October skies

CHAPTER 48

Wednesday

Wimbledon, London

Sean Holmwood tossed the stick for Watson out across Wimbledon Common and watched the labrador chase after it, kicking up flecks of mud behind him as he tore across the well-tended grass towards the spinney — an acre of mixed trees, most of them bare and patiently awaiting winter, a few of them hanging on to the last of their golden leaves.

Normally, taking Watson for his evening walk was a daily chore that his wife was happy to do, but this evening he had volunteered as soon as he came home, grabbing the lead and setting out with Watson eagerly pulling all the way.

Sean needed some thinking time. Julian Cooke’s project sounded intriguing.

Watson returned with the stick wedged in his teeth, flecks of saliva across his muzzle. He dropped it at Sean’s feet and sat obediently.

‘Good boy,’ Sean muttered perfunctorily as he scooped it up and tossed it as far as he could towards the spinney.

It seemed Julian had landed on his feet with this find. From what Sean had been told of the story, and from the compilation of fantastically moody footage he had seen on the laptop, there was easily the makings of an hour’s worth of fine-looking documentary. But Julian was quite right to be thinking bigger. This could also be written up as a docu-drama; there were film rights and book rights that could be sold on the back of it. The Mormon angle of the story was also very intriguing. With increasing media attention being focused on the wildcard Mormon independent presidential candidate, William Shepherd, there was a topical relevance to this story.

He looked up at the darkening sky. It was near six, and the dull glow of a drab October day was fast fading.

Watson’s walk was going to be a short one this evening. Sean wanted to get back and put together some notes. If he wanted to fast-track an editorial decision, he needed to sell the project internally. Tonight he’d put together a sales pitch, which he would float across a few desks first thing in the morning.

Watson returned with the stick, and this time Sean tossed it hard into the undergrowth of the spinney.

Let him work off some energy rooting around for it in there.

The labrador hurled himself in amongst the trees in hot pursuit, kicking up fallen leaves and twigs in his wake.

Sean pulled a small plastic freezer baggie out of his pocket and shoved his hand in, pulling it back over his wrist so it was like a glove. He grimaced slightly, still not entirely used to the unpleasant task of scooping up a warm one.

Watson should be just about ready to deliver the goods.

He heard the dog scampering around in amongst the trees and bushes, cracking twigs under-paw and gruffing and growling with frustration looking for the correct branch.

Sean felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of taking off with this project. Julian’s pitch had sold it, but then seeing Rose’s showreel — moody footage of thick and dark woods, mist undulating through the trees, the haunted feel of a clearing in the woods, the moss-covered humps, the slow and steady zoom-in on the rotting wood of a wagon wheel…

‘Marvellous stuff,’ he muttered to himself.

Up ahead, deep amongst the undergrowth, he could hear Watson still scampering about like an idiot.

He laughed quietly — a truly thick dog.

Come on, dummy, one stick’s just as good as another.

Yes, tomorrow morning Sean would get the ball rolling and return to Julian with a firm offer within a day. They needed to be quick. Whilst there was a good working relationship between them, he was certain Julian wouldn’t walk away from a better offer, elsewhere. After all, money’s mon Watson yelped.

‘Watson? Here boy!’ Sean called out.

It was silent across the manicured lawns, except for the rustling of a light breeze through the branches and dry leaves, and the distant rumble of traffic around the three distant sides of the common.

‘Watson?’ he called out with a sing-song timbre that usually brought the daft dog to him. ‘Here boy!’

Nothing.

Sean felt a prickling of concern. Watson never, ever ignored him like that. He half walked, half jogged over towards the edge of the spinney and looked inside for the telltale flash of his chestnut-coloured coat in amongst the foliage.

There was no sign of him.

‘Watson?’

He took several quick steps forward, off the well-clipped grass onto a thickening mat of dead, crispy leaves, twigs, acorn husks and conker shells. Sean wasn’t terribly keen on stepping too much further inside. He turned to look back out at the common. There were a few people around; a couple roller-blading along one of the tarmac paths, another two or three dog owners walking their dogs, a group of teenagers chatting on a bench several hundred yards away.

He wasn’t exactly alone, but in the gathering gloom of early evening, he might as well be.

‘Watson! Dammit! Come here!’

Shit.

It was on Wimbledon Common not so long ago that a woman had been stabbed to death by a care-in-the-community type, a lost and tormented man who’d been convinced that every blonde-haired woman was an agent of Satan, coming to extract his soul and take it down to the underworld.

Sean instinctively reached down and fumbled for a twig big enough to call a branch and grabbed hold of it. It felt reassuring in his hand.

Just in case.

Emboldened, he advanced further in, pushing through a thorny bush that effectively obscured him from view to those few people out on the common. Something must have happened to Watson if he wasn’t answering. Perhaps he had found a rabbit hole and taken a tumble, or run headlong into a tree trunk and stunned himself; he was that stupid a dog.

Or maybe he’d found a bitch willing to take the silly old bugger on.

‘Watson!’ he called out again.

There was a rustling to one side of him and the dull, muffled crack of an acorn underfoot — it sounded very much like someone shifting weight from one foot to another.

‘Okay, who the fuck’s in here?’ Sean called out, hoping his polished boardroom voice sounded more menacing than it did to him.

The rustling ceased immediately, but somehow that made it seem a million times worse. Sean sensed that this was the moment he ought to back quietly out of the trees, past the bush and onto the common and walk away without his dog.

‘Watson!’ he called out once more, ‘I’m going, you stupid hound!’ He had turned round to head out of the undergrowth towards the open green when he heard movement in front of him.

His eyes picked out a dark silhouette against the edge of the spinney and the darkening grey sky beyond. Any further detail was lost to the last of the early-evening light, but unmistakably it was a man wearing a hood.

‘Yes?’ he said, and then as an afterthought, ‘Can I help you?’

The silhouette remained perfectly still.

‘You after some money?’

‘No,’ a dry voice answered.

Stay calm, Sean cautioned himself. Control the situation.

‘My dog came in here. Did you see him?’

The man advanced a step forward. ‘You spoke with someone I’ve been watching.’

Sean shrugged. ‘I’ve spoken to a lot of people today.’

‘You spoke to him about a story in America.’

Playing dumb probably wasn’t going to help. ‘How do you know about that? Who are you?’

The silhouette was silent. ‘What the hell do you want?!’

‘I’m here to tidy things up,’ said the man.