Breaking Point

by Frank Smith

  Table of Contents

  Also by Frank Smith

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Also by Frank Smith

  The Chief Inspector Paget Mysteries

  ACTS OF VENGEANCE

  THREAD OF EVIDENCE

  CANDLES FOR THE DEAD

  STONE DEAD

  FATAL FLAW

  BREAKING POINT

  THE COLD HAND OF MALICE

  A KILLING RESURRECTED

  Other Novels

  DRAGON’S BREATH

  THE TRAITOR MASK

  DEFECTORS ARE DEAD MEN

  CORPSE IN HANDCUFFS

  SOUND THE SILENT TRUMPETS

  BREKING POINT

  A DCI Neil Paget Mystery

  Frank Smith

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2008 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2008 by Frank Smith.

  The right of Frank Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Smith, Frank, 1927-

  Breaking point

  1. Paget, Neil (Fictitious character) – Fiction 2. Police –

  England – Fiction 3. Missing persons – Investigation –

  Fiction 4. Journalists – Crimes against – Fiction

  5. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  813.5′4[F]

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0344-0 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6621-9 (cased)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Prologue

  Thursday, March 6

  Headlights probed the sky as a car came over the hill. The watcher raised his head to follow it with his eyes, willing it to turn into the lane that would bring it close to where he lay as it made its way up to the farmhouse. He held his breath, prepared to drop out of sight the moment the lights turned his way.

  He swore softly and sank back into the ditch as the car swept past and continued on. It was a road that saw little traffic, and that was the way it had been ever since he had crept into position; just the occasional car taking a short cut across country, or more likely one of the local farmers returning home. Whatever the reason, every one of them had gone by the open gate at the bottom of the hill without so much as slowing down, let alone turning in.

  Neither had there been any sign of activity in the old stone farmhouse at the top of the hill. There wasn’t even a light in the place, and he was beginning to wonder if there was anyone in the house at all. And he wondered once again if his informant had got it wrong.

  Unless, of course, it was some sort of elaborate hoax his informant was playing on him. But he failed to see the point if it was. The man had been very convincing, even if he had been well into his cups at the time. Informant. He liked that word; liked the sound of it. It had a professional ring to it, and if there was one thing he wanted to be, it was professional.

  He peered at his Timex by the light of the torch cupped in his hand. Twenty to twelve! Almost four hours since he’d arrived, and not a damned thing to show for it, other than sore muscles, an aching back, and a conviction that he would end up with double pneumonia. To stay any longer would be stupid, he told himself, and yet . . .

  He groaned softly. It would be just his luck to leave, then find out later that he’d been too impatient. If his informant had been telling the truth, these people would have to be extremely cautious, even if it was only a dry run, so they might well wait until after midnight. He couldn’t possibly get any colder, so he might as well stick it out. Until one o’clock, he promised himself. If nothing happened by then, he would pack it in.

  He settled back in the shallow ditch and pulled the groundsheet around him. It did little to protect him from the cold, but just the act of wrapping it around himself gave the illusion of warmth.

  He lost count of the number of times he had checked his watch, but by twelve thirty he’d had enough. Not a single car had gone by during the last half hour. He heaved himself up on one elbow and peered at his watch again to make sure of the time. Twelve thirty-one. Never mind hanging on till one o’clock; he was packing it in now before he froze to death.

  He reached for the knapsack and patted the ground around him to make sure he was leaving nothing behind. He staggered to his feet. His legs were numb, his feet like blocks of ice, and it took several minutes of massage and clumping around on the grass before he could really feel them.

  He glanced toward the farmhouse before stepping away from the shelter of the hedge and into the lane. Was that a flicker of light behind one of the windows? The house itself was barely visible against a skyline of broken cloud and the fading light of a waning moon, but just for an instant . . .

  He stood there, motionless, staring intently into the dark until his eyeballs hurt. Nothing! Imagination, he decided as he set off down the lane. Anyway, who could possibly see him in his dark clothing at that distance? Cold and wet and tired as he was, and with nothing to show for it, there didn’t seem to be any point in keeping to cover on his way back to where he’d left the van. He’d come by way of the fields, keeping close to the hedges and low stone walls to avoid detection, but he didn’t fancy the idea of stumbling across the fields in the dark. Too many hazards, and the last thing he needed now was to fall over a sheep, or stick his foot in a rabbit hole and break his leg.

  So, he might as well walk right down the middle of the lane, because the sooner he could get home and get a good hot drink down him, the better. He’d love a hot bath, but there was no way the others would let him get away with that in the middle of the night.

  He was almost down to the gate when headlights ca
me over the hill once more. He ducked low and sought the cover of the hedge. Probably another farmer returning home after an evening in town, but best not take any chances.

  The sound of the engine grew stronger, and he realized it wasn’t a car but something heavier. A lorry, perhaps? Odd, though. You seldom saw a lorry on this little back road during the day, let alone in the middle of the night. It slowed. He heard the shift of gears. The headlights began to swing in his direction, and he caught a glimpse of a long, box-like van in the light reflected off the hedge and open gate.

  It was turning in!

  He flung himself into the ditch and covered his face with his arms, listening as the driver stopped, reversed, then swung wide to clear the gatepost. The glare of lights swept over him. The driver changed gears again, and the headlights suddenly went out as the van started up the hill. He waited until it was safely past his hiding place before raising his head to watch as the van continued on with only side and tail lights showing; watched until it turned into the yard and was lost to sight behind the house.

  He scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off as he ran back up the hill. He stayed on the grass, keeping close to the hedge, pausing only when he came level with the house. The lane leading to the yard at the back of the house was gravelled, and with the blank wall of the house on one side and a shoulder-high wall on the other, there would be nowhere to hide if someone should come round the corner. He drew a deep breath. He couldn’t stop now. He’d come this far, waited this long . . .

  Crouching low, he crept along the side of the house. The night air was cold, but he was sweating. His clothes were sticking to him and he could hear the pulse of every heartbeat in his ears. He paused to steady his breathing, listening for any sign of danger before moving on. Nothing. Not so much as a whisper. He moved on, telling himself that whoever had been in the van must be in the house by now.

  He had almost reached the corner when he heard voices; two men speaking quietly. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they sounded much too close for comfort. If they came around the corner . . .

  Slowly, testing each footstep, he began to edge backward, eyes glued to the corner, ready to turn and run at the first sign of movement.

  Suddenly, a shaft of light spilled out from behind the house. He held his breath, too scared to move. The light flickered, flared and died.

  The night closed around him and he breathed again. A lighter! He realized now he’d heard the rasp of flint on the still night air, and the faintest of clicks as the light went out.

  He let out a long, slow breath and continued to edge backward, testing every step. Sound carried on the cold night air, and one false step could be his undoing.

  Perhaps he could get around the other side of the house. It would mean working his way across the front of the place, probably on his belly to avoid the windows, but it might be worth . . .

  A light from behind swept over him, and suddenly the wall on the far side of the lane was starkly visible. He dropped to the ground, pressing himself against the wall of the house. He’d been so intent on the dangers ahead of him that he’d been oblivious to the sound of vehicles on the road below.

  And not just one! There were three of them! Cars, vans or whatever they were, advancing up the hill – and he’d be trapped if he didn’t shift himself.

  The headlights of the leading vehicle went out, and he remembered the way the first van had doused its lights once it was off the road. Bent almost double, he scuttled across the lane to fling himself at the wall, clawing, scrambling, heedless of the skin being stripped from his fingers as he pulled himself over the top and dropped to the ground on the other side.

  He lay there panting in what felt like a tangle of weeds, listening to the sound of the engines as they went by. Two close together, then the third a few seconds later. He risked a quick look over the wall as the last one disappeared around the corner. An SUV of some sort.

  He looked back toward the road. Black as pitch. No more cars coming up the hill, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be more.

  It was while he was sitting there with his back against the wall, trying to decide what to do, that he realized the vehicles hadn’t stopped in the farmyard at the back of the house, but were continuing on. He could still hear their engines. Fading, but he could still hear them.

  So where were they going? There was nothing behind the house except a steep-sided valley. The sounds grew fainter until there was no sound at all.

  Shielding the dim light from the torch with his hands, he surveyed the way ahead. It seemed he had landed in an old sheep pen, abandoned now by the look of the coarse grass and waist-high weeds. The ground was uneven and he had to steady himself by holding on to the wall as he worked his way along. He came to a wooden gate. Poked his head up for a quick look.

  He could see the outline of the house as well as the outbuildings on the other side of the yard, but the cobblestoned area between them was empty No sign of the van that had preceded the cars; no cars, no people, no light in any of the windows, nothing!

  Puzzled but emboldened, he decided to climb over the gate. If it hadn’t been opened for a while, chances were the hinges would make a noise, and while there didn’t appear to be anyone about, a creaking gate might well bring a swift response.

  He moved cautiously along the edge of the old stone barns, ready to scuttle for cover at the first sign of life from the house. He came to a gap between the last two buildings, and saw how the vehicles had managed to disappear. A track, almost as wide as the lane leading up to the house, led from the far side of the yard down the hill to disappear into the darkness of the valley below.

  His informant had said nothing about this. He’d been on the point of telling him more when he’d stopped in the middle of a sentence, slopped the drinks as he pushed the table aside, and announced that he had to go to the loo.

  Not exactly surprising, considering how much the little man had had to drink – except he had never returned. Strange, very strange, because, apart from anything else, it wasn’t like the man to leave a full pint of ale and a whisky behind.

  The watcher went over the scene again in his mind. His informant had been talking in low tones about his work here, when, suddenly, he’d stopped, put both hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

  ‘Got to go,’ he’d mumbled. Then, as if to reassure his companion, said, ‘just going to the loo. Back in a minute.’ He’d lurched off down the tiny hallway and never returned.

  Nor was the man to be found in his caravan the following day or the day after that. At least he hadn’t responded to the pounding on his door. But the manager of the caravan site had said not to worry. ‘He goes off for days at a time. Sometimes it’s work; sometimes it’s the drink. Try the local nick. He’s probably in there drying out.’

  He hadn’t tried the local nick. He’d decided it didn’t matter. He had most of what he wanted anyway.

  But standing out here now, peering into the darkness, he felt like kicking himself. Clearly, the man had been scared stiff, and he should have recognized that and tried harder to find him.

  He sucked in his breath. Too late now for second thoughts; he had a decision to make. If he started down the track and someone came along from either direction, he’d be spotted for sure. There would be nowhere to hide. On the other hand, if he was to make tonight’s foray worthwhile, what choice did he have?

  He hitched the knapsack higher on his shoulders and stepped away from the shadow of the building.

  He heard a sound; the scrape of a boot against stone. He swung round, arm raised to defend himself. A light flashed in his eyes . . .

  He didn’t see what hit him; didn’t feel the blow that pitched him into a darkness deeper than the night itself.

  One

  Monday, March 10

  ‘Morning, boss. Good to see you back,’ Detective Sergeant John Tregalles said cheerily as he entered the office bearing two mugs of coffee. ‘Looks like DI Travis left
everything shipshape for you,’ he continued, nodding in the direction of the almost empty in tray. He set one of the brimming mugs in front of Paget, took a sip of his own as he moved back toward the door. ‘Can’t stop. Got to be in court later on this morning. Shoplifting. Petty stuff, but I’ve probably spent more time on the paperwork than this kid will serve – that is if he doesn’t get off altogether because his mum smacked him when he was two. How was the course? Nice change, was it? Straight hours. Nine to five. Bit of a holiday?’

  Paget shot a hard glance at the sergeant. He was in no mood for jokes, not this morning. But there was nothing in the sergeant’s manner or expression to indicate that he was being flippant. He swallowed the sharp retort that had risen to his lips, but before he could form a more reasonable response, the sergeant glanced at his watch and said, ‘Got to run.’ He raised his mug in mock salute. ‘Coffee’s on me this morning. Sort of welcome back. Brewed specially for you in the canteen.’ And then he was gone.

  Paget picked up the steaming mug and sat back in his chair. Nice change? Bit of a holiday? Hardly. Seconded to Training with less than forty-eight hours’ notice, and even less for preparation time, he’d had to step in to run a course on race relations and sensitivity, when he’d only just finished the course himself. There hadn’t been much sensitivity in the way they’d handled that!

  ‘They’re short-staffed,’ Superintendent Alcott had said as if that explained everything.

  ‘And we’re not?’ he’d shot back. ‘God knows we’re barely keeping up with things as it is. Why can’t they use some of their own people? There were two instructors on the course I took, so why can’t they use them?’

  ‘Because,’ Alcott explained, ‘it’s been decided that in order to demonstrate how important this course is, and how seriously it is to be taken by everyone, they are going to start at the top and work their way down. The next four courses will be attended by senior officers only: some of our own, some from West Mercia, and there’ll be some from Dyfed-Powys as well. Which means that the instructor has to be a senior officer. So, to put it bluntly, Paget, you’ve had the course; you are a trained instructor, so I’m afraid you’re it.’