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The look she gives him is full of sorrow. ‘I just wanted to say I love you, Joe. I know how empty that might sound, but it really is the truth. We’ve never said it enough, and this may be our last chance.’
Joseph holds her gaze, asks himself how he feels about her words. And then he goes over and kisses her, holding her in the fading light.
‘I can’t lose Tilly,’ she tells him. ‘Whatever she’s done, however damaged she may be, she’s still my daughter. If this goes as planned and I get her back, I swear I’ll fix her.’
‘We both will,’ he replies, but he doesn’t really believe it. He doesn’t think Tilly can be fixed. Strapping a knife to his belt, he hands the other one to Erin. Then he offers her the crossbow.
Erin stares at it a while before accepting. Joseph picks up the tomahawk and feels instantly light-headed. Because the weapon, in truth, is anything but ridiculous.
They emerge a short distance from Thornecroft’s driveway, hurrying across the road and ducking back into cover.There’s no border fence, just more of the same deciduous woodland. Keeping the driveway on their left, they move through the undergrowth towards the house.
Above the trees, the red hues of sunset have turned crimson. Joseph skirts a patch of bracken, staying as low as he can, and finds a hollow where the shadows are already deepening. He lowers himself to his good knee, takes out Claire’s birdwatching scope and focuses the lens on Thornecroft.
The building is huge: triple-fronted with three enormous chimney stacks rising high above its gables. Light glows from the windows of all the ground-floor rooms. Inside the covered porch, the two half-arch entrance doors stand open in mocking invitation.
Joseph sees his mother’s car on the drive, parked between a Lexus and a vehicle hidden by a tarp. Erin was right about the tree cover. It should be possible to circle the main residence without being spotted.
‘Joe,’ Erin says, behind him. ‘I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know – but I have to do this. I’ve no choice.’
Joseph lowers the scope. When he turns his head, he sees that she’s lifted the crossbow to her shoulder, placing him at the centre of its sights.
FIFTY-FOUR
By the time Gabriel’s rage has run its course, his breathing is ragged and his clothes are soaked through with blood and sweat.
It’s the first time he’s lost control in years, the first time he’s allowed the cage door to swing open fully and release what he usually keeps chained.
Sunday morning, he’d opened that door a crack, giving Teri Platini a glimpse of the beast that lurked within. Yesterday, he’d returned to Thornecroft and showed her a little more of it. But he hadn’t let it escape.
Near the window lies the bloodied heap that was Tilly Carver. The only part he still recognizes is her bare foot, the nails a cheery yellow. Blood is dripping from her ankle in a steady rhythm.
In the kitchen, he leans his head under the cold tap and drinks until he’s sated. Then he holds his hands in the flow and watches Tilly’s blood swirl into the drain. He scrubs his forearms, washes his face. Afterwards, he opens the duffel bag he brought along and takes out a knife, more zip ties and a seventy-metre length of climbing rope.
The beast is back in its cage; he won’t let it out again. His task isn’t vengeance but the cold application of justice.
In one of Thornecroft’s outbuildings he finds a two-wheeled sack truck and tows it into the house. As he enters the dining room, Max Carver arches his back and asks, ‘What did you do to her?’
Ignoring him, Gabriel drags the back legs of Max’s chair on to the sack truck’s toe plate. He braces his foot against the axle, tilting the wheels and lifting the boy off the floor. Then he tows him out of the dining room and along the entrance hall.
They pass the office. Max groans when he sees what lies inside. ‘Is she …’ he begins. ‘Did you …’
Gabriel wheels him into the orangery and tilts him upright. Then he throws open the exterior doors. Outside, the setting sun has lit a fire in the heavens. As he drags the sack truck across the grass, the colours of lava and flame surround him, bleed over him.
When he reaches the ancient oak that crowns Angus’s garden, he parks his load beside the three dining chairs he positioned here earlier, facing the tree. He slides the rope off his shoulder, pays out a good length and cuts it with his knife.
Max Carver’s eyes are enormous, reflecting the apocalyptic sky.
‘You’ll burn for what you’ve done,’ Gabriel tells him, winding one end of the rope around itself. ‘But first you’ll hang.’
Once he’s made the noose, he slips it over the boy’s head. He throws the remaining coils over a bough twelve feet above the ground.
‘Please,’ Max says. ‘Don’t do this. I didn’t—’
‘Speak again,’ Gabriel tells him, ‘and I’ll cut your throatfirst.’ He severs all the zip ties except the one around the boy’s wrists. ‘Up. On to the chair.’
When Gabriel receives no response, he heaves on the rope looped over the bough. The noose tightens around Max’s throat. He struggles up, his eyes bulging. And then he climbs on to the chair as instructed.
FIFTY-FIVE