath ground level and, at one time or another, water from the river had seeped into this room.
He reached the door and its wood texture felt old and sodden. There was no handle on that side, only a keyless lock. He was on his knees, head pressed against its surface, when he heard
footsteps outside. A key rattled in the lock and the door was pushed open, knocking him backwards onto the floor. Two heavyset figures peered in at him.
‘He’s awake,’ one said as they came into the cell-like room. Rough hands lifted him to his feet and the two men cursed as his legs gave way.
‘You’ll bloody stand up, mate, if you know what’s good for you,’ one said.
Kelso did his best to steady himself and they gripped him tightly, holding him upright. He was propelled forward into a gloomy corridor, its walls shiny damp, its floor uneven and
puddle-filled.
‘What . . . what is this place?’ Kelso managed to ask.
‘Shut your mouth,’ was the reply.
They half-carried, half-dragged him along the corridor and eventually, after what seemed to be several minutes, they reached a wide, metal door. Kelso wondered if it was the same door which led
back up to the boathouse. He soon realized it wasn’t.
The contrast between the dingy passageway and what lay beyond was startling: the metal door – again there were deep flanges to seal it tight when closed – opened out into a huge,
low-ceilinged basement area. The walls, floor and ceiling were smooth concrete, the walls themselves covered in a patchy, chalky substance which Kelso guessed was lime; there were no windows, but
fluorescent lights made the room unnaturally bright. Two long workbenches dominated the centre area and running between them was a long, open gutter. The worktops were filled with laboratory
glassware and equiprrient; Kelso recognized several rotary evaporators, which he knew were used in the manufacturing of LSD.
The heavy door slammed shut behind him and while it was being locked, he leaned back against the wall, pretending to be more dazed than he actually felt. One of the men held him there as his
companion busied himself with bolts and lock. Vision from Kelso’s swollen eye was limited, but by turning his head from side to side as though still disorientated, he was able to study the
room’s contents in more detail. There were many containers on the shelving which lined the walls – bottles, cartons and, at the far end, large drums with the word
METHANOL
stencilled in white on them. The two men moved him on and he managed to sneak a closer look at the chemicals on the shelves: calcium lactate, hydrazine hydrate, and the
substance most necessary for LSD processing, ergotomine tartrate. There were also large containers of starch on the floor beneath the shelves. His senses were beginning to sharpen, revived by the
discovery.
They passed gauze trays, obviously used for drying, and two big grey-metalled units which he assumed were water-tanks. Twisting his head to the right, he saw on the workbenches machines that he
knew were infra-red spectrometers, instruments used for measuring chemical quantities, as well as plastic moulds which puzzled him at first until he saw the hundreds of tiny perforations on their
surface. Such moulds were used to shape LSD microdots. He became even more alert when they approached a door at the end of the room, for the shelves at that end were filled with containers clearly
labelled
THETRAHYDROCANNABINOL. THC
– a derivative of cannabis!
This was no small-scale enterprise but a well-stocked and highly organized laboratory, almost a drug manufacturing industry. He wondered what else came off the production line.
The door before him was opened and he was pushed through, this time finding himself in what looked like a conventional cellar, a single lightbulb making a dismal attempt to combat the gloom.
Grimy brickwork pillars cast dark shadows into the corners of the cellar and wine racks filled with dusty bottles stood against the walls. A sliding noise made him turn and he saw the door they had
just come through was now screened by more wine racks; a long chest was wheeled back to cover the movable rack.
‘Okay, up the stairs.’ The man who had just concealed the doorway, a short, axe-faced individual, pushed him towards a rickety set of steps. Kelso just caught hold of the banister,
but could not prevent himself from going down on one knee.
‘Take it easy, you prat,’ he heard the other man say. ‘We don’t wanna carry him up.’
Kelso was yanked upright and forced to mount the stairs, each step creaking beneath him. His legs felt stiff from bruising, but he managed to get to the top with the aid of the two men. It was
almost with relief that he staggered out into the wide hallway of what surely was Eshley Hall itself. It came as somewhat of a shock to see it was dark outside; he
had
been unconscious for
hours rather than minutes. The sound of rain beating against the windowpanes, increasing then decreasing in intensity as the wind lent its force, came to his ears. He was almost tempted to make a
break for the double-doors at the far end of the hall, but realized he would never make it; he just didn’t have the strength yet. Once more he waited while the door behind was locked and he
deliberately let his chin sag down onto his chest to further the impression that he was still in a bad state. He forgot the pose when the door opposite opened and Slauden’s personal
secretary, Henson, stared out at him.
‘Bring him in,’ Henson snapped.
The first face Kelso saw when he was pushed into the room was that of Sir Anthony Slauden himself. The dapper little man was seated in a deep brown wing armchair, its high back making him look
even smaller; in his hand he held a brandy glass, flames from the roaring log fire reflecting in the amber liquid. He was casually, but still immaculately, attired in grey slacks and a fawn
polo-neck sweater; soft, elegantly styled shoes and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches completed the relaxed image. Slauden frowned when he saw Kelso.
‘My God, what have you done to him, Bannen?’ he asked angrily.
Leather Jacket was standing by a drinks cabinet. There was no apology in his voice when he replied: ‘He put up a bit of a fight.’ He lightly touched the side of his nose, which was
red and swollen, as if indicating the evidence.
Slauden showed little sympathy for his own man. ‘I’ve told you before, Bannen, I want none of this insane violence. Is that clear?’
Kelso was surprised at the big man’s meek response.
Slauden studied the detective for several moments before saying, ‘Bring him over here.’ He indicated a long settee opposite his own chair and Kelso was led towards it. It felt good
to sink into the soft cushions.
‘You look as if you could use a stiff drink, Kelly.’
Kelso wondered if Slauden was mocking him.
‘Pour him a brandy, Julian,’ Slauden ordered, and it was obvious that the personal secretary was not happy with the idea. Nevertheless, he walked briskly to the drinks cabinet and
poured a brandy. Kelso found it difficult to keep his hand steady as he took the glass. The first sip hurt his cracked lips, but the hot liquid felt good as it rushed down his throat. For the first
time, he noticed a thin, bespectacled man nervously watching him from the other side of the room. The man was sitting at a small, antique writing desk, papers spread out before him. He kept
jiggling the
PRESS
button of a biro against his jaw, his agitation at the sight of Kelso obvious.
The detective’s attention was drawn back to Slauden as the little man crossed his legs, tugging at the trouser crease of one knee so that it would not lose its sharpness. ‘I
don’t much approve of alcohol, young man, but a small nip of brandy is another matter,’ he said.
Kelso, revived even more by the drink, leaned back into the settee and replied flatly: ‘Apparently you approve of drugs, though.’
Slauden smiled. ‘Not in the least – hate the damned stuff, as a matter of fact.’
Kelso’s uninjured eye widened. ‘How the hell can you say that when you’ve got a bloody drugs factory downstairs?’
‘I also have a company that produces animal feedstuff – that doesn’t mean I eat it.’
Julian enjoyed the joke; the thin man with the spectacles seemed uncertain that it was one.
Kelso shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why would someone like you, with your wealth and reputation, be involved with the dope trade?’
The smile disappeared. ‘For one very simple reason, Kelly, but I don’t feel it necessary to answer questions from your kind.’
‘My kind?’
‘Nasty little scum. A cheap crook. Isn’t that what you are – you and your friend Trewick?’