Those Who Feel Nothing by Peter Guttridge Page A

in fact, that the lock clattered to the floor before Gilchrist, who was standing beside him, had a chance to catch it.
    They looked at each other.
    â€˜After you, Detective Sergeant,’ Gilchrist said.
    Heap undid the hasp and pulled open the door. The daylight coming through the window behind them illuminated the storeroom enough for them to see that there were things in it, but both turned on their torches to see what those things were.
    Mostly they were green bin bags.
    They exchanged looks again.
    â€˜Seniority, ma’am – you should go first.’
    Gilchrist approached the pile of bags cautiously. They were knotted at the top but she used her Swiss army knife to make a small slit in the side of the first one. She pulled on the sides of the incision to make a hole. Heap stepped forward to shine his torch inside. He didn’t need to: they could both see the end of a bone protruding from the hole in the bag.
    â€˜And that’s just the first bag,’ Gilchrist murmured. She played her own torch on the rear of the store. ‘There are packing cases here too.’
    She shouted back at Rachel hovering a few yards into the tunnel. ‘We’re going to have to get more people down here. This tunnel is now off-limits.’
    You looked across the compound. The other guards were still gathered at the gate, alarmed by the flames shooting into the night sky.
    Westbrook pointed into the yard. ‘There.’
    You saw now that one of the people hanging from the goalposts was a woman, her small breasts exposed, long hair falling down over her face.
    Rogers exchanged a glance with you. ‘The guards won’t be diverted by the fire much longer.’ You nodded. ‘Going out there to cut the woman down is very risky.’ You nodded again. ‘You’ll be totally exposed – especially if the guards on the landings of the other buildings turn on the searchlights.’
    You nodded and walked out on to the courtyard, trying to make yourself inconspicuous. The guards at the gate were still looking outwards. Twenty yards. The woman was unmoving. She might well be dead. Ten yards. A couple of the guards started to drift away from the gate. Five yards. Several others turned away from the conflagration.
    She was alive. Her eyes moved as she watched you reach behind her to cut the rope. Her face contorted in agony but she made no sound as she started to fall. You caught her and hoisted her over one shoulder. You took a firmer grip on the weapon in your other hand. She too smelt of sweat and shit and vomit. She weighed scarcely anything.
    You started to reverse your steps. You couldn’t see Rogers but you knew he was there. Thirty yards to go.
    A shout off to the left. A clatter of movement by the gate. More shouts. A rattle of gunfire from Rogers aimed at the tower away to your right. Single shots whizzed by you. None close enough to worry about.
    Twenty yards. A searchlight burst on to you.
    You moved to the right and Rogers turned his fire on the guards at the gate. You ran the last few yards, conscious of the woman gasping as her body jogged on your shoulder.
    Rogers shot out the searchlight.
    You kept going to the gap in the barbed wire and ducked through. You’d thought your unit might leave one of the lorries. Both had gone.
    â€˜Fuck,’ Rogers said from behind you.
    â€˜We’re on our own,’ you said.
    â€˜Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.’ Rogers pointed towards a block of flats about fifty yards away. ‘Let’s get there.’
    Rogers was big, much bigger than you. He hoisted Westbrook over his shoulder. He set off at a staggering run. You followed. The woman was making odd mewling noises now.
    â€˜Sorry, love,’ you whispered.
    You were aware of single shots pocking the ground pretty randomly around you. They came from the guard in the tower who had been firing at you earlier. He couldn’t shoot for shit.
    The block of flats was