Hooper shrugged and snapped open the lock. We pulled the door back, and it moved quietly and easily. A strange smell hit us, a mixture of old timber, dry earth and ancient stones. It was the sort of smell that takes me straight back through the centuries to imagine the blokes who'd built the thing. Real craftsmen, who achieved the most amazing things with primitive techniques. Show me a building that's been put up recently and tell me whether you think it'll still be there in five hundred years' time. No? We may have learned a lot of things since the Middle Ages, but we haven't learned much about craftsmanship.
The space inside also held the ghosts of all the folk who'd used it in those five hundred years - farmhands, labourers, shepherds and general peasants. But there was another smell. It was the sweet, sickly stink of something more recent that didn't belong here.
A flicked my torch around the floor of the dovecote, keeping its beam pointing downwards. We didn't want any stray chinks of light creeping out through these old walls. At the far side was the inevitable collection of rusty farm equipment - a baler, a chain harrow, bits of less identifiable rubbish. There were piles of blue fertiliser sacks tied up with baling twine and an old water trough standing on its end against the wall. To one side was a stack of roof tiles not unlike the ones that the Rev lost off the vestry roof. Old bits of horse tack were hanging from six inch nails knocked into a beam.
Nearer to hand, my torch picked out some cardboard boxes. Quite a lot of them, actually. They came from France, and they looked as though they might contain portable CD players.
Then I noticed the wire leading from a sensor by the door. A burglar alarm on a dovecote?
"Hooper, what's this?"
Hooper frowned at the sensor and began to follow the wire round the wall. It disappeared behind some of the boxes. Slow came over and went with him to move a box or two. Then they both froze.
"Shit, Stones."
"What?"
"It's a timer."
Oh. A vision of that burning Renault van shot through my mind. Fertiliser and sugar, and a timer set to go off half an hour after a box had been opened? Or maybe after a door had been forced with a jemmy?
"Out! Everyone, out! Now!"
I shoved Slow Kid and Hooper out of the door. Then everything was lit up by an almighty flash and we hit the deck, cursing. The explosion blew out the front of the building and sent lumps of stone flying across the garden. As soon as the debris started to settle we were up again and running. Hooper was swearing and clutching his arm, and his hat had come off. The flames from the dovecote were starting to reflect off the sweat on his bald head.
In the trees, I stopped and turned to look back. Although lights were starting to come on and faces were no doubt appearing at windows, I had to watch the dovecote burn. There is nothing more tragic than a piece of history going up in smoke, and this one could have been avoided.
Slow Kid looked at me, puzzled.
"Come on, Stones. We need to be out of here."
"I won't be a minute. You two clear out."
Something about the figures now emerging from Old Manor Farm had caught my attention. Against my better judgement, I slipped back towards the dovecote. The smoke was black and acrid, but billowing away from me and towards the house. No doubt everybody in West Laneton had phoned the fire brigade by now. But for a couple of minutes I had the chance of getting closer to see who we'd flushed out.
When I peered round the corner, I could see only one bloke now, running about like mad in front of the house. He was struggling desperately to untangle a length of garden hose, but the hose was winning. There was something familiar about the figure, but I couldn't make him out too clearly. I felt sure that if I waited a bit longer he'd turn his face to the fire and I'd be able to recognise him.
But I waited too long. Suddenly there was a movement close to me - a dark shape forming out of the smoke at the corner of the dovecote. I caught a brief glimpse of a pair of stuffed-cat eyes, then a glint of steel flashing towards me through the grey swirl. I pulled my shoulder away sharply from the wall and heard the scrape of the knife as it skidded off the stone.
Panicking, I lashed out with my foot towards where I thought the bloke's legs might be and felt contact with something solid. If I'd been wearing my boots, he would have been down, but instead I was wearing sodding trainers and all the kick did was throw him off balance. He lurched into me, his shoulder crashing into my chest and his left hand scrabbling for a grip on my belt. I tried to stop him getting the leverage on me to push himself upright, and we stumbled about for a minute in an ungainly dance in the dark.
Every second I was expecting the knife to strike upwards, and my guts contracted with the anticipation of the pain. His head was right under my nose, and I could smell his sweat and the grease from his hair. Finally, I managed to twist his arm and push him away from me. He cursed as he collided with the wall, but he was still up.
It was enough for me to get a head start as I slipped and slithered across the grass, legging it as fast as I could towards the trees. I could hear the bloke grunting behind me as he followed. He didn't seem to have a torch, but he didn't need one with the amount of noise I was making. Even in the panic, my mind was working, and I knew where I'd seen those dead blue eyes and the flat-top that had just been shoved in my face.
I saw the hedge coming up ahead of me and remembered the ditch just in time. I jumped and landed in a scramble on the other side. A crash and a squelch, followed by a barrage of curses, told me that my pursuer hadn't seen the ditch. I was grinning to myself with self-satisfaction when I heard a strange whistling in the air near my ear. Something that glittered in the patchy light from the flames spun past me and buried itself in the ground with an awful thud. It might have been a wild throw, but if he'd been just a bit more accurate with that knife, I'd be dead meat.
My legs were wobbly by the time I reached the trees. But Slow Kid was waiting for me with the van door open and the engine running, anxious to be off.
"You all right, Stones?"
"Shut up and drive."
Even as we headed out of West Laneton, I could still see the dead eyes of Josh Lee as they appeared through the smoke. And the bloke wrestling with the hose had been his mate Rawlings, for sure.
Yeah, Rawlings and Lee. Fire bombers to the gentry.
23
On Monday morning, I went in the newsagent's on Ollerton Road. As well as papers and magazines it sells stationery - the stuff that more literate folk up Budby Road use. It doesn't quite stretch to books, of course, except for stamp albums and the 'make your own will' type of thing. Perhaps I ought to have got one of those while I was at it.
The old woman behind the counter is called Betty. As far as I can remember, she's always been there.
"What can I do for you, duck?"
This 'duck' business takes folk by surprise when they're from out of the area. Some don't like it, but those are usually soft southerners. They don't have a greeting down there that they can use for men or women equally without sounding patronising. But 'duck' does it. Well, you know you're at home when they call you 'duck'. It's like seeing the first headstocks from the M1 coming north. Or that's what it used to be like. Now instead you have to watch out for the first tourist signs. Robin Hood Country seems to be the new name for the area that I used know as Nottinghamshire. I suppose it's all run by UK Heritage plc these days, since our history was privatised.
"I want a street map."
"Where of, duck? We've got Mansfield, Newark, Worksop, Nottingham. We've even got one with the whole of the county. That has places on it I didn't even know had streets."
"No, I just want Medensworth."
"Medensworth? Oh." She looked doubtful. "I think there was one they brought out a few years ago. Let me have a look in the back."
Yes, the street map of Medensworth was produced by the Chamber of Trade. It carries adverts promoting the delights of Bernard's Quality Pork Butcher's and the Curl Up and Dye hair salon. I don't know h
ow the tourists can bear to stay away. It doesn't have the Forest Estate on it, though. You won't find it on this, or any other map. This is because it's not really called the Forest Estate. Not officially. Not by the council or the Royal Mail, or anybody like that. But with streets like Birch Avenue, Oak Crescent and Chestnut Close, what else would it be?
The map is also a bit out of date now. It still shows the pit for a start, though it closed in 1992. Remember the fuss at the time? No? That old Tory Heseltine wielded the axe on the pits, just like Dr Beeching did on the railways thirty years earlier.
But the writing had been on the wall since the 1984-85 strike that left the miners' union exhausted, defeated, and split in two. They hadn't the strength left to fight the closures when they came. And everyone knew that privatisation was planned. Now British Coal itself is long gone, and the pits left over belong to a private company. This doesn't stop them closing, of course - if they're not making enough profit.
There are plans to turn our derelict pit site into an alternative technology park, all solar panels and water power and battery-driven cars. Anything but coal, in fact. That's old technology, ancient history.
One thing that made me laugh on this map was the claim that its publication has been supported by Neighbourhood Liaison. This is some sort of token organisation run part-time by a copper and an office boy from the county council, which is supposed to sort out problems in the most deprived areas of the county.
In some places, like Newstead, they have the Corner House, a mini community centre where a corner shop used to be. When the pit closed, so did the shop. But at least they've got some advice on the doorstep. And what have we got here in Medensworth? Neighbourhood Liaison. What neighbourhood's that, then? You might well ask. It's not in the neighbourhood of the Forest Estate, that's for sure. The office is conveniently located somewhere in the depths of Sherwood Lodge Police headquarters. This nestles in its wonderful leafy isolation in Burntstump Country Park, where coppers can escape from all the stress of big city crime fighting. As far as Medensworth folk are concerned, it might as well be on a satellite orbiting Jupiter.
When I'd got my map from Betty, I marked a spot on it with a red felt tip pen and dreamed a bit. Either this was going to work, or I was totally up shit creek. Lisa's safety was in my hands, not to mention my own future if they should drive me into doing something really stupid.
But for this part I needed Lisa's co-operation. Everyone knows how well my charm works with women, but I was going to have put myself out a bit to soften her up for this one. I might even have to pay a bit of attention to all those things that women think are important, like having a shave every day and not leaving the toilet seat up. That's the desperate situation I'd been driven to.
* * * *
There are moments when we're all amenable to a bit of gentle persuasion. When you're lying naked and fully satisfied in bed is usually one of them. So that afternoon I waited until I reckoned Lisa was looking sufficiently flushed and softened up before I explained the idea to her. And, blow me, she didn't like it.
"You only need to make one phone call, love."
"Only one phone call? But I'd have to tell a lie, Stones."
"It's in a good cause, honest."
"But you say you can't tell me what that cause is."
"It's important to my business."
"And you won't tell me what that is either."
"Don't you trust me?"
Lisa propped herself up on one elbow and looked at me hard. Her breasts swung round and aimed themselves towards me like a pair of ouija board pointers picking out the person the spirits want to communicate with. A message was about to come through, in duplicate.
"Well?" I asked.
She was taking an uncomfortably long time to answer such a simple question. I could practically see the whole of our relationship passing through her mind, incident by incident, promise by broken promise. My face was starting to ache with the effort of trying to look sincere, but still she said nothing. Was she thinking about those little incidents with Cavendish? I might have embarrassed her a bit. But, come on, it was all justified. Was she thinking about the little fib I'd told her about the gas leak in my house? I'd explained about that, though, hadn't I? Or was she thinking about all the evasions she'd got when she asked me questions about what, exactly, I did for a living? That was for her benefit, though. The less she knew, the better. So what was so difficult about the question? I'm about the most trustworthy person anyone could hope to meet in Medensworth. Well, unless you happen to be a rich git. Or a Frog or a Kraut. Or a member of Nottinghamshire Constabulary. Or one of Eddie Craig's boys. Or Welsh Border. Or... well, for God's sake, you can't be trustworthy all the time.
"I suppose so," said Lisa.
"Of course you do." That was better. She's a good girl, is Lisa.
She sighed. "I'm a fool though, really."
"By the way, you have, er... you have nearly finished that little job that you've been doing, haven't you?"
"For Michael Cavendish? Yes, nearly finished."
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"Well, it's..."
"Because, if you like, we can talk about it later. After I've explained exactly what I want you to do."
"Stones...?"
"Yes, love?"
"Did I ever tell you you're a pillock?"
* * * *
"I knew you'd find a use for it," said Metal. "It's a great motor, ain't it?"
Ironically, since Metal Jacket had actually bought the Morris Traveller, it was the only legal set of wheels we had access to at the moment, apart from the Impreza - and I had a reluctance to risk the bodywork on that.
"Have you heard that noise it makes when you throttle down?" said Metal. "It's just like someone's farted. No kidding. You've got to hear it."
"I can't wait."
"Some daft buggers pay good money just so they can hear that, you know. This thing'll be worth a fortune when I've done it up. A real collector's item."
"Metal, are you thinking about going straight or something?"
"Eh?"
"All this car restoration and collector's stuff. It sounds almost legit to me."
"Nah. It's just... cars, you know, Stones? A get a right buzz out of 'em. This one - well, somehow I wanted it, but I didn't want to nick it. Do you know what I mean?" he appealed.
"Yeah, it's called ownership, Metal. The desire for property. It's an old story."
He looked a bit crestfallen. And I hadn't told him yet that he wasn't going to be driving the Morris himself.
"Anyway, have you heard the saying 'Property is theft'?"
"Sounds all right to me," he said.
"All right? It's what the world is based on, mate."
Slow Kid had found us a couple of ancient sports jackets and flat caps.
"They were my granddad's," he said. "Mum never chucks things out."
"Brilliant. They're just the job. Metal, I want you to drive the van."
"What, the Telecom van? But it's hot. Somebody might have seen it last night."
"That's exactly what I'm banking on, Metal."
"On my own? Can I have Dave with me?"
"Yes, but he'll be in the back. I don't want anyone to see him. You're the only one of us they won't recognise, Metal."
"Right."
"Are you up for it?"
"All right. Just one thing, Stones."
"Yeah?"
"Look after the Morris, will you?"
"Oh yeah, I'll even rub its tummy when it farts."
The blue German saloon was gone from the workshop now. In fact, we'd returned the motor to its rightful owner, just like any decent law-abiding citizen would. It was almost undamaged too, thanks to the way Slow Kid had lifted it from the Sunday market. I'd even added a few hidden extras. I'm so generous sometimes that I get all soppy and sentimental just thinking about myself.
So if Lisa had done her bit and made the call, this plan might actually work. I had complet
e faith in her, of course. She was the only person I knew who could sound genuinely respectable and convincing. Besides, I was well aware why she'd agreed to do what I asked. She hoped it would give her a bit of leverage over me. Dream on, sweetheart.
We split up and set off in opposite directions. Slow Kid was driving the Traveller, with his flat cap pulled down so far over his forehead that it made his ears stick out just right. I was slumped in the passenger seat in my own cap and sports jacket. From behind, we should look like a couple of old fogeys out for a Sunday drive on a Monday. We'd be comparing our false teeth and arthritis, and talking about the next reunion of the Decrepit Order of Water Voles.
For a while, though, we old fogeys were parked up by the Parliament Oak, a tree even more ancient than we were. King Edward I is supposed to have held a parliament of his barons under this tree. They'd been hunting in the royal forest near Clipstone when they got the news that the Welsh were revolting. It wouldn't be news to me, but they were a bit innocent in those days.
The oak itself is just a rotten, blackened stump. Not surprising, when it's getting on for a thousand years old. But there's a new tree too - a sapling oak, sprouting from the same spot. It's thriving, and even helps to prop up the old one that the visitors come to see. Some folk could make a meaningful symbol out of this. You know, like regeneration and all that. Bringing in new life, but keeping the old traditions alive at the same time. Preserving the best of our heritage while adapting to the young and vibrant modern world. Yeah, you could see all that in this little oak tree, if you want. Me, I think someone nicked all the acorns off the old tree, but dropped one and a squirrel shat on it. That's the way real life works, believe me.
My mobile phone rang, ruining my image as an old fart.
"They've picked us up, Stones," said Metal's voice. "A blue kraut saloon, right?"
"How many in it?"
"Three."
"Stay well ahead for a bit."
Top Hard Page 28
