Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County.

by John R Goddard

  My vision is sharper now, the mist lightening. Through the lenses, I see shafts of the ground iron-clad as the wind gusts snow into drifts in places, the soil frozen yet uncovered in others. Hungry rabbits have marked where they stood on their back legs the better to nibble the sweet bark of the hazel in the left woodland.

  Depression takes hold. No one is coming for me this night. We are wrong. I should go in. The bait has not been taken. I gather up my flasks and food bags, begin to text Daniel to go home.

  Yet I am suddenly also alert, like the fox, for no reason. Something in the atmosphere changes. The solitary pee-ay of a disturbed buzzard echoes as a plaintive cat’s meow.

  ***

  Silence, movement, life hangs suspended as minutes tick on. Until in the far dark woods, distorted parts of a body, pieces of an abstract painting gell into the black shape of a tall man. Another, smaller figure steals sinuously forward as they skirt the meadow.

  Mere spectres shaped like those at the various burglaries. They have the same problem as I. Dressed in black they melt unseen against the trees, but are stark in the open against snow.

  Mist sweeps across then and their very molecules disperse. Only to re-form as two shadows. Advancing across my ancient meadow, tramping in step one behind the other military style, like the pillaging Anglo Saxon, Roman, Viking, Danes and Norman invaders of yore once did. I can almost hear the clank of sword, armour and spear of long ago, warriors whose spirits are perhaps with this night’s invaders. Intruders who melt invisible amidst the whiteness, form, dissolve, coalesce, progress whole again in the snowy dark.

  A cock, its body clock wildly astray, crows forlorn. The small feline figure in the lead stumbles on jagged snow, tumbles into a trough. Up instantly, a curse muted as the only ripple to the wet clinging air, he shrugs off concerned help from the taller shade behind.

  Ditched and hedged against bleak midwinter, my white walled cottage bars their way. I am still, see only silhouettes as they come close into view, are hidden by a wide tree trunk, are there, then lost again. They slip through the tall thicketed privet, using a gap I thought only I knew, and pass within yards of my copse with barely a look towards my hiding place as I note their black ski outfits and thick balaclavas with only eyes showing.

  My child’s forlorn swing creaks aimlessly as they brush past it across my side lawn. The taller solid man magically opens the front door’s three forbidding locks. A small digital device quiets the screeching burglar alarm within with a touch and a beep. Ten yards distant, I cannot see faces but watch as each shadow dons an all-white crime suit, shoes and latex gloves in my hall. The balaclavas stay on. The front door closes.

  Torch beams flare through cold air within and then move with purpose, to a plan. In the eerie quiet I can hear drawers and cupboards being rifled as a beam downstairs explores my study, lounge and kitchen, the other my upstairs bedrooms. I need to let them do their work, see what they are actually looking for, what they find and are taking away. To know what they want and why is key. It will tell us much. Conflict to detain them will best come as they are finished, satisfied, about to leave, feeling safe at last yet in fact at their most vulnerable because of that, just as in the last seconds of a round of boxing.

  The lights within change to a deep red, a laser probing my walls and floorboards. Whatever it is they seek; it merits this level of sophistication. If I have this treasure, I do not know its value.

  I see my cottage as they: a sad wasteland, seven years of grieving neglect. Furniture, decorations, atmosphere are tired, dejected. My files are gone, my computer is in my locked Incident Room. Yet still things seem to hold their interest. If they follow the pattern of the other Pippa related burglaries, every document, file, letter, note, sketch, photograph, memory stick, phone or computer found in any room will be clinically stowed and carried away. Except. This time I will see and hear what they value most, who has sent them and why. When I catch them. Shortly.

  Through the landing window I see the two torch beams converge upstairs, outside the door of my Incident Room. They are bemused no doubt. If they have the last plans of my cottage, something professionals like this are likely to have obtained, the room’s security will not be revealed. It has a steel door, another more intricate alarm pad on the inside, all hopefully too forbidding for even the skilled unpicking by this pair. Their torches roam, one goes into my attic. They will quickly discover the Incident Room is secured also with part reinforced walls and ceiling.

  I can imagine the discussion, the confusion, perhaps anger as to why they were not aware of these complications; alterations insisted on and secretly fitted by Jerry six years previously. Even with the remaining hours of darkness that the burglars know is theirs, explosives or a heavy cutter will be needed on the door and reinforced walls. But that is surely too great a risk even on a night hushed by drifting heavy snow as the people of Malvingham village are only two miles away. Even once in the room, there might be limited time if police or security respond to any alarm that may lurk within. Tough luck boys.

  80

  I am a boxer long trained to do things the honourable way. I am no street fighter, vicious and insensitive to the results of my actions. Yet I am growing that way, ever more violent I know. I often feel the bitter conflict inside me as to which character will emerge but not this night. My violent red succubus overwhelms my senses as I burst through the front door to glimpse my home in tatters with furniture upturned, our revered books rifled through as I glimpse the lounge. Debris is everywhere, yet documents and books of photographs are neatly packed into two mammoth camouflaged canvas bags with the taller figure beside them.

  Taken aback, he has no time to react. My impetus and wrath sends a vicious kick to his knee, which staggers him over as two brutal corkscrew punches, the first to stomach, the second to chin fell him semi-conscious, his leg at an odd angle.

  The smaller figure cries out gutturally as he leaps down the stairs, landing to spin into a karate style stance. More by luck than any judgement, he sways beyond the fast left-jab to the body that I throw as he lands and deflects my venomous second, an uppercut to the face. But to no avail as he merely directs that second blow to hurtle messily on into the tender pit of his throat, producing a terrible gagging sound of spurting blood and phlegm as a second left hits his chin. He falls to his knees, hands clawing at his face, breath cawing and sparse as he falls on his side.

  Is that it? Is that all the damage I can legitimately do? Despite aching knuckles, my rage demands I lift them up, hit them again and again, smash heads against walls. Sadly, I need them to answer questions first.

  I force myself to look in my kitchen, study, lounge. All are chaos. Back in the hall, the intruders’ scene of crime style suits crackle as I crouch to check pulses and awake them for questioning.

  ***

  Pulling off their face masks, I am shocked at the unexpected: the dark angry eyes of two Chinese, the smaller a young woman, the other an older man only dizzily conscious.

  The banal “Who are you? Why are you here?” is answered only by a wheezing coughing from the woman, and nothing from the man even as their eyes are awash with pain, anger and, I think, shame.

  The forensic suits and nylon balaclavas explain the lack of fingerprints and DNA left at the burglaries. But it is not the expected Duane nor Wayne Rudd. Both intruders lay inert on the floor as I handcuff them. I find nothing in their pockets save printed sheets offering a detailed plan of my home, of the meadow and woodlands and the technical details of my door alarm. Who are these two, why are they here, what connections must they have? I have had little dealing with gang crime and never with the Triads, the nearest of which are in Leeds and Nottingham as far as I know. Are they English? How did they know I would be away? The bugs presumably. And what on earth are they after?

  I text Daniel and tell him I have the intruders and ask that he comes in and his group stay close and watchful nearer to the house. I need to check upstairs but turn and step around t
he two to close the door first. No point in letting them freeze to death now I have the two who presumably broke into Pippa’s two houses, my mother’s, the newspaper and the school. The questions are about to be answered.

  ***

  The slightest of movements in the air, I have no time to turn back from the door or react, alert as I am from pure adrenaline. A paving stone of a hand clubs my neck viciously from behind and above. Barely conscious, semi-paralysed from such power and expertise, only sheer will twists my body to stare upwards as I crumple onto my hall’s wooden floor. A colossus all in white, screeching unknown harsh words, has come down the stairs and now rears above me. His crime scene suit hisses, thick latex gloves snap, forensic over shoes catch my face as he steps over me to tend his comrades.

  He too is wearing all the gear necessary to avoid leaving any evidence at all at a crime scene. The thought suddenly burns: as happened when Bess and Grace disappeared. Am I here now with the guilty people?

  Unable to move arm or leg, my mind and body a tumult of pain from this final thought. My mind forces one finger to gingerly move and touch my mobile phone which lays just within reach. I speed dial 9 for the police, automatically sending a message, ‘Officer Down, Urgent assistance required’ and giving my location.

  Oddly my mobile phone shines bright with a call then, still laid beneath my hand which creeps over the controls, ready to stroke ‘answer’. Will I have words to speak as the anticipated official voice asks for ’Sit Rep.’ A huge boot crushes my hand and phone.

  Prone, helpless, I pray Daniel’s group approach warily. This man is a giant of a fighting machine. I can do nothing as his mass now stands above, eyes coldly and clearly assessing for the most painful killer blow he can conjure up. When danger comes I am clinically fast in analysis and action, only agonizing later about what might have happened to me in any situation. I well know this look of a ruthless opponent in the ring and in policing on odd occasions. Now, it can only mean death.

  The boxing mantra, ‘There is always someone bigger, stronger, quicker, luckier’, echoes in my throbbing head. It is a chant I dutifully recited each day over many years yet ‘like a bairn’ smugly never truly believed. Like a child. Till now.

  The giant knows my body is a concentrated scream of pain. The eyes in the mask smile. How could I be stupid enough not to check the rest of the house? They had a third person, a driver in Camden and presumably elsewhere. Of course, an efficient team would have a look out, a back-up or, as here, someone who has been let through my kitchen door. Arrogance in my own cleverness, flaming anger and being chill caused the mistake, likely my last.

  Do I really mind? I wanted, needed to know what happened to the wife and child I cherish. I failed. Seven years of choking grief would end if I were no more. Death is always harsh, alien to all until the last, but then who knows? The ‘soon to be no more’ cares little when he has so little. I am he. The warm embrace of oblivion is so enticing. The demonic monsters of Beowulf’s preternatural evil have overwhelmed me and my home.

  Perhaps it’s time for the sleep of death. I enjoyed love in abundance, intellect sufficient to deal with all but the deepest sorrow, health and training ever ready for conflict against evil. Life has still scythed me down. Some ancients thought that enjoying love and intellect meant you then must face the sleep of death to balance such great happiness. Perhaps it is time to accept that dank fate. Joy in life has long gone but I once had it with such purity. My once prodigious memory, an uncanny ability to see things quickly and clearly, are no more. Love and obligation can only sustain so long to aid Bess and Grace. I could just lay here and perish, wither on the bough physically as I did long ago within.

  No matter. I can only watch. Only my eyes will obey me now. The spectre bends and large hands roughly grasp the back of my neck. Its breath is fiercely hot on me as our gazes are close and intimately lock. If only this were Wayne Rudd I would be staring down at him. The giant sneers arrogantly in a foreign tongue at my helpless defeat and ever so slowly twists my neck to spread and prolong the wracking pain.

  The cavernous silence of the end of time stretches out as he holds my neck and spine taut before what both of us know will be a sudden murderous snap in reverse. My lips murmur my love for my lost Grace and Bess. Shakespeare. ‘Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.’

  Time ceases.

  “Do not kill him,” a light female voice with barely audible words that meld with the icy air. Still struggling to speak, she repeats them again without a trace of a foreign accent.

  The hands do not hear or do not want to; only grip tighter as a heavy bass rumble answers tenderly from close to my ear, “He hurt you.”

  The woman’s voice gasps out words and phrases more urgently, “It is forbidden. Yang’s orders. We are not to kill him. Yet. He must suffer more. First.”

  Muted church bells toll midnight, a new day, ending this silent unholy night. The giant’s claws are hovering between life and death. A moment. It matters not to me.

  “He and his mother too will die. Soon.”

  ‘Soon,’ ‘Yang orders,’ ‘His mother too,’ the phrases clang in my head as a burning savagery takes hold.

  No. None of that will happen. I shall survive. My mother has done no wrong, ever.

  I will save or avenge Grace, Bess and our unborn child.

  Our unborn, the horror of that loss of the innocent. Suppressed for so long. From myself, from everyone. To keep me sane. My mind is a blaze of red and black heat erupting, my malignant demons will have their day and soon. No matter what.

  Hands snap in reverse. An explosion of white slashes.

  The pure blackness of forever devours. As will I.

  A DCI CALEB CADE MYSTERY THRILLER

  of ANCASTER COUNTY

  The spell-binding conclusion to the baffling twists and turns of ‘Bitter Pastoral’