by Nick Oldham
Charlie tilted his head. It was there, the sound of an engine getting closer, someone approaching.
‘Go see,’ Charlie said.
Luke ran to the sliding door and pulled it back, then ran to the farm gate from where he had a view of the track leading to the farm.
One vehicle, lights on.
He cursed, then raced back to the stable.
‘Cops!’ he gasped.
Charlie regarded him cynically. ‘Yeah, right, good joke.’
‘It’s true. A fucking police Land Rover.’
Charlie knocked his brother out of the way and strode out, saw the vehicle and ducked back in.
‘You deal with ’em,’ he told Luke decisively. ‘Me and Jake’ll do something with these two.’ He indicated the bodies of Johnny and Annabel.
‘What?’ Luke said helplessly. ‘Just what am I supposed to do or say?’
‘Wing it, bullshit ’em. And if the worst comes to the worst, we sort ’em, OK brother?’
TWELVE
‘Guessing this is it.’
Henry drove the Land Rover in between the stone gate posts and pulled up in the yard between the farmhouse and the stable. He allowed the vehicle to idle and stand there in the incessant downpour while he took in the setting. A very decrepit farmhouse which had been allowed to deteriorate and had seen much better days. A lot of old, rusting machinery and tools were strewn around, including the decomposing hulk of a tractor.
There was a light in the farmhouse and Henry saw the shadow of movement.
Charlie and Jake dragged Annabel and Johnny across the stable by their legs and deposited them side by side in a stall in the far corner of the building. They tried to work hurriedly but it had proved more difficult than they imagined hauling dead weights, and the task had been forbidding and unpleasant.
Once in the stall, Charlie found a big square of rotting and brittle tarpaulin that had once been used for covering the contents of open trailers. He dragged it over the bodies to hide them.
That was the point at which Jake had sunk to his knees and vomited copiously on the stable floor.
Charlie watched him contemptuously, then spun away as he heard the police Land Rover drive into the yard and saw the flash of its headlights.
He pulled Jake to his feet, as he wiped spittle and vomit from his mouth. They ran across the stable, then up a ladder which led to a hayloft above, which was in essence a suspended wooden ceiling where winter supplies had once been stored for the horses once stabled there. Now it was empty, except for discarded farm equipment.
Once in the loft, they drew the ladder up behind them, though with its lack of use it had rusted on its runners and they could only pull it just over halfway up before it got stuck.
‘Shit. Lie down, keep still.’
Charlie rolled on to his back, broke the shotgun and pulled out the spent cartridges with his fingertips. He fumbled one and dropped it. It rolled towards a gap in the loft floor and before he could catch it, it fell through to the stable floor fifteen feet below where they were lying.
Charlie found two more cartridges in his pocket, slotted them into the barrels and closed the weapon as silently as he could. Then he rolled back on to his stomach, edged to the loft hatch and looked down into the stable and at the big sliding door.
Outside, he could hear the lumpy engine of the Land Rover ticking over.
Henry stayed at the wheel, looking through the windscreen as the wipers continued to drag themselves ineffectually across the glass.
‘Someone’s in,’ he said.
FB nodded, then said, ‘Do you ever get the feeling …?’
Henry wanted to say something along the lines of, You mean that feeling honed by over thirty years of being a cop and dealing with the shitty end of the social spectrum, always expecting the worst from people but somehow never being pleased when good things happen? You mean that feeling, boss?
Instead, he simply said, ‘Yes.’
FB shuddered involuntarily. ‘Someone’s just walked over my grave.’
The farmhouse door opened and a young man appeared. He gave the officers a wave of acknowledgement.
‘Recognize him?’ FB asked.
‘No.’
They remained in the car. If at all possible, Henry liked people to come to him so he could get some sort of measure of them by the way they walked, held themselves, their build, body language – and also, tonight, so he didn’t have to get any more wet than he already was.
He thought he had pushed it a moment too far, but then the man relented, flicked his hoodie over his head and jogged across to the driver’s side of the Land Rover. Henry slid open his window.
‘All right?’ Luke said.
‘Yes. Is this Britannia Top Farm?’ Henry asked, and saw the cut across the bridge of the man’s nose.
‘No, this is Whit’orth Top Farm.’ Luke sounded relieved.
‘Good,’ Henry said. ‘I’m in the right place, then.’
Luke’s expression changed. ‘What can I do for you? I’m getting well pissed-wet here.’
‘Can we come in? Maybe more conducive to a nice chat.’
‘Bit late isn’t it?’ Luke whined. ‘Won’t it do in the morning? I’m off to bed now, officer.’
‘No it won’t do, actually,’ Henry said. ‘Need a chat. Time of day is irrelevant.’
‘You got a warrant?’
‘What? For a cosy chat?’
‘So long as that’s all it is.’
‘Why would it be any different?’ Henry asked, knowing already it would be.
‘Whatever.’ Luke turned and jogged back into the farmhouse.
Henry killed the engine and glanced at FB. ‘Wing it.’
FB nodded enthusiastically. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy this.’
They climbed out, went to the front door, then went in.
Henry went ahead down the short hallway, right into the living room, taking in everything with his experienced eyes, including the very jumpy figure of the young man standing in front of the fireplace, in which no fire burned and which looked as if no fire had raged in it for many years.
He also saw discarded beer cans and bottles, crisp bags, overflowing ashtrays, an Xbox and all the signs that there had been a few people around, including the pungent, unmistakable aroma of spliffs having been smoked.
‘Bit of a do?’ Henry nodded around the room.
‘Nah, not really.’ Luke shrugged, pretended to yawn.
‘Just a few mates around?’
‘Summat like that.’
Henry made an exaggerated sniff-up. ‘Bit of dope smoked, too, by the smell of it.’
‘Somebody had a joint,’ Luke admitted. That did not bother him. Cops weren’t concerned with folk smoking dope in their own homes any more. ‘It’s nowt.’
‘Still classified as a criminal offence,’ Henry pointed out.
‘Whatever … arrest me then,’ Luke said.
‘I might do, actually. What’s your name?’
‘Luke.’
‘Luke what?’
‘Luke Wilder.’
‘OK. I’m Detective Superintendent Christie.’ He did not bother introducing FB because it was awkward in too many ways.
‘What do you want?’
Henry walked further into the room, a little closer to Luke, who watched him with unease – recognizing him as the cop who had punched him in the face at the hospital. Henry walked up to him.
‘Who hit you in the face?’
‘No one. Walked into a door.’
Henry nodded. ‘Do you know Annabel Larch?’
‘Should I?’
‘It’s an easy enough question.’
‘Uh – no, then. That it?’
Henry pursed his lips, wandered around the room, peering at various objects. FB remained by the door, playing the silent cop. Henry said to Luke, ‘You’re a fibber.’
Luke instantly went red and his mouth tightened up.
‘Listen, Luke, I’m a bit con
cerned about this girl, Annabel, you know? The young lady you don’t know. I’m concerned for her safety, plus the fact I’m after some very nasty people who attacked me and my car, which was not a wise thing to do.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘I hit one of those nasty people in the face, Luke.’
‘Well, it weren’t me. I haven’t set eyes on you before.’
Henry smiled. ‘OK, that said, I have reason to believe that Annabel Larch is here.’
‘No she ain’t.’
‘You completely certain of that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Has she been here at all?’
‘No … like I said, don’t know her.’
Henry stopped by the settee and picked up a short outer coat that had been dropped by the side of it. He held it up and recognized it as the one Annabel had been wearing when she fell battered and bloodied into the Cock and Magpie. He saw flecks of blood around the collar and shoulders, saw it was still drenched wet and dirty from when he had bowled her over out of the path of the car that had almost hit her. He held the article of clothing between his thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle ominously. He looked across to Luke who had gone very pale, yet remained defiant.
‘Really?’ Henry said.
‘She isn’t here,’ Luke insisted.
‘So you do know her?’
Luke’s Adam’s apple rose and fell very visibly in his scrawny throat. He shrugged to try and give the impression he did not care one way or the other.
‘Suppose so. She must’ve left it behind.’
‘How long ago did she leave?’
‘Hour? Hour and a half?’
Henry continued to stare at him, feeling his own ring piece twitch as it did when he was on to something.
‘I’m concerned about her, Luke.’
‘OK, so what?’
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’
Luke shook his head.
‘In that case, if there’s no one else to disturb, you won’t mind me and my partner having a look around, will you?’
‘Not without a warrant. This has gone well beyond a cosy chat.’
Henry sighed. ‘If you think I need a warrant to search for someone who I believe is in danger, then you don’t know your common law, Luke.’ Henry turned to FB. ‘You fancy having a stroll around the outbuildings, boss? I’ll do the house.’
It was a big, extensive farmhouse, long and low with a living room, a further sitting room, expansive kitchen, dining room and ground floor toilet. The first floor consisted of six bedrooms of varying sizes, box room to palatial. Everything was in poor condition. Wallpaper peeled damply. Plaster looked to have been affected by wet or dry rot in many places. The furniture was old, and even way back, must have been cheap.
Henry mooched around the ground floor, then went up the tight, creaking stairs, having passed the door leading down to the cellar without trying it.
Luke followed closely.
On the landing, Henry glanced up and saw a trap door up to the loft, thought about it, dismissed it. The hinges had layers of unbroken paint on them. No one had been up there in years.
He went into each bedroom, finally ending up in the main one at the front of the house, overlooking the yard. He walked over to the window, set low in the wall, and had to bend his knees in order to see FB walk across the yard to the stable opposite. Henry watched him reach the sliding door and begin to open it.
He turned and saw Luke hovering at the bedroom door.
‘You seen enough?’
Henry shook his head. ‘Nope.’
He looked at the unmade bed, seeing indentations in the mattress, the sheets screwed up, thrown everywhere, and did not allow his expression to change when he saw blood flecks on the pillows. He crossed the room, entered the en suite bathroom.
Lying side by side, supported by their elbows, Charlie and Jake watched the sliding door open wide enough for a tubby, oldish looking cop to step in, wearing a hi-viz jacket. He came in a few steps, then paused and sniffed the air. He turned on his torch, flicking the beam around the inside of the stable, across the opening to the hayloft, making the two men duck instinctively.
FB did not seem to see them.
But his nose had picked up the scent of something acrid in the air.
He inhaled, almost tasting it on the back of his throat.
He took a step forward and his right shoe crushed underfoot something about the size of a cockroach.
He stepped back, crouched down to see he had stood on a spent shotgun cartridge.
He picked it up between his finger and thumb and shone his torch on to it, sniffed it, then slid it into his pocket and stood upright with a click of his knees.
Then he stood motionless for a few moments, simply listening, hearing the rain drumming down on the stable roof, looking and smelling and trying to imagine that he might be standing in a crime scene, knowing there was nothing better a cop could do in such a place than simply stand still, take it all in.
From that position he stepped forward to the loose box ahead of him, flashing his torch again.
In the hayloft, Charlie rolled silently on to his side and brought up the shotgun.
Alongside, Jake pissed in his pants, emitted a tiny whimper, then mouthed, ‘He’s going to find them.’
Charlie placed his fingertip on Jake’s lips and leaned right up to his ear. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
At ground level FB moved from loose box to loose box, not rushing, then he turned away and made a diagonal path back to the sliding door, squeezing through and drawing it shut behind him.
Looking across the farmyard, he saw Henry emerging from the farmhouse and the front door being closed behind him.
‘Anything?’
FB made a popping sound with his lips and said, ‘Yep.’
He held up the crushed shotgun cartridge. ‘Stood on this.’
Henry waited for more.
‘How about you?’ FB asked, surprising Henry.
‘Yep.’ Two can play at that game, he thought. ‘Anyway, a used shotgun cartridge … y’know, we’re on a farm … not that unusual.’
‘The stable reeks of cordite. This has just been fired or I’m a Dutchman, Fanshaw-van-Bayley.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Fresh blood, lots of it, in one of the boxes, all up the wall. Someone’s been sick in there very recently, too.’
‘Right.’
‘And I think there are two bodies under a sheet of tarpaulin in one of the stalls, although I can’t be sure it’s two. The blood trail along the floor of the stable indicates at least one person has been dragged from one loose box to another. What did you find, Sherlock?’
‘Blood all over the en suite off the main bedroom and something not nice looking in the toilet itself, maybe a miscarriage – not pleasant. And he’s the lad I hit in the face.’
The two men stared at each other.
‘Oh, and best till last,’ FB said, ‘there’s someone hiding up in the hayloft. Saw a movement, heard a whisper … two people at least.’
‘You remember that feeling you were talking about? I’ve got it big style now.’
‘Plan of action?’
Henry was about to respond, had opened his mouth to do so, but the reply was cut short as the front windscreen of the Land Rover exploded into a million fragments. A spray of pellets from the shotgun fired by Charlie Wilder disintegrated the glass and the pellets and glass blasted into the faces of the two officers.
THIRTEEN
Each individual shotgun pellet and nugget of windscreen glass stung and hurt and bled in Henry’s face. Even so, he knew how fortunate he had been not to have an eye shot out – or worse. He had taken the shot mainly down the left side of his face and it looked as if someone had dragged a rake along the skin.
FB had not been as fortunate. His injuries were similar to Henry’s, but down the right hand side of his face. At least one pellet or sliver of glass had embedded i
tself deep into his right eye which was swollen up like a golf ball, closed and bleeding.
‘How’s it going?’ Henry asked FB.
‘Not good,’ his boss gasped. ‘Fucking eye is so sore.’ His head hung down as he spoke; he did not have the energy or strength to raise it.
Henry nodded, then looked up at the young man guarding them.
They were sitting in the loose box where Charlie had murdered Johnny, their backs against the blood-smeared wall, and both wore their own handcuffs. Their phones and PRs had been taken from them and smashed on the ground and their CS canisters had also been taken.
‘What’s your name?’ Henry asked.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Jake said, but with an uncertain quaver in his voice. He was armed with Charlie’s shotgun, had been ordered to stand guard whilst the other two went to the farmhouse to discuss what to do. Henry noticed the lad’s piss-stained jeans, the dark shadow around the groin area and top of his thighs. Jake rattled the shotgun in Henry’s direction.
‘We need to get to hospital, particularly him,’ Henry said. He jerked his head at FB. ‘He’s going to lose that eye if he doesn’t get it treated – and that’ll be down to you, mate.’
‘Like I said, shut it.’
‘You’re not a brave boy, are you?’
‘Fuck d’you mean?’
‘Already peed yourself. Shit yourself yet?’
Jake’s face was a mixture of rage and embarrassment and Henry knew he had hit a nerve. Big question was how long and hard did he keep hitting it for?
‘Did you kill either of those people?’
‘Which people?’
‘Annabel and the other person.’
‘Johnny?’ Jake blabbed, then clammed up.
Henry blanched and swore to himself, shocked by the name. Somehow Johnny had made it back here and was now dead for his trouble. ‘Yeah, Annabel or Johnny. Did you kill either of them?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Henry assured him. He had a horrible taste in his mouth. He spat out a glob of blood and saliva which dribbled down his cheek. He grimaced at the horrible burning sensation across the left side of his face. If felt as if someone was fanning the flame of a Bunsen burner across it. ‘It is my business, and you know something else?’