Rainstone Fall (14 page)

Beside the insubstantial and neglected-looking farmhouse and the few outbuildings I could make out, there stood a mass of shipping containers, by the looks of it simply plonked into the muddy grass of the field, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards from the fence. Many were blue, some white, but most of them were rusty. They seemed to have grown up there like a small hideous village around the L-shaped farmhouse’s grey and utilitarian shape. I glimpsed one or two Portakabins and a blue Portaloo among the containers. It was a depressing sight. Lane End Farm occupied nearly the entire end of the valley and as far as I could see nobody farmed it. The containers, apart from being ugly in themselves, looked out of place in a field many miles from the nearest port. To the left the hillside was covered in what looked like the remains of ancient woodland. Far to the right of the ‘farm’ snaked the other fork of the lane, disappearing into the distance. There was no farming machinery to be seen but a large van was driving along a track on the far end of the property and beside the furthest container a mobile crane stretched its telescopic arm skywards in a mute salute. I dismounted and leant the bike against the fence. After giving the gate, which was topped with razor-sharp spikes, a futile pull I decided to do a little exploring on foot. Judging by the path worn alongside the fence to the left I wasn’t the first to take this route up into the wood, in fact there was evidence that someone walked here quite regularly. I just hoped it wasn’t a patrol of dogs. The place looked like it should have guard dogs tethered to overhead wires patrolling the perimeter, then all it needed was a watchtower to make the stalag impression complete.

The fence curved sharply away and I left it behind for a while, just enjoying my walk. It wasn’t much of a climb from the gate before I stood on the crest of the hill. The woodland was dense here but wind and rain had done their bit to thin out the autumn foliage. I could see below me that the fence skirted the edge of the wood for a while, running east while it did. I made my way downhill again through the pathless strip of woodland. Halfway down I nearly slithered into something on the damp leaf litter: a dead dog. It was Taxi, Gem Stone’s old mongrel. There wasn’t even a second’s hesitation before pronouncing him dead, his head was such a bloody mess. Had I found him on the road I’d have assumed he’d been run over but here, in the middle of the strip of woodland? I knelt down and forced myself to take a closer look. I’d have made a bad crime scene technician, or one that threw up a lot over the evidence.

The blood was dried and there were ants crawling all over the beast’s fur. It quickly became obvious that his skull had been bashed in, even without the spatter of blood on the surrounding leaf litter. All that told me was that it happened right here.

I thought I could smell death too, despite the strong breeze that pulled the last leaves off the trees and sent them dancing around me.

I slithered further down the hill until I reached the fence. It cut at an angle here which brought me closer to the containers, allowing me to get a better view of the set-up. Walking on I kept close to the fence, which turned out to be a mistake. A gravelled track ran north out of what was really quite a small farm, through another gate and then disappeared over the rise where it would eventually connect to the Lansdown Road. A large van in the unmistakable red livery of the postal service made its way towards the gate. At the same time a skinhead on a quad bike appeared from between the rows of containers and took a fast and bumpy ride straight towards me. Who said there was never one around when you needed one? Pretending not to have noticed him I walked on along the fence.

‘Oi, you!’ He started shouting from twenty yards away. I kept walking.

‘Hey! Get away from there.’ He caught up with me and kept jerkily apace with me on the noisy quad. He was about thirty, dressed in faded black combat trousers, camouflage jacket and army boots. He had a broad, round-featured face and made the quad bike look puny. I was quite glad we had a fence between us. ‘Are you deaf or something?’

‘Is this Tony Blackfield’s place?’ I asked.

‘What if it is? Are you from the
Chronicle
? We’ve got planning permission for this so you can shove it.’

‘I can? And what is “this”?’

‘Storage units. Secure storage units is what they are.’

‘They look like clapped-out shipping containers to me.’

‘That’s what they were, now they’re storage units for rent. Secure storage units and I’m security. So piss off from our fence. You’re trespassing.’ He gave the throttle an angry twist and jerked ahead a few yards, then stopped the bike and got off.

I stopped too. ‘I’m trespassing? I presumed the farm started on that side of the fence.’

‘Well, it doesn’t. Lane End includes the woodland and we’d be obliged if people kept the fuck out of it.’

‘Right. Perhaps you should have run the fence around it then.’

‘Oh yeah? Have you got any idea how much fencing costs?’

‘Not this attractive kind, no.’ I stroked the chain link.

‘Well, it costs a fucking fortune. Now are you going or do I have to remove you?’ he said, jangling a bunch of keys clipped to his belt. Until now I had felt quite safe and smug on this side of the fence, now I noticed a small door set into it a few yards further down.

I changed my tune. ‘Fine, I’m going. I see the Royal Mail use your units as well?’

‘Yes, because we’re cheap. They don’t tell us what they store here but I suspect it’s second class mail,’ he said unsmilingly and probably meant it. He got back on his bike. ‘Don’t be fucking ages about it. Go back to the road by the shortest route.’ Then he grabbed a handful of throttle and bumped back towards the container park.

Secure storage. Not such a daft idea, really, apart from the traffic it engendered and the sheer hideousness of it all.

Now that I knew it was there I could just make out the dead dog on the slope to my right. I gave it a wide berth on my way back. At the gate I wheeled the Norton about, sat astride it, and was fastening my helmet strap when the sound of a motorcycle engine approached from downhill. At first I presumed it to be the skinhead on his quad, wanting more words; instead it was a figure on a muddy trail bike that appeared at the bottom of the rise where it came to an abrupt and squelching stop. The rider wore jeans, heavy boots, a red and white jacket and a helmet with blue-tinted goggles; more I couldn’t make out before he jerked his bike around in a ragged turn, while keeping an eye on me. Perhaps he was turning because he realized the lane ended here but I had the distinct feeling the sight of me at the top of the lane was unexpected and had spooked him. One way to find out. I worked the kick-starter. To my immense surprise the engine fired instantly and I shot down the hill in pursuit. If I was wrong about it I would soon know. With my momentary downhill advantage the distance between us quickly closed to only eight or ten yards so that I could easily have read his number plate if there’d been one. No doubt it was hearing the old-fashioned roar of the Norton’s twin peashooter pipes that made him glance over his shoulder. I saw him twist his throttle and he pulled away. I dropped a gear, followed suit and squeezed the last ounce of torque out of the Norton. The ancient technology responded bravely and I kept up with him while we flew past the corrugated iron barn, but as the bend approached I realized that I’d be unable to compete not just with the dirt tyres and modern engine but with the apparent willingness of the rider to risk going arse over tit in order to shake me off. Spattering mud and stones and skating with one foot on the ground, he took the corner at an impressive speed and then sped off in a power slide. By the time I had negotiated the muddy bend and got to the crossroads only the sound of his engine gave away that he had tuned right, towards Spring Farm. Now back on decent tarmac I accelerated with a bit more confidence in my tyres and took the next three bends idiotically fast. It was only the plume of black exhaust the enormous tractor sent skyward as it pulled out of a gate into the lane that stopped me from ploughing into it. Too late to brake. I squeezed myself into the opposite side of lane, foliage whipping my helmet, and shot past the giant machine screaming, with inches to spare. Driving the monster was Jack Fryer.

By the time my heart and I had slowed down again there was no sign of the other rider and all I could hear was the puttering of the Norton and the surge of the tractor’s big diesel. I pootled on in true geriatric style, narked by my idiotic little chase, giving myself an earful of abuse. My Accumulated Guilt Quotient was running high enough; crumpling the Norton and booking myself into hospital would have sent it into orbit.

Without even thinking about it I took the turn to Gemma’s place, crossed the stream without drowning the engine and once more left the bike under the tree. The track from here on in had been so churned up it was quite pointless trying to carefully pick my way between the bogs and puddles. I just squelched and splashed through regardless, in a temper with myself, the weather, the world. The rope was still across the entrance; I ducked under it. The woman’s car was there and a thin thread of smoke rose from the shepherd’s hut. The nights were getting colder now and I tried not to imagine what it must be like to spend a cold and wet winter in a clapped-out caravan. And coming to that, why didn’t I ask her? Along with a few other irritable questions I had on my back burner.

The hut was closed up and, as I could see through the window, unoccupied. The door to the caravan was ajar, an invitation to snoop if ever I saw one. When I pushed it open with two fingers it creaked ominously on its hinges; served me right. Now would have been the last opportunity for any pretence of polite behaviour, like a hearty call of ‘Hello, anybody home?’, but I was in Grumpy Detective Mode and just walked in. Not very far because there wasn’t far to go. It was truly tiny. Everything inside appeared to have been shrunk, too. The gas cooker had only two rings and the sink was full, giving room to a single cauliflower. Cupboards were built into every nook and cranny. At the back was an unruly bed disgorging blankets and cushions over the side, a narrow table cluttered with the remains of a breakfast that had included a boiled egg, and in front of that a short upholstered bench. There was an ashtray crammed with the butts of hand-rolled cigarettes and two empty bottles of Bulgarian table wine. But it was also quite homely: a chilli plant in a pot bearing bright yellow fruit on the table by the window; blue and red cushions with star and moon motifs; a heavy midnight-blue curtain still covering the larger back window; postcards, some of the seaside but mainly of the cutesy dog variety, pinned and Blu-Tacked to every surface. There were several photos of Taxi, looking younger. I opened a cupboard to the left of the cooker: jar upon jar of dried herbs, bottled fruit and pickled roots. Next to the sink an opaque sliding door revealed a claustrophobically narrow shower cubicle housing a mop and bucket.

I stepped outside again. There was less wind at the bottom of the Hollow but up in the sky the clouds still raced, producing a painter’s nightmare of sudden lights and darks. I walked around the side of the caravan between the sheds and the trees. The home-made greenhouse sheltered some broad-leafed plants I didn’t recognize. Walking over duckboards made from old wooden pallets I passed a stone trough gently overflowing with water that welled up from below; one of the springs, no doubt. The ground around here looked spongy, hence the duckboards. To the left, the wooden double doors of a large polytunnel stood wide open. Despite that, the difference in atmosphere as I stepped inside was remarkable. It was several degrees warmer, there was no wind and the earthy and verdant smell reminded me of warmer climates, of spring in the Mediterranean. The tunnel was about eighteen feet wide and seemed to stretch on for ever. The centre was taken up with an endless length of staging full of plants in black plastic pots as well as old tins, buckets and washing-up bowls. On either side in the ground, stretching into infinity it seemed, grew a jungle of plants. I took the right-hand path down the tunnel. Some of this jungle I recognized. There were ragged-looking tomato plants and some kind of spiky cucumber, then a multitude of lettuces.

I walked on right to the end where, near a set of closed doors under several lemon trees laden with small jewel-like fruit, Gemma huddled with her legs drawn up in a decrepit cane chair. A knitted hat, pointed and with ear flaps, gave her a vaguely Tibetan air. She was smoking an elegant, long-stemmed pipe, sending clouds of smoke, fragrant with cannabis, my way. By her side a tea chest supported a mug of tea and smoking paraphernalia.

‘Wondered when you would turn up,’ she said, her speech somewhat impeded by her bruised, swollen and torn lips. Dried blood scabbed the splits. One eye, too, was blackening and almost swollen shut.

‘About now,’ I said, distracted by her abused face. I looked around. Hers was the only chair. This wasn’t a place where Gemma Stone entertained. It was a place to rest from work, or perhaps it was her refuge from the world; a violent world, by the looks of it. The light at the end of this tunnel came filtered through the foliage of the potted lemon grove. I found an empty bucket nearby, turned it over and sat. She ignored me, looking straight past me into the jungle.

Some of my grumpy detective mood had evaporated in the warmth of concern but I couldn’t just sit there and get stoned from passive smoking, which was quite possible considering the liveliness of Gemma’s pipe. I lit one of my less entertaining cigarettes and added my smoke to the heavy atmosphere.

‘You want to talk about it?’ I said at last.

‘What?’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘You mean this?’ She pointed the stem of her pipe at the blackened eye. ‘Nothing to tell, I fell.’

‘Right,’ I said with less than full conviction.

‘Look, it’s really none of your business but if I’d been in a fight I’d say so, okay, it’s hardly a big deal. I got drunk, I slipped, I fell, end of story.’

It was always possible, I’d seen the empty bottles. ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ I lied.