The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  He closed the file and pushed it to one side. "But," he continued, emphasising the word as if to point up the significance of what was to follow, "no sign of Black's Mondeo."

  "His car is still in the garage. I saw it last night. Which begs the question of how Black left home. Is there any sign of him on foot?"

  Lowe shook his head. "Which suggests to me one of two possibilities. Either Black left home in one of the vehicles recorded on the tapes. And, frankly, that doesn't strike me as likely. If he was leaving town, he would have driven himself or hired a taxi. Or he never left home at all."

  He sank back into his chair.

  I agreed with him. "Not unless he hiked through the woods, which would make no sense at all. And that means he must still be there. Somewhere."

  As if on cue, we simultaneously turned to face each other. It was obvious from the look on his face that we were sharing the same thought.

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I said.

  Lowe grimaced. "We may have been heading in the wrong direction. Far from being the perpetrator of any crime, Black may well be another victim."

  It was a reasonable assumption but there was another possibility. "You don't suppose he could be lying low at home?"

  "Not unless he's lying low upstairs in total darkness. We've been keeping a close eye on the place."

  We sat in silence for a few moments as the implications of our joint reasoning sank in.

  I let out a long low whistle. "This could change everything. So what happens now?"

  "Once the Chief has my report, he'll need to ratify my conclusions. But we'll have a better idea of the situation once we've searched Black's place. The Chief is on his way over from Charwell to give a briefing later this morning and then we're going over there this afternoon to carry out the search."

  "Yes, he's arranged to pick me up from the vicarage on the way over. Which reminds me ..." I glanced at my watch. "In all the excitement of watching this fascinating stuff, I'd completely forgotten about Karen." I drained my mug, placed it on the desk and pushed myself to my feet. "I'd better get back over there and give her a hand."

  "Karen's over at the vicarage?" Lowe stood up, reached over the desk, and switched off the player. "I'll give you a lift."

  I winked at him. "All in the line of duty, eh?"

  He flushed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  We made it to the vicarage to find Karen tight-lipped and short-tongued. Her way of letting me know she wasn't overjoyed at having been left alone for so long. But she soon brightened up when she saw Lowe's smiling face. And when he offered to take her out to dinner that evening, she begrudgingly forgave me.

  Lowe went back to the station for his briefing leaving Karen and me to sort through my father's belongings.

  Karen had already made a start. She’d bagged up some clothes and left them on the dining room table together with a heap of folded bedding too large to be bagged and various papers she had found lying around.

  I'd brought back the bag of documents I'd found earlier, including the will - it made more sense to sort through them here - and I piled them on the table with the other documents and then took a tour of the house, checking through all the drawers and cupboards to make sure no papers had been missed. I added what I found to the pile on the dining table and then helped Karen sort through and bag up the rest of the clothing.

  We were kept busy until well into the afternoon, dividing our time between work and heated discussions about the more dubious reasons for my newfound publicity.

  We covered a range of fascinating subtopics. Such as why I was so bad at relationships and how someone who was supposed to be intelligent made so many stupid mistakes. One thing I could say about Karen is that she didn't pull her punches.

  Whilst Karen was still in full flow about the many ways in which I chose to screw up my life, a police car passed the window on its way to Black's house, and a few minutes later, I was saved from any further debate by the timely arrival of Nathan's Astra.

  He stayed long enough to pass the time of day with Karen and then we left her to it and trudged over to Black's place where a couple of constables were already standing by the door. Mr Dawson, the locksmith, was in attendance, drill at the ready.

  "Okay, men, let's do it," said Nathan, and gave Dawson the go ahead.

  Dawson acknowledged us with a nod and turned his attention to the door. He soon had it open. Nathan led the way into the house, followed by the two constables, and with me in the rear. Dawson hovered outside.

  I paused and peered into each of the rooms as we passed by on our way through the house.

  At the door into the living room, Nathan said, "Don't disturb anything." This was directed at me.

  "I'm not an idiot."

  He grunted and led the way into the room.

  While I took stock of my surroundings, Nathan barked some orders and directed his men to various parts of the house to look around.

  I waited until he had finished and said, "Any idea what you're looking for?"

  "To be frank, I thought we might find a body."

  "Looks like we might be thinking along the same lines. Lowe and I came to the same conclusion"

  "Yes, I have his report. So let's hear your thoughts."

  "A few things don't add up. His car for starters. It's still in the garage. If he was leaving town, why would he not use it?"

  "Because it could be identified. But it's something to consider. Okay, next."

  "There's no sign of Black or his car on the CCTV footage. All the other vehicles on the recordings are now accounted for and their drivers have been interviewed. They all seem to be in the clear so far. That just leaves the possibility that he never left."

  "Yes, Lowe told me you'd been through the footage. I understand you identified one of the cars. Thank you for that." It was a begrudging thanks.

  "Did Lowe find out why the Punto was there?"

  "Yes, it seems Corby was running errands up to Trivett's. And he ferried his wife back and forth to see Frances Trivett a few times. Giles Trivett was at a conference for a few days and Erin Colby and Frances Trivett often socialise when he's away. Frances Trivett confirmed it. Corby hadn't thought it important enough to mention."

  I said, "What concerns me the most is the message Black left at the surgery. Okay, so I get that he would leave a message rather than call during working hours if he didn't want to be questioned too closely. But why a text message? I don't buy the idea that he didn't want to be overheard. He would have been able to arrange to call in private."

  Nathan nodded. "And the one reason that makes sense is so the voice couldn't be identified. Which suggests someone else sent the message. Yes, I guess we're thinking along the same lines."

  "And if someone else did send that message, it must have been because they wanted to give the impression there was a legitimate reason for Black's disappearance."

  Nathan affirmed his agreement. "Which, in turn suggests that his disappearance is anything but legitimate."

  "And another thing. Look around this place." I swept my hand out before me. "This room is disorganised. Newspapers scattered on the floor. A half-full coffee cup on the table. I don't think he would have left the room like this if he had a choice."

  "The guy could just be a slob."

  "No way. Believe me, Black is a total neat freak. Look at this." I led us to Black's study. "See how precisely everything is arranged in here? This is definitely a sign of obsessiveness. Look at the desk. See how ..." I froze.

  "What? What is it?"

  "The laptop is missing?"

  "Missing?"

  "Yes. Last night, there was a laptop on that desk."

  "Last night?" His voice rose. "Is there something you need to tell me?" There was a sharp edge to his tone.

  I swallowed hard and said, "I took a quick look around last night. Just checked for signs of a break in and took a look through the windows. I was up here anyway. It was no big deal."

&
nbsp; He wasn't buying it. "What the fuck does it take to get through to you?"

  "Oh, come on. It was just a quick look. Where's the harm in that?"

  "Because when I tell you not to interfere, it means don't fucking interfere. It doesn't mean ignore what I tell you and do as you please."

  "Okay, I get it. Sorry. But if I hadn't checked around, we wouldn't know the laptop was missing would we?"

  "Which is the only reason I don't kick your arse."

  "Sorry, I didn't think you'd mind," I lied.

  "Remember in future," he said, poking me in the chest, "you're here to give advice in an observational role. Nothing else."

  I was saved from any further dressing down by the return of the two constables. Nathan reigned in his temper and turned his attention to them. One of them shook his head. "Nothing up there," he said.

  "Okay," Nathan said, "I want this place sealed off. No one to come in or out without my say so. And I want Forensics over here. Fingerprints. Especially around the desk."

  The same constable nodded his assent and Nathan and I made our way back to his car.

  I said, "Why do you suppose someone would come back for the laptop? Do you think it could have been Black?"

  "Who knows." He was curt. Obviously still mad at me and not in a communicative mood.

  I braced myself mentally and said, "There's something else maybe I should tell you."

  He halted and turned, glaring.

  "While I was looking around last night, I think someone else was here." I told him about hearing the gate and finding it opened and about the feeling of being watched.

  With a despairing look, he said, "Does it never occur to you that you might be putting yourself in harm's way?"

  "Don't worry. I won't be wandering around up here on my own any time soon.”

  "Believe me, you'd better not be or I'll make your life a misery."

  I held up my hands in an attitude of surrender. "Whatever you say. I'll just get back to the vicarage and stay out of your way."

  I turned and beat a hasty retreat before he could unleash any more threats. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Lowe arrived at the vicarage in the early evening to pick up Karen and I waved them off, telling them I would stay for a while longer.

  I picked up the pile of papers from the dining table and rifled through them. Most of them were of no value; old drafts of sermons, scribbled aide memoirs, even receipts that were several years old. It seemed my father was a hoarder. I carried the papers into the study, and settled down at the desk to go through them.

  The scent of pine air freshener irritated my nostrils and did little to disguise the underlying smell of damp and neglect. But at least that noisome stench had faded. I worked methodically, sorting the papers into two piles; those to be disposed of and others, current receipts, invoices and final demands, that I would need to pass on to my father's executors.

  I worked steadily until, job done, I leaned back, arched my back and stretched, freeing the tension in my muscles.

  Outside the wind was blowing up again and tendrils of cold air snaked in through gaps in the ill-fitting window casing. My watch told me it was nearly ten. I was hungry and tired. Barwell's house wasn't far, a twenty-minute walk at the most, but I wasn't up to making my way back through the darkness in the squally weather. I could use some of the clean bedding Karen had gathered up and camp out here for the night. Maybe find some cans of food in the larder and make myself a rudimentary meal.

  I took some sheets from the dining room and carried them upstairs. The treads groaned underfoot.

  My old bedroom was much as I remembered it. The furnishing were sparse and utilitarian; a single bed, a small wardrobe and a side table. It didn't look as if it had been used much since my departure. I made up the bed, stripped off and climbed in, all thought of food forgotten. Sleep came within minutes.

  I don't know what it was that woke me. A sound maybe? One moment I was sleeping and the next wide awake, alert, muscles tensed.

  The wind slapped at the walls, rattling the windowpanes, and the old house creaked the way old houses do.

  But something was wrong.

  Among the random external sounds of nature, I was hearing something else. Something rhythmic, deliberate. A series of steady creaks as if someone was walking across the floor.

  Downstairs.

  I eased myself out of bed, slipped into my jeans and sweatshirt, and crept out onto the balustraded open landing that looked down over the large central hall.

  The front door, opposite the foot of the stairs, led out to the covered porch, and doors on the two adjacent walls opened into other rooms.

  Moonlight streamed in, filtered through the limbs of an old wind-blown oak outside the window. Shadow branches scraped and clutched at the floor and walls, and dancing patterns of light and dark rippled around the room giving the illusion that it was a living breathing membrane. At school, my English language teacher had once told me I lacked imagination. It was at times like this I wished she'd been right.

  I padded down the stairs, senses on high alert.

  In the hall, I turned and turned again, peering into the shadows and checking all the corners. Nothing.

  Had I imagined it? Was I spooked because I was alone in this old creepy house?

  A brass candlestick stood within reach on a side table against the nearest wall. I picked it up and tested its heft in the palm of my other hand. If need be, it would make a useful weapon.

  Outside the wind roared and a draught of cold air swept through the open dining room door into the hall. I steeled myself, crossed to the door, and stepped over the threshold into the relative darkness beyond. The French windows leading to the patio at the side of the house were open. Now at least I knew for sure. It wasn't my imagination. Someone else was in the house. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.

  I scanned the room.

  The drapes, caught by the wind, blew inward, flapping against the open doors. The glass chandelier above the dining table tinkled. Nothing else moved.

  Hugging the walls, I crept from the dining room and edged my way around the perimeter of the hall to the kitchen on the far side. I peered around the door frame. Empty. I stepped into the kitchen and checked all the corners for sign of movement. Again, nothing.

  The sudden crack of a floorboard behind me.

  I whirled around, candlestick raised.

  Something struck the side of my head.

  I cried out.

  A blinding flash of light and pain and the hard wooden floor raced up and slammed into me. For the briefest of moments, a bright red glare filled my vision and then faded to oblivion as consciousness left me.

  I'm not sure how long I lay there on the floor between the kitchen and the hall. Long enough for the damp air to seep into my bones and leave me stiff and cold.

  Shards of light danced behind my eyes and my head throbbed. I tried to push myself up from the floor and get to my feet but the room was spinning and so I stayed where I was. All around me, papers and clothing were strewn around the floor.

  I felt in my pocket. My phone was still there. I called Nathan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nathan slammed the Astra into fourth and sped off into the darkness. "Just for once, do as you're Goddamn told," he barked.

  "I don't need this. I'm fine."

  "I'm taking you to A&E. End of discussion."

  I groaned, loudly enough to make sure he got the message.

  "You were out cold for several hours, Mikey. And I didn't get up in the middle of the night just to offer you sympathy."

  "Okay. Okay." There was no point arguing with him.

  The road gleamed wet and icy in the moonlight. Gusts of wind buffeted the car.

  He muttered under his breath and said, "Christ. I'd forgotten what a pain you could be when you dug your heels in." He slammed back down into second as we took the turn towards the hospital, t
aking his temper out on the gearstick.

  "Yeah, happy days," I retorted.

  He grunted and lapsed into silence.

  I took a sideways glance at him. His jaw was set firm. I felt a pang of remorse. "I'm sorry I'm such a pain. I am grateful."

  He grunted again. "Who knew you were up at the vicarage?"

  "Just you, Lowe and Karen. You're not suggesting this was personal are you?"

  "It's possible. You've been interfering with the investigation. Someone might resent that."

  "Interfering?"

  "You've been asking questions of potential witnesses instead of leaving it to the police. That's called interfering. And you might well have pissed someone off."

  I stayed quiet. It probably wasn't the best of times to let him know that I hadn't finished yet. There was at least one more possible witness I intended to talk to. I veered away from the subject. "No one else knew I was there. Whoever trashed the place was looking for something. I'm sure of that. My presence there was just an inconvenient coincidence."

  "Maybe. But either way, the vicarage is off limits again. My men are securing the place and I'm sending in a team to check it out."

  I grunted an acknowledgement, and we passed the rest of the journey in silence.

  A&E was as depressing as expected. There was the usual motley crew that A&E staff were used to seeing at that time in the morning. The ones with the bruised knuckles and bloody noses that followed a drunken night out on the town. Some of the more sober ones who probably still had a fair idea of where they were glared up at Nathan as he passed. Even in plainclothes, a policeman stood out a mile.

  "You don't have to stay," I said, as we settled ourselves into a couple of chairs in the waiting area. "I can get the late bus back home."

  "Yeah, right. And as soon as I'm on my way, you'll be out of here."

  Foiled again. I was going to have to go through with it.

  When we eventually saw a doctor, he turned out to be one of those unremittingly cheerful ones that put your teeth on edge. He must have been a newbie. Another few years of this and he'd soon be as worn down and cynical as the rest of his colleagues.