Rat Poison (11 page)

‘Yes.'

‘What,
now?
'

‘In around an hour's time.'

‘You don't need me to list the consequences if it all goes wrong.'

No, and he did not need reminding that he was a cop now and should have a search warrant; that his MI5 days, when he had not needed one, were over and it would probably be the end of his job with SOCA, etc., etc
.

‘
Are you coming with me, or not?' Patrick asked in the manner of one who had asked the question before and received no response.

Oh, God, the headlines in
The Bath Chronical
:
RECTOR'S SON AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW CAUGHT BREAKING INTO VILLAGE INN. Or: AUTHOR ARRESTED FOR PUB BURGLARY – ‘SHE ALWAYS WAS A BIT ODD,' SAYS NEIGHBOUR.

‘Are you doing this mostly for Matthew?' I asked.

‘Yes, I suppose I am.'

‘We may as well hang together,' I said.

At least he and Katie would be immensely proud of us.

There is a gateway in our garden wall that leads directly into the churchyard which has provided a shortcut for the incumbent and his family for several hundred years, initially so they did not have to mingle with potentially verminous villagers in the lane. It was to be very useful to us tonight as it was vital that no one saw anyone acting furtively in the vicinity of the rectory and the Ring o' Bells. Between both properties is a road and the larger-than-average village green and we would not set foot on one inch of it.

It was around midnight as we went through the gate but the church clock would not strike the hour as it had stopped and was awaiting repairs. Patrick led the way and I did not follow right on his heels in order not to cannon into him should he stop suddenly. It was up to me to fend for myself and not trip over any of the gravestones, which was fairly easy to begin with as there is a path that leads around the side of the church to the main door. Before we reached this we struck off across the grass and progressed more slowly and carefully. There was no moon but as often happens in high summer it was not quite dark and the worn stones seemed almost to possess an afterglow from the brilliant sunset.

We came to an older area, the original part of the graveyard that dates back to the Middle Ages, most of the burial sites now just grassy mounds. Then the boundary wall, much higher on this side, reared up before us. There is a gateway here, too, that I knew had once led into glebe land but these days this is the gardens of private houses with a public footpath running between them. Not many people use it now but the ancient iron hinges and latch on the gate are well oiled and silent: one-time MI5 operatives keep their escape routes easily accessible.

The footpath meandered between fencing and hedges for a short distance and then swung hard left and downhill into a lane. I expected Patrick to turn left again but he went the other way and after fifty yards or so went up a bank surmounted by a field hedge. There was a stile in it and we climbed over it, the author swearing under her breath as her dark sweatshirt caught on a thorn. My companion did not wait but loped off into the near darkness. I have never been able to understand how he moves so quietly, catlike.

I followed the hedge for around fifty yards before coming to a gate. What my gaze had slid over as part of the old stone gatepost came alive, making me start, sort of flowed over the gate and was gone. Grimly, I dealt with the gate, not flowing, and set off after him, seemingly in another field, not exactly sure of the direction he had taken. Surely, somewhere, we would have to cross the road that ran through the village.

The hedge curved around to the left. I stopped to listen but all I could hear were the night sounds of the countryside: a distant owl, cows chewing the cud somewhere quite near to me, the light breeze rustling through foliage. Then, close by, a fox yapped. It is a strange sound, not much like that made by a dog. I went in the direction I had heard it, leaving the hedge to strike across what appeared to be a narrow tapering corner of the field as I soon came to another boundary hedge. A piece of shadow, the fox, moved and went over another stile; at least that was what it turned out to be when I groped for it in the dark. The foot rest on the other side of it was slippery, my foot skated off it and I went down heavily, hitting my head on a branch. No stars, just pain.

In the earthy blackness a tiny beam of light found my face, went on a short exploration and snapped off again: Patrick's ‘burglars' torch. Nothing was said. I got to my feet and stood quite still in the blackness of what was probably a little wood. I knew he was nearby, waiting – waiting patiently, I suddenly realized, for me to recover and the training in night surveillance he had given me some years previously when we were still with MI5 to kick in.

Something that is part of his make-up after special services training and happens without him thinking about it had taken time for me to acquire. You have to learn to switch on those senses other than sight and, told to follow him in a Dartmoor forest on several cold winter's nights, I did, after walking into umpteen trees, get quite good at it.

And no, don't speak.

He was still standing very close to me, I knew that; I could actually feel the warmth of his body. Then there was the soft rustle of his clothing as he turned and went away from me. My eyes were more accustomed to the darkness by now and I could make out the outlines of the trunks of trees, the low branches that might hit me in the face, the trailing leaves. I could just pick up his soft footfalls.

It quickly became lighter ahead, the tree cover opening out and then we were walking down a stony track. Patrick almost immediately – I could see him clearly now – turned aside, crouched and then disappeared downwards. He had slithered down an embankment and I did likewise, arriving on what I now knew to be the track bed of the old Somerset and Dorset railway line. We turned to the left, going beneath a road bridge and I heard a vehicle whoosh across it above our heads.

A minute or so later we climbed the embankment on the other side, emerging on a rough path that led gently downhill and into a lane with high hedges. Before us was the clear outline of a huge weeping willow against the night sky. I knew where I was now as I had explored some of these little back ways since moving to the village. We were around a minute's walk from the rear of the Ring o' Bells.

Even without the ‘no talking' rule I would not have asked about hazards like alarm systems, dogs, people living on the premises and so forth as I knew they had already been taken into consideration. This did not mean that I was not sweating from nerves: our sortie was far too close to home and had all the potential to be a disaster.

The dark, long shape and the irregular roof of the building loomed before us. There was a gated yard at the rear where deliveries by brewery vehicles were made and which also provided access to the public bar and kitchen. As we got closer I was able to make out that the heavy wooden gates to the yard were open. Patrick did not hesitate and we ghosted through them and made our way over to one side where, if anything, it was darker.

I expected security lights to blaze down on us but we remained in darkness. Two cars were parked there: one the large Japanese four-by-four that I knew belonged to Andrews, the other a small hatchback of some kind. I quickly made a note of its registration number. A single light was switched on in an upstairs room of the building, the window of which was open, the curtains wafted outwards by an inner draught. Sounds were emerging through the open window as well, quite unmistakably those made by people engaged in very vigorous sexual intercourse.

Patrick nudged me and we made our way over towards one of the rear doors, which eventually led into the public bar. It was unlocked. All within was in utter darkness but for tiny red and green indicator lights probably on fridges and freezers in what I seemed to remember was a utility room off to our left. Closing the door behind us Patrick then risked switching on his tiny torch, its pencil-like beam at least preventing us from walking headlong into solid objects.

I drew him around to a passageway off to the right in case he did not know where the office was situated. Events upstairs were getting even more exciting, the cries of pleasure the woman was uttering reaching us down the narrow winding staircase that led up from the junction of corridors. I reckoned there was not much time before they hit a resounding jackpot and then possibly, after getting their breath back, someone would come downstairs for refreshments.

The office door was locked but the lock was old-fashioned and soon yielded to Patrick's skeleton keys. He went in; I stayed just outside on watch.

Ye gods, you could even hear the floorboards creaking as the bed bounced up and down.

By the illumination provided by the tiny torch Patrick was going through what appeared to be files and folders so perhaps there was no computer for records. If so this was odd for someone running a business – unless there was one and it was kept upstairs for added security.

Upstairs, The Moment arrived, the female shrieking like a banshee: bed, floorboards and presumably the rest of the furniture, curtains and wallpaper uniting in one long reverberating clamour that moaned down slowly into silence but for exhausted panting.

I went into the room and hissed, ‘I think we ought to go now.'

Patrick appeared to be half inside the deep bottom drawer of a wooden desk, on which there was his pen and note pad, and did not react.

‘They might hear us now,' I fretted.

‘Five minutes,' he murmured. ‘Close the door.'

At the end of what seemed like a good quarter of an hour I heard creaks as someone came down the wooden staircase. A downstairs light was switched on, the door of the office suddenly framed by a thin band of brightness. We stood by the wall close to it so that we would be out of sight if it was opened.

Nothing happened and then came the sound of a kettle being filled. After another pause crockery rattled.

‘Right,' Patrick whispered in my ear. ‘It's coming up the boil so she won't hear us.'

I was nearest so opened the door a cranny and peeped through it into the empty passageway. All we had to do was go the few yards to where it joined the main corridor and then make for the exit.

‘D'you want something to eat?' a woman's voice yelled close by. I couldn't decide whether it sounded vaguely familiar or not.

No reply.

‘He's asleep, you silly cow,' Patrick whispered.

‘Colin, d'you want something to eat?' she bawled, even closer.

There was a loud snoring kind of grunt from upstairs. Then, ‘Yeah, I'll have a burger.'

‘Well, you can do it then. I'm not in the mood for cooking anything complicated.'

The woman then returned to the kitchen. Crockery clattered as though she was slamming around mugs in a temper.

We left as silently and as quickly as possible and did not pause until we reached the gate into the churchyard.

‘Wow!' Patrick exclaimed, short of breath, locking up again. ‘That was interesting.'

I had one thing on my mind. ‘How did you know it was a woman who had come downstairs?'

‘Women always make the tea afterwards.'

‘We never have tea afterwards.'

‘No, but I nearly always go to sleep, don't I? The practicalities of sex, my dear Watson. Did you get the registration of the second car?'

‘I did. What did you find out?'

‘Names of various suppliers. Also customers.'

‘What kind of customers?'

‘It would appear the pub has clients in the service industries – does the catering for corporate bashes, weddings and so forth.'

‘I find that a little hard to believe.'

‘So do I.'

We returned the way we had come.

Matthew was in the kitchen, huddled around a glass of milk on the table before him and looked very surprised to see us.

‘I couldn't sleep,' he said, obviously feeling that his explanation might be the more pressing of the two.

‘Are you worried about your interview with the Youth Offending Team?' Patrick asked him.

‘It's only a short time away.'

Patrick sat at the table with him.

I said, ‘Would you like that turned into hot chocolate?'

Matthew's face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, please.'

‘As I've already said, we'll both be there with you,' Patrick assured him. ‘All you have to do is tell the truth.'

‘Katie said she'd seen you pretending to be a crook of some kind. In the village.'

‘She did. It was unfortunate.'

‘And you've been somewhere tonight.'

‘Yes, and I'm not going to lie to you by saying we couldn't sleep either and went for a walk. Sometimes you have to let people get on with things and not ask questions.'

There had been a hint of steel in this last remark and Matthew dropped his gaze. He found a smile for me when I gave him his hot drink and went off back to his bedroom.

‘He needs something to be happy about to take his mind off it,' I said.

‘OK, we'll start the self-defence lessons tomorrow.'

I was aware that Carrick had been restrained by the stringent rules of police interrogation when he had broken off from questioning Derek Jessop, who had looked as though he was genuinely feeling faint. It was to be hoped that a short time on remand and being put on a course of antibiotics had not strengthened him sufficiently to make him clam up altogether when required to search his memory on certain matters. My fears appeared to be realized when I first entered the interview room at ten a.m. a couple of days later with James Carrick and the man's face displayed a defiant smirk.

‘You're permitted to have a solicitor present,' the DCI pointed out.

Jessop mouthed something obscene at him which is not worth repeating.

‘As you wish.' Carrick then went on to open the interview formally and started the recording machine.