Tainted Ground (24 page)

I had overlooked the fact that the path, little more than a dip in the snow, curved quite close to houses. But I did not want to leave it and strike blindly across country. Dogs barked, sending my heart into my mouth, and I almost ran right into a white cow – it was so large it could well have been a bull – that was lying down concealed by a hump of snow-covered briars. It jerked to its feet with a snort and thundered off, rousing a couple of pheasants roosting in a nearby tree which flew away, their clattering alarm calls loud enough to waken a sleeping army.

I slowed right down to give everything a chance to settle down, noticing with surprise that I was now only a matter of ten yards from the hornbeam hedge that formed the boundary of Hinton Mill. I could see that the lights were on by the row of garages and, on impulse, as quietly as possible, went closer. Some leaves still adhered to the hedge but it was fairly recently planted and although just above my head in height was quite thin. I found a place where I could see right through it.

Two of the garage doors were up, the spaces within a gaping blackness, and, as I watched, a woman, someone I did not recognize, came out of the nearest one carrying a package and went into the other, emerging moments later without it. She then closed and locked both garages and walked away.

I returned to the path and carried on running. A couple of hundred yards farther on I reached what I thought must be the copse but there were only a few trees and I wasted time trying to detect where the other path might be. Finally, I ran on, quite quickly coming to a much larger group of trees. It was very dark inside as they were conifers and I could see nothing at all. I had no choice but to walk around the outside and then strike across the field in the direction I thought the path might go.

Already, it seemed, I could be lost.

My feet were soaking wet by this time and becoming very cold, my trainers making squelching noises. The ground rose and soon I had to slow to a walk, conscious that I was puffing like a train. Then, quite by accident, I came upon a trail of footprints. Was this the path? It led in the right direction, uphill. Soon, I came to a fence and another stile, a detail I could not remember from the map. The field I found myself in was still down to autumn stubble, the tips poking through the layer of snow, sheep nibbling on what they could find. It was huge, crossing it seemed to take for ever and I slowed to a walk, not wishing to make them panic.

I crested a rise, left the sheep behind and ran again but after a while was going uphill once more and forced back to a walk. Once again I came to a fence and stile and another field with sheep, a few of which trotted off when they sensed my presence. A freezing wind met me: I was on open hillside, the ground flattening out, so I ran on. Then, on the wind, I heard the sound of a distant motorbike, seemingly over to my left but somewhere below. I stopped, crouching down in case I was silhouetted against the white background and gazed around me, breathing deeply.

If I had paused a few minutes previously I would probably have spotted my destination. There was no mistaking that brutal outline. I had come too far to the north and much higher up than I need have done and was probably in the middle of the last of the three fields that Steven had crossed in his tractor. No matter, this was better than plodding around somewhere below unable to get my bearings.

The single headlight of the bike came briefly into view as it flashed past a gateway and then there was only an intermittent glow as it travelled along the deep winding lanes. It was too soon to tell if it was heading for the barn. There was other traffic; a vehicle was moving slowly somewhere over to my left, going away from me, and on the other side of the valley the occasional lights of other cars went to and fro on a busier road.

I set off downhill and almost immediately came upon the fresh tracks of a heavy vehicle. This was more than I had hoped for and I jogged on. An untidy low hedge appeared ahead of me and a gate. This had to be a Hagtop boundary as the gate was rotten and literally leaning against the post at one end, the hinges having gone and been replaced with baler twine. Steven had obviously hefted it open but it was too heavy for me to lift so, carefully, I climbed over it.

There could be no mistake now: the bike was coming towards the barn.

I was actually standing in a lane. Steven must have had a problem turning the tractor to the right as the ground was thick with mud where the tyres had gouged into the verge. I followed the mud and churned-snow trail, slipping a couple of times, and then it turned left into a gateway set in a block wall. I had arrived at what no doubt had been bovine hell.

Coming to a halt, I peered around the edge of the opening in the wall. The gate was wide open, the area before me with not a scrap of cover before one reached the rear of the building. As I stood there the bike roared into view, made a complete circuit, two large figures mounted on it, and disappeared round to the front again. The row ceased but the light remained, moving. They were wheeling the machine into the barn to use it to see by.

Staggered by this blatant, if not downright idiotic, announcement of arrival I dashed across the open space towards a door, this just a small one for those on foot, with the idea of either observing what was going on from just outside or creeping in and concealing myself somewhere, coming to Patrick's aid if he needed me. Close to it was a lean-to, a homemade afterthought built of scrap wood and rusting corrugated iron. I deliberately went wide of the opening that led into the dark interior, mostly because such cobwebby places give me the horrors, and then paused by the doorway, a slanting oblong of light now thrown on to the ground near my feet.

Forgetting everything I had been taught.

I was swept off my feet from behind, a hand over my mouth, and borne bruisingly into the lean-to. Several spiders' webs later everything came to a halt and somehow, still off the ground, I was turned in the grasp until we were face to face. I did not need to see who it was, nothing was said and I had no intention of uttering a sound even though I could feel something small blundering around in my hair.

Patrick dumped me back down on my feet and then, like Macavity, suddenly wasn't there. I stayed right where I was, hardly even daring to breathe in case someone heard me.

Aeons went by and I could hear muffled voices and scuffing sounds coming from within the barn, the light flickering as people moved backwards and forwards in front of it. I remained motionless, but was eventually driven to carefully catch hold of the thread of a large spider as it abseiled past my face and wind it, very securely, around the handle of a nearby wheelbarrow I could just make out in the gloom.

It was obvious that they were trying to turn over the trough, a lot of gasping noises and swearing were emanating from the building, the occasional loud crack and exclamation suggesting the breakage of a piece of wood or something similar. Then, after a crescendo of grunts and groans, there was a heavy thud and someone cheered. Predictably, several seconds later when the horrible truth dawned, it was a different story and, predictably again, they suspected one another. They would not have noticed if the Camel Corps had marched in now, bawling accusations at one another, still less see the approach of the officer of the law.

‘You're under arrest!' I heard Patrick shout, the kind of delivery that at one time would have withered with terror those under his command.

In the next moment or so there was the roar of a shotgun, both barrels, followed by a terrible screaming. The headlight of the bike went out and then the screaming stopped.

Choking with shock I crept into the barn on all fours. Then, outlined against the expanse of sky between the widely opened doors opposite, I saw a figure, fleeing, awkwardly, as though not accustomed to running. It was not one of the Tanner brothers. Or Patrick.

I risked all. ‘Patrick?' I yelled. ‘Patrick!'

‘I'm here,' his voice said from somewhere or other. ‘Stay where you are. Got your phone?'

‘Yes. Are you hurt?'

‘I'm not sure. Call in, get some people here.'

This proved to be unnecessary as moments later a vehicle swept into the yard, swiftly followed by another: police cars. In the illumination they provided I got to my feet and, ducking low, ran towards where I thought I had heard Patrick's voice. I found him half under the bike, which had fallen over, its light not out but covered by debris. I shoved this away with one foot in order to see.

‘Someone got them from behind at almost point-blank range,' he said matter-of-factly, flat on his back.

I quickly glanced over to see the two bloodied corpses, finding myself praying that they were corpses now with such ghastly injuries and not going to suffer further.

Patrick pushed and I heaved at the bike and he emerged from beneath it. There was blood on his coat.

‘I think I stopped a couple of pellets,' he muttered, sitting down on the floor after using his torch to check the two bodies for signs of life. ‘But those poor bastards took the full brunt of it. God, who was it? Who could have possibly known what was going on?'

Carrick, apparently beside himself with a feeling of helplessness, had called out an armed-response vehicle, just in case. The crew were from Bristol and had lost their way because, we discovered later, local youths had turned round a couple of signposts in the maze of lanes. Finally they had met up with the patrol car and arrived together.

Patrick, in his turn beside himself, but with bitterness and fury, refused to go to Accident and Emergency to have the four shotgun pellets removed (three in his left shoulder, one in his upper arm on the same side), and asked the paramedics to do it there and then, arguing that as his GP had done the same twenty years previously there was no reason why it could not be done now. Fortunately the pellets were not at all deep, a couple just below the skin. He thought they had ricocheted off the bike, which he had knocked over diving for cover.

Holding his hand, and he only swore once with the pain, I thought that another few inches the other way and he could have been blinded.

‘Still angry with me?' I said quietly.

Patrick turned to me in surprise. ‘I'm not remotely angry with you.'

‘For coming back, I mean.'

‘I had an idea you would. I heard you coming several miles away.'

DI Bromsgrove, he of the earnest brown eyes, arrived to assist and as he was obviously fully experienced Patrick put him in charge of the crime scene. By this time it was just after two in the morning.

‘Right now I feel like kicking in Vernon Latimer's front door,' Patrick said. He had his arm in a sling, a temporary measure to help prevent more bleeding.

‘But you've not one iota of evidence, so we'll politely knock on it in about seven hours' time,' I said.

‘I could do that for you, sir,' suggested Bromsgrove, who was busy writing notes nearby and had overheard. ‘He's a suspect, I take it.'

‘Only insofar as we're trawling through potentially iffy locals,' Patrick told him. ‘I'll talk to him unless I'm on a life-support machine by then. And, Jonathan …'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Not one word to the DCI that I've been winged – he has enough on his mind.'

‘That might be difficult, sir.'

‘Look, call me sir when anyone else is around but Patrick when we're working together. And if Carrick asks just tell him I hurt my shoulder a bit getting out of the line of fire.' He could have added, but did not, that after almost having had his leg blown off in the Falklands a few bits of shot were a mere bagatelle.

Latimer lived in one of a group of ‘executive' houses in a close situated at the opposite end of the village to where the railway station had once been. John had told us he was retired, but I had expected an older man than the frowning individual who answered the front door. He was of medium height, and had an unhealthy sallow complexion and lumpish, pear-shaped figure. It occurred to me that he could easily be the man I had seen making his escape from the barn.

‘This is not remotely convenient,' Latimer snapped when Patrick had introduced us and explained the reason for the visit. ‘You'll have to come back later.' And he actually started to close the door.

Patrick stepped smartly on to the front step and winced as the door hit his shoulder. ‘I don't think you heard me correctly. Two men were murdered last night and it would appear there's a connection with an existing murder inquiry. I'm actually investigating another incident at the rectory which we believe is also connected and should like to ask you a few questions about your own presence there yesterday.'

‘I was there for a PCC meeting, for God's sake!' the other shouted furiously.

‘I sincerely hope you were,' Patrick replied, annoyingly taking the remark at face value. ‘May we come in or do you want me to take you kicking and screaming to Bath police station in front of all your fascinated neighbours?'

‘I'll have you know I'm a respected member of the community,' Latimer countered, boring to the last.

‘All you have to do then is prove it.' This with a death's head smile.

Icily, Latimer stood aside to allow us to enter and we went through an archway into a large living room. Afterwards I could not remember a single feature of the decor, only that it was wishy-washy.

‘Do you own a shotgun, Mr Latimer?' Patrick asked.

‘Yes. I'm a member of the local clay-pigeon-shooting club.'

‘May I see it?'

‘It's in a cupboard in my study.'

‘Lead on, then,' said my husband encouragingly.

Latimer stood there for a moment longer, seething, and then stalked from the room. We followed.

A woman wearing a dressing gown, of wishy-washy colour, was coming down a flight of stairs as we filed down the hall. She completely ignored the three of us, went into what I just glimpsed to be the kitchen and slammed the door.