Breaking Point
Table of Contents
The Chief Inspector Paget Mysteries
ACTS OF VENGEANCE
THREAD OF EVIDENCE
CANDLES FOR THE DEAD
STONE DEAD
FATAL FLAW
BREAKING POINT
THE COLD HAND OF MALICE
A KILLING RESURRECTED
Other Novels
DRAGON'S BREATH
THE TRAITOR MASK
DEFECTORS ARE DEAD MEN
CORPSE IN HANDCUFFS
SOUND THE SILENT TRUMPETS
A DCI Neil Paget Mystery
Frank Smith
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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2008 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9â15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2008 by Frank Smith.
The right of Frank Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Smith, Frank, 1927-
Breaking point
1. Paget, Neil (Fictitious character) â Fiction 2. Police â
England â Fiction 3. Missing persons â Investigation â
Fiction 4. Journalists â Crimes against â Fiction
5. Detective and mystery stories
I. Title
813.5â²4[F]
ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0344-0 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6621-9 (cased)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Thursday, March 6
H
eadlights probed the sky as a car came over the hill. The watcher raised his head to follow it with his eyes, willing it to turn into the lane that would bring it close to where he lay as it made its way up to the farmhouse. He held his breath, prepared to drop out of sight the moment the lights turned his way.
He swore softly and sank back into the ditch as the car swept past and continued on. It was a road that saw little traffic, and that was the way it had been ever since he had crept into position; just the occasional car taking a short cut across country, or more likely one of the local farmers returning home. Whatever the reason, every one of them had gone by the open gate at the bottom of the hill without so much as slowing down, let alone turning in.
Neither had there been any sign of activity in the old stone farmhouse at the top of the hill. There wasn't even a light in the place, and he was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in the house at all. And he wondered once again if his informant had got it wrong.
Unless, of course, it was some sort of elaborate hoax his informant was playing on him. But he failed to see the point if it was. The man had been very convincing, even if he had been well into his cups at the time. Informant. He liked that word; liked the sound of it. It had a professional ring to it, and if there was one thing he wanted to be, it was professional.
He peered at his Timex by the light of the torch cupped in his hand. Twenty to twelve! Almost four hours since he'd arrived, and not a damned thing to show for it, other than sore muscles, an aching back, and a conviction that he would end up with double pneumonia. To stay any longer would be stupid, he told himself, and yet . . .
He groaned softly. It would be just his luck to leave, then find out later that he'd been too impatient. If his informant had been telling the truth, these people would have to be extremely cautious, even if it was only a dry run, so they might well wait until after midnight. He couldn't possibly get any colder, so he might as well stick it out. Until one o'clock, he promised himself. If nothing happened by then, he would pack it in.
He settled back in the shallow ditch and pulled the groundsheet around him. It did little to protect him from the cold, but just the act of wrapping it around himself gave the illusion of warmth.
He lost count of the number of times he had checked his watch, but by twelve thirty he'd had enough. Not a single car had gone by during the last half hour. He heaved himself up on one elbow and peered at his watch again to make sure of the time. Twelve thirty-one. Never mind hanging on till one o'clock; he was packing it in now before he froze to death.
He reached for the knapsack and patted the ground around him to make sure he was leaving nothing behind. He staggered to his feet. His legs were numb, his feet like blocks of ice, and it took several minutes of massage and clumping around on the grass before he could really feel them.
He glanced toward the farmhouse before stepping away from the shelter of the hedge and into the lane. Was that a flicker of light behind one of the windows? The house itself was barely visible against a skyline of broken cloud and the fading light of a waning moon, but just for an instant . . .
He stood there, motionless, staring intently into the dark until his eyeballs hurt. Nothing! Imagination, he decided as he set off down the lane. Anyway, who could possibly see him in his dark clothing at that distance? Cold and wet and tired as he was, and with nothing to show for it, there didn't seem to be any point in keeping to cover on his way back to where he'd left the van. He'd come by way of the fields, keeping close to the hedges and low stone walls to avoid detection, but he didn't fancy the idea of stumbling across the fields in the dark. Too many hazards, and the last thing he needed now was to fall over a sheep, or stick his foot in a rabbit hole and break his leg.
So, he might as well walk right down the middle of the lane, because the sooner he could get home and get a good hot drink down him, the better. He'd love a hot bath, but there was no way the others would let him get away with that in the middle of the night.
He was almost down to the gate when headlights came over the hill once more. He ducked low and sought the cover of the hedge. Probably another farmer returning home after an evening in town, but best not take any chances.
The sound of the engine grew stronger, and he realized it wasn't a car but something heavier. A lorry, perhaps? Odd, though. You seldom saw a lorry on this little back road during the day, let alone in the middle of the night. It slowed. He heard the shift of gears. The headlights began to swing in his direction, and he caught a glimpse of a long, box-like van in the light reflected off the hedge and open gate.
It was turning in!
He flung himself into the ditch and covered his face with his arms, listening as the driver stopped, reversed, then swung wide to clear the gatepost. The glare of lights swept over him. The driver changed gears again, and the headlights suddenly went out as the van started up the hill. He waited until it was safely past his hiding place before raising his head to watch as the van continued on with only side and tail lights showing; watched until it turned into the yard and was lost to sight behind the house.
He scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off as he ran back up the hill. He stayed on the grass, keeping close to the hedge, pausing only when he came level with the house. The lane leading to the yard at the back of the house was gravelled, and with the blank wall of the house on one side and a shoulder-high wall on the other, there would be nowhere to hide if someone should come round the corner. He drew a deep breath. He couldn't stop now. He'd come this far, waited this long . . .
Crouching low, he crept along the side of the house. The night air was cold, but he was sweating. His clothes were sticking to him and he could hear the pulse of every heartbeat in his ears. He paused to steady his breathing, listening for any sign of danger before moving on. Nothing. Not so much as a whisper. He moved on, telling himself that whoever had been in the van must be in the house by now.
He had almost reached the corner when he heard voices; two men speaking quietly. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but they sounded much too close for comfort. If they came around the corner . . .
Slowly, testing each footstep, he began to edge backward, eyes glued to the corner, ready to turn and run at the first sign of movement.
Suddenly, a shaft of light spilled out from behind the house. He held his breath, too scared to move. The light flickered, flared and died.
The night closed around him and he breathed again. A lighter! He realized now he'd heard the rasp of flint on the still night air, and the faintest of clicks as the light went out.
He let out a long, slow breath and continued to edge backward, testing every step. Sound carried on the cold night air, and one false step could be his undoing.
Perhaps he could get around the other side of the house. It would mean working his way across the front of the place, probably on his belly to avoid the windows, but it might be worth . . .
A light from behind swept over him, and suddenly the wall on the far side of the lane was starkly visible. He dropped to the ground, pressing himself against the wall of the house. He'd been so intent on the dangers ahead of him that he'd been oblivious to the sound of vehicles on the road below.
And not just one! There were
three
of them! Cars, vans or whatever they were, advancing up the hill â and he'd be trapped if he didn't shift himself.
The headlights of the leading vehicle went out, and he remembered the way the first van had doused its lights once it was off the road. Bent almost double, he scuttled across the lane to fling himself at the wall, clawing, scrambling, heedless of the skin being stripped from his fingers as he pulled himself over the top and dropped to the ground on the other side.
He lay there panting in what felt like a tangle of weeds, listening to the sound of the engines as they went by. Two close together, then the third a few seconds later. He risked a quick look over the wall as the last one disappeared around the corner. An SUV of some sort.
He looked back toward the road. Black as pitch. No more cars coming up the hill, but that didn't mean there couldn't be more.
It was while he was sitting there with his back against the wall, trying to decide what to do, that he realized the vehicles hadn't stopped in the farmyard at the back of the house, but were continuing on. He could still hear their engines. Fading, but he could still hear them.
