Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  "Contact Harper … send an officer round immediately … explain new evidence has come to light … he may be in some danger."

  "Some danger?" echoed Mullings not attempting to disguise his incredulity, "I already tried to contact Gil Harper … he's not at home, he's in Wales taking a break with Miss Curtis … somewhere remote and difficult to pronounce … no landline … and mobile phone reception is a complete washout."

  "What do you suggest, John?" asked the Deputy Chief Constable, whose humbleness of voice didn't quite match the look of violent enmity in his eyes.

  13

  Neither Gil nor Sally much cared for the lightning when it started, and poor Spike was thoroughly terror-stricken. Being in an isolated cottage on a cliff-top in the far west of Wales during a storm that was picking up momentum had a precarious feel about it. Sally certainly felt a little bit spooked. As for Gil, the downpour started him thinking again about that awful drive home on Christmas Day.

  To take his mind off such potentially dark thoughts, he put on his waterproofs and went outside to fetch some coal. After doing this, he set about building a fire for the evening. Once he'd got it blazing away, the fire had a calming effect. It made the room seem far cosier and, quite illogically, they immediately felt more sheltered and protected from the storm. They sat in armchairs opposite each other and read their books companionably for a while. But before long, the combined effect of lunch and the heat from the fire caused them both to doze off.

  14

  Gil woke first; they couldn't have slept for long, his watch read 5.20 pm. It shouldn't have been dark, but to all intents and purposes it was.

  When he tried to turn on the lights, nothing happened.

  "No light," he mumbled, stating the obvious.

  This didn't come as much of a surprise; the cottage's power supply had always been unreliable during bad weather. Because of this, he and Jules had always kept a couple of storm lamps and candles handy. Except that was over five years ago, and for all he knew the Pritchards' relatives could have exhausted his stash and not re-stocked. After a few minutes fumbling about in the dark, he found his back-up lighting supply intact in a kitchen base unit. He spent the next minutes filling and lighting the lamps and attaching candles to any old saucers he could find.

  Gil left one of the storm lamps in the kitchen but took the other one on a tray along with half a dozen candles through to the living room. He placed the lamp on the little dining table and set the candles up at various points around the room. The lightning and thunderclaps were very close together now, and a large flash and rumble caused Gil to flinch as he shut the front curtains. Poor Spike didn't appreciate either the howling wind or thunder and lightning; he remained cowering beneath Gil's vacated chair and from time to time gave a heartfelt whine.

  Gil was shovelling a few more coals onto the fire when Sally awoke.

  "Hallo …what's been happening?" she asked, surprised by the new lighting arrangements.

  "Power's gone off," replied Gil, "Sometimes happens round here … but we've got plenty of candles."

  They were so full of fish, chips and ice-cream that they weren't able to contemplate anything to eat or drink for a while. So, Gil did what he and Jules had done many times on rainy evenings at the cottage: fished out the Scrabble board.

  "Want a game?" he asked, showing Sally the box.

  "Yeah … okay …" said Sally sounding uncertain.

  "Don't you like Scrabble?"

  "Yes … but I've only played once or twice … ages ago … I won't be any good … I don't think I can remember the rules … you'll win easily."

  "I'll explain as we go along," promised Gil.

  At the start of the game, Gil was helpful and attentive. But as the game proceeded he became increasingly unconvinced by the claim she'd made about being a novice. Halfway into the game, Sally took the lead by using up all seven of her letters on a triple word score.

  "That's fifty extra points too, isn't it?" she asked perkily, all of a sudden less uncertain about the rules.

  Gil scowled suspiciously, "You're doing remarkably well for someone who's only played once or twice, long ago. Did you mean once or twice a week?"

  "Mmm," she smiled, "Funny how things just come back to you, isn't it?"

  Gil shook his head and laughed, "Right," he said feigning seriousness, "It's Scrabble war … no more Mr Nice-Guy!"

  Sally chuckled wickedly as Gil perused the set of mediocre letters before him in the vain hope of producing something impressive. He frustratingly rearranged them several times, even found a seven letter word, but couldn't find anywhere to put it.

  "Come on!" she teased, "Haven't got all flippin' day!"

  Gil grunted in her general direction.

  It was then that a particularly loud clap of thunder and simultaneous lightning flash lit up the cottage's porch. The great bang that accompanied it caused them both to jump. They stared at each other like a couple of shell-shocked battle veterans for a moment.

  "Bloody hell that was loud!" exclaimed Sally, clutching at her chest.

  "Bolt must've landed close by … hit a tree or something."

  "Glad I'm in here, not out there," she gasped.

  A moment after Sally had uttered these words, Spike made them both jump again, when he began to bark ferociously. He rushed out from his hiding place and literally hurled himself at the front door in an unprecedented manner.

  "What on earth's up with him?" Gil exclaimed, wincing at the deafening sound his dog was making.

  "Poor Spike," said Sally, "That last bang must've really frightened him."

  Spike's barking increased in volume and intensity; the noise was unbearable.

  "Be quiet!" shouted Gil, unusually sternly.

  The command, if heard, was completely ignored.

  With nerves still jangling after the lightning blast, and teeth set on edge by Spike's barking, when a shadow projected itself across the cottage's porch, their fight or flight mechanisms hit red alert. Sally couldn't help releasing an involuntary shriek.

  Gil sprang to his feet and approached the front door. Spike's barking was making him feel extremely nervous.

  "Spike! Quiet!" he tried again, still to no avail.

  As the shadow metamorphosed into a living person, Spike hurled himself at the door even more aggressively.

  The first words spoken by the man outside could not be heard above the cacophony of storm and dog.

  "Shut up, Spike!" shouted Gil.

  Their caller tried again. This time Gil caught, "PC," and at once connected this with the outline of a uniform. Gil instantly felt relieved and unlocked the door. It was only the sight of Spike baring his teeth, ready to attack, that caused him to stall.

  "I'm sorry," Gil said through the door gap, "It's the storm … he isn't normally like this."

  "Not to worry … quite the little guard dog, isn't he? I need to talk to you, Mr Harper. Is there somewhere the dog could go, another room perhaps?

  "Just a minute!" Gil told the policeman.

  He attempted to pick Spike up, but the little chap was in such a distressed state by then, that he did something he'd never done before, and snapped at his hand.

  "Can you get his lead?" he told Sally, as he held Spike by his collar. The dog was still snarling at the policeman outside.

  Gil shut the door momentarily while he attached the lead to Spike's collar. He then dragged the small protesting dog away from the door. All the while the poor creature continued to bark, growl and fight the lead. And once Spike realised he was going to be locked up in the utility room, he made a last ditch attempt to scramble free as Gil slipped the lead from his collar.

  As Gil walked back to the living-room all he could hear were Spike's doleful whines.

  By this time, Sally had let the policeman in.

  "I don't normally have such a dramatic effect on dogs," the man said in a pronounced Welsh accent. His overcoat was dripping wet.

  "What are you doing here?" asked Gil
in an uncharacteristically blunt manner. He was noticeably shaken after witnessing Spike's behaviour.

  "Ah yes, Mr Harper, Miss Curtis … forgive the intrusion. I'm PC Glyn Davies. We got a call earlier from our colleagues in Kent … a DCI Mullings, is it?"

  "Yes," said Gil, reassured by the mention of Mullings' name.

  "He's making his way here … he asked my Inspector to send someone out, to stay with you until he arrives."

  "Why, what's happened?" asked Gil.

  "Sorry sir, couldn't tell you … he spoke to my boss, not me … something to do with new evidence, I think."

  Gil turned to Sally, whose face mirrored the bewilderment he felt.

  "Hope I didn't give you too much of a fright, Miss Curtis?" the policeman told Sally. "Playing Scrabble, is it?"

  "Trying to take our minds off the storm," she replied.

  "Worst I've known in a while," replied the policeman, "Caught myself flinching once or twice driving down that hill."

  "Can I take your wet coat, Constable Davies?" asked Sally.

  "Might as well keep it on for a bit … neither my handset's working nor the car radio … must get through to control, say I've got here … storm, see … playing havoc with communications right across Wales ... I'll need to go back out to the car in a bit and try again."

  "Your accent," said Gil, "It's not from these parts." He was by no means an expert on the accents of Wales, but his long association with Ceredigion made him question the Constable's way of speaking.

  The man smiled, "Fair cop, guv … you tumbled me, Mr Harper. I've been here a good few years now, more than ten in fact … expect the accent's got a bit mixed-up … I'm from East Wales originally … Monmouth way … know it round there?"

  "No."

  "Shame … lads in my station take the Mickey quite a bit at the way I talk … I have in turn been known to refer to them as 'woolly-backs' … 'mongst other things!" He went on to laugh at the idea of this.

  Gil and Sally weren't in the mood for joviality. The storm, Spike's extraordinary behaviour, and the policeman's sudden arrival had unnerved them.

  "So you've no idea what's bringing DCI Mullings here?" asked Gil.

  The man immediately fell silent, and with a look of gravitas that suggested training he said, "My chief mentioned new evidence … nothing more … sorry."

  "Any idea when he's likely to arrive?" asked Sally.

  "The roads through Wales are very precarious at the moment … flash flooding in parts. The emergency services are rushed off their feet. There's been an accident on the M4 near Swindon, and speed limit is down to forty due to poor visibility round Bristol. I doubt we'll be seeing Chief Inspector Mullings until well after midnight."

  There was a sudden flash of lightning and another loud strike nearby.

  Spike resumed barking.

  "That sounded close," laughed their visitor, "Tree I expect, in one of the fields above."

  "I'm with Spike," said Sally, "I've decided I hate storms."

  "Can't say I'm keen either," agreed Gil.

  "You get used to them living out here," said the policeman.

  "Can I get you a hot drink, Constable Davies?" asked Sally, rolling her eyes to add, "Maybe I'll have a drop of brandy in mine."

  "Not for me, Miss Curtis … I wanted to come by and introduce myself but I'd best get back out to the car and radio control. But I'd love a cup of something once I get back."

  "Okay," said Sally, "I'll make us all hot drinks when you return."

  "I shouldn't be long," he said as he opened the front door and went back out into that terrible storm. PC Davies' stoicism and sense of duty were impressive.

  15

  As soon as they were alone, Sally asked Gil, "Why do you think Mullings is coming here?"

  "I really can't imagine. Something to do with Geoff Owens, perhaps?"

  "Why send us a chaperone?"

  Gil shook his head, "Dunno … some kind of police procedure perhaps … guess we'll just have to wait for Mullings to explain."

  Without any specific information or facts, beyond conjecture there was little more to say. However, their imaginations were unable to let the matter drop. But for the sake of the other, they tried to look relaxed as they completed their game.

  Sally maintained her lead, and although Gil played valiantly, in the final tally he was twenty points behind.

  "Only played once or twice!" he scoffed.

  "I can't help owning a superior brain."

  "I demand a rematch!"

  After about ten minutes they began to wonder where PC Davies had got to.

  "Do you think he's okay out there?" asked Sally.

  "I expect he's still having trouble getting through … the storm seems to be moving away a little bit." Gil had counted a gap of four seconds between the most recent bout of thunder and lightning. Unfortunately each fresh burst set poor Spike off howling in the utility room.

  Gil fared better in the second round. It amused him to discover that Sally was a competitive Scrabble player, "You lied didn't you about hardly ever playing before?"

  "I wouldn't say lied," replied Sally grinning, a gleam in her eye, "I'd prefer the phrase, 'economical with the truth'."

  They were beginning to feel concerned for PC Davies. He'd now been gone half an hour. Gil's watch said 6.35.

  It showed the state of their nerves, when, despite the policeman's return being long overdue, they both jumped at the sharp rap on the front door. They turned and saw through the door's frosted glass panels a policeman's overcoat silhouetted against a fork of lightning. Spike must have heard the knock too because he commenced barking again.

  Gil got to his feet, walked over to the door and felt a moment's hesitation about opening up.

  "Only me!" called Davies cheerily.

  Gil heard himself sigh with relief as he let the policeman back in.

  "Any luck?" asked Gil.

  "'Fraid not … still no reception whatever."

  "Come in and take off your coat," said Gil.

  "No point, I'll have to go back out to try again … just thought I'd come in for a bit of a warm … but seeing as I'm here, think I'll take you up on that offer of a hot drink," said the policeman rubbing his hands together to get them warm.

  Sally began to rise, "I'll put the kettle on."

  "No you don't. Sit down and finish your game," replied Davies, "I can do it …"

  "You're our guest," answered Sally.

  "Now sit down," countered Davies with a smile, adopting a commanding tone of mock seriousness, "I'm the policeman … you two carry on with your game."

  Sally acquiesced and sat down again smiling.

  PC Davies, en route to the kitchen, paused to ask, "I'm safe from the dog in here, aren't I?"

  "Completely safe … he's shut away in the utility room," replied Gil.

  "That's good to know," said Davies holding up and flexing the fingers on his hands, "I've grown quite attached to these boys."

  The policeman went off into the kitchen area. However, he was only gone a few seconds before re-emerging again to ask, "What about you two, can I get you something?"

  "We'll make ourselves some coffee once we've finished our game," said Gil.

  "We make it in a cafetière," explained Sally, as if this was somehow a conclusive reason for declining his offer.

  "Might just as easily make up a pot for three," replied Davies.

  "Oh … Oh, okay," said Gil, "Mine's black, no sugar … thanks."

  "Miss Curtis?"

  "Okay then … thanks," replied Sally a little more hesitantly, "Milk in mine, please."

  PC Davies left them. They could hear him filling up the kettle and searching the kitchen cupboards for the things he needed. Some five or six minutes later he returned holding a tray bearing a cafetière, three mugs and a small jug of milk. Gil and Sally were packing away the Scrabble. This time Gil had only lost by three points. They were laughing about the close finish and exchanging general banter about the
game. PC Davies put down the tray on the sideboard where he plunged the cafetière and poured three coffees.

  He placed the mugs down before them, and deposited a milk jug next to Sally's. As he did this he said with a smile, "I put a drop of something extra into them."

  "How do you mean?" asked Gil uncertainly.

  "I saw a bottle of brandy on the side and poured a drop into each mug … like you said, Miss Curtis."

  "I'm not sure I was entirely serious … but thanks," she replied.

  "I can easily change them?" said Davies, eager to correct his mistake.

  "A drop of brandy's always welcome," said Gil, "We'll need sustaining if we've got to sit out the evening waiting for Kent Police to arrive."

  "I only put in a drop … not enough to do any harm," reassured the policeman.

  Gil took a sip from his mug. "Just the ticket," he said.

  PC Davies found a space for his own coffee mug and what remained in the cafetière at the table. He pulled out a chair, sat down, tasted his drink, and then smacked his lips together with satisfaction.

  Sally felt the policeman's eyes watching her keenly; waiting to see if the coffee met with her approval.

  She stirred in some milk before tasting. "Lovely," she said.

  Gil couldn't recall seeing Sally with a coffee even once during the past week. He'd put it down to some female dietary thing; Jules too had gone in for odd changes from time to time.

  "I do pride myself on my coffee making. Sadly, I'm on duty," said the policeman with a good-natured shrug, "So just plain, mine."

  The storm had moved further away. As they sat round the table drinking their coffees, Gil and Sally started to unwind.

  PC Glyn Davies was about the same age if not a little younger than Gil. He was a little taller than Gil too, though only by a very small margin. The skin on his face was taut, the way that of runners or habitual exercisers often looks. His hair was short, a dark ash colour, thinning at the temples and on top. He had a rather unkempt beard, quite a bit redder than the hair on his head. Somehow the beard completed the rural policeman look. The man's eyes were bright, almost a translucent blue, and by far his most striking feature. The rest of his face was fairly nondescript: a very ordinary nose, neither too big nor small to warrant observation; his mouth was narrow, the lips thin; the teeth, only visible when he laughed, were irregularly spaced with large gaps between them.