by Alex Walters
Hoxton's pessimistic prediction had proved accurate. Brain had woken two or three times in the night to hear the steady drumming of the rain on the slate roof. He was conscious Hoxton was also likely to be right about the risk of flooding. Unlikely as it might have seemed even twenty-four hours previously, they might soon come to regard the snow as a relatively minor inconvenience compared with what was coming.
Brain was always an early riser. His experience was that, especially in a farming community, the public's demands on its constabulary could begin well before dawn. This morning, the combination of anxiety and the previous night's whisky woke him even earlier than usual. His mouth was dry and his head aching, but it took him several seconds to work out that the real source of his worries lay elsewhere.
He had hoped he might wake to blue sky through the bedroom window. But his hopes had not been realised. It was not yet light, but that was partly because the sky remained as leaden as ever. The rain was pounding incessantly against the glass.
Brain rolled over in the single bed and looked at the alarm clock. Just after five. He contemplated another half-hour's sleep, but it hardly seemed worth it. He dragged himself from beneath the sheets and stooped to examine his reflection in the dressing table mirror. Not a picture of health. The combination of too much alcohol and too little sleep had left him looking sallow, dark-eyed, generally exhausted.
He pulled on some clothes and made his way downstairs. The large Victorian house was gloomy at the best of times. Even with the landing light on, he could barely see through the murk. Hoxton, he assumed, would still be sleeping. The older man had asked to be woken around seven, in time for a scheduled meeting with Winterman at eight. Their intention was to see where things stood with Marsh – in the hope that he might somehow reappear overnight – and then make a decision on whether to break the news to Spooner.
Brain was near the foot of the stairs, leading down into the hallway, when he heard a voice. He froze, his hand on the banister, for a moment thinking that he had imagined the sound, that it was some illusion created by the unaccustomed rumble of the falling rain. But there was no question. Someone was speaking below.
Without quite knowing why he did so, he remained silent, moving quietly towards the bottom of the stairs, straining his ears.
It was clear that the speaker was in the police office, talking on the phone. Brain hesitated, trying to identify the gruff half-whisper. Had Marsh returned after all?
It took Brain a second longer to recognise the voice as Hoxton's. Brain glanced back up the stairs to the bedroom where he had assumed Hoxton was still sleeping. The door was firmly closed, with no indication that the room was empty.
Still unsure why he had not made his presence known, Brain moved closer to the office doorway.
'I've done enough of your dirty work,' he heard Hoxton say. 'Years of it. I'm not getting involved in this one.'
There was a pause, while Hoxton listened to whatever was being said at the other end of the line. 'You want those courtesies,' he responded finally. 'You can do a bit bloody more to earn them. I'm not one for forelock tugging. I thought you'd have worked that out by now.'
Another pause, then: 'I don't care if he is missing. It would hardly be the first bloody time for that bloody boy. And, no, I don't care to modify my bloody language. Hardly the most important thing just at the moment, I'd have thought.'
Brain stood frozen, mesmerised by what he was hearing. Not so much by the words, as by the tone. This was a different Hoxton from the one he had drunk with the previous night. The gruff amiability and charm had melted away, replaced by a blunter form of plain speaking.
'Anyway,' Hoxton went on, 'he's not the only one gone missing. Bloody Marsh has gone AWOL as well. I don't know, but it seems like a bit of a bloody coincidence, don't you think? They're both loose bloody cannons, if you want my opinion.'
Brain was straining his ears, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. He'd assumed at first that Hoxton was talking about Marsh. So who else was missing? And who was Hoxton talking to? His words and tone didn't sound like those of someone addressing a superior officer.
Hoxton was silent again for a moment, and then he gave a theatrical sigh. 'Okay, you've made your point. As if I'd forgotten. What do you want me to do about it exactly?'
There was movement from inside the office, as if Hoxton was shifting something about – papers or files perhaps. Brain involuntarily took a step back, wondering whether to retreat into the living room or make Hoxton aware of his presence.
After a few seconds, Hoxton spoke again. 'Bloody hell. It's a wild bloody goose chase. He could be anywhere. You don't even know for sure that–' Another pause. 'You've seen the bloody weather, I take it. Cats and dogs. Not exactly the weather for pursuing some half-baked bloody– Okay, okay, I've told you. I've heard all that. You've got me exactly where you bloody want me. I know. There's nothing I can bloody do about it. You tell me to jump, I say how high. Won't stop me from expressing a bloody opinion though. Yes, and the same to you.' There was further silence. 'Okay, I'll go. If it is him, if he does know something, what do you want me to do about it? I don't imagine it's quite so simple when it's that close to home. I–'
There was another, longer silence. Then Brain heard Hoxton replace the receiver. The conversation, whatever it had been, was clearly at an end. Brain silently backed away into the living room and made his way to the kitchen at the rear of the house. He was preparing to turn on the tap and begin loudly filling the kettle, with the aim of suggesting to Hoxton that he had only that minute arrived downstairs.
But there was only silence behind him. After another minute, Brain heard the sound of the front door slamming. He stepped back through into the living room, whistling to alert Hoxton to his presence.
The living room was empty as were the hallway and the police office. Hoxton's overcoat, which had been hanging on the row of hooks by the front door, was gone. So, presumably, was Hoxton, out into the pouring rain. Following whatever instructions he had been given.
Brain opened the front door and peered into the street. The rain was falling harder than ever, an unbroken grey curtain across the village. Torrents of water swirled off the road into the dykes and ditches that lined the fields.
The snow had almost gone. The change from the previous day was startling. The curves of pure white replaced by bare earth and patches of grey slush. Remnants of the thicker drifts clung under the shelter of houses or trees, but even they were dissolving as Brain watched.
There was no sign of the police Wolseley. Hoxton had taken the car and driven – where? Grabbing his own overcoat, Brain hurried towards the edge of the village near the school, from where he could gain a view of the surrounding countryside.
The car was already further away than he had expected, travelling at a fast pace despite the weather, but he could see the flash of the headlights, bright in the gloomy early morning, as it turned along the main road up towards the next village.
There was no way of telling where or how far it was going. Brain looked at his watch. It was five thirty. Hoxton had been scheduled to meet with Winterman at eight. Assuming he was still intending to keep that appointment, he could nevertheless travel some distance and still return in time, particularly at the speed he'd been moving.
Brain could feel the trickle of rainwater down his neck, his soaking hair plastered across his head. He had stuffed his feet into a pair of light summer shoes that had been standing by the front door, and the dampness was already seeping through the thin canvas.
He made his way, at a slow trot, back to the station. He ducked back inside and dug out his cycling cape from the hall cupboard and swapped the canvas shoes for a pair of stout boots. Finally, he grabbed the notepad he kept on his office desk. He scribbled a rapid message and left it prominently on the table in the hallway. Winterman still had the spare keys to the station. If he turned up, he would at least learn immediately where Brain had gone.
Brain let hims
elf out through the rear door. There had once been a garden there, but when the house had been converted into the police station the majority of the land had been sold off to a neighbour. All that remained was a small courtyard, with enough space to hold the rubbish bins and a small shed and coalhouse.
Brain hurried across the courtyard and unlocked the shed door. Inside, he found what he was looking for – the sturdy, police-issue bicycle. He rode it rarely in the winter – and it had not been taken out at all during the weeks of snow – but he kept it well maintained. With his head low against the pounding rain, he wheeled the bike round to the main road before climbing on.
Brain knew he was probably embarking on a wild goose chase. But there was no simple explanation for Hoxton's words and tone on the telephone. Brain was left with a sense that he needed to act urgently, even though he had no idea quite what to do.
He pedalled up the high street, gently at first and then gathering speed as he grew reaccustomed to the bike. In any case, he asked himself, as he pounded onwards, the rain beating against his exposed face, what's the worst that can happen if I'm wrong?
The worst that can happen, he thought, is that I make a complete idiot of myself. He pressed on, the water already seeping under the collar of his cycling cape.
Or, he added, I get double pneumonia and die.
Chapter 57
Winterman was standing at the back door, smoking a cigarette, staring out at the steadily falling rain. He could feel the spray cool against his face, the freshness in the air.
'Still coming down?' Mary asked from behind him.
'It's still coming down. Thought you might be getting more sleep.'
'I thought about it. But I was wide awake.'
Winterman took another drag on his cigarette, then pulled out the packet to offer her one.
'Not yet. Cup of tea first, I think.'
'I feel I owe you an apology.'
She nodded, solemnly. 'You were very slow to offer that cigarette.'
'Very good. You know what I mean.'
'The kiss. Well, it takes two to kiss, generally.'
'It does to kiss like that anyway. I thought I was perhaps a bit forward.'
'You know, you're a sad disappointment, DI Winterman.'
'Is that so?'
'I'd heard you were a ruthless womaniser. Now you're worried about being a bit forward.'
He blew a cloud of smoke into the rainy air. 'It could all be part of my subtle seduction technique.'
'Too subtle for me then. To be honest, I was rather hoping we might go further than just a kiss.' Her eyes had moved away from his and were now focused on some point close to the horizon. 'In due course.'
'Is that so? I really must be out of practice.'
'You'll need to put the time in then.'
'Looks like it. If you're willing to help out.'
'That would be good.' She turned back to look at him, hers eyes fixed unblinking on his. 'Seriously, it would be good.'
'In the meantime, there's Paul to worry about.'
'Do you think he's all right?'
'He must be, surely. There've been some odd things going on, but a burly young policeman doesn't just disappear. My guess is he's out there following up some hunch of his own.'
'So where is he?'
'I haven't a clue. I'm going to have to come clean with Spooner today. If Paul is playing some game of his own, Spooner won't be pleased.'
'I assumed Paul was over it. But with these bodies…'
'He might have thought that, if these children's bodies could appear out of nowhere, perhaps Gary's could too?'
'Or at least that Gary's body might still be out there somewhere.'
'Poor bugger,' Winterman said. 'Both of them. Poor Gary and poor Paul.'
'It's the not knowing. After Gary disappeared Paul used to go from one extreme to the other. One day, buoyed up by the hope that Gary might be alive after all, the next day filled with the worst kinds of fears.'
Winterman's face was expressionless. 'At least with Sam, I've no illusions. I know exactly what happened to him.' He could see, in his mind's eye, the small beckoning figure that haunted his dreams.
'Oh, Ivan. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.'
'No. It's true. What happened was awful but it's better than not knowing. At least I can mourn properly.' He looked at his watch, keen to move the conversation on. 'I need to be off soon. I said I'd meet Hoxton at the station at eight. We'll decide what to do. Spooner and his people are meeting us at nine.' He gestured towards the pouring rain. 'This should make things easier, for the moment at least. We should be able to get things moving at last. Put the investigation on a proper footing.'
'You'll tell Spooner about Paul?'
'If Paul doesn't turn up this morning, I've no choice. I don't want to land Paul in it. But if he really is in some sort of trouble, I'd never forgive myself.'
'You'd better go. Maybe he's turned up at the station.'
He followed her back into the kitchen. 'You'll be okay?'
'Why wouldn't I be? You're the one braving the rain.' She looked up at the kitchen clock. 'Mind you, so will I. If the snow's gone and the buses are running again, I'll head into the office. It's not one of my days, but I've missed a lot of time lately.'
'I'd be surprised if the buses are running yet. It'll all be in chaos. With the risk of flooding, they'll probably keep them off the roads anyway. If it's not one of your days, I'd make the most of it. In fact, treat that as an instruction. I don't want you going out there today. Not with the weather like this.'
'I hope you're not letting personal feelings intrude on your official duties. Anyway, I'm not sure it's in your gift. Officially I report to Mrs Sheringham.'
'Mrs Sheringham's not here. I'll have to deputise. And, no, it's nothing personal. Just the boss's duty of pastoral care.'
'Fair enough. I'll stay here and walk the kids down to the school. We'll see whether there's any chance of that opening today.'
Winterman smiled, but there was a look of concern in his eyes. 'Take care.' Then he added, scarcely knowing what he was saying, 'I've lost enough already.'
She looked back at him, unspeaking. Finally she nodded. 'I'll take care.'
Chapter 58
Somehow he had fallen asleep again. He opened his eyes, lying cramped and awkward on the stone floor. How was it possible for him to have slept?
In any case, the sleep had left him feeling no better. His body was aching, his limbs stiff, his mind fogged by confusion. He pushed himself to a sitting position, his fingers slipping unpleasantly on damp leaves and vegetation.
The darkness was less intense. As his mind cleared, he began to discern pale slender lines of light. Daylight creeping in through gaps in the structure. Along the edges of the door, past the shuttered window, between ill-fitting roof tiles.
Morning then. He clambered to his feet and stumbled towards the brightest strip of light – down one edge of the large doors he had identified in the darkness. He heard again the sound he had recognised in the night. Falling rain.
He pressed his eye to the narrow gap. He could make out little. But he could taste the dampness of the air, frustratingly enticing as he realised how thirsty he was.
The room was largely as he had imagined it. An outbuilding or barn, brick built, with solid looking walls broken only by a large door built of heavy wood. In lieu of an internal handle, a link of chain was screwed into the wood. He grabbed this and pulled. The door gave slightly, but it was fastened or padlocked on the outside.
There was little else in the room. The few discarded items of old furniture he had stumbled into in the dark, a scattering of rusty agricultural machinery. In the far corner, a loose heap of straw.
He was about to take a closer look at the door and window, when he heard the clattering of a chain being rattled, the squeak of the door beginning to move. He backed to the far wall, looking around for something he could use as a weapon. He stooped and grasped a broken piece of metal pipin
g, feeling the satisfactory weight of it in his hand.
The door slowly opened, its bottom edge scraping noisily on the rough stone floor, and a shaft of grubby looking daylight penetrated the room.
Chapter 59
Winterman raised the knocker a third time and slammed it down heavily, hearing the loud boom echoing through the interior of the station. He glanced at his watch. Five past eight.
Where the bloody hell was Hoxton? For that matter, where was Brain? Surely they hadn't both overslept. More likely, something had called them out already.
He gave the knocker a fourth, half-hearted slam, then fumbled inside his overcoat. He was already soaked. He had given up on his umbrella after it had been blown repeatedly inside out by the drenching wind. His police overcoat had offered little protection against the deluge. The rain was dripping off his hat, icy rivulets running down inside his collar.
He pulled out the keys. It took him several minutes, his fingers trembling with the damp cold, but he finally pushed the door open.
Inside, it was warmer and much drier. He dragged off his raincoat and hat, throwing them on to one of the coat hooks beside the door. He could sense already that the station was deserted, but he called Hoxton's and Brain's names in the vague hope that one of them might appear.
He was about to walk through into the police office when he caught sight of the note folded on the hall table, his own name scrawled across it. He opened it and read Brain's ill-formed writing: 'DC Hoxton's taken the car after odd telephone call. Have followed on bike. West out the village towards Welstone.'
Winterman shook his head. The note meant nothing to him. Where had Hoxton taken the car? What sort of odd telephone call? How was Brain proposing to follow a police car on a bicycle?
But something about the words made him feel uneasy. Some thought about Hoxton had begun to nag at his mind, though he couldn't pin down the source of his concern.