Buried Slaughter by Ryan Casey Page A

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