by Paul Finch
She pursed her lips. ‘I must admit, someone else leaving a speck of blood in Lansing’s mouth is pretty undeniable.’
‘I hoped Will Royton might have given us a couple of extra bodies.’
She considered. ‘Will’s onside, but even he has to balance the books. He probably hasn’t got that many bodies to spare. He was playing devil’s advocate when I spoke to him this morning. Even suggested Lansing might have been having sex with someone before he set out. Bit a tongue, bit a lip – it happens, doesn’t it?’
‘Monica Chatreaux wasn’t even in the country at the time.’
‘Perhaps it was someone else? His housekeeper? That happens too.’
Heck glanced sidelong at her. ‘His housekeeper is married. Plus she’s sixty-eight.’
‘You never know.’
‘That’s pushing it. Anyway, she was away. And if you want my opinion, that in itself is a contrivance. What’re the chances that if this was a genuine accident, it occurred in a week when both the gardener and the housekeeper were absent; in other words when there was nobody else here to witness the event?’
‘Agreed.’
Heck gazed at the tree trunk directly across from the drive entrance, and the mirror positioned on it. ‘But how do you engineer an accident like this? How do you ensure someone will drive out into the path of a speeding vehicle?’
Gail shrugged. ‘You can’t. But if you knew the driver was going to pull out at a certain time, I suppose it’s not inconceivable you could arrange for someone to be driving past at that particular moment. And by all accounts, Lansing was regular as clockwork. His housekeeper said he left the house on the dot of seven every morning. It was near enough a compulsion.’
Heck wasn’t convinced. ‘Presumably not such a compulsion that he’d pull out in front of oncoming traffic … which his safety mirror would clearly have revealed to him?’
‘Perhaps he just didn’t check it that morning?’
‘And as the mastermind behind the plan, how do you ensure that happens?’
She shrugged again, before turning to the PC on guard duty. He’d been under orders to take note of any passing vehicles whose drivers or passengers showed interest in the house or the tents along the roadside, and now dug out his pocket-book to share the number plates with her. Meanwhile Heck approached the mirror and stared into its convex glass. At first he thought it was his imagination that the reflection it cast was blurred around the edges, but then he looked a little closer and noticed paper-thin smears of a semi-transparent, paste-like substance. When he tapped it with the tip of a pen, he saw that it had hardened into a resin.
‘Glue?’ he muttered.
An idea was slowly forming. Had the mirror been covered by something, deliberately obscured? But if so, why had Lansing pulled out when he wasn’t sure the road was clear? Behind him, Heck could hear Gail chatting with the uniform. He tapped at the resinous substance again. Definitely hardened glue. He was about to call Gail over, when something else – or rather someone – caught his eye.
A previously unnoticed figure stood alongside another tree trunk several dozen yards back from the road, on the other side of a low, barbed-wire fence. It was difficult to say how long he’d been there; it was equally difficult to say how Heck had managed to miss him before. He was a huge guy, at least six foot four and heavily overweight. He wore khaki trousers and a khaki combat jacket, the latter of which bulged over his waistband. His pink, porcine face was fringed with red-gold sideburns and a straggling, red-gold beard. Similarly coloured, straw-like hair poked out from under a battered green bush hat.
The figure turned and walked quickly away.
‘Hello?’ Heck called after him. ‘Hey, mate!’
The guy began to run, weaving through the trees towards open ground.
‘Hey!’ Heck shouted, dashing to the barbed wire.
‘What’s up?’ came Gail’s voice from behind. He turned fleetingly, spotting her crossing the road.
‘Not sure …’ Heck didn’t fancy a foot-race over open countryside. But the burly figure was already diminishing from view. Pretty soon he’d be out of the coppice and onto the open ground. ‘Someone’s interested in our crime scene but doesn’t want to talk to us. Get that foot soldier to put something over the mirror. And tell him not to put his fingers on it. Meantime, you take the car and see if you can head this bugger off.’
‘How am I supposed to know where he’s running to?’ she called as Heck lurched over the fence.
‘You’ve more chance of guessing correctly than me.’ Heck broke into a run, immediately stumbling on loose soil and slimy roots.
The khaki-clad shape had now emerged into the open, and was sprinting downhill into a shallow valley. His garb might suggest that he was an outdoorsman but, as Heck had already seen, he was in poor condition. He surely couldn’t keep that pace up for long. Not that Heck was sure he could either. Swearing, he yanked at the tie-knot constricting his throat.
‘Hey!’ he shouted again, emerging from the trees. Somewhere behind, he heard the Punto’s engine rumble to life. He snatched the radio from his pocket as he tottered down an increasingly difficult gradient. He and Gail had each other’s mobile numbers, but had also secured a private radio channel by which to converse on talk-through.
‘Heck to Honeyford,’ he shouted.
‘Go ahead,’ came her reply, the Punto engine revving – it sounded as if she was pulling a rapid three-point turn.
‘Any idea what’s on the other side of this valley, over?’
‘Probably another one. It’s all farmland around here … ’
Heck descended to the valley bottom, where, from a distance, it had appeared to level out again, though now that he was actually here it comprised rough, undulating pasture, which was just as difficult to run across in shoes. Again he half stumbled, his smooth soles sliding on the sun-dried grass. Fifty yards ahead, a ribbon of brown, fast-flowing water was visible beyond a belt of hawthorn breaks. The khaki-clad figure threaded his way through towards this and vanished from sight.
‘Heck to Honeyford – there’s a river down here!’
‘Yeah, that’s the Fosswick,’ she replied. ‘It’s a small tributary of the Mole. That may be where he comes unstuck. The only way he can get across is if he heads north towards the Charlwood Bridge. See if you can shepherd him in that direction, over.’
‘Wilco,’ Heck panted. He shouted out again as he approached the hawthorns. ‘Look, mate … I only want to talk to you! I’m a police officer!’
From what he could see, the hawthorns were ranked at least five deep, but the path his quarry had taken, though rutted and well used, did not cut through them cleanly. As Heck followed it, it weaved between shadowy dells and dense stands of thorn. Overhead, branches and leafage interwove to create a ceiling. He slowed to a cautious walk, breathing hard, sweat soaking his shirt under his armpits. He could hear the muffled burble of the river, which from the glinting flickers of sunlight lay only a few yards ahead.
‘Look!’ he called out again. ‘You’re not in any trouble.’
Twigs rustled behind him.
He spun round.
Several leafy boughs were quivering on the left of the path. He approached, one arm outstretched to push the foliage aside. Only for it to explode right in his face – and for three frightened woodpigeons to scutter away through the canopy.
Involuntarily, Heck jumped backwards – at which point he spotted something else.
A small sack-like net, with a drawstring at its opening, hung from one of the lower branches. Possibly it had been yanked from his quarry’s pocket as he’d blundered through here, catching himself on the undergrowth. Below it, a sharp, heavy-bladed knife stood at a slant, its tip buried in the earth. Heck assessed both items quickly before plodding on towards the river, and emerging onto its bank. The Fosswick was indeed nothing more than a tributary, only about twenty yards across but flowing fast and deep; apart from its immediate muddy shallows he couldn’t se
e the bottom. It dwindled away for several hundred yards to left and right before curving out of sight. No one was visible in either direction, or on the opposite shore, though on that side the undergrowth came right up to the water so it was difficult to be sure. On this side, the river was edged by a broad path, where the grass had been churned by the passage of hooves, suggesting it was also used as a bridleway.
Remembering what Gail had said about the Charlwood Bridge, he turned in the direction he thought was north. Radio static crackled in his pocket.
‘Where are you?’ Gail asked.
‘On the bank of the Fosswick.’
‘I’m at the bridge, and there’s no sign of you.’
‘I think I’ve lost him. Just keep watching the river. I’m heading that way in a sec.’ Heck doubled back a couple of yards, pulled on a disposable glove and picked up the knife by the tip of its hilt. He slipped it into an evidence sack and wrapped it in a handkerchief before inserting it into his pocket.
‘What did he run for?’
‘Damn good question.’
Heck shoved the radio back into his pocket, and tramped on, now following the course of the river – at which point, his target stepped out onto the path some twenty yards in front. Heck froze in mid-stride. In the same instant, the target realised he had company, and glanced left. His mouth dropped open in a perfect O. Then he turned and clumped away. Heck gave chase again, but now from a lot closer. He could hear the grunting and puffing of his quarry, though the guy was really going for it – he did not want to be caught, and as he sensed Heck gaining on him he increased his pace and lengthened his stride. They rounded a bend in the river, and Heck saw a sheer stone-built wall looming ahead, rising maybe forty feet. The river vanished underneath it through a black, semi-circular tunnel mouth. The diminutive form of Gail peered down from the high parapet.
At the same time the slopes to either side of the river steepened, the hawthorns giving way to thickly clustered birch and alder. One after another, sub-paths diverged from the river’s edge, winding upwards among the trees. But the fugitive, who had probably reasoned that he couldn’t attempt an uphill dash with Heck so close, ploughed resolutely on, and now that they were only thirty yards from the tunnel mouth Heck saw why: a remnant of the riverbank continued through it – a narrow strip of pebbles and sandy sediment, just sufficient for a man to sidle his way along.
As the fugitive ducked beneath the rugged arch and disappeared from view, Heck indicated to Gail to try and get down the other side. She too vanished from sight. Heck also ducked beneath the arch, and found himself negotiating a shifting shelf of river rubble. Icy wavelets lapped over his shoes. The curved roof of dripping, mould-encrusted rock bent him leftwards, threatening to unbalance him as he advanced. But the sight of the fugitive, an ungainly form silhouetted on the blot of light about forty yards ahead, gave him new energy.
‘Pack it up, man!’ Heck shouted, his voice echoing over the hiss of the water. ‘Come on, this is ridiculous!’ Then he slipped – only slightly, a cobblestone tilting under his tread – and his left ankle turned, white fire streaking up his leg.
‘Damn!’ Heck shouted hoarsely. ‘Goddamn it!’
Ahead, his prey glanced round once before exiting the tunnel.
Heck stumbled after him, but when he emerged into daylight it was on open grassland, which slanted up to his right. The hefty form of the fugitive was already halfway to the top, ascending at a virtual crawl but perhaps having taken heart from Heck’s injury.
‘Damn bloody fool!’ Heck spat as he followed.
His ankle ached abominably, and within ten minutes of commencing the climb he was limping, his body angled forward, mouth agape as he struggled to suck in sufficient oxygen to keep his muscles pumping. At the crest of the slope there was a slatted wooden fence with a steel farm gate in the middle. Heck was about thirty yards short of this when the fugitive reached it and, with much wheezing, clambered over the top. Heck swore again, volubly. When he reached the gate himself, it was only about eight feet high, but it might as well have been eighteen. He hauled his weary, sweating body over the top, landing heavily on the other side, which sent a fresh spasm of pain through his ankle. From here, a stony track led over rough pasture – but there was no sign of the fugitive. Heck prowled forward, confused, until a dozen yards later, when he noticed a derelict, weatherboarded structure on his left. It was a barn, nestling amid a clutch of trees.
Heck veered towards it, by logic as much as instinct. He himself was exhausted after traversing such rough ground, so how did his overweight quarry feel? He surely couldn’t keep going at this rate, not without inducing a coronary.
The barn’s main door stood wide open, but Heck hesitated before entering. When no sound reached his ears, he ventured forward – to be assailed by a pungent mix of farm odours: oil, straw, rancid, age-old manure. Sunlight shafting through the decayed planking revealed most of the empty interior. He saw a beaten earth floor, fragments of rusting machinery, empty seed bags, veils of cobweb … and unless he was mistaken, plumes of dust, which had recently been kicked up.
Heck glanced overhead to where a dark, heavy beam ran crosswise, linking two separate haylofts. On top of the right one a stack of old bales, five large cubes of matted, rotted vegetation, teetered on the very edge. It might have been an optical illusion caused by the dimness, but even as Heck gazed up he fancied eddies of fresh dust were trickling down – and that the bales were moving slightly.
He tried to leap sideways, but his sprained ankle sent another white-hot lance up his shinbone. He twisted and fell full-length, but still had the wherewithal to roll away as, one after another, the massive hundredweights of mulch impacted on the floor behind him, exploding apart.
As debris showered over him, Heck glimpsed a burly shape descending a vertical ladder in the far corner. But only as he got to his feet did it register that his assailant was wielding a pitchfork. The fugitive had lost his bush hat, revealing longish red-gold locks, stringy with sweat, and, somewhat incongruously, a bald cranium. But there was nothing comical about the way he stalked forward, his two-pronged weapon levelled on Heck’s belly.
‘Look, pal,’ Heck said, backing away. ‘Whatever you’ve done, I’m sure you realise this is only going to make it a hell of a lot worse.’
The giant’s mottled face broke into a desperate grin as they circled each other. His eyes – one blue and one green – were bright but glassy, like mismatched buttons; his unruly beard had filled with spittle. ‘You ain’t sending me to court, copper.’
‘And this is how you hope to achieve that?’
‘I’m not going back to prison. Not for nobody …’
The pitchfork was old and corroded, but its twin points still looked sharp enough to rip through flesh and the soft organs beneath.
‘All I want to do is ask you some questions,’ Heck said.
‘I ain’t going!’ The fugitive drove the pitchfork at Heck’s midriff.
Not as agile on a single leg, Heck only just managed to evade it. Before he could counterstrike, his opponent had retracted the weapon and pivoted to face him again.
‘Are you mad, or what?’ Heck gasped. ‘I’ve told you …’
The fugitive lunged a second time. For a big man, he was quick. Heck pirouetted out of the way again, though it felt as though a horse had kicked him in the ankle. He tried not to cringe too obviously.
‘Let’s just be reasonable, eh?’
‘Fuck you, copper!’
With the third lunge, the right prong hooked the material of Heck’s jacket, yanking it hard, tearing it. Heck ducked and turned, pulling himself free of the garment. The fugitive only realised the business end of his weapon was cushioned with fabric when it was too late. He grabbed at the jacket to try and rip it away, but a flying left from Heck smacked him on the cheekbone, and a flying right smashed into the middle of his nose, spattering blood in a wide arc. The fugitive tottered backwards but, to Heck’s amazement, kept his feet and t
his time attacked with the fork’s haft, swinging it down and around like a quarterstaff, cracking it first on the side of Heck’s left knee and then up into his ribs. Both impacts were sickening, but with the second Heck slammed his left arm down and trapped the pole against his body, before slicing in a right-hand uppercut, which clunked the fugitive hard under his jaw.
This time the big guy released his weapon and reeled away, turning his back. Heck tried to jump on him, and caught an elbow in the solar plexus. He sank to his knees, winded, while the fugitive lumbered away through a narrow side door. Unable to believe he was still chasing this sagging human behemoth, Heck lugged himself to his feet. Outside, a narrow path beat its way through forty yards of wiry grass towards another farm gate, on the other side of which a road passed. The fugitive was already halfway there, but he was walking rather than running.
‘You stupid bastard!’ Heck panted.
The fugitive glanced back, one hand clutched to his nose, which was streaming gore. As such, he wasn’t watching where he was going, and tripped, falling forward. He covered the final few yards to the gate on his hands and knees, gasping loudly, not initially noticing as a canary-yellow Punto pulled up on the other side. He glanced back again as he used the rungs of the gate to haul himself to his feet – and was astonished when a pair of handcuffs were snapped into place, one bracelet round his fat wrist and one round the gate’s topmost bar.
‘Well, well,’ Gail said, shaking her head. ‘Been poaching again, have we, Vinnie?’
‘Ohhh, Miss Honeyford, come on!’ the big guy protested, yanking on the cuffs, but quickly seeing it was futile. ‘I’ve just had me lights punched out – for nothing!’
‘I can see that, Vinnie, but I’m sure it wasn’t for nothing.’
‘Poaching?’ Heck said, hobbling up, clutching his bruised ribs. All of a sudden the small net and the dropped knife made sense, and it was more than a little disappointing. ‘Don’t tell me you know this clown?’
Gail half smiled. ‘DS Heckenburg, meet Vinnie Budd. Bit of a celebrity round these parts. Likes his wildlife of course, but he likes his booze too. There isn’t a pub he hasn’t got pissed in; there isn’t a police cell where he hasn’t spent the night. Vinnie … meet DS Heckenburg, another living legend.’