Authors: Alan Judd
‘Sounds as if you need protection after all. I’m going to have to pass this on, you realise that? It’s a police matter, I can’t withhold information about serious
crime.’
‘Protection is trying to find me now.’
‘You’re not waiting? You’re going ahead alone?’
‘Not entirely.’
He next rang DI Whitely. ‘Where are you?’
‘Down the road from his place, in my own car. No movement.’ She spoke softly.
‘I think there soon will be. Heading out towards the country, Ashburnham area. Are you able to go with him? I’m sending someone to join you who’ll take over when you have to
get to the childminder’s.’
‘I’ll see if they can have her for the evening. They’ve done it before in emergencies but I don’t like to push it.’ She paused. ‘Hang on, there’s
movement. He’s coming out. I’d better go.’
Charles next went to the cupboard under the stairs where he had hidden the guns he brought down from London. It was not secure – the police would seize them if they knew – but it
would have to do. He didn’t shoot regularly any more but always assumed he would in some imagined leisurely future.
He laid all five carefully on the dining-room floor. He still hadn’t admitted to himself that he had decided to go armed – a serious and illegal escalation which at the very least
would cost him his firearm certificate– but knew he would. Choice of weapon depended on which circumstances he thought he’d face. The two shotguns were ideal for close-quarters work,
one to one, but too indiscriminate if he were trying to shoot Peter without hitting Sarah. The .22, with telescopic sights and silencer, would be fine for distance work but that was unlikely in a
wood and anyway he’d need to be sure of hitting a vital organ to stop someone. He hesitated over the Savage, a useful .22 and .410 rifle-shotgun combination, something of a favourite. But he
chose the last, the Winchester 30-30, his father’s quixotic purchase, justified by the alleged need to cull muntjac in the Chilterns but never, so far as Charles knew, used in anger.
Until now, perhaps. He worked the under-lever action familiar to viewers of a thousand ancient Westerns. It was a compact weapon and although over open sites he wouldn’t trust himself at
more than eighty to a hundred yards, it fired a heavy enough round to ensure that what it hit stayed hit. Bush guns, they were called in America, ideal for close country. He remembered an idle day
on leave from the army, knocking the tops off old iron fence posts with it until his mother protested at the noise. Like much of the past, it seemed so innocent. Especially now, as he also
remembered showing the gun to Peter during that weekend.
He loaded four rounds, pushing each into the magazine with the snub nose of the next. The mechanism reminded him of Dante’s medieval popes in hell, crammed one on top of the other for
– what was it – simony? Thinking of other things was a refuge, he knew. If he stopped to think about what he was doing – a semi-public official taking the law into his own hands,
going to kill or be killed by an old friend, hazarding his wife’s life without waiting for the help that was on its way – he would not act. But waiting meant leaving responsibility to
someone else, another form of refuge. The only alternative would be to go naked into Peter Tew’s trap, hands in the air, agreeing to anything, including his own immediate extinction, provided
he saw her walk free.
So why didn’t he? The question hovered unanswered as he wrapped the Winchester in a sleeping bag and laid it on the floor of the Bristol.
DI Whitely followed Michael Swavesy’s white van into the industrial estate. There was enough traffic for her to keep two or three cars between him and her Corsa, also
enough to keep him from pulling out of sight. But in the estate she had to let him go when he turned off towards the garages behind the tower blocks. It would be too obvious to follow, especially
as there was no clear way out. She turned round farther down the road and parked outside a car parts business, facing the way they had come. Her phone rang while she was still debating whether she
had enough things with her, ideally a bag she could bulk out, to pass as a woman from the tower blocks walking past the garages with her shopping.
It was Charles Thoroughgood. ‘Where are you?’
She told him.
‘Okay. I’m in my car, parked up, not far from where I think he’s going. Have you got a map?’
‘I’ve got a phone.’
‘I don’t know whether grid references are any help but I’ll give it to you anyway.’ He described what he thought she would see on her phone. ‘It’s a barn by
itself in the corner of a small field, with the footpath branching off and running right past it. You have to go through some woods to get to it. I think he said it was thatched. I’m pretty
sure that’s where your quarry is headed but I’m not sure whether he’ll hide himself in the barn or stake it out. He’s almost certainly armed. Don’t go near him, just
do enough to confirm he’s in the area.’
‘Is the armed response unit on its way? Do they know about it?’
‘They’ll have been told and may be on their way but they’ll almost certainly be too late. Any worries, pull back. It’s not worth risking your life. As I said, I’m
sending a former colleague to help you. He’s local so he knows the area but it’s a long time since he did anything like this and he was never much good at it anyway. But he’s
another pair of eyes and has his own vehicle which your quarry won’t have seen. I’ve told him you’re in charge so don’t take any nonsense and if he’s no use, send him
home. He’s waiting to hear from you.’ He gave her Jeremy’s name and mobile. ‘As I said, Louise, don’t take any chances. If in doubt, drop out.’
She appreciated his use of her first name and smiled despite herself. This was better than recording burglaries and break-ins that were never going to be cleared up. ‘You’ll square
this with my super, will you?’
‘The Foreign Secretary knows about it. The Home Secretary soon will.’
When Jeremy joined her, Michael Swavesy had still not reappeared. The year-old silver Range Rover, the most conspicuous vehicle in the estate, had to be his, she thought. He sounded like a Range
Rover on the phone, grand and all-encompassing, assuring her as if she were a frightened little girl that he would be with her ‘Asap – that is, as soon as possible’.
She wasn’t reassured when he squeezed into the Corsa and she felt the springs go down. His palm was clammy. ‘Good to be back on the street again,’ he said. ‘So
where’s our quarry?’
She told him.
‘Well, I can walk in there, can’t I?’
‘Not without a garage to go to. It would look odd. One of us might be able to walk past the turning but we wouldn’t necessarily be able to see which garage he’s using or what
he’s doing.’
‘I can if I’m the local MP out canvassing.’
‘But you’re not.’
‘I am.’ His smile was surprisingly gentle. ‘Not quite my constituency but close enough to feign confusion. I’ve got some leaflets in the car. Always keep a few, just in
case. I’ll walk round.’
She watched his bulky figure approach the tower blocks, survey them proprietorially, then disappear in the garage turning. He reappeared after a couple of minutes, still unhurried.
‘Did you see him?’ he asked. ‘The motorcyclist?’
‘That was him?’ A motorcyclist had emerged not long after Jeremy went in but she had been looking only for the white van.
He gave her the bike’s number. ‘His garage is number seventeen. His van’s in it. He’d done the change-over with the door closed, which is suspicious. I was walking past
when he opened it to push his bike out. Slapped a leaflet on him which he didn’t want, of course, but he couldn’t say no. Then I stood in the way asking about local issues. He was
obviously in a hurry, didn’t want to say anything. When I asked in a friendly way where he was off to he was stumped for a moment, then he said, ‘Battle, I go for rides in the country
outside Battle.’ So I kept him a bit longer, talking about how lovely it is, then let him go. We’ve lost him now, of course, but we know where he’s heading and might be able to
pick him up out there.’
They took both cars. Jeremy knew the lane but not the barn. At his suggestion they left his Range Rover at the Swan, where he and Charles had dined, and headed down towards the wooded
declivities of Ashburnham.
‘First on the left,’ he said, then began telling her about his career.
The lane was narrower even than the one they’d left. ‘How far until it becomes unmetalled and there’s the track to the barn?’ she interrupted.
‘About a mile.’
‘But if that’s where he’s going we’d better not drive up there, had we? He’ll see us. We should park somewhere here and walk across country.’
Jeremy looked as if the thought of walking was uncongenial. ‘How would we know he’s there when we get there? We can hardly call out for him.’
She had to brake hard as they rounded a bend into a pack of bloodhounds that surged like a good-natured sea around the car, their ears flapping and jaws slobbering. One stood on its hind legs at
the passenger door, its paws on the roof.
‘God!’ said Jeremy, leaning heavily on her. ‘I don’t like dogs, I’ve got a thing about dogs.’
A man on a tall grey horse shouted and cracked his whip at the hound, which immediately rejoined the pack as he edged his horse past them. Bringing up the rear was a woman on a bay horse.
‘Ask her if she’s seen a man on a motorbike,’ said Louise.
‘Not with all these dogs, I’m not getting out.’
‘How come you did all those things you say you did then?’
‘Not many dogs on the diplomatic circuit.’
The woman was helpful. Yes, they had seen a man on a motorbike, he’d almost come off when he saw the hounds. Luckily he wasn’t going very fast. They were crossing the lane in front
of him then and he’d carried on up the track towards the farm. But he hadn’t gone to the farm, she knew that.
‘Where did he go?’
‘To the barn along the footpath. He’s parked round the back and gone inside. The doors are open. Can’t think what he’d be doing in there, he was quite alone so he’s
obviously not doing what some people go there for.’ She laughed. ‘It’s open to the public, you see, it’s a very old barn, restored for local people to use, parties or
picnics or bird-watching or whatever they want. Must get on, sorry.’ She edged her horse past the car.
‘How d’you know he’s in there?’ called Louise.
The woman pointed her riding crop at the hounds. ‘They told us. They always know where people go. We came back down past the barn and they milled around, pointing. It couldn’t have
been anyone else because we’d have seen them come up. And his bike’s round the back. I might be wrong of course but they were definitely telling us there’s someone in
there.’ She wheeled away. ‘Sorry. Bye.’
Louise got back in the car. ‘They stink, those hounds.’
‘I know.’
She rang Charles but there was no answer.
‘Where is he?’ asked Jeremy.
‘Somewhere near here, he said.’
Jeremy shook his head. ‘Communication was never Thoroughgood’s strong point.’
A text came through from Charles, telling her to communicate by that means. She told him what she’d heard. He told them to stay in the area but to keep well back, not to approach the barn.
‘We’d better find somewhere to park up,’ she said.
‘Anyone who sees us will think we’re a courting couple.’
She said nothing to that but drove on until they came to a wide gateway into woodland, with heaps of logs piled just inside. She reversed into it and switched off.
‘Unless I’m recognised, of course,’ Jeremy said. ‘That wouldn’t be so good.’
‘Not very likely here.’
‘Don’t suppose your husband would approve, either.’
‘Haven’t got a husband.’
She was aware of him glancing at her, so she took an interest in the nearest logs. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d been more attractive and a bit less obvious about it. Could be fun
to have an MP, a change from the unlamented father of Tilly.
He turned to her with a solemn expression which she imagined was meant to convey understanding and sympathy. ‘Tell me about yourself, how you became a policewoman, life and
everything.’
‘I was thinking we might take a discreet walk around to get the feel of the area, off the road and not too near the barn, of course. Just enough to direct the armed response unit when they
come.’
Jeremy grunted as he released his seat belt. ‘Be more helpful if Thoroughgood could bring himself to tell the world where he is and what’s going on.’
They cut up through the woods parallel with the lane. It was heavy going at first, a mixture of bracken and brambles, but easier as they got farther into the wood. When they were parallel with
the point where the lane turned down to the right and became unmetalled, while the track to the farm went straight on, she said, ‘The barn should be ahead and off to our left.’
Jeremy was breathing heavily. ‘May as well take a look as we’ve come this far.’
‘Not sure we should. Don’t want to alert him. Or get ourselves shot. He’s got form, this man.’
‘Useful to be able to tell the armed response unit how close they can get in vehicles.’
He had his good points. ‘As long as we’re careful, then.’
Still under tree cover, they made their way down a hill, across a boggy valley and up through a neglected strip of alder and willow. ‘That must be the field with the barn,’ she
whispered, pointing to the green through the trees. ‘The footpath runs along the side of the wood in front of us. If we turn left we should come to the edge of the wood where we might be able
to see it.’
They picked their way through a thicket of fallen trees and branches. She led while he grunted and wheezed behind her. Every so often she stopped to check her phone and let him catch up.
Eventually, after crossing a deep ditch and scrambling with too much noise up the other side, they crouched a few yards from the edge of the wood, within sight of the barn.
It was small and thatched as Charles had said, with black weather-boarding and brick steps up to the wide doors, which were open. It was too dark inside to see anything. On the grass outside was
a round plastic table with two white plastic chairs facing a small grass-grown pond. About thirty yards down the overgrown slope to the side of the barn were the remains of an old brick building, a
few small apple trees and three beehives.