Tainted Ground (31 page)

At the moment however we did nothing more controversial than stopping at a pub high on the outskirts of Bath for an early lunch. Afterwards we drove to a quiet lane, parked, reclined our seats and slept for longer than we intended to, waking into a gloomy late afternoon.

I made Patrick strip off his sweater to check the dressings on his shoulder and the wounds had bled again a little so I changed them.

‘What on earth's that?' he wanted to know when he saw me taking a swig out of the ‘Essence of Flowers' bottle.

‘A herbal pick-me-up that Elspeth gave me. It tastes rather nice.'

He took it and gingerly sniffed, pulling a face. ‘It says on the label to take two or three
drops
in water twice a day.'

‘Only boring people read labels,' I said.

We listened to the radio until it was almost dark and then drove back in the direction of Hinton Littlemoor. Patrick had already found somewhere to park the Range Rover out of sight, a narrow track that led into a field near where he had climbed the tree in the morning. No one would need access to it at this time of day.

‘Where are we going to watch the mill from?' I said as we walked down a bridle path towards the village centre, just able to see where were going in the deep dusk. I had taken as many painkillers as possible this side of an overdose and, ye gods,
something
was coursing through me zapping all the aches and pains. I had an idea it was the rural remedy, the little green bottle of which was safely in my pocket.

‘There's a house for sale opposite with an L-shaped flat-roofed extension down the side and partly at the front. It's empty, we can keep watch from up there. No one'll see us, there are no street lights until you get to the corner.'

No, but there were the exceedingly stylish exterior lights of the mill itself, resembling Victorian street lamps, which I thought illuminated the house across the street beautifully. Patrick did not hesitate, leading the way through the gate and around to the rear of the house so we could get on the roof out of sight. He gave me a leg-up on to a water butt, which fortunately had a piece of broken paving slab across the top and not a plastic lid, and from there I stepped on to the flat roof.

‘Down!' he urged. ‘Flat on your front, wriggle on your elbows, don't even crawl.'

Just to think: I was in hospital not many hours previously.

Side by side, we eventually lay on our stomachs near the edge of the roof. There was a good view of the main entrance and parking area of the mill when one parted the fragile branches of an overhanging birch tree, which Patrick assured me in a whisper would screen us completely from a distance.

Cars and people on foot went to and fro, Pascal Lapointe left the building and walked in the direction of the centre of the village, returning several minutes later with what could have been a bottle of wine tucked beneath one arm. A car drew in and Tamsin Roper got out, presumably returning from work. Then Lorna Church arrived and also went within.

‘We'll have a while to wait,' Patrick said softly. ‘They might even leave it until the early hours of the morning.' He then exclaimed under his breath as John came into view, going for his final twice a day prescribed half-mile walk. Seeing him, something jolted in my memory but nothing came of it.

We took it in turns to watch while the other rolled over onto their back for a rest. We ate the bars of high-energy food in our pockets, played I-spy in whispers and heard the church clock strike the hours.

Midnight.

Patrick groaned as the final chime faded eerily away into the chill mist that had descended. ‘May a thousand curses rain down upon their scabby heads,' he said faintly.

At two, pain having got me back in its grip, I had a good mouthful of ‘Essence of Flowers' and almost freaked out a few minutes later when my fingertips started to burn and my hair felt that it was standing on end. The sensation gradually faded but then I suddenly felt that I was floating a couple of inches above the surface of the roof.

‘What's the matter?' Patrick asked after I had looked under my chest to check.

‘I just feel a bit odd, that's all.'

‘You've overdosed on that bloody elixir.' He chuckled. ‘Probably going to spontaneously combust.'

‘Don't be so
beastly
.'

‘I'm going to give them until three. Then we'll reconstruct your movements of last night but without going into the garages, see what that brings and then come back again tonight.'

Three a.m. arrived and still there was no movement over the road, all the windows in darkness. Then we heard a car approaching and, moments later, a black Porsche swept in, tyres squealing, and went from sight in the direction of the garages. There came the distant sounds of a garage door being opened, the car driven in and various doors slammed shut again.

The stocky figure came into view, walking quickly, hunched into his jacket, took a key from his pocket and let himself in.

‘That's him,' I said.

‘He moves like a real bruiser – and in a bad temper too. Good, that affects judgement.'

‘He's not exactly overburdened with it already.'

It was a wonderful moment when, just a short while later, the three of them emerged, stood talking in low voices waving their arms in various directions for a minute or so and then went off towards the garages.

Patrick sat up. ‘Will they return this way or start climbing over walls and going though hedges from that end?' Answering the query himself, he went on, ‘No, I reckon, being as they think it's you who made off with the loot, that after another quick look round down there they'll assume you came this way and stashed the bag somewhere easy, a front garden or shed. We'll wait.'

Brandon junior came back almost straight away, gazed about and then wrenched a couple of lower branches from a small tree, pulling off the side shoots and breaking off the thinner ends, scattering the debris, ending up with something the size of walking sticks. He went off with them.

‘Well, he's got an ASBO coming to him at least,' Patrick said. ‘I suggest we get down while they're away and conceal ourselves behind the hedge down there.'

This we did and although I still felt a bit floaty it proved to be of no help whatsoever in getting down off the water butt. Patrick had to assist me and we both finished up in an untidy heap.

‘God, I'm really glad I'm not staying in the police and Carrick isn't here,' he muttered.

‘You've only been suspended,' I pointed out.

‘Only!' There followed a few almost inaudible epithets.

We crouched down behind the front hedge and it was nice to assume a different uncomfortable position. Then we froze as we heard voices. If it was the Brandons they were not bothering to speak quietly now, actually arguing. Bad temper is catching, I thought, remembering Teddy's arrival.

Which was all in our favour, of course.

They crossed the road and came right towards us and I jumped as a stick thwacked into the hedge close to my head. In the next second Patrick had placed a steadying hand on my arm. We stayed quite still.

‘You really screwed this up, didn't you?' Marjorie's voice said in a sibilant whisper, the pronunciation as I had last heard it, the vowels flattened, definitely not the refined manner of speaking she had put on when I had first met her. ‘What a damn-fool place to hide it! That little cow must have sneaked it away before she came round. I hope she's dead.'

‘I heard an ambulance or police siren a bit later on,' said Brandon senior. ‘She's not dead, though. Someone was talking about it in the pub. This bloke said they've gone home, he's chucked it all in.'

‘Teddy, you should have killed her there and then,' Marjorie said poisonously, ‘not just shoved her out of the car.'

‘It was you who said it was too risky and I wasn't to kill anyone else!' he protested. ‘Too scared stiff of that smartarse husband of hers.'

‘He's the sort to behave outside the law,' Marjorie countered. ‘Before we'd have known where we were he'd have paid one of his old army cronies to put bullets between our eyes.'

As I had noted once before, the woman was amazingly perceptive. No money would have changed hands, though: Patrick is owed quite a few favours.

They moved on, the sounds suggesting a poking and prodding of the vegetation at the side of the road. I felt that they had provided us with rather a lot of evidence against themselves and while I was enjoying feeling vindicated I was wondering what the outcome of this night would be. Patrick, I knew, was armed. What was he planning? I hoped it was not a burning-of-all-our-boats scenario along the lines of Marjorie's predictions. The auspices were not good. In the past, those who had laid hands on me had ended up mostly dead.

Cautiously, we emerged from hiding and Patrick peered around the gateway. He beckoned to me and we went out into the street just in time to see the Brandons disappearing around a bend. Had they been drinking? Could I really smell alcohol in the air? It would explain their bad temper and lack of caution.

Conversing was out of the question now, we just trod silently in their wake. When we reached the road junction with the high street, where there was a lamppost, we stood in the shadows behind a nearby phone box, able to observe our quarry for a couple of minutes as they wove their way down in the opposite direction to the village green and church. No, I thought, I had not gone that way, I had been out of breath while carrying my burden.

Dogs began barking as three increasingly desperate people tried side gates, peered in porches and doorways and rummaged in litter bins. Then the penny appeared to drop that if what they were after had been left anywhere so public it would have already been found. They headed off towards open countryside.

‘It's not down there,' I whispered.

‘It isn't?' Patrick said in surprise. He had been preparing to move off.

‘I
think
I went up the hill.'

He pondered. ‘We might wait for a long time while they poke their way through every ditch and hedge bottom. Damn.'

‘It's not gospel. I could be quite wrong.' Inwardly, I was still agonizing over whether I had really found it. I could have broken my fingernails climbing back over the wall.

‘And those who start work early or have a long way to drive will be stirring at around five. We've an hour and three-quarters left at the most.'

Then we saw them reappear, walking quickly and purposefully back up the road towards us.

‘Plan B,' Patrick said under his breath. ‘This is more like it.'

We backed into a hedge that ran behind the phone box, emerging after they had passed us, heading uphill. They were not talking now but I could distinctly hear William Brandon puffing and panting as he struggled to keep up with the others. We had no choice now but to trail them in the open, ducking into gateways and behind any piece of cover. We were fortunate: they did not turn round and look behind them.

‘I'm worried now,' Patrick said in my ear as we paused in the village shop doorway. ‘There's no reason to suppose they believe we've left, despite what old Brandon said. Are they heading for the rectory?'

‘You mean to force their way in to see if it was only a rumour and if I'm there, grab me, or anyone else for that matter, to try to find out where I put it?'

‘It's quite possible. Look at them, they're not searching anymore. They've made up their minds to take action.'

‘There should be people watching the rectory.'

‘Probably just a probationer on their own at this time of night who'll be no match for that lot.' He dived out of the doorway, going back in the direction we had come. But only for a few yards, turning sharp right down a narrow passageway between the houses, risking using his torch here as it was very dark. We ran. Well, I seemed to be running.

After fifty yards or so we turned right again and were then in a wider unmade lane. It was full of potholes forcing us to slow down again. After another short distance there was a left turn and we climbed a stile on to a narrow footpath, fenced on either side, that wended its way quite steeply uphill between what was probably back gardens. After coming to another stile I found myself on one side of the open space that was the village green. It is quite large with a cricket pitch in the middle. Patrick switched off the torch and ran on. Not for the first time I marvelled at how mobile he is, considering, the result of constant hard work on his part since his devastating Falklands War injuries.

I simply could not keep up with him now.

The dark outline of the church spire loomed up ahead and over to the right, a lumpy rectangle in the foreground was the rear of the Ring O'Bells. We headed for it. Gazing around I almost fell over a low chain-link fence that borders this part of the green to prevent cars being parked on the grass. Still able to see Patrick ahead of me I crossed a side road, moved in the lee of the pub's side wall and then there was no choice but to cross another section of the green where it narrowed at one end. The church was straight ahead now, the rectory drive to the right of it but Patrick did not go that way, bearing round to the left where the road curved so we could cross out of sight of anyone coming from the other direction. There was a pedestrian access to the churchyard I had not known existed, where he waited for me, and we went through it and then were following an inner path by the high wall. We took shelter under the roofed lychgate, listening. We had seen no vehicles that would point to police surveillance.

I could hear but not see Brandon senior gasping for breath and had an idea the three were stationary close by. Patrick pointed and then I spotted them, just the tops of their heads showing above some bushes as they stood in the road about thirty yards away. They then moved on again, coming towards us and the rectory drive entrance.

Patrick turned and went down the main pathway to the church door and then around the side where a little picket gate allowed access to the rectory garden, a relic of the days when there was a right of way across it from the Grange next door.