by Chris Dolley
He followed the field boundary down the eastern wall of the rectory and along to Jacintha’s back garden, keeping one eye on the cows who reciprocated by staring back, their cudding jaws rotating slowly while their heads swivelled to track his progress.
He stopped at Jacintha’s garden wall. It was no more than four feet high. Jacintha’s back door was … what? About fifty yards away? And with those small windows and the trellis blocking the view from the front garden, Lee Molland could have been over that wall, in the house, up the stairs and out again without anyone seeing him. He didn’t even have to pass the lounge – the stairs came off the rear hall – if the back door was unlocked he could even slip in while Jacintha was preoccupied. He’d know there were tablets. A small village like Athelcott would know everything. Half the village had probably used her bathroom and Jacintha made no secret about her health concerns.
He retraced his steps, following the field boundary back along the rectory wall and then uphill along the woodland edge. There was another field beyond separated by a hedge. Shand clambered over the metal field gate. He could see the ridge of the Benson’s thatched roof in the distance. He hurried, crossing the empty field, his eyes set on the gate in the distance where the field narrowed to a point. Beyond it was the Benson’s back wall and the narrow grass track that ran alongside it – ending in a gate to the large field that ran up to the circle.
He stopped and leaned up against the gate, breathing hard. There was a direct route between Lee Molland’s house and the Benson’s. He’d proved it.
Two words came from a little voice inside his head.
So what?
~
He returned to the Molland house crestfallen. Like so many of his endeavours of the past week, what had seemed a good idea at the outset had quickly become tarnished. What had he proved? That Lee Molland could walk to the Benson house unobserved? Okay, but the same held true for Gabe Marsh, Jacintha Maybury and all the other residents of Upper Street, Hill Street and the two terraces on Jubilee Road.
The news from Marcus wasn’t encouraging either. The only villagers who hadn’t attended the Rectory garden party were two families from the holiday cottages. And those that had attended hadn’t seen anything unusual – other than the lack of furniture in the Rectory. ‘Why buy a big house like that and leave it half empty?’ was a recurring comment.
And no one had seen anyone leaving with a bottle of wine.
As for Lee Molland – he’d disappeared. He wasn’t in college – which he should have been – and no one had seen him since yesterday.
The final piece of bad news concerned the surveillance of Lee’s house. No one was available. Not from Uniform branch, not from the other CID Divisions. If Shand wanted a stake out, he’d have to use his own team.
Taylor volunteered to take the first shift, citing Mrs. Taylor’s reluctance to let him stay out all night. Marcus had a dog to feed, but could relieve Taylor at ten. And Shand, with no encumbrances, agreed to take over at four. Six hours each. And if Lee still hadn’t shown by tomorrow morning they’d review the situation.
If Shand was still on the case, that was. Not that anyone said that, but Shand could feel the confidence ebbing. Yesterday he’d been convinced of Gabe Marsh’s guilt, today it was Lee Molland, who would it be tomorrow? Was he losing perspective? Becoming desperate? Jumping on hunches?
He hitched a lift with Marcus to the station car park in Sturton, indecision hitting him the moment he said goodbye. Should he return to his office and catch up on paperwork, or go to the hotel and try and grab some sleep? Neither appealed. He wanted to be sat across the table from Lee Molland. Everything else was marking time. All he’d need was half an hour and the boy would break.
He glanced up at his office window. Wiggins hadn’t called since the morning. Maybe he was up there waiting? Sorry, Shand, but it’s for the best. I’ve reassigned the case. Why don’t you take a few days leave?
He looked at his car. Maybe he could search for Lee himself? Sturton wasn’t that big, he could quarter the town in his car, check all the pubs.
He drove, he walked, he covered Sturton – the pubs, the shops, the car parks. Everywhere where people gathered.
Plenty of false alarms, but no Lee Molland.
He called Taylor.
“Anything?”
“Quiet as the grave.”
Shand checked his watch. Nearly ten. He might as well join Marcus. If Lee was going to show it would be sometime in the next few hours. Better to be close by, sleeping in the back of a car than tossing and turning in a hotel room thirty minutes away.
He parked his car outside the Royal Oak and walked the short distance to Jubilee Road. The moon lit his way, streetlights unnecessary in the still, clear night. He spotted Marcus’s car tucked in between a group of four cars parked opposite the Molland’s terrace. He checked to see if anyone was watching, then stepped into the road, opened the front passenger-side door and slid inside.
A dog growled from the back seat. Shand swung round. A large black Alsatian snarled at him, its lips curling back to show teeth that, even in the half-light of the car, glistened menacingly.
“Satan!” hissed Marcus. “Be quiet.”
The dog took no notice. Shand, never too confident around dogs, froze.
“Satan!” hissed Marcus again. “Bad dog! Lie down!”
The dog stretched out its front paws and gradually sank lengthways along the back seat, emitting a constant growl in the process.
“Sorry, sir, but I had to bring him. He doesn’t like staying in the flat by himself at night. He’s no trouble really.”
Shand took another look at the dog. He practically filled the entire back seat. And was it his imagination or could he feel the car moving in time to the dog’s breathing?
“Anything from the Molland house?” he asked.
“The parents are inside. Mr. Molland came home about six. He works for the Montacutes by the way. A farm labourer.”
But no sign of Lee. Not even for dinner. Shand wondered how much money the boy had on him. Enough to feed himself and find a room? Or was he with friends?
A tap on his window made him jump. He swung round. The unexpected face of Saffron filled the passenger side window, her fingers waggling a friendly greeting.
The car bounced suddenly as Satan belatedly sprang at the window, barking ferociously in Shand’s ear and nearly sending Shand crashing into the windscreen in fright.
“No, Satan!” shouted Marcus. “Down! Bad dog! Lie down!”
The dog obeyed, after a fashion, slumping heavily against the back seat.
Shand took a deep breath and wound his window down.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“You said you’d ring,” said Saffron, resting her forearms on the window and leaning into the car. “Hello, Marcus.”
“Hello, Saffron.”
“This is not a good time,” said Shand.
“Of course it is,” said Saffron, ignoring him. “Come on, Marcus, open the door. It’s freezing out here.”
Shand thanked God for the occupant of the back seat. “Sorry, Saffron,” he said. “There’s no room. Satan’s in the back.”
She peered past him at the nine stone of muscle panting on the back seat. “Not another reincarnation, I hope.”
Shand braced himself for the playful punch on the shoulder. And there it came, accompanied by the usual trill of laughter.
“Come on, Satan,” said Marcus, leaning behind Shand to unlock the back door. “There’s a good boy. Move over.”
Shand opened his mouth to object, but what could he do? She never took any notice of anything he said. If he tried to arrest her, there’d be a scene. If he ignored her, there’d be a scene. The stake out would be compromised whatever he did.
Saffron tapped him twice on the shoulder. “Be a love and take the back seat, would you? I only bought these tights yesterday, and I don’t like the look of those claws.”
“Perhaps�
��” started Shand.
“Unless you want me to sit on your lap?”
Shand took the back seat, squeezing in next to Satan who sat upright, his front paws pressed hard against Shand’s right leg and his top lip curled back in warning.
“Who are we watching?” asked Saffron, turning to Shand. “Is it another chicken?”
Shand closed his eyes. “I thought you’d know,” he said, finding some small comfort in sarcasm.
“Hmm, let me see,” said Saffron. “Is it … is it that man creeping along the hedgerow?”
Shand shot forward. “Where?”
Saffron laughed and gave him a playful push. “You’re far too easy, Shandy.”
Shand felt a large mass squeeze between him and the back of the seat. Satan had seized the opportunity to stretch out along the back seat leaving Shand perched on the front lip of the seat.
“Anyway,” said Saffron. “I can help your cover.”
“How?” said Shand, shuffling his buttocks in the hope of finding a more comfortable niche.
“We can pretend we’re a courting couple.”
Shand shook his head in disbelief. “Saffron, there are three of us in the car.”
“So? I’m a popular girl.”
Not from where I’m sitting, thought Shand, as he slid along the lip of the back seat trying to find some room. Surely Satan had to have a waist or somewhere his body went in?
Which was when Shand’s phone rang and the back seat erupted.
“He’s frightened of phones,” explained Marcus as Satan bounced backwards, barking furiously and snapping at the phone in Shand’s hand.
Shand fell backwards, trying to fend off Satan who was lunging at the phone, snapping a few inches short with his teeth every time. Shand dropped the phone, pressing himself as far back into the angle of the seat and door as he could and bringing his hands up to protect his face and throat. Marcus tried to grab Satan from the front seat.
Saffron picked up the phone. “Mr. Shand’s phone. Who shall I say is calling?”
Nine stone of dog barrelled forward and pinned Shand against the door.
“He’s only playing,” said Marcus with less conviction than Shand would have liked.
The dog fastened his teeth around Shand’s tie and attempted to kill it by throwing his head back and forth at great speed. Shand grabbed for Satan’s collar and held on. Marcus grabbed the dog by the waist.
And in the midst of the tumult all Shand could hear was Saffron’s voice, talking on his phone as though nothing was happening.
“I’m afraid he’s wrestling with Satan at the moment, Mr. Wiggins. Can I take a message?”
Oh dear God, thought Shand. Could the day get any worse?
“Me?” said Saffron. “I’m Mr. Shand’s personal psychic.”
Shand closed his eyes. It could.
“Oh,” said Saffron. “He rang off.”
“Leave, Satan! Drop!” shouted Marcus, wresting the dog away from Shand. “Come on, boy. Bone. Bone for a good dog.”
The mention of food transformed Satan. He bounced away from Shand and presented himself behind the driver’s seat, sitting perfectly still, eyes alert, tongue lolling happily from the side of his mouth.
Shand looked away and slumped in the corner waiting for his career to once more flash before his eyes. But saw something else instead. Movement at the end of the lane. Two men. They must have come from the track.
“Down!” he said. “Someone’s coming!”
He sank down in the back seat, trying to present the lowest profile. Saffron and Marcus did the same. Two men were on the far side of the road, walking fast, approaching the Molland house. One of the men looked like Lee. The other was of a similar age, but thicker set. He turned at the gate and looked almost directly at the car.
Shand couldn’t believe it.
“It’s the missing asylum seeker!” hissed Marcus. “It’s Marius Lupescu.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Shand watched the two men disappear inside. What were they doing together? And what should Shand do now? He hadn’t expected Lee to have company.
“Marcus, call for back up.”
He watched the upstairs landing light come on in the house. Where were they going? Was the asylum seeker staying with Lee?
Marcus called the station. It would be thirty minutes, twenty-five if they were lucky, before anyone arrived. Should they move in before? Cover the back in case Lee left by the kitchen door?
Or make the arrest now? One cover the front, one go in the back?
Indecision. He couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. If he went in early and was rushed by two men, could he hold them? He’d never had any form of combat training. Marcus would have, but could he guarantee that it would be Marcus’s door they rushed?
Best to wait. Play it by the book. Two men on each door.
“Should I check round the back, sir? In case they slip across the fields.”
“Okay, but make sure you’re not seen. Find some cover and stay out of sight.”
Marcus left, crouching low and scurrying towards the far end of the terrace. Satan watched intently from the back seat.
“He didn’t need to go, you know?” said Saffron. “They’ll come out the front.”
Shand ignored her, shutting everything out except for the house, his eyes fixed on the windows, looking for shapes, changes in the mix of light and shadow. Minutes passed. The landing light flickered, then went out. The front door opened. Lee came out, a hold-all in his right hand. Then came the other man. They turned left at the gate, towards the path at the end of the lane.
Shand checked his watch, holding his wrist in the patch of moonlight that filtered through the rear window. Back up was fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes if they’d responded immediately and the traffic was light.
The two men reached the end of the lane. Little time left to think. He’d have to follow.
“Stay here,” he told Saffron. “When back up arrives tell them where we’ve gone.”
“Shouldn’t I go with you? I can help find them if you lose them.”
Shand closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was Saffron tagging along.
“What about your new tights? The woods are full of brambles.”
“I can take them off.”
“No!” he said, louder than he’d meant. Panicked by the vision of back up arriving just as Saffron had her tights around her ankles.
“Why don’t you stay here and…” He grabbed the first idea that came to him. “Scry. That’s it. You stay here and scry for them. Find out where Lee’s going and meet us there?”
It appeared to work. Saffron reached behind her neck and unhooked her necklace. “I’ll use this as a pendulum,” she said.
Shand’s mind was already elsewhere. The two men would be halfway across the field by now. Far enough away not to notice a light coming on from inside a parked car. He eased the rear door open and slipped outside, crouching down to push the door to and quietly click the lock home.
The night was still, and silent except for the muffled sound of music from one of the houses and the distant cry of an owl. Shand slipped along the side of the parked cars then the fence line of the front gardens. He could see two shapes at the far side of the field, heading for the track through the woods. He crouched down and ran noiselessly to the first stile and waited. The men disappeared. Shand gave them another five seconds, then climbed the stile and skirted the field to his left to look for Marcus. Marcus was already on his way.
“They took a hold-all from a shed out back,” he whispered.
Shand glanced across the field. Was it safe yet? How deep in the woods would they have to be not to notice two men running towards them across an open field?
The alternative was worse. Once in the woods they could disappear – the back door to the Rectory, countless trails into the woods. And what was in the hold-all? More poison? More duct tape? Were they heading for Helena’s?
“Come on,” he
hissed and started running, crouching low and running as fast as he dared over the uneven pasture. Several times he almost fell, several times his feet found unexpected holes, but he kept going. He stopped at the second stile and listened between ragged breaths. A second owl hooted in the distance, the two birds calling to each other. And somewhere deep in the woods a twig cracked.
Shand studied the track ahead. How many dead twigs were scattered across the path? On a night like this the sound would carry for miles.
He peered into the gloom, the moonlight only penetrated the edge of the wood, beyond that it was pitch black.
But they had no choice. They had to follow.
Shand went first. Over the stile into the woodland edge. The path snaked between the trees, a line of dark grey between the black, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed, his ears pricked for the slightest sound.
There was earth beneath his feet, or grass – something yielding, and quiet. Then came the wall and the swish of leaf litter. Shand froze. It was brighter here on the woodland edge. He could see shapes up ahead, a hundred yards, maybe closer. One had his head illuminated by moonlight, the other was hidden in the shadow of the Rectory wall. Neither stopped or glanced back.
Shand waited, unable to move, listening to the blood pound in his ears and the faint, dry swish of shoes through dead leaves. He was visible. His face moonlit. If one of them turned he’d be seen.
An age passed. Wherever Lee and the asylum seeker were going they weren’t in a hurry. The shapes ducked under the electric fence at the end of the track and turned left. Towards Helena’s.
Shand started to run, sticking to the higher, woodland side of the track where the leaf litter was less. A twig cracked. He pressed on. Fear. Apprehension. A terrible foreboding. How long would they need to kill Helena? A few seconds? A minute? What was in that hold-all? A knife? A baseball bat? Could he get to them in time?