GENESIS (GODS CHAIN) (71 page)

At the moment
, she
s
a
t playing with her long
,
wavy black hair,
which was
held back by an Alice
-style
hair
band.
Calculating coolly with her clear
,
crystal
-
blue eyes, a naughty smile spread over her freckled face
as she
studi
ed
her computer screen with bated breath
.
T
he girl almost teas
ed
her terminal into action.

The girl
was searching
to find out
whoever was responsible for her father’s illness.
Remote access still appeared to be a bit lax
,
but
there
...
there
...
ah, in again!
The girl would leave a clue
that she’d hacked the system
, of course,
because
someone
needed to know that things were not right.

Outwardly
, the
girl
had
angelic features,
al
though behind her cherub façade there was a cunning and clinical mind.
The
girl
’s
project
would require every ounce of her stealth and
mischief
, confiden
ce in her ability
to leave only a subtle electronic footprint, if they were up for the challenge
. But
not before she had found out the real truth!

The girl contemplated for a moment, looking out
at the
crisp
,
clear morning eastwards
and admiring
the sun shining across the countryside of white fields
.
Her fingers
then continued to
tap away like a mad pianist, pausing only for a moment
here and there, al
though she did not understand the full
legal
implications of her actions
.
Hacking
was a very serious business.
Unknown to her
,
she had already started a chain reaction of inescapable events
....
And, h
aving a “sting” in her tail
,
the girl would use all her skilful dexterity in order to find out a little bit more.
She
continued typing again
...
.

**********

O
n the afternoon of the twenty fourth of December, the police had called in to see old farmer
Kirkland
. Apparently, more of his cattle had gone missing
.

Sergeant Howie was the local “bobby” and the
only
constable stationed in this quiet neighbourhood. He was not an “incomer”, being born and bred in the village, and had been waiting for this promotion after twenty years in public service. This was an opportunity for a quieter and much slower pace of life. His retirement from the police force was only a few years away.
He r
eport
ed
only to himself, and to his wife
,
of course,
al
though at times
he
worked overnight at the local police station. The farmer first reported a loss back in October but Howie’s gut instinct was that
Kirkland
was trying to squeeze his insurance.

Church service was later that evening and his wife needed him home as soon as possible to get ready.
Kirkland
’s
farm was not maintained very well, and was quite dirty and run down. It had rusty tractors and pieces of ancient-looking farm machinery scattered all over. The farmhouse and outbuildings were enclosed by dry stone walls known as dykes.

Another white topping of snow lay over the cold and reddish brown dry-stone dykes; although the farmer seemed too old to bother much about such things, the walls provided some sort of protection for his livestock in the wintry chill. It was muddy next to the farm entrance where a nasty and distinct odour lingered.

The policeman drew up in his completely inadequate and stupid
-
looking
,
tiny white automobile
—
it was only fit only for the rubbish bin and was just another example of a cost
-
cutting exercise by the force. He had not expected
such a poor
vehicle when he had accepted this rural job, yet it still was better than walking the beat in the streets of Glasgow.

Crazy hens suddenly appeared, running from behind the dilapidated farmhouse. He jumped, hearing them squawking loudly as their feathers flew about and their little legs scampered madly, their wings flutter
ing
furiously in great protest! Then the farmer appeared quicker than his poultry, striding widely in his bigger than big wellington boots
.
He was wearing the same old tweed jacket and frayed trousers, as always
.

Drew Kirkland
nodded
his welcome as C
onstable Howie
stood up
and began walking towards him. Even minding his step, Howie slipped on the muddy quagmire of an entrance
that marked
Drew
’s home.
Taking a deep breath of cold air, he began to choke a bit
, and
wish
ed
he had filtered his inhalation a little
first. He straining himself, face twisting in revolt of the sour farm smells
.
Howie could never get used to such unpleasant odours! Disguising this fact, his half grimace became a quiet and pleasing smile.

‘Good afternoon to you
,
Andrew
. A cold one it is and all this snow.’ Howie looked around, trying to defuse the man’s obvious anxiety.

‘Afternoon, constable, I cannot believe it! The whole herd is gone! Gone! Robbery! This is going to cost me dearly, man!’ exclaimed the farmer.

‘Now then, when did this all happen?’

‘Yesterday night, sometime after milking.’

‘What type of livestock is missing and where did you see them last?’ the local bobby asked, taking out his notepad.

‘There were about thirty in the herd, down at the lower fields near
M
istletoe
W
oods. Just outside the village. What do you think, sergeant?’ he said, giving the policeman his proper ranking. The woods were at the far south side of the village, and the farmer pointed distantly in that general direction, over the hill.

‘I’ll take a run over there and see if there is any evidence, Mr
Kirkland
.’

‘It’s poachers for sure. There have been a few strange happenings and odd
-
looking strangers about. Have you seen them lately in the shire and around the village? Too many incomers, I say! There has been too many of them over the past few years and I don’t like them Italian folk from overseas
.
I’d have a word with them if I was you
.’

Howie nodded abstractly, not willing to commit to anything until he’d checked out the sight.

‘
Ok then sergeant, off you go, lad!
’
Kirkland
continued.
‘
You’ll be going to the service tonight with the missus, I hope?’

‘We’ll try to be there! It’s a busy night and I’ll need to have a look for your missing stock
,
first.’

The farmer nodded and headed back across the yard and out of sight. The policeman smiled a little at his summary dismissal.
What an eccentric old a
r
s
e
, he thought and got in his automobile, scratching his head—still suspicious of the man’s story. He drove off in the direction of Mistletoe Wood, arriving there ten minutes later as the light waned
slowly and redly
, as it always did at this time of year. The woods looked lonely.

Sergeant Howie parked his inadequate vehicle on a single track road within walking distance
of
the small wood.
The wood
covered part of the south sloped approach in the direction of Ma
uc
hline
,
and
since he didn’t
want to drive completely off the road or fall into
a
concealed ditch, this was as far as he dared go.

Ma
uch
line was cut off again—it
often
was in winter. This year was the worst weather that folks could remember
in many a year
! Snow had fallen the previous night, nine inches at least. The roads would take a few days to re-open
,
since the village was at the far end of
Ayrshire
.

Mistletoe wood was classed as a “conservation area” and had stood for hundreds of years, thick and tightly packed with many varieties of deciduous trees. The numerous mistletoe varieties throughout the murky wood were only one good reason why this area was protected. It
also
included deep ponds
and short swampland with a rich habitat for local wildlife and migratory creatures from other parts of the world.

Under the enclosed branches, the atmosphere clung low and heavy among the copious trees, and only the treetops could be seen from the distance on the high end of the village. The icy branches stuck up and out through the thickening fog, hovering purposefully over the lower meadows and moors. It was a frozen and most inhospitable place, fuelled by the greyish haze that swirled around madly, weaving through the trees, smothering and engulfing all bark and bush.

The only light left seemed to abandon the policeman as Christmas Eve was fast approaching
,
and yet here he was, on this forsaken path! The darkening mist felt intimidating and the woods became more menacing as night closed in.