Field Walking

by John Bishop

knowledge tells you, but it looks to me like it’s going to piss down pretty soon.’

  ‘You’re not wrong. Does that change your plans?’

  ‘Au contraire, sunshine, au contraire. The worse the conditions, the better. I’m happy to get soaked for what Lenny’s paying me. A good storm covers other noises, and it keeps people indoors with their heads down. Besides, if I end up on the run tomorrow, wet ground dampens the enthusiasm of your average volunteer searcher. Ever heard of orienteering?’

  ‘Like a compass march but you run like buggery, right?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, and I was good. I was unbackable in the wet; so it can rain all it likes tonight. The problem right now is I’d like you to get me there while there’s still a bit of daylight. So I figure we better leave early.’

  ‘Say the word.’

  ‘Let’s do it.’ Jones opened his haversack. He took out a plastic golf jacket and a gun.

  Gavin recognised the semi-automatic Beretta 92. ‘Bruce Willis, Die Hard,’ he said.

  ‘Well spotted, sunshine. But I hit the target more’n Willis does.’ Jones grinned. He checked the pistol and put it into a shoulder holster. ‘I’ll have to wear the jacket in the truck so I can get out and away quickly. I hate these plastic things, but they save space if you’re travelling light.’ He stood up, put on the jacket, and picked up the haversack. Suddenly he turned, moved quickly to his right, crouched slightly and drew the gun from its holster. He took several quick steps forward, dropped to one knee and aimed at an imaginary target. After several other mimed encounters, all of which he achieved effortlessly and with almost no sound, he looked at Gavin and grinned. ‘Warm ups!’

  By the time they were half way to the St Mark’s turnoff, visibility was poor and worsening.

  ‘I’ll have to put the lights on,’ Gavin said. ‘Too dangerous on the highway otherwise.’

  ‘No worries. Makes it less likely the truck will be recognized anyway.’

  They sat in silence while Gavin drove along the highway past the access road, turned at the same crossover he had used in the morning, and headed slowly back. Before reaching the top of the rise he turned off the main lights, leaving the parking lights on, and pulled to the side. They could just see the car park and the outline of the church.

  ‘Graveyard’s at this end, right?’

  ‘You can see the picket fence.’

  ‘So the thing marked as a lych-gate is along there. And the shed is right opposite the lych-gate. Okay, sunshine, I got it.’ Without further warning, Tom Jones, opened the door, closed it gently, crossed the verge, slid through the fence-wire, and headed across the paddock. As agreed, Gavin moved off immediately. His work done, or so he thought.

  There were no warning drops; the rain arrived in a sudden downpour. Tom Jones had got as far as the lych-gate and was able to take stock in the shelter of its tiled roof. The timing could not have been better. The plastic jacket would become a humidity trap soon; for now, he had the opportunity he needed to climb the ivy onto the flat roof of the tool shed. He rated at zero the likelihood of being heard, and nobody would be expecting him to gain access from there. It had never been his intention to check whether any of the main doors were open. If Kingsley was on alert, that’s where he’d be watching. Tom’s objective was a leadlight window, which had been evident on a sketch of the church. He had little doubt it would be frail enough to yield to his pulling on the lead beading with pliers, a technique he’d been taught by a glazier before undertaking a job a few years ago. The pliers were not part of his usual kit but he’d got a pair from Bill Smith and had wiped his host’s fingerprints off as a precaution. It only needed one piece of lead to come loose and he would be able to take out the glass, piece by piece. In this weather, he hoped the additional breeze inside a draughty old church wouldn’t be noticed. But he would be ready if Kingsley came to investigate. A person approaching the window from inside would be looking up at him—a sitting duck. If he could dispose of Kingsley without entering the building, so much the better.

  Gavin’s experience with the rain had not been as favourable. With the wipers at maximum speed, visibility was so poor that, had he not been committed to getting away from the area, he would have pulled to the side and waited. He was barely a kilometre past the access road when the lights of a vehicle coming in the other direction blinded him. The other driver had his lights on high beam and was well into the middle of the carriageway. Gavin flashed his own lights as a warning and pulled as far to the side as he dared—too far, he felt the wheels lose traction and the truck slid sideways into the storm water channel beside the road. Luck was not with him. He had left the road just before a crossover leading into the driveway of a farm. The truck came to rest abruptly, its radiator crumpled against the concrete retaining wall protecting the pipe designed to carry water under the crossover. He knew, at once, the truck would remain there until it could be dragged out by an emergency vehicle or a tractor. It was little consolation that he was unharmed. He put his head on the steering wheel and uttered a single word. ‘Fuck!’

  Tom Jones’s luck was holding. The leadlight window was in poor condition. What parish has the funds to maintain every part of a church? Wind and weather had loosened the panels, not enough for them to fall out, but enough for him to remove them with reasonable ease. Heavy rain continued; but he was sheltered by the substantial overhang of the main roof, and what wind there was placed him on the lee side of the building. The top panels of the window were out of reach. He thought about climbing down to look for something he could stand on, but, having had to use considerable force to remove the lower panels, he was confident those he was unable to reach were firm enough to stay put. The sill of the window was a few centimetres above his waist height. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the church he could see, a metre below him, a platform, probably the roof of a small room. Had this been a catholic church he would have guessed he was looking down on the top of a confessional. Good news and bad news, he thought. The bad news is I can’t see the floor of the church at this end. The good news is I can use the platform as a staging point.

  Max was in the vestry when his mobile telephone warbled. It was Celestine.

  ‘I’m outside in the car,’ she said. ‘I’m parked beside the transept, but I’ll get drenched while I’m getting in. Can you open the door for me?’

  ‘Of course. Give me a minute. You would have found it locked, anyway. I’ll get the key.’

  ‘Lovely. When you’ve opened it, stand clear while I make a dash. I wouldn’t want to knock you over.’

  ‘It’s Celestine,’ Max called to Ziggy as he made for the door.

  ‘Be that as it may, I’ll let her in. You keep well back.’

  ‘It’s only Celestine.’

  ‘Scared out of her wits and held at gunpoint by a thug?’

  ‘Oh come on!’

  ‘Only joking. But only just joking, Max. Nothing surprises me these days. So do as I say, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Keep your hair on. I’m standing back.’

  As soon as Celestine was inside, Ziggy closed and locked the door again.

  ‘I didn’t think you were coming today,’ Max said.

  ‘Change of plans.’ Celestine hung her dripping raincoat and beret on the rack in the transept. ‘I was meant to be taking hockey practice, but Trudy decided to cancel sport and send the Bullermark kids home before the storm. The bus driver was Old Mike Misery.’

  ‘Enough said. Though he has a point. They’re re-surfacing a stretch of the road and this rain will make it a real mess.’

  ‘Anyway, it gave me a chance to drop off the Year 11 essays. I’ve got a full day tomorrow and I wasn’t sure when I’d get here.’

  Tom Jones was easing himself onto the platform below the windowsill when he heard Max call out to Ziggy. He completed the manoeuvre as quickly as he dared and lay flat on his back. As he listened to the voices below him, he became aware the platform was constructed of single sheets of plaster on
a framework of wooden slats. It had obviously been designed solely to provide a ceiling to the enclosure below, not to take the weight of a man. He felt it give slightly. It would hold him lying flat but he dare not sit up. When the time came to move, he would have to roll carefully to the edge, trying to keep his weight evenly distributed. Meanwhile, he could hear snatches of conversation. There were two male voices and one woman; they had moved away, possibly into another room. In line with his philosophy that risks usually get worse with time rather than better, he would not delay his next move; he must get off this flimsy structure now. It was a while since he’d taken out three targets at once but he knew he could manage the job if he could surprise all three in one place.

  As the rain continued to fall, Max and Celestine sat at the table in the vestry discussing lesson plans for the next week. Ziggy was occasionally brought into the conversation.

  The rain was beating heavily against windows high on the vestry wall, and there was a lot of noise from the corrugated metal roof of the tool shed outside. Then came a new sound so loud that all of them heard it. Gun drawn, Ziggy was first to react, racing to the vestry door and out into the church. Max followed but stopped in the doorway and motioned urgently to Celestine to stay put. From an umbrella stand he took the