Still puzzling over that, she walked into the bedroom. She was dabbing at herself absent-mindedly with the towel as she tried to follow that line of thought. The explanation was eluding her. Strangely enough, the best person to help her with it was Ian. He was very logical and methodical, but understood a lot of the complexities of the human mind, so was well-equipped to guide her to the solution. Previously, she would have fought shy of talking to Ian about something like this because she’d have been afraid it would have given him too much power over her. This time her concern was about him. What if, in helping her, he found out how she’d felt about Martin? What if it revealed to him the countless affairs and liaisons she’d had over the years? Having discovered an affection for Ian, the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.
She pushed those thoughts to one side. There was nothing constructive she could do about them tonight. Not when there were soldiers all around the farm and a bomb had been found hidden there. It was just a relief that they had managed to move it away, take it back where it had come from.
Dropping the towel over the arm of a chair, she turned towards a chest of drawers. And felt something hard ram into her stomach.
Twenty-Three
No one was left in CID when he went through. The few that were on duty had been called out to a domestic incident that had escalated into something much more tragic. Or so he learned from the Desk Sergeant. Which meant he either had to wait until tomorrow morning, or he could go out looking by himself.
In a way, it helped to make the decision. The reality was that, whilst the missing farm was strange, there was nothing to link this oddity to the case. So if he had been accompanied by another officer, there was always the risk of ridicule. And big and tough and experienced as he was, he didn’t react well to having the piss taken out of him. Particularly when he was feeling tired.
This gave him the opportunity to go and have a scout around by himself, and if it turned out to be of no relevance, he didn’t have to report it to anyone.
To give himself even more leeway, he told the sergeant he was going home. It wasn’t a lie. He was. It was just that he was going the long way.
He smiled at that thought as he approached the edge of the village. It was completely dark now, the sun a distant memory, and the white background of the Ravens Gathering sign reflected his headlights dully. Ahead and to his right, he saw a dark opening and slowed down, wondering if that was the place he was looking for. The streetlights were still a quarter of a mile away, so it was difficult to see clearly. But as he drew level and looked along the track, he could see a wooden signpost for a bridleway, and beside that a black and white sign with the image of a Friesian painted on it. Beneath the cow were the words Whartons Farm.
Gently pressing his foot down on the accelerator, he moved forward. There was no other traffic on the road, so he didn’t rush. With no one to see him, there was no one to be worried about his apparently suspicious behaviour.
But he was in the village before he saw any other places to turn off the main road. A cluster of houses that was too small to constitute an estate, then The Major Oak and opposite that the entrance to Blackthorn Farm. Lodge Farm appeared shortly after on the same side as the pub, but Collins already knew that if this phantom farm existed, he must have gone past it. He turned the Cavalier round and headed back out of the village.
It was strange really. Back in Westfield, the streets would be busy. Saturday night was for letting your hair down – in whatever way was right for you. For a lot of people it would be the pubs and clubs. At nine o’clock, it wouldn’t be buzzing just yet, but it would be well on its way.
Not Ravens Gathering, though. So far, he hadn’t even seen anyone out walking their dog. There was light in the pub, and shadows cast on the windows, but he didn’t get the impression it would be heaving.
As the streetlights faded in his rearview mirror, he kept his speed at thirty. He didn’t want to be going so fast he’d miss anything. But when five minutes had passed, and he could see the lights of Long Clayford ahead of him, he knew he had gone too far. He gently picked up speed and headed into the village to turn round again.
This time, there were other cars on the road. Just two, and they were both heading in the same direction as he was. The roads were narrow and winding. Unsure whether they were patient, sensible drivers, or lairy idiots who’d rather risk their lives than be a minute or two late, he increased his speed until he could find a suitable place to pull over and let them pass. And the suitable place was the entrance to Whartons Farm again, so he knew he must have missed what he was looking for. He reversed into the opening and turned back towards Long Clayford.
Unlike in the movies, being a good detective isn’t the result of being a maverick with an estranged wife who loves you but hates the job. Nor is it about kicking in doors and being able to put a car into a one hundred and eighty degree turn while reloading your handgun. There are many different facets to a good detective. Some have their strengths in particular areas. But one of the most important things a detective has to possess is patience. It may be something they need as they piece together the jigsaw of a crime scene, or read and re-read statements as they look for a common thread, or they may simply end up driving up and down a dark road at night as they search for an entrance to a farm that may or may not exist.
Collins clocked up over thirty miles travelling back and forth between the two villages that lay less than four miles apart. Thirty miles, and fifty minutes. And then he saw it. A narrow gap in the trees to his right as he headed once more in the direction of Ravens Gathering. He was coming out of a bend in the road. His speed had dropped this time to around ten miles an hour. He knew he was taking a risk. It was pretty well established that the incidence of drink-driving in the country was greater than it was in the town. In large part, it was because the police had to concentrate their efforts in the more built up areas. After all, that was where most of the people were. So if you were going to take a chance when you were over the limit, there was a strong likelihood that you’d get away with it out here. Any drink driver coming along this road tonight would more than likely not realise the Cavalier was there until it was too late. And he’d certainly not have the reflexes to brake in time. Of course, there were also the dickheads who didn’t need to get some alcohol in their system to drive like lunatics. He banked on it being too early for the drinkers, and played the odds on the others. Fortunately, the odds worked in his favour.
There was no sign announcing the presence of a farm. Nor was there a gatepost, or any other indication that this break in the trees was anything of significance. But the combination of his speed and the angle at which the headlights caught the trees made Collins realise that the opening was a little too regular in shape to be a natural development.
Out of habit, he indicated, even though there was no one around to see the lights flashing. He drove into the gap, and felt a warm glow of satisfaction as his headlights illuminated a rough – but nevertheless well used – track. It curved away to his left, disappearing from view. He stopped the car, letting the engine tick over as he considered what to do next.
The reality, of course, was that he hadn’t achieved anything yet. All he’d done was find a track that led off the main road. Where it led to was still up for debate. And there was also the very strong possibility that, even if there was a farm at the end of the track, there would be nothing to suggest its presence had anything to do with the events at Forest Farm. In truth, there wasn’t any decision to make. He just had to get on with it. Letting out the clutch, he cautiously followed the curve of the track.
Back on the road, the light had been limited. Here, with trees on either side and branches cutting out any illumination from the moon or stars, there was nothing to guide him other than his headlights. And even they seemed to have dimmed, the beams dropping away only a few feet ahead. He drove slowly, alert for any sharp bends or suicidal woodland creatures.
Even though he was watching
out for them, he was still surprised to see both at different times. The squirrel appeared first, the headlights catching it as it stood stock still in the middle of the track. He eased the brake on gently, so there was no sudden noise to startle the creature – or alert any nearby humans. It was only when the car stopped completely that the squirrel decided to move on, glancing briefly over its shoulder as it went. Amused more than anything, Collins carried on, and almost missed the sudden turn to the right ten feet further on. A very wide and sturdy looking tree trunk showed up in the lights suddenly, and his amusement turned to gratitude. If he hadn’t slowed for the squirrel, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have had time to stop before hitting the tree.
Without the hindrance of darkness, he estimated later that it would probably have taken him little more than a couple of minutes to cover the length of the track. On that first attempt, it was closer to seven. But eventually, the track opened up into a farmyard. To the right was the house, with the outbuildings both directly ahead of him and on the left. He parked next to a Land Rover, which stood outside the house.
Dim lights shone through curtains in a couple of downstairs windows, but no one answered the door when he knocked. Not even on the fourth attempt. He turned his attention to the outbuildings. Lights were fitted to some of the buildings, sitting just above the doors to them. They cast a dull glow, creating shadows just beyond their reach. But they were bright enough for someone to find their way around the yard without tripping over anything.
His footsteps sounded unnaturally harsh as he explored the yard. It took him a minute or so – a very long minute or so – to adjust to it. The sensation was reminiscent of the times he’d arrived home in the wee small hours, and been desperate not to disturb anyone. It seemed that the harder he tried to be quiet, the noisier he was. The key would rattle in the lock, the creaky floorboards would catch him out because they seemed to have moved, and the door hinges would need oiling. Yet, any other time, those sounds wouldn’t be a problem. Nor were they to his sleeping family. It was just him being more conscious of them.
None of the doors he tried were locked. If nothing else, there was a strong case for sending a crime prevention officer out to visit them. He had a look around the workshop and storerooms. Nothing of interest in those. The barn was interesting in that it housed a tractor and some other farming equipment. Like a lot of men, his curiosity could be aroused by the sight of anything mechanical. From a professional point of view, it was meaningless though. When he approached the stable, he was again reminded of those early mornings returning home. He wanted to look in, but didn’t want to disturb the inhabitants. Fortunately, he didn’t, but as he headed back towards his car, he did wonder why he’d bothered to make the effort.
From one perspective, the trip had been a waste of time. He’d found no one, nor had he seen anything suspicious. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, because it did seem odd to him that the place was deserted. He could partly understand it. Why shouldn’t they go out on a Saturday night? But if they did, surely they’d have locked up. Wouldn’t they?
He was opening the car door as that thought passed through his head. Triggering another thought. If the outbuildings were unlocked, was it possible that the house was too? He hadn’t tried the handle when he’d knocked earlier. When he tried it a few seconds later, it opened. With no squeaks. Just when he could have done with one.
After all his years of policing, it still didn’t feel right to him when he entered someone’s home without their consent. Sure, he could justify it if the need arose. No sign of life, lights on in the house and the Land Rover parked outside. Wanted to make sure everything was all right. But being able to justify it and feeling comfortable with it were two different things.
The door opened on to a kitchen. It was smaller than the one at Forest Farm, but still twice the size of his own. The fittings looked old but cared for. A tea towel had been dropped carelessly on to the table. It too had seen better days. A washing up bowl was filled with soapy water, the handle of a saucepan sticking up Excalibur-like from within it. Dishes were stacked next to the sink, waiting their turn. Whoever had been in here had been disturbed.
Collins hesitated in the doorway. Someone had been disturbed. Was he about to walk into a crime scene? Because if he was, he really needed to call the station and get some back up. If he did, though, and it was just a case of the person washing up getting called out for something unexpectedly... Well, that had happened to him often enough, and it wasn’t always the job. Maybe they’d had a call from a teenager who needed a lift. That was definitely something he could relate to.
No, he decided. He should go on in.
But that was as far as he got. Somewhere in the yard, he heard movement. Hinges creaked, then footsteps. He turned to look, and saw a group of people emerging from the barn.
How the hell...? He’d been in there less than ten minutes ago, and there’d been no sign of anyone. Automatically he started to retrace his steps in his mind, wondering if he could have missed something when he’d gone into the barn. Nothing came to him.
As he searched his memory, he was also watching them. The barn door swung shut, and then they were heading towards him. A combination of distance and lighting meant that they were silhouettes more than flesh and blood. But the shapes were not just humanoid. Each of them was carrying something. It was difficult to tell for sure, but he thought he recognised the objects being carried. He’d been involved in tackling armed robbers when he’d been in the Flying Squad. Shotguns and pickaxe handles had been commonplace in those days.
He glanced towards his car. It was about thirty feet away from him. The group coming across the yard were not much further away. He wouldn’t have time to make a run for it. And he suddenly realised that, with the light from the kitchen behind him, he was an easy target.
Twenty-Four
A scream tore its way into Martin’s consciousness. The deep sleep he’d been in vanished, his eyes flicking open immediately. Later, he would realise that his instantaneous reaction was no more or less than he had become used to over the years. So many nights had been interrupted by his dreams.
Without thinking, he was on his feet and into the corridor. As he entered the kitchen, he caught a flash of movement in the main hallway. Even as he registered that, he heard heavy boots running across the wooden floor. Instinctively, he knew it was Ian. Just as he knew it was Tanya he could hear screaming.
Ian had twenty years on Martin, so reached the bedroom door only moments ahead of him. He was opening it as Martin hit the landing, and had come to an abrupt halt when he caught up.
The scene that greeted them was surreal.
The door was set very close to a corner of the room. A large picture window ran across the opposite wall, and beneath it were two chests of drawers. An armchair was angled into the corner, a towel draped over it.
To Martin’s left was the king-sized bed, and beyond that fitted wardrobes flanked a dressing table and large mirror. The top of the dressing table was mainly clear, though bottles of perfume and a set of brushes stood at the back of it. A padded stool was tucked under the dressing table. The furniture filled most of the wall, but at the far right was the open doorway to the en-suite.
Tanya was standing at the foot of the bed. She was completely naked, and apparently oblivious of the fact, which seemed even more strange bearing in mind that the curtains were wide open. Under ordinary circumstances, her privacy might not have been an issue, considering how far away from the rest of the village they were. But there were still half a dozen or more squaddies wandering around outside.
Her nudity wasn’t the surreal part. The curtains had clearly been drawn earlier. Martin knew they had, because he’d drawn them. But even if he hadn’t known, it would have been obvious. They looked as if someone had tried to tear them down. Curtain rings had been pulled loose from the rail – shiny glints on the duvet were evidence of where at least two of them had landed – and at least half of each curtain
was now draped over the chests below them. The drawers themselves looked as if they had been pulled out by someone who’d been given ten seconds to find something hidden inside them. There were three drawers in each chest. Two of them were pulled about half way out. Another was teetering precariously, only around a centimetre of it still inside the chest. Two more had been hurled across the room, one landing on the bed, the other shattered against the wall above the headboard. The last one was at an angle on the floor in front of the chest. If Tanya had been standing where she was now, it was clear that it must have struck her.
The alarm clock and two paperbacks had been launched from the bedside table. He’d noticed the books earlier. One of them was a Stephen King he hadn’t read. So he knew they’d been next to the alarm clock. All three now lay scattered on the floor in front of the armchair.
Both men took this all in as they entered the room. Tanya looked at them desperately. Her screams had stopped before they started up the stairs, so they guessed all of this had happened at least twenty seconds ago. She made no effort to cover herself up. Under other circumstances either man could have read something into that, but it was clear she was traumatised.
“What happened?” Ian asked, moving forward.
As he did, Martin continued to look around, searching for clues as to what might have caused this damage. He was also conscious that he should look anywhere other than at Tanya. He didn’t want to embarrass her, or Ian – or himself, for that matter.
But even as Ian reached the end of the bed, the light fitting in the room began to sway, casting shadows where previously there had been none. All eyes flicked up to it, and as they did the wardrobe doors burst open. The interior of both wardrobes was split into two halves. The top half stored the hanging clothes, the bottom held more drawers. Each wardrobe had two columns of drawers in them. Shirts, jackets, trousers and dresses swung outwards as if pulled by some invisible threads attached to them. It reminded Martin of Sean Connery hanging on for dear life as Goldfinger was sucked out of a plane. The clothes looked as if they were doing the same, the hangers gripping the rails inside the wardrobe as if their very existence depended on it.
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