Deep Shelter (22 page)

“No. And I didn’t send the hair in.”

“It would be a pretty good ploy.”

“It would be amazing. Do you think I did?”

“I don’t know. But, as you point out, it doesn’t make a difference what I think. I could have a guy walk in covered in blood making a confession, but it’s still you taking her down into tunnels then removing all evidence of it. I’ve had three journalists calling in the last half-hour. We put a picture of her out there. This is going front page and I can’t see what you expect me to do, Nick.”

“Arrest me.”

“Is that meant to be a challenge?”

“No. What else are you going to do? Place me under arrest. I’ll be off your hands soon enough. Or get Derek Rosen to do it. I’d do it myself but I can’t be arsed with the paperwork.”

“It’s not funny, Nick.”

“No.”

He picked up Jayden Culler’s statement. Then he saw, beneath it, a file with the name: Duncan Powell.

“You got the file on Duncan Powell’s killing.”

“I got it. I spent an hour chasing a crappy attempt at a hit-and-run investigation. Now I’m wondering why you were so keen on having me do that.”

Belsey opened the file. It was the full investigation, seven sheets. The unenthusiastic attempt by Barnet CID. But not entirely feeble.

“It won’t be much use to you, Nick. Not unless your suspect is in Wiltshire.”

Belsey stopped, his hand above the file.

“Why Wiltshire?”

“Take a look.”

Belsey read. Craik watched him, perturbed by this sudden intensity. Barnet had accessed records of all calls Powell made in the days and hours preceding his death. One area code was conspicuous—01373.

“Whereabouts in Wiltshire?”

“A village called Piltbury.”

“We’ve got him,” Belsey said quietly. Craik didn’t look impressed by this breakthrough. “We need to dial it.”

“You can dial it all you want. It’s a phone box.”

“In Piltbury?”

“Yes. You’re saying the answer lies in a village in the West Country? That’s nice. I thought we were looking for someone who was in Belsize Park on Monday.”

“The suspect has come into London,” Belsey said. “He’s not a Londoner. He doesn’t sound like a Londoner.” He examined the phone info again: three calls, one a day in the three days leading up to Powell’s death. Long calls. The first lasted twenty-one minutes, then a forty-five minute call on Sunday the ninth, then a nine-minute call at 10 a.m. on the Monday. They must have been arranging to meet. It was seven hours before Powell was killed. Enough time for someone to travel from Piltbury to London.

Belsey put the number into his phone and went to his PC. He found a map of Piltbury. The village was twenty miles west of Swindon, ten miles east of Bath. It was tiny, population of less than a couple of hundred, he guessed. The screen was mostly white. The towns a few miles either side seemed to crumble into scattered fragments surrounded by nothing, a void.

He took out his phone and found the most recent communication from Ferryman: a photograph of standing stones. How low was the sun, he wondered? How recently was it taken? He’s there. He’s telling me he’s there.

Think outside the box
.

Belsey imagined someone amid all that white, filling it with thoughts of London: London tunnels, London police, its government and its secret service. He imagined the sense of invulnerability, diving in and out of the capital. Commuting. Best of both worlds: the civilised peace of the countryside, the hardened nuclear war defences of London. He imagined being in Piltbury, thinking of all the Met detectives searching the big bad city, running around your maze, tying themselves into knots. And you’ve got your captive amid all that space.

He walked over to Craik’s office. She looked at him. She didn’t say anything. He went down to his car.

ALMOST HALF TEN. QUIET ON THE RADIOS. NO HOMICIDE
news in London. Belsey hit the M4 in minutes.

Nearest police station to Piltbury was in Chippenham, five miles away. He called Wiltshire Police and got put through. They didn’t know of anyone suspicious in Piltbury. No click on the vague suspect description Belsey gave. No incidents in the area recently, of any kind.

He refilled the Skoda at Reading services and wondered what he was doing. The fields beyond the service station were very empty. The night air smelt sweet and utterly foreign. He was being steered onto someone else’s territory, alone.

Belsey checked his cuffs and spray and began to drive again. Half an hour later Swindon appeared, a brief, orange smudge on the horizon. He passed signs for deer, theme parks and stone circles. Then he reached the turn-off for Piltbury.

The village was visible in the distance as you left the motorway, a thin stretch of grey houses backed up against a steep hill. A square church tower broke the line of roofs. Then as you got closer the road sunk between hedgerows and the view was lost. The next time you saw the village you were in it.

Belsey passed through a scatter of newer homes on the outskirts, obediently conforming to the slate-grey of the older cottages. They led to a main street with a convenience store and a tea-shop.
Recommended by the Wiltshire Tourist Board
. The place wasn’t Cotswold classic though, no village of the year awards going to Piltbury. Station Approach led to a small building with empty hanging baskets and a low platform. The main road ended at a roundabout with bare hillside and flowers blown flat in each direction.

Belsey returned to the high street and parked. There were no people, it seemed. No streetlights. Once the door of the Skoda closed behind him all artificial light was gone. Thousands of stars appeared as piercings in the sky. The hill rising above the houses thickened the darkness. He listened to the sound of a world without humans: branches and water. He considered knocking on doors then took his mobile out and dialled the Piltbury number. Somewhere in the distance a phone rang.

Belsey followed the sound. He cut down a path between houses to the church with the square tower that he’d noticed. He dialled again and the phone was a lot closer. A minute past the church towards the village’s northern edge and there it was, a red telephone box, its concrete platform subsided into the earth so that it stood unevenly in front of a steep wood.

Belsey opened the box and stood in it. He wasn’t sure what he expected. It didn’t have the urinary smack of London boxes. He lifted the receiver. It was still working. Not too many vandals in Piltbury he guessed. He stepped out. There was more water flowing somewhere in the wood. He listened, wondering what he was going to do now, then heard a more familiar sound. A bell rang. Belsey checked his watch. Last orders.

He walked faster now, chasing this new sound back to the roundabout. After another moment he saw a low, thatched pub. The Quarry House. He walked in. Five locals huddled at the bar, four large men with pints, one woman on a stool with a brandy. A younger couple were playing dominoes at a back table. It was warm, with rusted implements of industry and agriculture decorating the wooden beams. The bar was a small shrine of beer mats and postcards of other places. Belsey studied the crowd but didn’t see a man young enough to be his suspect. All were either too tall or too broad and most had facial hair. He showed his police badge to a teenage barmaid.

“I’m looking for a man about my height, usually clean shaven, might wear a hoodie. He’s been in London a lot recently. Anyone in the village fit that description?”

She shook her head, eyes wide. Her customers had started gathering around. Belsey repeated the question, got nothing but frowns and more shakes of the head.

“Seen a van about? A white Vauxhall Vivaro?”

“What did you say he’s done?” a man asked. He had a local accent, tanned forearms, a shirt open halfway down his chest.

“He’s wanted in connection with two murders in London,” Belsey said. “Right now it’s possible he’s abducted a young woman and is holding her hostage.”

There was a gasp, some urgent muttering.

“And he’s from Piltbury?” the woman on the stool asked, slurring slightly. She was wearing a lot of make-up.

“I don’t know. It’s one possibility. He’s been using the phone box over by the church.”

The pub was quiet. He had their attention now. Two of the men began to confer, the one in the open shirt and a taller man whose bald head almost brushed the low ceiling. They turned and spoke to the others.

“That fellow. Walks around sometimes.”

“It could be.”

“Tell me about this fellow,” Belsey said.

“Seen him about at night.”

“Not a local?”

“Told me he was,” the woman on the stool said. “Think he had family around here.”

“What else does he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Know where he’s staying?”

“Hill View,” one of the men said. There was some more consultation. “Yes, Hill View.”

“What’s Hill View?”

“It’s an old farmhouse,” the tall man said. “You can rent it. Over the other side and past the phone box.”

It was him then, Belsey thought. He was in the right place.

“You’ve seen him about?”

“At night.”

“I saw him buying food once,” the woman said. “In the store.”

“Who’s he killed?” the barmaid asked, slow with disbelief. The couple had abandoned their dominoes and were on the phone: “Darling, make sure all the windows are closed.”

“Where is the farmhouse in relation to the road?” Belsey asked.

“A little way on from the phone box you’ll see a track,” the bald man said. “Cuts through the trees. That will lead you to the gate. You’ll see the house from there.”

“OK.”

“Are you going on your own?” the barmaid asked.

“Anyone want to come with?”

There were no offers. Belsey left his name and number to call in case they needed him. He didn’t add: and so you know who the corpse belongs to. He told them all to keep an eye out, not to approach anyone, to contact local police if they couldn’t get through to him. He checked the clock.

“Am I in time to get a large Jameson’s?”

The barmaid put the whisky on the counter. He offered a fiver and she just stared at him. Belsey downed it and left. He heard the door being bolted.

He walked back to the phone box. The track began a couple of metres beyond it, a narrow dirt path leading into the trees. Belsey followed it through the rustling darkness of the small wood and out again to fields. It continued along the side of the hill to a gate, and beyond the gate to the farmhouse.

The house stood alone, facing away from the village, with its lights on. Fields continued rising behind it, becoming rocky and treeless. The gate was fastened with a loop of string. Belsey closed it quietly behind him and approached.

The curtains were drawn. It was an old slate farmhouse. He watched for movement behind the curtains, then circled the house to a garden portioned off from the surrounding hillside by a low fence.

The French windows at the back of the house were open an inch. The curtains were drawn here too. He could see movement through the crack between them. Belsey took a step nearer and heard music playing. He touched the back of the curtains, then swept them to the side and walked in.

A woman screamed. A florid man in a shirt and a cardigan spun from shopping bags. The woman wore a dressing gown.

Belsey produced his badge.

“Jesus Christ!” the man said. Belsey appraised the scene: a bottle of Shiraz on the go, suitcase open, everything cosy.

“Is this your home?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re on holiday.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About three hours,” the woman said, indignantly.

“Do you know who was here before?”

“I’ve no idea. What’s happened?”

Everyone took a breath. A holiday cottage. He’d been lured to a holiday cottage. Why?

The house was snug: kitchen at the back, living room with a basket of logs and a working fireplace. But a sense of wooded isolation seeped in. Three hours, he thought. The place had been cleaned before that: J-cloths over the taps, drying rack empty, floor swept. In the centre of the kitchen table was a guestbook. Belsey flicked through. The last entry had been signed 24 May: Mr. and Mrs. Wilton found the cottage delightful if a bit cold at night. That left a gap of almost three weeks.

“Who runs the place?”

“The owner, Caroline.”

By the guestbook was a note from her:
I hope you enjoy your stay at Hill View House. In case of emergency, call me. Caroline Mitchell
. Belsey took his phone out. No signal.

“Does she live nearby?”

“In the next village along. Tilherst. Signal’s awful here and there’s no landline.”

They all checked their phones.

“Here,” the woman said, hovering close to the French windows. “I’ve got a bit of signal.” She dialled, and by the time she passed the phone the owner had already answered.

“Hello?”

“This is Detective Constable Nick Belsey. I’m at Hill View House. Was there a man staying here recently?”

“Yes. Why?”

“On his own?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

“Mr. Ferryman. I never knew a first name.”

Belsey sighed.

“When did he leave?”

“Last week. Friday morning. Almost a week ago.”

“How long was he here?”

“Two weeks exactly.”

“Could you describe him?”

“Not well, I only saw him twice. Reasonably tall, lightish hair. Very pale. I’d say he was in his late thirties.”

“You didn’t see him when he left?”

“No. They just pop the key back through the letter box.”

“Could you come to the cottage? I’d like to ask you a few more questions about this man.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain.”

“Now?”

“Immediately.”

Belsey explored the house. Narrow stairs twisted up to a single bedroom with a quilted bedspread beneath sloping beams. Everything was spotless. Beside it was a bathroom. The paint was new, everything new, but the taps were rusted. So was the metal trim on the cupboard and mirror. He ran his finger over the rust then went back to the garden.