Chapter 66
LXVI
Using the screwdriver as an icepick to chip away at the concrete was every bit as laborious and frustrating as battering it with the sledgehammer. Only slightly less exhausting. And even less efficient.
But all this buggering about, in the broiling heat, sweating, and struggling, and worrying, and not having anything to drink for . . . two days? Three? With nothing but a small bottle of spat-in water, made the whole world thrummmm . . .
Dehydration.
That would be why her head hurt so much, while her arms had turned into two blocks of solid lead, her legs to overcooked spaghetti, and her tongue was made of burning parchment.
And this shit wasn’t helping.
Natasha straightened up – back howling in protest – groaned out a gritty wheeze, and dumped the screwdriver on the workbench. Flexing her aching hand.
How long were the shifts police officers did? Eight hours? Or was it twelve, like offshore workers? Either way: the longer she wanked about with this bloody anchor, the sooner Detective Sergeant Davis would rock-up home, bringing his hate and his rage and his digger keys with him.
Time to go.
But she wasn’t leaving the barn empty handed.
The Stanley knife sat on the workbench, next to the bent screwdriver. She forced the blade back in. Then . . .
Well, she could hardly stick it in her pocket, could she.
And she’d need both hands free to roll the anchor – which had to be easier and quicker than shoving the thing with one foot.
And her pants had been chosen for their might-get-luckiness, rather than their ability to securely hold DIY equipment.
Which left her bra.
The furry metal was horrible against her skin – like tinfoil on a filling – but Natasha wedged the Stanley knife into the side of her left cup. Shoving it down till the elasticated lace had a good grip on the rough casing.
Not ideal, but it was that or leave her only weapon behind.
She gritted her teeth and heaved the galvanised bin over onto its side again. It hit the floor with a bang, and a chunk of concrete the size of a bowling ball clattered free – coming to rest by the table saw.
Ripper.
She peered inside, but the chain was still firmly held in place. Because no way she could be that lucky today.
Just had to hope there were keys to the padlock at the back of her neck waiting for her in the caravan. Assuming she could get into the bastard.
Natasha bent down and rolled the bin towards the barn doors.
What about the wheelbarrow? Maybe she could make a sort of ramp out of all these bits of wood lying about the place?
Then all she’d have to do is load her bucket into the barrow – and now she had both hands free, there was nothing stopping her grabbing the handles – and wheel the fucker up the ramp and in through the caravan door.
Assuming she could wrestle a bin full of concrete into the wheelbarrow in the first place, and the rusty bottom didn’t just fall out of the thing, and it would still move with a flat tyre . . .
Natasha rolled her anchor out through the barn doors and into the courtyard again.
The sky had grown a purple tinge while she was inside, fighting with the sledgehammer, the shadows lengthening and turning blue as the sun drifted down towards the treetops. Even the bluebottles had stilled, anticipating night.
She shoved the bucket over to the static caravan.
Up close, there was a strange . . . meaty smell.
Her stomach clenched.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
Yeah, but it was this, or try to shoot through.
Natasha reached for the door handle.
Just as her fingers touched the pitted metal, the sound of a car engine swelled in the distance, getting louder as it approached, accompanied by the rattling percussion of tyres on a rough track.
She was too late.
And Davis was back.