Bad Blood

by Nick Oldham

  ‘And it was your wedding night, and you’re not on duty, and he didn’t want to bother you.’

  ‘Bother me?’ Rik blasted. ‘Where is the wanker?’ he asked, referring colourfully to his new brother-in-law.

  ‘He had to go out and see a client.’

  ‘Right – and Ginny’s at the hospital in Lancaster with Alison?’ Rik asked, trying to get his head around things, although like Jake this was his day off plus the first day of his honeymoon. ‘Does Karl Donaldson know about all this?’

  Jake nodded. ‘He’s gone for a jog … yeah, Henry said he could,’ Jake added reacting to Rik’s expression.

  ‘OK, I need to speak to the detective on this. Where is he or she?’

  ‘One been and gone,’ Rik said, ‘no one else landed. All busy with prisoners, apparently.’

  ‘Which DS is on duty?’

  ‘Jess Makin.’

  ‘OK, and is there a support unit on the way for searching, et cetera?’

  Jake shook his head. ‘Got diverted.’

  ‘The shower of shit,’ Jake said. ‘I’ll get on to them …’

  ‘No need, DS Makin’s here,’ Rik said as a small Toyota Hybrid pulled onto the car park and Makin climbed out. She was a detective sergeant based in Lancaster. Rik trotted down the steps to meet her and the look of horror on her face tickled Jake as he watched a low-voiced, but nonetheless ear-chewing dressing down take place. She took it reasonably well, looking contrite, and then Jake felt a bit sorry for her, but only a bit.

  Since he had been posted to Kendleton he had come to realize that the public wanted to see cops on the beat and when they called for help. To Jake’s simplistic mind it seemed to be an easy equation, but one which the force did not seem to comprehend. As a consequence the cops were losing a crucial battle in a war they might never now win. He always ensured he went to see anyone who called him and consequently this community had taken him to its heart.

  When the bollocking was over, the two detectives walked back up the steps, the DS looking suitably chaste and apologetic, but to be fair, it transpired she had been to see Ginny at hospital. The problem as Jake saw it, though, was that the offender was still at large and no steps had been taken to ID or capture him.

  Jake nodded at Makin, who blanked him.

  ‘Let’s go and see what the crime scene has to offer us,’ Rik said, leading her into the pub. ‘What’s your plan now, Jake?’ he asked the PC as he passed.

  ‘I know time’s gone on, but a couple of things.’ Jake pointed across to the woodland on the other side of the village green. ‘The guy who lamped Henry ran off in that direction and one of the local gamekeepers spotted someone lurking around there with a rifle in his hand. Thought I’d just have a root around, then I’ll hop into the Land Rover and have a drive around, see if I can spot any strangers and also chat to a few well-placed locals.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Rik said, stood aside for Makin, then followed her into the pub.

  Jake watched them go then sauntered across to his ancient Land Rover, which was about the only resource paid for by the constabulary, an old, very past-it vehicle that had been discovered long forgotten in a garage at headquarters.

  He started it up and drove across to the far side of the village green and stopped on a small car park from which various public footpaths were signposted. He slid out of the driver’s seat and considered the view back to the Tawny Owl for a moment, then, without his cap on, he walked up the footpath leading to the trees.

  Prior to being a rural beat officer, Jake’s role was as a full time armed-response unit officer in Blackpool, before that as a PC on the beat in the resort. He recalled a time when there had been a plethora of night-time burglaries in houses on the perimeter of Stanley Park, the biggest public park in Blackpool. There had been some sightings of a man in the park who was believed to be living rough and was committing break-ins to survive, taking only food and cash, but also causing real fear amongst the community. The police ran a long operation consisting of overnight observations in the park and Jake was one of the cops involved. On one particular night he had seen a figure prowling through some trees and had tried to follow him but a foot pursuit in near pitch-black conditions had left Jake red-faced when he went flying into a flower bed and did not catch his prey.

  It did show that the offender was living within the park, but despite thorough searches, including the use of dogs, the man’s hideout was not found until after he was arrested whilst committing a burglary. So Jake knew that to search and find someone who might be hiding out in a wood was not easy.

  As he walked into the woods at Kendleton he was fully aware of this problem and not hopeful of lucking on to a tent made of twigs and branches, things you could walk past within two feet and not realize. That is if anyone was actually there.

  One thing he did think about was that if the person Tod had seen in the woods was the same one who had committed the offences at the Tawny Owl, then that smacked of planning – particularly if that person had prepared his entry into the pub and was armed with knock-out drugs.

  A lot of planning and preparation, which would have included keeping observations on the Owl, which, Jake thought, would require a good, well-hidden vantage point.

  These considerations suddenly made finding a hideout less of a needle in a haystack problem, unlike hunting for a burglar’s secret place. This person would want to remain hidden, yes, but would also require a great view of the pub to watch comings and goings.

  To Jake that meant somewhere slightly elevated and close to the edge of the treeline.

  He stopped on the footpath, then spun and backtracked to the Land Rover. From there he walked to the village green, turned and surveyed the woods which rose on a wide slope. He thought, ‘Now where would I go if it was me?’

  After several scans, he pinpointed three good positions from which there would be a great view across to the pub.

  He made his way to the first one.

  The second one left him cold and not a little terrified.

  He was certain this was it as he crouched down in the bushes and saw a sleeping bag open on a plastic ground sheet and by the roots of a tree there was a cushion which had a thin indentation across the middle. He looked carefully at this, his already dehydrated mouth getting even dryer.

  Trying not to disturb anything, he sank to one knee and looked through an opening in the foliage from which he could clearly see the front elevation of the Tawny Owl, maybe a thousand metres distant.

  A kilometre. A long way. Maybe.

  His eyes followed the indentation in the cushion.

  Jake knew a sniper’s nest when he saw one.

  ‘PC Niven to DS Makin receiving?’ he called on his personal radio (PR).

  ‘Go ahead, Jake.’

  ‘Sarge – found something in the trees of great interest. Could do with a crime-scene investigator to take a look, I think, and yourself. I think it’s where our offender might have been keeping obs on the pub.’

  ‘Roger,’ Makin said, ‘but there’s something come up here that’s urgent … Can you come back ASAP and we’ll take it from there?’

  ‘Will do.’

  Jake paused, wondering what the urgent thing could be. Even so, he took a few extra seconds to use his mobile phone to record what he had just found. Part of him wanted to seize the sleeping bag and ground sheet and cushion but he knew it might destroy vital evidence if he did.

  After taking the photos he looked a little more closely at the discoloured track across the cushion.

  He knew what it was. Gun oil.

  He made a quick judgement call then because the last thing he wanted to do was leave this unattended for any length of time, only to return to find it gone when a CSI eventually got to it.

  He seized the cushion, believing the risk would justify the reward.

  Pulling up at the pub, Jake was surprised to see Tod Rawstron’s Land Rover had returned.

  He left the seized cushion on the passenger
seat of his car because he did not want to handle it any more than necessary, and trotted up the steps into the pub where he found Rik Dean, Jess Makin and Karl Donaldson – still in his running gear – sitting around a table engaged in a very serious-looking conversation. There was no sign of Tod.

  Donaldson was doing the talking, the other two listening intently. All three looked in Jake’s direction.

  The expressions on their faces made Jake’s heart sink.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got a killer on the loose,’ Rik said dramatically.

  ‘I’ve just found that young gamekeeper’s body,’ Donaldson added. ‘He’s been murdered and whoever did it had a pop at me. I think I managed to wound him, but he still got away.’

  The news hit Jake as hard as a medicine ball in the gut. He found it hard to take in because of that strange feeling of learning of the death of someone you only just saw a short time ago and had a chat with – and because Tod had been an acquaintance of sorts.

  Jake sat down heavily on the spare chair at the table, dumbstruck, his eyes flickering from one to the other. He couldn’t think of anything constructive to say so instead he asked Donaldson if he would retell his story, which he did, accurately and succinctly.

  Then Jake asked, ‘Could it be the same guy who tried to kidnap Ginny?’

  They all shrugged. Jake knew everything was a possibility, but to say yes and then rush down what turned into a blind alley would be counterproductive, though the chances of two men running wild out there at the same time was unlikely.

  ‘We need to take it one step at a time and keep our options open,’ Rik Dean said, ever the detective superintendent. ‘I’m now going with Karl and DS Makin to the crime scene and we’ll take it from there,’ he told Jake, then asked, ‘Was your trip into the woods of any use?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jake said heavily, ‘it was.’

  He told them what he had found. They listened with growing concern and Rik’s observation, ‘That’s a worry,’ was an understatement.

  ‘Gotta be the same guy,’ Jake said. ‘I know what you’re saying, boss, I know it might not be …’

  ‘I get it too,’ Rik said, ‘but like I say, open mind.’ He marshalled his thoughts, wishing that Henry Christie was back from his foray. His input would have been, and still could be, invaluable. To Jake he said, ‘You grab one of the CSIs and take him to see this sniper’s nest, as you call it, and gather all the evidence you can. We’ll set off to the other side of the hill.’

  Jake nodded. ‘As soon as I’ve done that, I’ll come around, too, if that’s OK?’ To Donaldson he said, ‘I knew the lad quite well and at least I’ll be able to ID him in situ if you want?’ He turned to Rik again. ‘I’d like to be family liaison officer and break the news to his parents.’

  ‘Yes, you can be, but I want to be there when they’re informed of his death.’

  Jake nodded. Even though it would not be the case, there had been occasions when a death message had been delivered to the person who had killed the victim and he knew SIOs liked to judge the reactions of anyone being told the news.

  Rik then addressed Makin. ‘Get on the blower, get a dog out here, a search team, an ARV, and everybody else who needs to come. No excuses, they all need to turn out. And inform control room, tell them I’m covering this.’

  Donaldson himself owned a Jeep Renegade and had volunteered to drive the two detectives back to the scene in it. One of the CSIs still at work in the Tawny Owl was going to follow as far as possible in the crime-scene van whilst the other would go with Jake in his Land Rover to the woods across the village.

  ‘We need to keep in contact, basic stuff,’ Rik instructed everyone. ‘There’s a dangerous individual out there and no one tackles him alone.’

  ‘Or maybe two dangerous individuals,’ Jake reminded him.

  ‘Or maybe two … so take care.’

  ‘And you guys,’ Jake said.

  The two forensic-suited CSI officers who had been doing their jobs on Ginny’s room and the rest of the Tawny Owl emerged from the pub carrying their aluminium cases of equipment. One peeled off to join Jake, the other approached Rik.

  As they were all about to get into their vehicles, Jake saw a fast-moving Mercedes sports car belonging to the village doctor, an oldish man called Lott, a Tawny Owl regular, tear into the car park and slither to a gravel-spitting halt by Jake’s Land Rover. Lott jumped out of the sleek motor car and trundled quickly over to Jake, looking harassed and flushed.

  ‘Jake, boy, Jake boy, I’m glad you’re here … you know I’m not great with mobile phones and there wasn’t a good signal anyway,’ he said, shaking the latest iPhone angrily at the officer.

  ‘That’s OK, Doc, what’s the matter? I’m just setting off on an urgent job, can it wait?’

  ‘No it bloody well cannot,’ Lott said ferociously, causing Jake to jump. ‘There’s been a bad accident on the road out to Brown Skye, you know, Lord Chalmers’ country pile? I was on my way to do some brown-trouting, as I call it. I’ve got permission to use one of the lakes on Chalmers’ land, some excellent specimens in there … no size for eating, but lovely, nice things …’

  ‘Doctor Lott,’ Jake interrupted, ‘you said an accident.’

  ‘Oh yes, on one of the bad bends – you know, where the road twists through Wellbeck Gulley and there’s that almost sheer drop down to the River Roeburn?’

  ‘I do.’ Jake knew the stretch of road with a perpendicular drop to one side, down a jagged scree with the river at the bottom. The last thing he needed was a road-traffic accident to deal with. He’d already decided to hand it over to what little remained of the road-policing department.

  ‘Well, I’m driving along, all slow like …’ Lott continued with his painful report. Jake knew that the doctor threw his sports car around country roads like he was in a rally – and often with more alcohol in his system than was healthy, or legal. ‘Saw the wall at the side of the road had been knocked over and I just thought it odd because it was intact two days ago when I went past, so I was curious.’

  Jake waited, his eyebrows encouraging Lott to hurry up. He would have been a nervous wreck by now if he’d been waiting for a diagnosis.

  ‘Well, well,’ the doctor said, flustered, ‘I had a look over the edge – and you know it’s a bloody long drop down there and any vehicle that goes over the edge is likely to get badly damaged,’

  ‘OK, cut to the chase, Doc, please.’

  ‘Well … it was, I’m sure it was, Alison’s car in the river, that horrible, gross four-wheel-drive monstrosity she insists on parading around in.’

  NINE

  ‘What?’

  For the second time in less than fifteen minutes, PC Jake Niven’s insides turned icy cold.

  ‘I’m sure it was Alison’s car,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘I tried to call’ – he waggled his phone again – ‘but I was shaking like a leaf and there was no signal to speak of way out there … but I did manage to take a photo … bit shaky I know.’ He tapped the screen of his iPhone with his gnarled finger, then showed it to Jake, who angled it to see the image more clearly in the light, then snatched it from the doctor’s hand and zoomed in on what was definitely a white Navara, badly damaged and lying upside down on its roof in the river like a dead animal.

  Jake caught his breath.

  It was Alison’s car, he was certain. The registration number was not legible because of the camera angle, but it was a very recognizable vehicle and the only white one in this area.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Lott asked.

  ‘I think you’re right. Only thing is that Alison wasn’t driving it this morning. She’s at the hospital with Ginny. Henry was driving it,’ he said bleakly. ‘Did you see him? Or anyone?’ Jake asked anxiously. ‘Or a body?’

  Lott said no.

  Rik Dean and Donaldson were aboard the American’s Jeep, about to set off from the car park.

  Jake dashed over and stepped in front, waving th
em to stop.

  Rik leaned out of the window. ‘C’mon, Jake, we need to get going.’ Apart from anything else he also had a new wife to attend to though for the moment she was still in recovery, as was Donaldson’s wife Karen. Many of the other guests had left or were in the process of leaving, unaware of the overnight incidents.

  ‘This is a day that keeps giving,’ Jake said. ‘Looks like Henry might’ve had an accident, presumably on his way back from his business appointment.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘His – Alison’s – car is at the bottom of a steep ravine, according to the doctor. Badly damaged, no sign of Henry.’

  Jake showed them the photo on Lott’s phone.

  ‘My God,’ Donaldson said.

  Stunned, but still trying to be practical, Rik said, ‘We’re running out of resources here. Look,’ he addressed Jake, ‘take the CSI with you and check out the accident. If Henry’s hurt or trapped, or whatever, he’s got to be your priority. Come back to the sniper’s nest later,’ he added, trying still to get his mind working logically. ‘At least you seized that cushion.’

  ‘What if he comes back for his gear?’

  ‘A chance we’ll have to take. Saving a life’s more important at this moment in time. My call, I’ll stand by it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Jake turned to see the waitress who had come in early to work at the pub. She was trotting down the front steps holding a cordless phone, a worried look on her face.

  Jake frowned as she approached him. ‘It’s Alison,’ she said, indicating the phone.

  ‘Right?’ Jake said guardedly.

  ‘Can someone talk to her, please?’ She looked slightly helpless. Jake held out his hand and took the phone from her.

  ‘It’s Jake Niven, Alison.’

  ‘Jake? Is Henry there, please?’ Alison’s strained voice asked.

  ‘Er, no, why?’

  ‘It’s just that I seem to have had one of those accidental calls from his mobile, you know, the sound of a phone in someone’s pocket? Then it went dead. I called him back but got no reply. I just wondered where he was.’