Dead Heat

Three

The old feeling stayed with him as he drove down the long driveway towards the house, which was dead ahead of him, and the stables, which were to his right.

Looking across he could see a lot of chaotic activity. Two fire engines, two marked police cars and an ambulance, as well as other vehicles. Blue lights rotated a-plenty. Dozens of people, it seemed, scurried about and the reflective jackets of the uniformed services glistened against the blue lights, headlights and the approaching daylight.

Henry parked outside the house, not wishing to add to the confusion of vehicles and bodies down at the scene. This was an old habit of his. Whenever and wherever possible he liked to approach any crime scene from a distance. ‘I like to come from downwind, with the sun at my back,’ he was fond of saying. He always felt it gave him an advantage. . somehow. It allowed him to make assessments and start shuffling the pack of cards in his head that was his combination of experience, skills and abilities of being a detective.

Not that he was a detective at present, just a cop on suspension.

So what the hell was he doing here?

The question hit him hard as he pulled up and parked on the gravel at the front of the Wickson house. He sat with his hands resting at the ten to two position on the steering wheel and thought seriously about withdrawing.

Curiosity got the better of him.

He looked at the house in front of him, a big, double-fronted, extensively extended and modernized former farmhouse. All the lights were on, the front door open. It was a house that oozed wealth. To the left side of it he could now make out a tennis court and beyond that a helicopter landing pad. He thought it would be safe to assume there would be a swimming pool out back somewhere.

All in all, very nice. The domicile of a rich and successful person, as Henry knew John Lloyd Wickson was. Henry, an avid reader of the county magazine Lancashire Life — mainly to gawp enviously at the property pages — had seen Wickson several times in the social pages. He was always attending charity events, race meetings and had been profiled on a couple of occasions by the magazine’s money section. Henry thought he should re-read one of the profiles sometime. But he did remember enough to recall that Wickson’s wealth was estimated somewhere in the region of about fifty million. Not bad for somebody who began his working life as a bricklayer, or so the story went.

As he got out of the car, he glanced at the other cars parked on the gravel. One was the Mercedes Tara Wickson had been driving, another was a huge Bentley, a lovely car which Henry estimated would cost over a hundred and twenty grand. He was surrounded by big bucks, that much was obvious.

He turned away from the Bentley, then stopped dead in his tracks. There were another three cars on the gravel. One was a Ford Focus with a blue light clamped to the roof. Henry thought it probably belonged to the senior Fire Officer on scene, another, he guessed, was a plain cop car, but it was the third one which he instantly recognized and made him think, Oh bollocks! It was Jane Roscoe’s car.

The sight of it almost made him jump back into his car and tear-arse away immediately. But, valiantly, he braced himself and trudged onwards.

The stables, some 200 metres to the right of the house, were accessed by means of a narrow lane just wide enough to allow passage for one vehicle, with drainage channels and fields on either side. Henry stepped aside to let the ambulance drive away. It did not seem to be in much of a hurry, so he guessed there were no patients on board. Perhaps it had been called as a precautionary measure. He walked on into the stable yard, the ever brightening dawn allowing him to get his bearings and make sense of the geography of the area. It was with a surprised jolt that he realized that the banks of the River Wyre were perhaps only a hundred metres away to his left as he walked to the stables.

It was very apparent where the seat of the fire had been.

There was a huddle of people scrummed down near the bonnet of one of the police cars: cops, fire fighters and Tara Wickson. Tara was gesticulating wildly. One of the cops was trying to keep her calm, using soothing hand movements. Henry recognized one of the uniformed cops, and another of the plain-clothed variety.

He held back a second, made up his mind, and approached the conflab.

Tara Wickson saw him coming and the frustration and exasperation in her body language seemed to wither and die. Her shoulders drooped. She broke away from the group of officials and made toward him. She stopped in front of him, her face a brave mask, which immediately crumbled. She bowed her head and started to sob in big, raking breaths which rattled her small frame.

‘Get hold of me, Henry,’ she pleaded. ‘Squeeze me.’

Making sure there was no possible sexual connotation to this act, he put his arms around her and did as she wanted, though for the life of him he did not know why he did it. Instinct? He patted her back and almost said, ‘There, there.’

The detective Henry had recognized came and stood behind Tara, a disgusted expression on her face. She grimaced at him over Tara.

‘Henry, what the hell are you doing here?’ She surveyed him, head tilted back, eyes looking down her nose.

Henry managed a shrug. ‘Hello, Jane.’ Tara stepped back and wiped her hands down her tear-stained face.

DI Jane Roscoe shook her head in disbelief.

This, Henry thought sardonically, was always going to be the problem: the distinct possibility of doing some unofficial digging on behalf of someone and bumping into the real cops who would get very shirty at any encroachment on to their patch. And in this case, to make matters worse, a real cop with whom he had recently been ‘involved’ and who was also a witness in the internal discipline proceedings being brought against him.

With a bit of soft prodding and cooing words, Henry managed to steer Tara Wickson back to the house, where in the kitchen he made a pot of tea for her and left her in the capable hands of a policewoman who looked pretty bloody annoyed to be doing such womanly work. ‘Does it have to be a woman looking after her?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘This is so sexist.’ She folded her arms underneath her ample bosom.

‘It’s called caring for victims,’ Henry told her in reaction to the expression on her face.

The policewoman almost sneered at him.

‘Someone’s got to do it,’ he added. Political correctness interfering with the practicalities of policing often irked him intensely. To Tara, he said, ‘I’ll be back to have a chat once I’ve had a word with the detective inspector, OK?’ The proximity of the policewoman made him aver from adding the word ‘love’ at the end of his sentence. She would probably have thought it sexist and patronizing.

Jane Roscoe was still in discussion with the Fire Service when Henry got back to the scene. She was deep into it and Henry did not interrupt.

He took the opportunity to have a closer look at the seat of the fire — in a row of loose boxes now completely flattened, charred and blackened. There were a couple of fire fighters still damping down and ensuring the fire would not reignite, spraying copious amounts of brown water on the debris from hoses they had run all the way down to the River Wyre. They were pretty much destroying any chance of recovering any useful evidence. Henry did not comment. Not his problem.

It was a mess. Out of a block of six stables, three had been completely destroyed, one partially burned down, the two remaining seeming relatively untouched. A building adjacent to the block had also been razed to the ground. Henry stood back and let his eyes wander around the devastation. He sniffed the air. In the smoke there was the unmistakable reek which Henry recognized straight away. One of those smells that, once inhaled, is never forgotten: the smell of burned flesh.

In this case, he assumed, horse flesh.

He gagged a little at the combination of the smell and the thought. The memory of the severed ear came back vividly to him.

Jane Roscoe was nodding at the Chief Fire Officer in such a way as to indicate their conversation was concluding. She shook his hand, broke away and walked to Henry. He watched her and, under his scrutiny, she dropped her gaze and looked away until she reached him. She stood a couple of feet away from him, raised her face and stared challengingly at him.

‘Hello, Henry.’

‘Jane.’ He nearly bowed.

‘Nasty business,’ she observed.

He was not completely certain what she meant. There could easily have been a double meaning in her words because of their past history.

‘This, you mean?’ He jerked his head towards the remnants of the stables.

‘What else would I be referring to?’ she said flatly. ‘Of course I mean the bloody fire.’

‘Fair dos,’ he said, backing off. ‘What happened?’

‘The stables have burned down.’

Mmm, he thought weakly. This was plainly not going to be easy. It was blindingly obvious Jane was still very prickly about the way things had ended between them and she wasn’t going to give him an easy ride.

‘I’ll have that. But why have they burned down?’

‘Because they’ve been set on fire?’

‘Stop it, Jane.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘What’s it got to do with you anyway?’

‘Mrs Wickson has asked me to do a bit of poking around for her.’

Jane snorted. ‘Poking around for her? Or poking around in her?’

‘Stop it,’ he warned her again.

‘OK, OK, OK, I’ve stopped. Honest.’

‘Apparently some of the horses have been mutilated in the past and the police haven’t been very, let’s say, result-orientated. She asked if I’d do a bit of snooping for her, see if I could turn anything up. . then this happens even before I come and do an initial inquiry.’

‘You being a detective on suspension with no powers and no backup and plenty of time on your hands?’ Jane interrupted.

‘Something like that,’ Henry said. His voice was beginning to betray his growing annoyance, which seemed to please Jane by the look on her face. He guessed she might just enjoy some sadistic pleasure in winding him up.

‘Is that such a good idea?’ she wanted to know.

‘Probably not, but I’m doing it as a favour for her and I’m not getting paid for it in any way, shape or form,’ he said pointedly, ‘and because the local plods haven’t really done anything much to help in the past, is there anything to suggest things are going to be different just because there’s been a fire here? I can’t see I’ll be treading on anybody’s toes, because it’s more than likely there won’t be any cops walking around here, doing their jobs, will there?’ He sounded like Mr Moaner from Whinge Crescent, Cops ’r’ Crapsville — and he quite liked his little tirade from the other side of the fence.

A smoke-filled silence descended between them, broken when Jane said, ‘I miss you, Henry.’

‘And I miss you, too, Jane, but we need to move on.’ It sounded hard and the words did not come easily out of his mouth.

‘You bastard.’

‘Maybe. . but can we get on with this? If you’re going to help me, fine. If not I’ll just dig around for info by myself. Actually, we might be of benefit to each other. I’ll let you know what I find out, if you do the same for me.’

‘I’ll see,’ she relented.

‘I take it you’re the night cover DI?’

‘For my sins — and they are plenty.’ She gave Henry a long, appraising look, swallowed and nodded, as if accepting the icy situation between them. It was obviously over and out.

‘Is this an accident?’ Henry asked about the fire. He sniffed up, smelling the petrol fumes.

‘The Fire Brigade don’t think so. They reckon accelerant has been used. The seat of the fire was in this building which used to store the tack. It burned down a treat and caught the adjoining stables. Have a look at this.’ Jane moved to the first of the stables, now a dirty, ashy-grey, muddy mess. She pointed to the floor. Henry followed the line of her finger and, initially, could not make out what she was pointing at.

Then he made sense of what he was seeing.

There was a dark, black shape amongst the debris on the floor. The shape of a horse which had been burned to a frazzle.

Henry stepped back, shocked, but said nothing. He turned away and caught a gulp of fresh air amongst the rising smoke. His head slowly revolved back. He eyed Jane, who stood there impassively.

‘There’s another dead horse in the next stable,’ she said, matter of fact.

Henry checked himself to get a grip. He had seen numerous dead bodies during the course of his career, but they had been human beings — exclusively — with the exception of a few dog accidents he’d reported during his time as a probationer PC in uniform, over twenty-five years earlier. He had seen bodies dismembered, blown to bits, drowned, shot, knifed, you name it, he’d dealt with it. But the sight and stench of a roasted horse was actually making him queasy. What was it about horses? he thought. He did not even like the beasts.

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘They got the other horses out in time, released them into a field.’

‘Anyone, any person hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Arson, then?’

‘Very perceptive.’

‘I’m sharp like that. Used to be a detective.’

‘The best,’ Jane said under her breath.

Henry did not quite catch it. ‘Eh?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, covering her tracks. ‘Anyway,’ she coughed, ‘the burned-down buildings and the horse steaks are not everything. Come here.’

She took him across the stable yard, treading carefully over the hosepipes.

It was truly morning now. The sun was squinting in the sky. Things could be seen very clearly now with the fresh, raw light of that time of day. Henry surveyed the devastation the fire had wrought. His upper lips curled in distaste. He was beginning to feel that anger which had often driven him in the past. The anger born of the belief that no one should be allowed to get away with such crimes. It was an emotion that had often spurred him on when he had been a ‘real’ detective. Now that his status had changed, it did not mean that the anger and drive was any less within him.

Jane Roscoe was a few feet ahead of him. She was dressed in a very practical trouser suit that did little for her. Henry experienced a sudden pang of something in the pit of his tummy he could not quite explain. All he knew was that it was linked to the affair he and Jane had been conducting.

She went to a stable door, stopped and faced Henry. ‘I could see you were affected by the dead horse.’ He did not deny it. ‘There’s a mutilated horse in here,’ she declared.

‘Someone seems to have a downer on the Wicksons,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘It’s not nice. You don’t have to see it if you don’t want.’

‘Let’s do it,’ he said bravely.

Seconds later he wished he hadn’t been so bold.

A truck from the local knacker’s yard was reversing into the stables when Henry and Jane reappeared from the loose box. They watched as the two thick-set men in blood-stained overalls ran chunky chains around the corpse of the horse in the burned-out stable next to the tack room.

‘How much of an interest will the police be taking in the plight of the Wickson’s now?’ he asked.

She yawned. ‘Some, I suppose.’

‘I take it this isn’t the first job you’ve been to tonight?’

‘No — a serious wounding in Blackpool, an iffy suicide in Lytham and another bad assault in Fleetwood.’

‘Busy night.’

‘Normal night.’

‘I’m envious.’

‘Don’t be — it’s generally shite I get turned out to. Thick, poor people, hurting other thick, poor people. Or, as in this case, hurting thick, rich people.’

‘You’ve become a cynic.’

‘You made me into one, Henry.’ She turned to him, sorrow in her eyes. ‘I thought love could see anyone through anything.’

He was stumped.

‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’ she said simply and walked away.

Behind him, the stable door opened and Charlotte Wickson, Tara’s daughter, emerged, together with the vet who had been treating the horse. Charlotte was tearful and deeply upset because it was her horse, Chopin, her own, her very own. And someone had violated him again. He had already had an ear severed. Now this torture.

‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ she said to the vet.

‘Yes, he will, but he’s going to need a lot of care and attention from now on. The wounds will heal. He’ll never see again through that eye — but he’ll be able to get used to that, eventually, though I would not recommend jumping any more. It’s the psychological damage that’ll take time to heal. Do you think you can give him all the love and attention he needs?’

Charlotte nodded bravely.

‘I’ll be back later in the day to remove that eye under anaesthetic. I’ll call in to see your mother before I go,’ the vet said, nodded sharply at Henry and ambled across the yard.

Henry heard Charlotte emit a long, stuttering sigh.

‘How you doing?’ he asked her.

‘Shit,’ she said, startling him. ‘He’s a mess, isn’t he?’

‘Yep.’ Henry could not actually shake the vivid image of the injured horse from out of his mind. The slashes, the cuts, the fear in the eyes. ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked Charlotte.

The young girl shrugged, her eyes slitting momentarily in a gesture Henry had seen on hundreds of people in the past. It made him become alert, because he had not expected it from her. It meant she knew something, or had some idea.

‘Who do you think did this?’

‘How would I know?’ Her voice contained a trace of irritation. ‘There’s hundreds of suspects out there,’ she said with a sneer. ‘Fucking hundreds — including me.’ She pushed her way past Henry and hurried towards the house. Henry was tempted to give chase, but refrained. She could wait till later.

Jane Roscoe was standing on the other side of the yard, observing the interaction with interest. Henry mooched across to her, hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets.

‘How much time are the police going to dedicate to these particular crimes?’ Henry persisted.

‘How much time would you, Henry? Some wooden buildings have been burned down, a couple of dumb horses have been killed, another one cut to ribbons. No one’s been hurt. I have a desk full of unsolved crimes which are performance indicators and this one isn’t. I’ll refer it to the Arson Team and let them get on with it.’

‘It’ll get a good half hour, then?’

‘If they’re lucky.’

‘In that case, it won’t hurt very much if I do some snooping around on behalf of the family.’

‘You are very misguided, Henry. If I were you, I’d leave it be. The Wickson family are a pretty sad bunch-’

‘How do you know?’ Now she had alerted his senses.

Her eyes went very snake-like. ‘I just do,’ she said in a tone that left Henry in no doubt: Don’t push it, is what she was saying.

‘I haven’t seen John Wickson, husband and father,’ Henry said. ‘Is he knocking about?’

‘Away on business, but on his way back now, I believe.’

Henry and Jane regarded each other. His nostrils were filled with the smell of burnt wood and flesh. Neither spoke even though both of them knew there was a great deal of unfinished business between them. Despite Henry’s urge to delve into her feelings, he held back, not wanting to go down there and relight the flames he had well and truly doused months before.

‘Any news on the inquest? Trial? My discipline hearing?’ he asked instead, hoping to steer the conversation away from anything connected with their emotional entanglement to a subject which he knew was equally controversial. He should not have been surprised when she said, ‘You know I can’t talk to you about that. I’ve been warned not to.’

‘Seems like we have little common ground, then.’

‘None at all, I’d say.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘But if you’re in any way curious, I’m well over you, Henry. I might miss you, but that’s all, and that’s receding nicely. It would be silly to rake over old coals.’ She sniffed and glanced at the remnants of the stables and tack room. She looked back at Henry. ‘Ironic, eh, that we should meet again and be talking over something that’s been destroyed?’

‘Highly.’ Henry was suddenly distracted. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently, his face screwed up as he concentrated.

‘What is it?’

‘Approaching helicopter.’ He lifted up a finger for hush. The noise, faint at first, increased steadily. He looked east towards the rising sun, squinting and shielding his eyes. The noise grew to a throb.

A helicopter appeared over the horizon, the sun behind it.

At first Henry thought it was the Force helicopter, but it wasn’t. It was too small.

It buzzed overhead and in one flash of sunlight across the fuselage he made out the words ‘Wickson Industries’.

‘John Lloyd Wickson,’ Jane shouted over the sound of the rotor blades.

‘Daddy’s come home. . that’s nice.’

The helicopter swooped and dropped gently to the heli-pad on the other side of the main house. It hovered, then came to rest. Two figures climbed out, heads low, running towards the house.

‘I’m going to go and meet him,’ Jane said, adding, begrudgingly, ‘Come if you want.’

‘How kind.’

They set off together.

‘Oh, got some news for you, Henry.’

‘What would that be?’

‘We’re getting a new Chief Constable. Have you heard?’

‘No.’

As they walked, Henry could actually feel a rift between them which seemed insurmountable. It was a mistake for him to have turned out, he realized, but then again, how could he have known he would be bumping into Jane Roscoe, someone he hadn’t seen or spoken to for such a long time? If it had been any other detective inspector, there might have been fewer problems.

Henry — unknowingly — grunted in frustration.

‘What?’ Jane asked.

He gave her a look of query. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You did.’

‘Nothing, it was nothing.’ As he looked at her, something caught his eye in the distance behind her — on the hillside, maybe a quarter of a mile away. He thought nothing of it. Just his eyes playing tricks or just the early dawn sun catching something. Then it was there again. He stopped, stared, thought better of it and caught up with Jane, who had not paused.

‘I think we’re being spied on.’

‘Paranoid as ever.’

‘No — someone’s watching us from up there.’ Jane started to turn. Henry snapped, ‘Keep going, don’t look.’

When he reached the house he said, ‘I’m going to have a look. I’m curious.’

Jane shook her head sadly. ‘It’ll be nothing. Just hens.’

‘Hens?’ The reply puzzled him, then he shook it off. ‘Maybe it is hens, or maybe it’s the person who set fire to the place, noseying about what’s going on. . returning to the scene of the crime. One of life’s true cliches, I know, but one that’s served me well in the past. People come back to gloat. Human nature.’

‘Lecture over? And, anyway, what would you know about human nature?’ she said harshly.

Without a further word he walked off to his car, giving a little wave, and saying, ‘Hens?’ under his breath. Jane watched him, wanting to tell him to be careful, but could not bring herself to say the words which would betray her true feelings for the man who had dumped her, the man she yearned for.

She stood rooted to the spot, seeing Henry drive all the way off the property, only turning to the house when his car went out of the gates. She went to the open front door. From inside she could hear the sound of raised voices. Before knocking, she glanced over her shoulder and her stomach churned as her eyes also caught something bright on the hillside. Not a hen, she thought stupidly, not unless it’s wearing shiny jewellery.

Henry was glad of any excuse to get away from Jane, happy to retreat from an interaction that was starting to confuse and worry him. He thought that he was over her, but seeing her again had rekindled the feelings and jumbled up his mind, and he did not like it at all. He was trying not to do emotion anymore.

He drove down a country lane and pulled in close by a roadside hedge, about a mile and a half away from the house. He calculated that if he walked back to the Wickson house across the countryside and fields from where he was, he should, somewhere along the line, pass the point where he saw the glint of reflected light. That was his theory, anyway.

The sun was creeping nicely up the sky. It would be a crisp, clear day. There was a nippy chill in the air and his breath was clearly visible. He locked the car and trotted down the road a hundred metres or so. He was about to hop over a five-barred gate, when he saw a car parked just off the road, in some bushes opposite. It was a strange place for a vehicle at any time. He walked over to it and gave it a once over. Then he returned to the gate and clambered over it. On landing, his trainers sank with a squelch into the ground. He muttered a curse, eased his feet out of the muddy patch and picked his way carefully across the grass. Cows grazed in the field, or just stood there doing whatever cows did with the cud. Henry steered clear of them. He was wary of their herd instinct. He had once dealt with the death of a man who had been trampled by cows which had chased him and his dog and cornered them. It had been a gruesome, muddy death. Ever since then Henry had gladly applied his stereotype to all big, four-legged creatures: don’t trust the bastards.

The cows watched him with suspicion, all of them. But none made a move towards him. Much to his relief he made it unscathed to the opposite side of the field, where he mounted a stile which deposited him in the next field, this time populated by sheep. He had more time for sheep, never having had to deal with a murder by a gang of them. They saw him and ran away bleating with fear, all gathering together in a corner, staring accusingly at him. He liked to have that sort of power over animals.

‘Mint sauce,’ he said under his breath and made it to the opposite side of the field, where there was no stile to be found, just a drainage channel and a barbed-wire fence separating the field from a wooded copse. Henry’s feet were soaking wet, as were his legs up as far as his knees. Even though he had managed to avoid deep mud, the ground was soft and the going hard.

The channel in front of him was at least six feet wide, the fence beyond about four feet high. The channel was not doing a particularly good job as it was filled with water. The folly of what he was doing now struck him and he thought about retracing his steps. But it should not now be too far from where he had seen the reflection. Through the trees, out the other side, up the hill and down the other side should put him there. He hoped.

‘Bugger.’ He decided to take a run at the channel. He went back a few steps, accelerated and launched himself across the ditch. He lost his footing on the mushy grass as he pushed off, slipped and only just managed to reach the other side, where he totally lost grip. In an effort which required a great degree of physical exertion, he grabbed for a fence post. He missed. Went slap-down into the ground and slithered into the channel.

He lay face down for a few, very pissed-off moments, before struggling to his feet and dragging himself up to the fence with a slurp. He held on and looked down at himself with a sneer of annoyance. He was now wet through from waist to foot, covered in slime and mud and probably now carrying that infectious disease that rats passed in their urine which was fatal to humans. He clambered over the fence, catching his jeans on a barb and ripping them. His best — and only — pair of Levis.

He would have liked to laugh at the situation, but somehow the humour of the moment did not permeate through to him. He just felt stupid. And wet. And muddy. And wished he had stayed in bed.

After resting a moment to get his breath back, he began to trudge through the copse where every branch and twig seemed to snatch and grab at him, trying to hold him back. He found himself becoming increasingly angry and this made him less thoughtful about what he was doing. Instead of being sneaky and careful, he was thumping and crashing his way through the undergrowth like an elephant. He was more concerned with fighting trees than tiptoeing up behind a felon.

He burst through the other side of the copse into the light. He was breathing hard, so he stopped to let his lungs relax a little, then he ploughed on up the hillside on the other side of which, he guessed, would be the spy on the camp.

The going was easier up the slope, even though the hill was quite steep. On reaching the summit he crouched low, went down on to his knees, aware of the possible folly of revealing himself against the sky. Now he was being more cautious about his approach. He edged to the top of the hill, keeping down, but not quite on his stomach because he did not want to get any dirtier and wetter than he already was.

He raised his face gradually and peered over the crest of the hill, down towards a small scrubby area. Beyond that he had a good view of the stables, the house and the road connecting the two. Well beyond the house he could see the river. He knew he was about right in his positioning and that somewhere below him on the down slope was the point where he had seen the light.

There was still a lot of activity at the stables. The fire service were there, continuing their damping down. He made out a number of people emerging from the main house, one of which was Jane Roscoe. She stopped and, he imagined, looked across in his direction. He almost gave her a wave.

A small white van appeared in the driveway leading up to the house bearing the Lancashire Constabulary crest on the doors and the words ‘Scientific Support’ in black on the sides. The crime scene investigators had arrived, making Henry feel a little more reassured about the way Jane was intending to investigate the offence.

Henry looked beyond the house to some fairly dilapidated farm buildings. They seemed incongruous against the refurbished luxury of the farmhouse that was the Wickson family home. A couple of old, articulated fuel tankers stood in the yard formed by these buildings. Henry squinted thoughtfully at the scenario. He tried to recall something which was lurking at the back of his cranium. Old farm buildings, old fuel tankers. . what did that mean?

Suddenly he was not thinking about old buildings and trucks.

A movement had cut into the periphery of his vision, making his head jerk away from what he was surveying.

He stretched his neck, a feeling of high tension shooting through his body, certain he had seen something below. In the bushes, just to the right of his position. Something. . someone. . had definitely moved. But even as he stared and focused, he could see nothing.

He remained motionless, alert, did not move another muscle.

Only then did he realize just how dry his mouth had become and how remorselessly his heart was ramming against his rib cage. His eyes were sharp and his brain was now digesting the pros and cons of the stupidity of his current position.

Supposing there was somebody down there? Supposing it was the person who had set fire to the stables and maimed a horse? Would that person be a pleasant companion for a morning stroll back into the arms of the real police? What would happen if that person did not want to cooperate and was twice as big, wide and nasty as Henry? Henry had been stripped of his powers and could not legally do half of the things he had been doing without a second thought for the past twenty-odd years. Whoever it was down there would be well likely to be a mad, raving lunatic with instability problems of epic proportions. So what would Henry do if he came face to face with this deranged individual?

He could not radio for help. The personal radio, the bane of many a cop’s life, the piece of equipment that Henry had only ever used when it suited him, was no longer in his tool kit. And now he missed it like mad. He felt naked and vulnerable.

Nor did he have any handcuffs.

Nor an extending baton.

Nor CS spray.

He realized with a lead-like thump that he was very much on his own out here. The resources of law and order were no longer at his beck and call.

Though he did have his mobile phone.

Staring down the slope in front of him, he hoped that what he had seen was a sheep doing a bit of lurking, as opposed to an arsonist and horse-molester. He could handle a sheep, however violent it became.

But it was not a sheep.

It was someone who was very good at not being seen. It was a man dressed in army-type combat camouflage clothing, edging on his stomach along the line of the field. Henry’s mouth opened with a pop as he registered the fact that this man was more than good. He was almost invisible and it took a lot of blinking and re-focusing on Henry’s part to keep him in sight.

Henry watched, fascinated. He found it tempting to stand up and begin waving his arms about to attract someone’s attention down at the stables, but at such a distance he guessed it would be a fairly useless gesture — and it would warn the man they were on to him.

The figure crawled into a cluster of trees.

Henry’s eyes kept with him.

Maybe the guy was innocent. He could just be a perv or maybe a white supremacist out on manoeuvres. . one and the same, Henry thought.

However, innocent, guilty or just plain perverted, Henry knew the guy had to be collared and spoken to.

Henry watched as the man lay out on his stomach, twisted round and settled in the trees.

Henry was puzzled. He glanced towards the Wickson house. Three people, including Jane Roscoe, were still at the front of the house. He looked back at the prostrate figure and an ice-cold sensation shot through Henry’s lower abdomen. There was something familiar about the position the man had adopted.

Henry began to move.

Fast.

After setting fire to the stables, Verner had retreated to his position on the hillside to watch the fun and games. They were gratifyingly splendid. The stable block lit up the night sky, flames rising high with the occasional crack as something inside exploded sending showers of sparks up into the atmosphere.

All extremely satisfying.

Watching the lights come on in the house. People dashing about like headless chickens. Panic setting in. The more fortunate horses being rescued from loose boxes and being turned out into an adjoining field. Then, almost twenty-five minutes later, the arrival of the fire brigade and the cops, by which time the tack room and some stables had been destroyed.

Verner did not move from his position for hours whilst he watched all the activity, using his night sights and then, as the night ebbed, his binoculars.

Other cops arrived. An ambulance turned up.

All this from just a little match and a splash of petrol.

He found himself giggling quite a lot.

Then the helicopter belonging to John Lloyd Wickson landed on the pad.

Now Verner was going to have more fun than ever. He came out of his hiding place and crawled along to another position where he had set up the rifle. He squirmed into the prostrate firing position and sighted down the barrel of the gun, picking out the figure of Wickson, who was standing at the front of his house, together with two other people. Wickson started to strut towards the stables.

He was an easy target.

Henry pushed himself over the brow of the hill, whilst at the same time using his mobile phone and trying to tab to Jane Roscoe’s number which he still had stored in his phone. He hoped her number had not changed and even as he rose, a flash of thought went through his mind: Why did I keep her number?

He found it, pressed the call button and stumbled down the hill to where the man was lying in what Henry had recognized as the prone firing position.

He held the phone to his ear. He was about a hundred metres from the man as the phone rang out.

Jane Roscoe was not the sort of person to make snap judgements about people, but in the case of John Lloyd Wickson, she made an exception.

He was a dislikeable, arrogant shit-head, even if he was rich.

He immediately started by throwing his weight around, taking little notice of what she had to say and genuinely seemed surprised that, in this day and age, a woman could be a detective inspector.

She became increasingly angry with him as he flounced around his home, barking orders at people, shouting at his wife and snarling at his daughter. He had no hint of compassion about him, seemed purely self-centred.

Jane was very close to grabbing him and slapping his vermin-like features.

Eventually he relented somewhat and after a flurry of tirades at his family, he turned to Jane and said, ‘I’m going down to look at the stables now — talk to me on the way.’

Then he was gone, hurrying through the house accompanied by the man who had arrived with him in the helicopter. Jane learned this was Wickson’s head of security, a man she vaguely and uncomfortably recognized, but could not quite place. He was called Jake Coulton.

The three of them left the house and Wickson paused for a few moments at the front door to speak in hushed tones to Coulton, then set off for the stables. Jane scurried behind, trying to keep to the pace. As they got on to the track to the stables, her phone went.

‘It’s me, Henry,’ came the breathless voice.

Instinctively Jane looked across to the distant hillside where she saw a tiny figure running down the hill.

‘What is it?’ she asked impatiently.

‘Guy. . up here. . with a gun. .’ Henry panted.

And with that, the ping of the first bullet zipped by and dust flew up on the track just feet ahead of Wickson, followed a millisecond later by the crack of the shot.

‘Get the fuck down!’ Jane screamed. She dived for Wickson who had stopped in his tracks, incomprehension on his face. His security man had walked on, unaware that anything had happened. Jane rugby-tackled Wickson, smashed him to the ground and rolled him to the edge of the track, into the deep, wet ditch parallel to it. ‘Somebody’s shooting at you.’

The message got through to the security guy as another bullet lifted the track surface by his feet.

Henry had no way of being sure that his message had got through to Jane. As his run down the slope gathered momentum, his heels jarring, he yelled into his phone hoping that Roscoe understood what he was trying to say.

Whilst speaking, he heard the first shot crack in the morning air, like Indiana Jones’s whip hitting its target.

Even pounding down the hill, getting faster and faster, Henry knew he should have veered away and gone to ground, to protect himself.

But his desire to protect life, ingrained deeply over the course of his career, made him — stupidly, some might say — carry on. The mobile phone dropped out of his hand and disappeared in the wet grass.

Verner heard Henry’s thundering approach.

He fired another shot across the bows of John Lloyd Wickson, the noise whipping the air again, then twisted round to face Henry, trying to point the rifle at him. It snagged in the low branches of the tree and before he could bring the barrel round and aim and fire, Henry leapt wildly at him.

But Verner was quick.

He recovered and was able to use the rifle as a baton. He caught Henry a hard, well-aimed blow to the side of the head just before Henry could actually grab him. The impact twisted Henry’s neck and sent him rolling across the grass.

Henry’s mind was jarred for one black moment, but as he hit the grass, clarity returned and he rolled up into a kneeling position, facing Verner who was still trying to pull the gun round and get it pointed at him. Henry pounced again, like an athlete leaving starting blocks.

He palmed the barrel of the gun away and went for the man holding it.

Henry would be the first to admit that he wasn’t really a fighter. Although he had been through many scrapes in his time, often coming off poorly, he did not have the technique of a trained attacker. He had been taught many defensive tactics, but few which went the other way and he knew that his best strengths lay in his ability to overpower, rather than beat into submission.

When faced with someone who really knew what he was doing, Henry knew there would be a good chance of coming off second best.

Although Henry clearly had the advantage of position and the fact that the man on the ground had relinquished the rifle, Henry did not see the blow coming. It was just a blur as the man’s left fist connected. Suddenly Henry’s jaw jarred, his head jerked upwards and then it was him on the floor, the man having now recovered his position.

A glint of steel. In Verner’s right hand there was now a knife. It sliced through the air towards Henry’s abdomen. His eyes shot open and he reacted by twisting to one side, but not quite far enough and quick enough. He felt the blade slice through his clothing and along the edge of his ribs. His skin split with an exquisite sort of pain. He gasped, continued twisting away, and the knife rose again, this time plunging back down towards his chest.

Henry’s hands grasped Verner’s wrist, just preventing the point of the blade from piercing his ribs, halting it less than an inch above his chest.

Henry and Verner stared into each other’s eyes.

Verner laughed.

It was the moment Henry needed. Just that one moment which was a lack of concentration on Verner’s part.

He kicked out, connecting with Verner’s left hip.

This time Verner went sprawling and the knife flipped out of his grasp, spinning away and embedding itself in the soft ground.

Henry was up, going for him.

But Verner had also recovered, was up on his feet, powering towards Henry. They met like a couple of trucks in a head-on collision, then grappled with each other like wrestlers. They teetered over and rolled down the slope, hitting, kicking and trying to head-butt each other, both frenzied, fighting their own separate agendas.

They fought with the ferocity of bears.

When they stopped rolling, Henry found himself trapped underneath Verner. Verner’s right hand was around his windpipe, squeezing hard and forcing Henry’s head back, his knees pinning Henry’s arms to the ground.

Henry gurgled, fought, writhed and desperately tried to break free.

Jane Roscoe raised her head to where she had last seen Henry Christie on the hillside. Now she could not see anyone.

‘Keep your head down,’ she warned Wickson. He complied, crouching deep in the drainage channel, his face now like a frightened mouse. It was an expression that warmed the cockles of Jane’s heart, even though she, too, was terrified. It showed Wickson for what he was. She spoke into her mobile. ‘Henry, Henry, what’s going on?’

The connection was still open, but she could hear nothing.

She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out her personal radio. Her message to control room was quick and succinct.

Henry could feel that the back of his head was in water, a puddle or something, and that the man on him was trying to strangle him and push his head under the water. Centimetre by centimetre, Henry knew he was going under. The water was touching his ears now.

He managed to release one arm from under Verner’s knee.

Without hesitation, Henry clouted him across the head, his hand bunched into a fist with his thumb forming a hard pointed ‘v’ which he drove into Verner’s temple.

The blow knocked him sideways.

Both men rose to their feet and faced each other, circling now. Suddenly Verner was holding a spray canister of something in his hand.

Henry did not want to get a face full of whatever was in it. Could have been anything from CS to acid.

He stepped back and held up his hands. But it did not make any difference to Verner, who sprayed it at Henry.

Verner turned and ran.

‘Henry?’ Jane heard Henry’s voice calling through the mobile.

‘Yeah,’ he croaked. ‘I let him get away. . Ahh, Jesus.’

‘What is it? You sound awful.’

‘I am.’ He coughed and spluttered. ‘He just CSed me.’ He coughed and made a choking noise. ‘Christ! And my windpipe’s crushed, and I’ve been fucking stabbed. . I’m tired, wet, beaten up. . but other than that — ’ he coughed again — ‘feelin’ fine.’

‘Stop whining. . where is he now?’

‘He can’t be too far way. . obviously I can’t see a bloody thing either at the moment. My eyes are streaming. How about turning the helicopter out for a start, then get a dog and some ARVs up and around here.’

‘Already on their way,’ she said crisply.

‘The guy’s dangerous,’ Henry warned.

‘I gathered that.’

‘Everyone down there OK?’

‘Well, nice of you to ask. . yes. . shaken and stirred.’ Jane looked at Wickson and his security man, deep in conversation with each other again. Wickson was as pale as white paint, but the security guy, Coulton, looked cool and composed. ‘Do you need an ambulance?’ she asked Henry.

He was sitting on a rock, holding his face into the breeze, desperately trying to keep his eyes wide open to get the CS blown out. His nose was running uncontrollably and his eyes burned like fire. He managed to look down at the cut on his side by pulling up his shirt. It was not as bad as he had thought, though the sight of it made him feel a bit woozy. It was just a slash across the skin. ‘I could do with looking at, I think, but I’m not ambulance material. . at least I don’t think so,’ he said vaguely. Then: ‘I’m gonna make it back to my car, somehow. I’ll be all right. It might be an idea to get a few checkpoints set up. This guy’ll have transport of some sort. There was a car parked off the road not far away from mine, could be his.’

‘I’ve arranged some checkpoints to be manned.’

‘In that case, you’re well ahead of me.’

He pressed the end-call button on his mobile and stood up shakily. The exertion of the encounter had left him feeling weak kneed. He was in need of food and drink, as well as TLC. He did not feel he had the energy to make it back to his car, but there was no way he could have got the helicopter to air lift him out of there.

His mobile rang again. It was Roscoe. ‘Henry. . description of the guy, please.’

The cut on his side opened wider as he made his way back across the fields to his car and was starting to really hurt. By the time he reached his car, it was bleeding quite badly, causing him to reappraise the severity of the wound. He was glad to see his car and the thought of sitting in the driver’s seat and resting was very nice.

He fished out his car keys and pointed the remote lock at the Mondeo. As he opened the door, Verner stepped out from behind the car.

Henry swore and thought, Shit really does happen, doesn’t it?

There was a pistol in his hand, pointed at Henry’s guts.

‘Keys please.’ Verner extended his left hand, wiggling his fingers, indicating they should be given to him.

Henry shook his head and uttered a snort, furious for not thinking of this possibility. He held the keys out on the palm of his right hand.

‘Throw them to me,’ Verner instructed. ‘Nothing stupid, or you’re dead on the spot.’

Henry heaved them gently underhand. They handed with a clatter at Verner’s feet.

‘Good guy,’ Verner nodded appreciatively. Henry saw that he was not even breathing heavily, as opposed to himself. He was still close to needing a ventilator and though he thought himself pretty fit these days, he realized that gently jogging a few miles every day did not prepare you for a cross-country hike, a life-or-death struggle with a deranged gunman and arsonist, and another hike back with a slashed side and CS in your face. Verner bent down and picked up the keys with his free hand, never once allowing the gun to waver away from Henry’s body mass, nor his eyes to leave Henry. ‘Now I want you to turn round and close your eyes.’

Henry had been intrigued about what the next step would be. Presumably the man did not intend to kill him. He could have done that already. Henry guessed that what was going to happen was that he was now going to be whacked from behind with the pistol butt. If aimed correctly and with the required force, he would be driven into unconsciousness and hopefully the blow would not kill him or, worse, cause irreparable brain damage.

He tensed himself, then almost jumped out of his skin when the muzzle of the firearm was poked into the back of his neck, just below his right ear.

‘You’re a pretty resourceful guy,’ Verner complimented Henry. ‘Thanks for letting the tyres down on my car.’

‘Pleasure.’

Verner’s mouth was very close to Henry’s ear. He could feel the hot breath on it. ‘How did you know where to look?’

‘Reflected light.’

‘Ahh. . mistake number one. . sunlight on binocular lenses. . it’s a good job you’re not a martial arts expert, otherwise I’d have been right up the shitter.’

‘You are up the shitter,’ Henry said through clenched teeth. The muzzle, still pressed hard into his neck, was terrifyingly unsettling. He was finding it impossible to breathe properly. The thought of a bullet tearing itself through his brain cortex was sending him close to the edge.

‘How do you work that one out?’

‘There’s cops everywhere looking for you. You’ll never get away.’ Despite the fear he was experiencing, Henry was trying to sound utterly convincing. He knew the reality of the situation was that they’d be lucky to rustle up half a dozen officers. ‘There’s cops and cop-dogs everywhere.’

‘British bobbies. I shit ’em for breakfast.’

Suddenly both men were overpowered by a massive, buffeting sound which rocked them on their feet.

‘And of course the force helicopter!’ Henry yelled as, on cue, there was the beast itself hovering less than a hundred feet above them in the morning sky. The sound of its approach had been effectively muted by the surrounding trees.

‘Stay exactly where you are and drop your weapon,’ a God-like voice boomed down through the 750-watt skyshout PA system attached to the underside of the helicopter. Also, under the nose of the helicopter, was a video camera pointed directly at the two men.

‘As if,’ Verner said.

The helicopter adjusted its position above them and both men swayed with the immense downdraught from the rotor blades.

‘Change of plan,’ Verner shouted above the noise. ‘You can drive me out of this.’

Henry shook his head bravely and said, ‘No.’

Verner spun him round roughly and held the gun to his head, forcing it into the bridge of his nose, between his eyes.

‘Or you can die now, if you like.’

Henry looked down either side of the pistol into Verner’s eyes. He was not kidding and it showed in his pupils. Henry said nothing.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Verner said.