It was then he happened to glance in the rear view mirror. Something dark amongst the pine trees had caught his eye. Puzzled, not even sure if he had seen anything, he yanked on the handbrake and looked over his shoulder through the back window, which was covered with big spats of snow. It cleared with a sweep of the wiper blade and confirmed the glimpse. There was a dark vehicle parked some thirty metres up the track, virtually out of sight of the road.
Flynn’s guts felt as though they’d been scraped out as he fumbled with his seat belt, scrambled out of the car and ran up the track.
They staggered towards the remains of a farmhouse, nothing more than a shell of stone and rubble, no roof, most of the walls missing. It looked as though it had been bombed, but it was a good sight for Henry to behold. Breathing heavily, he was close to falling over. Cold pervaded his whole being and his energy reserves had dwindled almost to zero as he fought to keep Donaldson upright, as he had been doing for the last two tortuous miles.
He was relieved to see the building because it was a feature on his map, overlooking the edge of the disused quarry which was also on the map. This meant they were not far from a track that would lead them down to the minor road, thence to the village of Kendleton where they could rest and recuperate and possibly get medical attention. The end was in sight.
He guided Donaldson to the farmhouse and eased him down under the lee of one of the walls that remained standing, blocking off some of the wind and snow.
Henry’s relief was incredible, but tempered by the thought he might have made a mistake in stopping. Should they have carried on? The thought of heaving his friend back up to his feet was demoralizing. Henry stretched his back, muscles he didn’t know he had ached agonizingly. He looked at Donaldson massaging his injured ankle. His tanned face was pale and sickly.
‘Couple of minutes, then we get going again.’
‘Sure thing,’ Donaldson mumbled, not even raising his eyes to look at Henry.
Henry resisted the urge to sink down next to him, knowing he would not want to get back up again and also wanting to give his friend the impression that he was OK, even if he wasn’t. A psychological thing, his desire to keep Donaldson’s spirits up.
Instead he wandered around the building that had once been a large farmhouse, curious as to why it had never been renovated. To Henry it looked like it would have made a stunning house. He wandered around the walls then got the probable answer to the question. Within ten feet of the gable end was a high, wire-mesh fence. Henry walked towards it, slipped his fingers through the mesh and gave it a rattle, reading the Danger — Keep Out sign in red. Underneath these words was written Disused Quarry. And that was why the farmhouse had never been done up, he guessed. Too near the rim of the quarry, although as he peered through the fence he couldn’t actually see this. But he assumed it wasn’t too far away. Once, the farmhouse would have been situated in a stunning location on the hillside, but as the quarry had been excavated and crept closer, it wasn’t so nice.
‘Whatever,’ Henry said, ending his speculation. He turned, had his back to the fence when suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose and a very strange sensation rippled down his spine as he became aware of a presence behind him. For a brief moment every organ in his body seemed to seize as the certainty overwhelmed him that somewhere behind him, not too far away, something was stalking him.
He went rigid. Out of the corner of his eye he was utterly convinced he had seen a movement, a shape on the other side of the fence. His mouth opened slightly and he swallowed. Something deep inside him, some long-buried intuition, told him he was being hunted, that he was the prey.
Catching his breath, his neck muscles taut like wire, his nostrils flaring, his mouth now a tight ‘O’, he spun quickly. Was there something? An indistinguishable shape on the other side of the fence? Yes. Then it was gone and there was just the faintest scent in the air. Henry stared dumbly at the fence, at the exact point where he was certain he’d seen something. But there was nothing and he became conscious of how wound up his body had become.
Relief wafted over him and he laughed with embarrassment.
‘A deer,’ he thought. Couldn’t have been anything else. Might not even have been a deer — just nothing, a combination of tiredness and over-imagination and light-headedness. Maybe the equivalent of the thirsty desert traveller seeing an oasis, then realizing it was a mirage, pure hallucination.
He shook his head, exhaled, relaxed himself and returned to his friend. This time Donaldson lifted his face weakly when Henry stood in front of him.
‘Not far to go, pal,’ Henry said, proffering his hand. Donaldson reached out pathetically and Henry tried to ease him up. The big man rose slowly, painfully and almost got to his feet, then seemed to stagger and lose balance as he put weight inadvertently on his injured ankle. Henry’s hands shot out to steady him, but Donaldson moaned and slid back down on to his backside, dragging Henry with him.
‘Jeez, sorry pal. It just went.’
‘It’s OK,’ Henry reassured him. ‘Let’s do it slow and sure.’ Henry positioned himself on his haunches, slightly to one side of Donaldson, and took hold of his left arm with both hands, but when he looked up he was staring into the golden eyes of a beast.
TEN
Flynn jogged through the snow, slowed and eventually walked the remaining few yards to the vehicle, a black, short-wheelbase Mitsubishi Shogun: Cathy’s car. The one Flynn had seen in the photograph in the office, the one she was proudly standing against with the police house in the background. About two inches of snow had settled on the roof and bonnet.
It was parked on the track in the trees and as Flynn glanced around and back he confirmed it was just out of sight of the road, being parked on a slight right-hand kink in the track. It would be virtually impossible for anyone driving past to have spotted it, and even if it had been seen, so what? Nothing that suspicious.
Other than the fact it belonged to the local bobby, who hadn’t been seen or heard of for a day… but again, who would know that?
Flynn’s horrible gut feeling started to become even more painful.
He peered in through the side windows, wiping the snow off with the blade of his right hand, shading his eyes to see inside. The vehicle was empty. He tried the driver’s door, found it unlocked. He pulled it open and leaned inside, looking over into the back seat, seeing nothing of interest. However, on the front passenger seat was a sturdy leather handbag of the type issued to female officers. Flynn dragged it across to him, opened it and peered at the contents. A pink duty diary, a couple of bits and pieces of make-up, a CS spray canister, an extendable baton, a pair of rigid handcuffs and a mobile phone.
‘Not happy,’ he said, ‘not happy.’ He was tempted to handle the items but held back for the time being, because he thought this could well be part of a crime scene and he didn’t want to contaminate any possible evidence with his fingerprints. Again he considered he was maybe being over-dramatic. But, he thought, recalling good police practice, it was better than having egg chucked in your face. You can laugh off making an arse of yourself, but you can never shrug off overlooking something of importance.
He just didn’t like it — at all.
Then he noticed the key was still slotted into the ignition. He extracted it carefully, closed the door and locked the car with the remote. He quickly ran his hand under the thick blanket of snow on the bonnet and confirmed to himself that the engine really was cold. Then he walked back to his hire car and looked in at Roger, still sitting patiently. Well trained, these county dogs, he thought.
Flynn opened the door, muttering to the dog, ‘You’re not going to like this, pal.’ He attached the extending lead and hooked it on to Roger’s collar. The dog clambered stiffly out and dashed to the nearest tree to cock his leg up. Flynn waited for the flow to end, then said, ‘C’mon Roger, where’s your mum? Come on, find your mum.’ He pulled out the scarf he’d taken from the kitchen and let the dog sniff it.