Rat Poison (28 page)

The road began to climb and soon I came to a fork, a narrower road off to the left. I took it, even though it would not go right past where I was aiming for. I did not want to use the front entrance, did I? The hedges were quite high, which was very useful to me, the verges thick with wild flowers, the white ones almost luminous in the twilight, something I would have enjoyed in different circumstances and which now ‘lit' my way.

My powers of concentration are good – they have to be if you write novels in a fairly crowded household – but I was finding it more and more difficult to focus. My whole being wanted to rush into this place, wildly shooting at anyone who tried to stop me. Usually I have Patrick's steadying influence to keep me on track as he had been practically pickled in self-control during special forces training.

‘He trained
me
,' I said out loud. ‘God, woman, you've done enough of this kind of thing with him. The only thing I don't have is a map.'

But I did not need a map; the whole of a shallow valley was opening out before me as the ground fell away and, through a field gateway, I found myself gazing into a fold in the downs towards an almost secret place: a largish house and farm buildings just visible in the fast-fading daylight. I immediately stepped into the lee of the hedge so I could peep through the outer vegetation without being seen. Was anyone keeping watch on the surrounding countryside? Somehow I doubted it.

As I stood there, a light came on in the house, and then another. Realizing I should be planning my route while I could see I risked going to the gate again and leaning over it. The field was large and adjoined several others, all down to pasture with a clump of trees in the top end of the farthest one visible. All presumably were accessible from the lane and I carried on along it, walking more quickly now.

I reckoned that, once there, if I stayed behind the right-hand hedge of the farthest field I would, initially, be less likely to be seen from the house and could then cut across and head for the cover of the trees, which looked to be only a matter of a hundred yards from the house. But I needed to get off this road before I was mown down by a car; a driver would be unable to see me in my dark clothing.

Then a car did come along and I flung myself aside into the hedge. It roared past, the driver oblivious. I tore myself free from a long strand of bramble with difficulty and carried on, jogging now. It was still possible to see my way and being the middle of summer I knew it would be quite a while before it became really dark. I had no intention of blundering around in the pitch black.

After going what seemed to be quite a long way, the lane curving gently to the right before me, I arrived at another gateway. One quick look told me that I was only at the next field to the first one and had much farther to go than I had originally thought. I set off again, running now, wishing I had worked at getting myself back to full fitness after having Mark.

But when you're a consultant for SOCA do you really have to run a four-minute mile? Apparently, yes.

Blowing like a horse, I reached the next field and saw that I only needed to get to the one following. There were more lights on in the house now but I did not pause to look further. Another car approached, from behind me, and I found a thorn-free niche this time.

Finally, I reached the field and, realizing that I could keep the clump of trees between me and the house for a long way, set off and, having got my breath back, ran again. I had to hold my arms tightly to my sides as the contents of my capacious pockets tended to jingle around. Then I remembered that I had not told Michael Greenway the correct name of the house. It was too late now.

The trees, unmistakably beeches even in this light, had been planted in what appeared to be an almost perfect circle. I headed for their cover gratefully, now feeling horribly exposed in the open pasture, like an ant on a carpet. At last the dark, cool greenery sheltered me and I stood for several minutes in the cathedral-like calm trying to formulate some kind of plan, failing utterly. There was an open space in the centre of the trees and I walked into it and looked up, the first stars twinkling palely above. I'm not really a religious person but right then I did pray for us.

Cautiously approaching the far side of the ring I paused behind a massive trunk and looked at the house. Slightly uphill and almost sideways to me now it appeared as just a jumbled series of rectangles and there seemed to be a boundary hedge, which was logical. I decided to make for the dark outbuildings over to my left.

The upward slope and the hedge, which appeared to be high and straggly, meant that it would be unlikely anyone indoors could see me and there did not appear to be many windows on this side of the house anyway. With this in mind I made for the corner of the field where I hoped to be able to get over or through it. Even better, there was another gateway which I guessed would have originally provided direct access for cattle into the original farmyard.

The whole place was on a much bigger scale than I had imagined and the word ‘estate' suddenly made sense. Standing quite still at one side of the gateway, almost right in the hedge, I could see that the yard was huge and cluttered up with derelict machinery of various kinds. The cowsheds and a large barn I thought were brick-built – my mentor had told me that too much intelligence is never a bad thing and in the event of them being wood I could burn them down – the bare roof beams of some of them silhouetted against the sky like the broken ribs of some large animal carcass. The barn appeared to still be in possession of its roof but there was an ominous sag in it.

I pretended I was Patrick and sensed the air, slowly breathing in the evening breeze as it flowed through the gateway. I could smell damp, rotting wood, another earthy scent, perhaps a very old manure pile and  . . . a fusty, sweaty smell. Then a strong scent of cigarette smoke. Someone was standing outside smoking.

Why? Were these mobsters so health conscious and house-proud that they did not want anyone smoking indoors? It seemed just about impossible so one must assume that whoever it was was outside for a purpose. And where was he or she? As if to answer my question there was the suspicion of a movement near the barn and then a telltale tiny red glow as the smoker inhaled. This was very useful to me and, judging by the rate at which it was being smoked, the glow moving jerkily, this person was extremely nervous. Then, easy to make out and hear, a figure half-ran towards the house, tripping over something and almost falling in their haste. Half a minute later, when I was on the point of moving, I heard shouting in the distance. I stayed right where I was and, after roughly the same period of time had elapsed, someone reappeared – I had an idea the same someone, only with a bottle this time. I also had an idea he had something in his other hand. He became invisible to me again.

As quietly as possible, I climbed over the gate. There was deep shadow here by the hedge, which had a ditch-like depression at its base, and as I paused again to listen I sensed, rather than saw, that there was something in it, almost at my feet. For some reason all the little hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I first nudged whatever it was with a foot and then made myself bend down to touch it. My first impressions had been correct: it was a body.

Forced to crouch there, my ears roaring as I nearly fainted, I nevertheless ran my hands over that part of the corpse that I could reach. The shoes were trainers; Patrick had been wearing trainers. The cloth of the trousers was denim; Patrick had been wearing a pair of black jeans. There was a leather belt of some kind; Patrick had been wearing a leather belt. By this time I could hardly go on but ended up on my knees by the body, examining the rest. The shirt was impossible to identify but Patrick had been wearing a black shirt, no tie. No tie here. A couple of days of beard stubble – that tallied too. But this man had been quite bald on top.

I almost vomited then. Had she pulled all his hair out? But no, the pate was smooth, normal skin, albeit cold and clammy. I had a sudden thought and felt down the chest, which the body was half lying on, encountering a hefty beer gut. And fool, fool, my husband has an artificial foot – why hadn't I examined that first?

My left hand was sticky; this man had been stabbed to death in the chest somewhere. I had no choice but to wipe it off on his shirt. I then somehow knew that this was not the only body here; there was another dark humped shape a little farther away. Having carefully surveyed my surroundings and listened for a full two minutes – there was still a lot of shouting going on somewhere, probably in the house – I crawled to it, going straight to the right leg this time. It was a real one and I got a lot more blood on myself because this man had had his throat cut.

In a quandary now I eased my cramped legs but did not stand up. Did I just use my mobile to phone the police? Then I froze as someone came into view against the last tiny remaining glimmer of the sunset. The same man? Another? This one had a bottle too, belched and then took a quick gulp from it. He appeared to be watching the barn, not removing his gaze from it. My eyes were really accustomed to the near darkness now and for the first time I noticed the stairs on the side of the barn that gave access to the loft area. Someone was halfway down them, slowly, silently, a frame at a time.

For a moment I thought I had imagined this as then I could see the figure no longer. On the corner of the barn was a large barrel, no doubt used as a water butt, and it seemed to me that this might be a little wider than before. But when you strain your eyes to see at night it can sometimes appear that even the darkness dances. I transferred my gaze back to the man with the bottle who now, I thought with a twinge of alarm, was facing me. He placed the bottle on the ground and reached into a pocket. It was the last thing he did.

Something he had been holding in his other hand fell to the ground with a heavy thud and then he was lowered to join it. There was what appeared to be a quick examination for any signs of life and a frisking of the body before it was hoisted up in a fireman's lift and brought over to where I crouched in the shadows, concealed by the hedge. The burden rolled into the ditch with the others. Breathing hard from exertion the killer began to walk away.

‘It's me,' I whispered.

There was a muffled exclamation and he came back. A hand was extended and I was helped out.

‘Bloody wonderful woman – do you have any water purification tablets with you?' Patrick asked hoarsely.

I told him I did and for a moment he clung to me and I was sure he was close to tears.

Slowly, up in the loft in the barn in darkness, a small amount at a time, I fed him purified water from the rain barrel. Although dehydrated he had not dared to drink it as it stank to high heaven and had existed on just a little rain that had dripped through the roof of the barn. I was fairly sure the smell was only as a result of the leaves in it rotting as ours at home smells like this too sometimes before it is cleared out. I had a couple of high energy chocolate bars with me too and some Kendal mint cake.

‘They'll storm the barn again soon,' Patrick said after a little while, speaking very quietly, recovering. ‘And, sadly, this door's off.'

I had asked no questions yet but with his little torch – he complained about the waste of the batteries – located the bloody place on his head where the lock of hair had been pulled out.

‘Someone'll hear the shooting though, surely.'

‘No, they don't use guns; they daren't as there's another house around a quarter of a mile away and any firing would probably be heard in the town. So far I've managed to kick most of them back down the stairs and their nerve goes. They took my phone and Glock but didn't find the knife so I taught them to be more careful in future by killing two of them with it. She got me by the hair but I pulled free and made for here. They've left me to stew and weaken, sending in a couple of blokes at a time to wear me down. Cat and mouse.'

‘She sent the bits of hair to me.'

‘You can put them in a locket.' He chuckled, kissed me and then went over to the door where he was keeping watch every half minute or so.

‘But what's all this
about
?' I said, or rather squeaked. ‘Why not just go off and call Greenway?'

‘There'd be a massacre of cops. You wouldn't believe the weaponry they've got in there, sub-machine guns, everything, together with explosives for bank jobs and safes. No, this is far better for a while. Nearly all of them – and there's around thirty blokes in there – are either alcoholics or drug addicts. It's the hold Uncle and Murphy have over them. She's a junkie too, in case you hadn't guessed already. What you must realize is that most of these people are out of their heads. Mass murder's nothing to them. They'd shoot up the whole of Steyning for a laugh if they'd killed a lot of police and then run for it, just like they did in Bath.'

‘So your reasoning is?'

Patrick checked the yard again. ‘They know I'm up here and dare not move to leave as they also know I'm on to them. So the thinking is it's far easier to finish me off without making a noise, but I'm dealing, one way or another, with everyone they send out to keep an eye on me. They're all armed but can't see me as there's no electricity in the farm buildings. And if you drink like a fish and/or take drugs it ruins all your faculties over time. Any more choc?'

I rummaged in my pockets and found a Mars bar. ‘And then what?'

‘They'll crack in the end and start firing.'

‘We can fire first. I've got the Smith and Wesson.'

‘Yes, if we have to. But I'd rather terrorize the bastards and shorten the odds a bit first. Make Uncle sweat for a bit. With a bit of luck they'll end up by losing it completely and killing one another.'

‘Is Carol Trelonic in there?'

‘No, I got rid of her on the way here – shoved her in a bush when the car stopped for her to throw up. No one noticed. She was just expendable baggage anyway.'