‘Are we going to find your mummy?’ Flynn asked the dog in his most patronizing tone. ‘Yes we are, yes we are.’ Roger barked happily. ‘Are you going to come with me? For a walk?’ Roger’s ears shot up at the ‘W’ word and Flynn could have sworn he smiled and went, ‘Yeah, yeah.’
Flynn had a quick scout around the kitchen and found a selection of leads hanging behind the back door, chunky thick leather ones, ones that looked like chains from a work gang, and an extendable one. Flynn picked a leather one, clipped it to Roger’s collar and looped the handle a couple of times around his hand to keep a firm hold of him, otherwise the dog would probably do just what it wanted to do. Before leaving, Flynn cast his eyes around the room and saw a lady’s headscarf tossed across a kitchen stool. Assuming it was Cathy’s, he grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket.
‘Come on then, Roger.’ Even before he had completed the sentence the dog lunged for the door, almost yanking Flynn’s shoulder out of its socket. He heaved back. ‘Whoa there.’
It had some effect, but Flynn was still basically dragged out of the door, into the garage and out to the front of the house where the dog made a beeline for a big tree at the bottom of the drive and cocked his leg up. After the relief, Flynn took better command and led the dog to his hire car, opened the passenger door and indicated for Roger to climb in. After a suspicious glance, the dog climbed stiffly in and Flynn noticed for the first time that its back legs were on their way out, as is often the case with German shepherds, or so he had heard.
Flynn went to the driver’s side, got in. Roger was almost as large as a human passenger and Flynn felt like he was sitting next to Scooby-Doo, the cartoon dog.
‘Ready?’
Roger eyed him, his tongue hanging out, slavering all over the gear lever.
Donaldson did his utmost to help Henry, but it was clear that the pain of the ankle injury and the continuing griping in the stomach from the food poisoning had combined to knock him for six. Henry had Donaldson’s arm across his shoulder, acting as a crutch for his friend, but the going underfoot was slippery and the track hardly wide enough for two to walk abreast. But Henry held on and they made slow progress. The weather did not let up and daylight was fading fast.
Henry had no reason to suspect his estimation of their position was anything other than correct, but they still had to get down off the hill and into the village before nightfall. To be caught even a hundred yards away from the main road would be just as deadly as being trapped on the hill.
Steve Flynn drove up the narrow road. It was filling with snow, which was starting to drift and bank up in various places. He cursed the weather and had another quick flashback to the sunshine he’d abandoned two thousand miles south of here.
With the weather being so bad, he realized he didn’t have time for more than a cursory drive around the roads that formed the perimeter of some of the land surrounding Mallowdale House. It didn’t help that he was a stranger to the area, didn’t know where he was going, didn’t know what he was looking for and was probably wasting his time anyway.
The road dipped, the car fishtailed through some deep snow, then began to rise. On his left was a high security fence and he spotted a sign written in red letters which he guessed warned against trespassing. On a post behind one of the signs, behind the fence, he also saw a CCTV camera. He didn’t stop to read the signs, but drove on another hundred metres and found a wide double gate, maybe ten feet high, but dipping slightly in the centre where the two halves met. He pulled up at it, peered through the windscreen and considered it for a moment. It seemed to be the entrance to Mallowdale House.
‘You stay here,’ he told Roger, who nodded.
He got out and walked up to the gate, which was made of solid wood, reinforced with steel belts, and was electronically operated. On a pole behind one of the gate posts was another CCTV camera, focused on him. There was another sign on the gate itself which read, its tone unfriendly, ‘MALLOWDALE HOUSE. NO TRESPASSING.
GROUNDS PATROLLED BY SECURITY GUARDS AND DOGS. BEWARE. KEEP AWAY. CCTV CAMERAS ALSO IN USE.’ Like the sign further down the road, it was written in red. He tried to peer through the tiny gap in the middle of the gate. With one eye he could just about see a curved driveway, with a couple of sets of tyre tracks in the snow, and beyond, behind the snow-laden trees, almost out of sight, a large house, but he couldn’t make out its detail in the fading light. He could also make out some cars parked outside, but again, no detail.
‘Can I help you?’ Flynn jumped as a metallic voice came from an intercom speaker set in the gate post. Automatically he glanced at the CCTV camera again. He gave a little wave, walked over to the intercom and pressed the talk button.
‘I’d like to see Mr Vincent,’ Flynn said, off the cuff.
‘What’s your business?’
Still winging it, Flynn ad-libbed, ‘Police business. I believe he’s had poachers on his land.’
‘Show your warrant card to the camera,’ the voice instructed him.
Flynn made a weedy show of patting his pockets. ‘I think I’ve forgotten it.’
‘In that case, come back when you’ve got it — and make an appointment beforehand.’ The intercom clicked dead.
Flynn toyed with the idea of pressing the talk button again, but decided against it. He got back in the car and looked at his travelling companion. ‘Have you got your warrant card?’ he asked the dog. Roger looked dumbly at him, dipped his head forward to be stroked and dribbled on to Flynn’s lap. ‘Thought not.’
He engaged first gear and carefully started the car, the wheels spinning in the snow. He drove on up the hill. The high fencing with warning signs continued for another quarter of a mile parallel with the road before doing a right-hand turn. Flynn drove on up the hillside, which got steeper and steeper, passing the entrance to Mallowdale Quarry. He wondered if this had any connection with the house, recalling what Jerry Tope had said about Jack Vincent’s legitimate businesses, haulage and construction. The light car became even more difficult to control and the snow seemed to be getting even heavier the higher up he got.
Flynn realized he was driving blind in more senses than one and he might simply be reacting to something that didn’t even exist. Chances were that Cathy was completely safe and unharmed. She’d probably stormed out of the house with no intention of looking for a poacher and was safe and sound somewhere, licking her wounds, phone turned off to stop incoming calls from Tom. Flynn still felt uneasy about the situation and was worried that Cathy wasn’t returning his calls, but he could see there was very little he could do about it and a big part of his instinct was telling him not to get involved. Domestic disputes equalled messy nightmares.
He decided to give it another mile or so then — literally, probably — spin around, slide back down to the village and see how the weather panned out.
The road twisted. The car slid and the steering wheel spun out of his grip, and he almost ended up nose first in a snow bank.
‘Enough’s enough, yeah?’ he asked Roger, who had only just managed to stay seated. Flynn reversed carefully, keeping the revs low and using the clutch tenderly to edge back off the road into a forest track. His intention was to return to Kendleton and, if there was no chance of leaving the village because of the weather, throw his charming self on the mercy of Alison the curvy landlady for the night. He tried not to think about the possibility of laying his weary head on her bosom… the car slithered backwards on to the track, making him concentrate on driving again. He braked, went back into first gear and let out the clutch slowly. The tyres spun, not gripping. He eased off and tried again.