by Bill Kitson
As they crossed one of the rides Lisa became aware of Nell’s increased agitation. The dog was almost impossible to control and Lisa realized the sheer physical strength of the Labrador. At the same time she got the strange sensation that she was being watched. Several times she stopped and looked round. On two occasions she actually back-tracked a few paces so strong was the feeling, but she was unable to identify the cause for her concern.
It was after the second of these forays that disaster struck. Lisa caught her foot in a tangle of roots that tripped her and sent her sprawling headlong on to the woodland floor. As she fell her grip on the lead slackened. The Labrador, seizing the moment, shot from her grasp. Lisa watched helplessly as the dog hurtled forward into the thickest part of the wood, heedless of Lisa’s despairing and anguished cries of, ‘Nell, Nell. Come back, Nell.’
Lisa scrambled to her feet and dashed after the dog. With scant regard to the clinging, scratching thorns and briars she plunged into the undergrowth. She chased the dog for more than five minutes before she realized the futility of her efforts. She stopped and looked around. High banks of dense, seemingly impenetrable shrubs surrounded her on all sides. There was absolutely no trace of the path Lisa had left in her pursuit of the dog. No indication even of what direction to go in search of it. Lisa’s heart didn’t sink but that was only because her dejection was already absolute. She didn’t know whether to swear or cry. In the end she did both.
She felt marginally calmer when she’d vented her feelings. She was lost. She’d lost Marshall’s dog, the dog he loved. The only living thing he cared for. The day was becoming colder, the sky darker, the woods seemed suddenly more menacing. How could things get any worse? Lisa felt something brush gently against her face. She touched her cheek with her hand and it came away wet. To add to her misery it had started to snow. Things had just got worse.
Chapter Eighteen
‘We have listening devices in place within her flat, in every room to be precise. In addition we have her telephone line and her mobile phone tapped, and we have a surveillance team in place watching her every movement.’
‘What have they reported so far?’
‘She left here and went to Netherdale to collect her belongings. She then drove to Helmsdale police station and on to Kirk Bolton to a cottage on the Winfield Estate, the one occupied by the gamekeeper and his wife. Their names are Barry and Shirley Dickinson. They’re Marshall’s closest friends. Andrews is still there. She hasn’t used either her landline or her mobile.’
‘It would be foolish to underestimate either the intelligence or the resourcefulness of this young woman. She knows we can’t plant any listening device on the Dickinson house, nor can we tap their telephones, not without a warrant. All we have available is physical surveillance, and I would guess even that might be tricky, given the location.’
‘That’s absolutely right. We’re doing what we can, but there are great difficulties in avoiding being detected. We have one man stationed in the woods close to the cottage. That’s as much as we dare do. The car is parked a couple of hundred yards from the cottage towards the Netherdale road. We can’t risk getting it closer.’
‘Have they reported anything significant yet?’
‘Not really. Andrews has gone for a walk in the woods with a dog. Because of the nature of the terrain it was impossible for our man to follow. All he can do is wait for her to return.’
The gentle soft light of the winter afternoon had become a harsh blurred white mass of dancing flakes. These had started small but now they were substantial, warning Lisa of the danger of her predicament.
The snow was settling, rendering the forest featureless. The frost-hardened ground assured that. Even if Lisa managed to force her way out of this morass of tangled undergrowth back to the ride, she had no idea which direction led to safety. She might finish up deeper in this enormous forest instead of escaping from it.
She became aware of another strange sensation, that of silence. Before the snow started the woods had seemed alive with sound, now there was none. No leaf rustled, no pheasant croaked its rusty yelp. ‘Oh God, what have I done?’ Lisa was overwhelmed by a sudden panic attack. ‘How the hell am I going to get out of here?’
She heard a soft sound behind her. Not a cry or a growl, more like a clearing of the throat. She turned swiftly, staring into a pair of steadfast brown eyes. ‘Nell,’ she cried overjoyed. ‘Where have you been? How are we going to get out of this mess?’
The Labrador loped easily across in front of Lisa and went into the narrowest possible gap in the briars. Lisa followed and found the going marginally easier. Ten minutes later they emerged into a ride Lisa assumed to be the one she’d left. She turned to her right and began to stride confidently towards where she thought the cottage lay. A single bark caused her to stop. She turned and looked back. The dog, which was now covered with snowflakes and had the appearance of an inside-out Dalmatian, turned and set off in the opposite direction.
Lisa was totally humiliated. As she meekly followed the dog she noticed that Nell had somehow slipped her lead. Although the snow was now at their backs, which made visibility a little better, conditions underfoot were worsening rapidly. It was with considerable relief that Lisa saw, some twenty minutes later, the edge of the wood appear as they turned a bend in the ride.
As she strode towards it Lisa realized another strange thing. Nell was ambling easily alongside her. All her earlier agitation had vanished. They reached the edge of the woods and Lisa paused, taking in the welcome sight of the Dickinsons’ cottage. As she looked she noticed something blue draped over the back door handle. She walked across the snow-covered gravel and picked it up. She stared at the object in disbelief. It was Nell’s lead.
Barry and Shirley listened with astonishment to Lisa’s misadventure. Neither of them could offer an explanation. ‘I know Nell’s intelligent but I doubt if she could have managed that,’ Barry stated as Shirley made coffee. She used the last of the milk from the bottle in the fridge. ‘Barry, do me a favour. Pop out to the stable and get another six-pint carton of milk from the fridge. Bring a loaf out of the freezer at the same time.’
Barry returned five minutes later with the milk and bread. ‘That’s the last of the milk and there’s no more bread,’ he told Shirley as he placed them on the worktop.
‘Nonsense, there were two cartons of milk in the fridge and another loaf in the freezer.’
‘No, there aren’t, I checked the fridge and looked inside every drawer in the freezer, but these are the last.’
Shirley had to inspect the evidence before she believed him. She stared at Barry and Lisa in perplexity. ‘What on earth’s going on? Apart from the bread and milk I’m certain there’s a packet of sausages and one of bacon missing. We’re going to have to start locking the outbuildings. I never thought we’d be burgled out here.’
The phone rang as Shirley was speaking. As Barry went through to the hall to answer it, Lisa asked Shirley, ‘Who do you think might be responsible?’
‘I don’t know; some vagrant probably. Though to be fair we don’t get many of them round here; certainly not at this time of the year.’
‘Barry Dickinson speaking.’
Barry heard the voice, low, tense and barely more than a whisper. He didn’t recognize the speaker. ‘You’ve a lot of grey squirrels, especially in those silver birches to the west of the house. If I was you I’d go out right now and shoot one or two. If you do, be careful not to shoot the man standing beneath them: the one watching the house.’ Then the line went dead.
Barry stared at the receiver for several seconds as if he’d never seen one before. He replaced it on the cradle and walked thoughtfully back into the kitchen.
‘Who was on the phone?’ Shirley asked.
Barry stared at her, then at Lisa. He glanced outside before replying. ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’
He repeated the strange message. ‘Do you think it was someone trying to disguise their voice
?’ Lisa asked.
‘I’m not sure. If it was they did a damned good job of it.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Shirley asked.
‘I’m going to do what he said. Apart from the way I feel about squirrels, I want to know if someone is watching the house, and why. I’m going to take my .22 and go out of the French window in the lounge. That way I can get into the woods without being seen and come round from behind. You two stay in the kitchen.’
‘Be careful,’ Lisa cautioned him. ‘Remember there must be two people watching the house.’ She saw his surprised look and added, ‘Whoever phoned must be watching too, or he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the other one.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
He crossed to the gun cabinet and unlocked the door. He took out one of his rifles and fastened the telescopic sight to it. ‘Don’t panic if you hear gunshots,’ he told them. ‘I’ll be aiming at squirrels.’ He paused before adding, ‘You only need worry if someone fires back.’
Barry walked through to the lounge. Silence descended on the house as they waited in trepidation.
It was a matter of no more than twenty yards to the edge of the wood. Once he’d gained the shelter of a bank of Scots pine, Barry glanced up. He noted that smoke from the chimney was drifting towards him, away from where the watcher was allegedly standing. He’d be able to get close without being scented or heard. He set off to get further into the forest under deeper cover.
Less than a quarter of a mile away the watcher stood in abject misery. He was cold, he was wet and his legs ached from standing in one position for so long. He glanced at his watch and wondered if it needed regulating. He couldn’t believe he still had forty-five minutes before his replacement arrived and he could get back into the warmth and comfort of the car.
He stamped his feet, although he had long since lost all feeling in them. He thought of the horror stories he’d been told of people contracting frostbite, then gangrene. As a boy he’d watched the film Scott of the Antarctic and remembered the heroic but doomed figure of Captain Oates. His morbid train of thought switched tracks. If he survived without getting frostbite he might catch pneumonia. The cold, damp conditions would be a fertile breeding ground for the disease. If not, he’d probably get the dreaded flu bug.
He shuddered and huddled deeper into the inadequate protection of his padded jacket. He’d imagined the garment would be sufficient for his needs. It wasn’t. He felt sure the day could get no worse. Snow dropped from a branch overhead and landed with icy venom on his head and his shoulders, then slid down his neck inside the collar of his coat.
He revised his thoughts. The day had got worse. If he’d glanced upwards he would probably have seen the bright beady eye of the miscreant that had caused his discomfort. The grey squirrel peered down at the strange apparition below, before moving cautiously further out along the branch. Unaware of the scrutiny from above, the watcher had another problem to concern him. At least this was one discomfort he would be able to deal with.
No one likes being spied on. It creates a sense of outrage. That feeling overcame Barry as he saw the watcher standing in the exact position indicated by the caller. He scanned the surrounding area. The intruder appeared to be alone. He glanced up at the trees and was able to see at least three squirrels. Again the caller had been accurate. He was about to line up a shot at one of the squirrels when the watcher began to move.
Barry waited, then smiled when he saw what the man was doing. When he was certain the watcher was fully engaged, he shot the nearest squirrel. It fell to the ground no more than two feet from the watcher. The rifle shot, fired from no more than thirty yards away, caused instant panic. The falling corpse merely intensified the man’s fear. He was trapped, unwilling to remain, temporarily unable to move. He called out. ‘Help, don’t shoot, please don’t shoot.’
Barry moved from under cover. He saw with considerable satisfaction the large damp stain on the man’s trousers that owed nothing to the weather. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘This is private land. You’ve no right to be here. You’re trespassing.’
The watcher fastened his trousers up. The fleeting warmth on his legs was more than offset by the damp and humiliation. He knew there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. ‘I’m a police officer,’ he told Barry with an attempt at defiance. ‘Put that gun down.’
Barry laughed. ‘No way, Jose.’
The gun remained pointed at the watcher. ‘If you’re a police officer, which I very much doubt, you’ll have no trouble explaining what you’re doing in the middle of Sir Maurice Winfield’s estate.’
‘I’m not allowed to reveal any operational details.’
‘Sorry.’ Barry lifted the rifle. ‘Wrong answer. I’m Sir Maurice’s gamekeeper. All poachers and those trespassing on his land with the object of taking game are classed as vermin in my eyes. You’ve seen how we deal with vermin. If you need reminding, just take a glance down.’
The watcher was no longer cold, he was sweating profusely. ‘Look, I can prove I’m a police officer. Let me show you my warrant card.’ He moved his hand towards his pocket.
‘Stop!’ Barry said loudly. ‘Absolutely still. Don’t even think of moving.’ He moved closer until they were no more than ten feet apart. He studied the watcher whose lips were moving as if in silent prayer. ‘Turn round very slowly, keeping your hands where I can see them. No sudden movements. Is that clear?’
They emerged from the wood into the lane. The officer stumbled back to the main road, uncomfortably aware of the gun at his back, and Barry’s warning ringing in his ears, ‘Tell whoever you’re working for, Sir Maurice will hear of this.’
Back in the car, his partner listened as his mobile crackled with the sound of their superior’s displeasure as he tried to explain. ‘I’m sorry, sir; there was nothing I could do. It’s all very well saying that, but if you like to test it out I’ll willingly point a rifle at your chest and see what sort of snappy answers you come up with.’ He paused, then went on, ‘We’re cold, wet and tired and I’ve to change my clothing. Our cover here has been well and truly blown and we will serve no useful purpose by remaining. I should also warn you that the gamekeeper has threatened to report us to his employer. He said the name might mean something: Sir Maurice Winfield.’
At the end of the call he turned and grinned at his colleague. ‘It seems we’re in excellent company, but whereas I only pissed myself, our superiors are now shitting themselves uncontrollably.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Apparently our aggressive gamekeeper’s employer is only head of MI5!’
In the kitchen, Shirley and Lisa waited in anxious silence. Barry seemed to have been gone an age. The cottage was quiet, unnaturally so. The snow had muffled all but the loudest sounds. Into this quiet the ticking of the kitchen clock sounded abnormally loud.
After a long agonized wait, the women heard the sound of a single gunshot. Then silence. No matter that they’d been expecting it, it still made them jump. They looked at one another, a flock of unspoken questions flooding their thoughts, neither willing to voice their anxiety. The Labrador lifted her head at the sound of the shot. She looked from one to the other, as if seeking guidance. Receiving none she returned to lying with her head between her paws, listening as intently as were the two women.
The minutes dragged slowly. Eventually Shirley could stand the suspense no longer. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Barry should have been back by now. Suppose that phone call was a trap to get him out of the house?’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ As Shirley spoke they heard a sound from the direction of the lounge. It was a gentle thump, as of a door closing, closely followed by a click. Nell stood up immediately. She was moving towards the hall when the back door opened and her husband walked in, a broad smile on his face.
‘Barry,’ Shirley exclaimed. ‘We thought you’d come in through the lounge.’
‘What, and dirty the carpet? More than my life’s worth. What made you think I’d come in that way?’
‘We heard the door, a second or two before you walked in. That means there’s somebody else in the house.’
Lisa pointed to the dog. ‘Look at Nell.’
The Labrador was standing as close as she could get to the hall door, sniffing along the gap below the door, her tail wagging furiously. Barry brought his rifle up to his shoulder. ‘Keep clear of the line of fire.’ They waited, watching with horrified fascination as the door handle began to turn.
Lisa snatched up a poker from by the Aga. Shirley armed herself with a long-handled broom. Barry levelled the rifle at the door, aiming chest high. The door gradually opened, inch by inch. Nell’s tail went into overdrive, as she hopped from foot to foot with impatience. As soon as she could, she inserted her muzzle into the gap and pushed the door wide.
The bearded man in the doorway blinked in surprise at the rifle, the poker and the broom. ‘Hello,’ he said quietly. ‘Here’s a nice friendly welcome.’
He bent over the Labrador, who was bashing his shins with her tail in rapture, and stroked her. ‘At least you’re pleased to see me, Nell.’
Barry lowered the rifle and Lisa put the poker back in the companion set. ‘What do you expect when you come sneaking into the house that way? When folk don’t know whether you’re alive or dead and they’ve been worried sick about you,’ Shirley told him severely.
‘Yes, Alan, where the hell have you been?’ Barry chimed in.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to contact you, but I’ve been a bit busy. Besides which I wasn’t sure how safe it was until today. I’ve been babysitting a murderer. That was the main reason. I wasn’t sure which phones might be safe. I was waiting for something else as well. I was waiting for the man to tell me everything he knows.’