The Wilds

by Kit Tinsley

  He pulled the folder that was on top of the pile and opened it. It was a simple market research study for a new snack food company. They made crisps mainly and wanted to compete with the big boys like Walkers. Karl’s job was to collate all of this market research information together into a coherent report that those upstairs could use to guide the direction of the campaign.

  He set about reading the contents of the folder but was soon distracted by the sound of his mobile phone ringing in his jacket pocket on the back of his chair. He retrieved the phone and looked around at the disapproving faces of some of his co-workers, like none of them had ever received a phone call in the office.

  The screen showed the word ‘Home’, it was either his mother or his brother, Phil. He answered the call.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Karl?’ his mother’s voice questioned on the other end of the line. As if it would actually be anyone else answering his phone? Yet something in the wavering of her voice made him wonder what was wrong.

  ‘Hi, Mum, yes it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m at work and a bit busy at the moment, what’s up?’

  ‘Your brother, he didn’t come home last night,’ she said, concern in her voice. ‘He rang me to say that he had run out of petrol, but he should have been back within a few hours. Should I call the police?’

  Great, Karl thought to himself. This was just what he needed with this much work left to do. He loved his mother dearly, but knew all too well of her tendency to overreact at times, especially when it came to Phil.

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine, Mum,’ Karl said, trying to sound as reassuring as he could. ‘He probably ran into a friend, and ended up staying at their house.’

  ‘He would have called again,’ she said.

  Karl knew this was more than likely true. Phil had never been the kind of person to be late or not to let those who were expecting him that he had been delayed. He was annoyingly punctual. Karl hated being late, but at least understood that sometimes it was unavoidable. Also, Phil didn’t drink, so it would be unlikely that if he had run into a friend that he would have stayed out with them, not when his car was left God knows where.

  Perhaps he had met a girl; that might explain it. As far as Karl was aware, his brother hadn’t been involved with anyone since his marriage to Ruth had broken down. If he’d met up with some girl he was interested in and things had gone well that might have been enough to make him forget to call their mother, but Karl doubted it. It seemed to Karl that his brother had lost interest in romance completely. Perhaps Ruth had been his one true love, and thus Phil thought there was no point looking for anyone else. For Karl, his own single life was due mainly to two factors. Karl worked so hard he had little time or energy to give anyone else, and living in London. The city was too vast and at the same time too anonymous, so many people crammed together, and yet no one spoke to anyone.

  ‘Mum, I don’t know what to say,’ Karl said. ‘Have you tried his mobile?’

  ‘Yes dozens of times, it just keeps going through to the answer phone thing.’

  ‘Ok, here’s what you do,’ Karl said. ‘It’s only half nine in the morning, so give him another couple of hours to get in touch. If you still haven’t heard from him call the police, then call me back.’

  His mother agreed, although Karl knew that she would be staring at the clock until the two hours had passed, if she made it that long. After the call, he left his phone on the desk just in case she called again, then he returned his attention to the folder open in front of him.

  Jason Flynn felt the movement next to him, stirring him from a warm and pleasant slumber. He yawned slowly and opened his eyes. Looking to his right, he saw her scrambling around picking her clothes off the floor, where she had eagerly scattered them the night before.

  She was as beautiful as ever, at thirty-two she actually looked better than the first time they had made love when they were seventeen. He long auburn hair was still cascading in messy waves induced by a night of passion and sleep. She scanned the floor looking for her underwear. Looking back she became aware of him watching her.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘Morning,’ she said, without returning the smile. ‘Where are my knickers? For God’s sake I’m going to be late for work.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Don’t wear any today,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Grow up Jason,’ she said. ‘Stop staring at me, you’re making me uncomfortable.’

  Jason sighed and rolled over, turning his back on her. Here it came again, the regret. It was the same thing every time they ended up in bed together. They would have an amazing night, then the following morning she would act like it had been a mistake. If it was such a mistake, why did it keep happening? He could barely remember the last time that more than a month had elapsed between their nights of passion.

  He spotted her knickers laying on the floor on his side of the bed, he vaguely remembered throwing them there in the heat of the moment. Part of him wanted not to tell her, that part wanted to wind her up. It wasn’t worth it, though, the mood she was in it was best if he was just as helpful as possible. He reached down and grabbed them and threw them across at her.

  She hadn’t always been this way, when they had first got together at school; she had been full of life. Determined, yes, and passionate about her plans to join the police, but she had a fun side too. There had still been flashes of that side of her personality up until recently. In the last month or so it was as if she had dowsed herself in seriousness.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and then disappeared into the bathroom to get ready. He didn’t understand how she was willing to be naked with him, make love with him, but unwilling to dress in front of him. It made no sense, except as a way of making it clear that they were not a couple. The intimacy they shared was only allowed to be physical, never emotional.

  Jason found this amusing considering; they had been friends since the age of eleven, a couple from the ages of fifteen to eighteen, and lovers on and off ever since. This was her rule not his. As far as Jason Flynn was concerned Holly Booth was, and always would be, the love of his life.

  He looked at the clock and saw it was only half six in the morning. The shower was running in the bathroom. He considered joining her; they had time for another session before she had to leave, and he couldn’t deny that the thought of her in the shower didn’t make him yearn for more. However, the way she was acting this morning she would be more likely to kick him in the groin if he tried anything.

  He laid there, considering blowing off work, but how could he? They were so short-staffed already that his absence would undoubtedly be a disaster. He didn’t need to rush, though. After all these years he had spent working as a reporter in Darton, he knew that no news ever happened that early in the sleepy little town. He longed to get away, to go somewhere where things happened. The beast was his way out.

  Getting out of bed he pulled on last night’s jeans and sweater. He went downstairs, flicked on the kettle, and pulled two mugs out of the cupboard. Making up the coffees, he wondered if things would ever change. Would his and Holly’s arrangement ever become something more? He hoped so. Many times he had wanted to tell her that he wanted, no, needed more from her. He never did, though, fearing that she would end things completely with him, and the arrangement they had was better than nothing.

  She came in the room dressed in the same trouser suit she had been wearing when she had knocked on his door the night before. Her hair was wet and pulled back into a professional-looking ponytail. As always, for work, she wore little make up, just a little to accentuate her beautiful blue eyes.

  She saw him sat at the breakfast bar and the cup of coffee waiting for her. She walked over and took the mug, thanking him as she did.

  ‘You can sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him.

  ‘No time,’ she said.

  ‘What is with you this morning?’ he asked. ‘You’ve barely spoken to me i
n ages.’

  She sighed and shook her head.

  ‘Last night shouldn’t have happened,’ she said.

  There it was, the regret he had seen in her so many times after they had spent the night together.

  ‘You always say that,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

  ‘This time I mean it,’ she said. ‘This all has to stop Jason, it can’t keep happening.’

  This was new, she had never told him that it would be the last time before. Was the pressure of her situation finally getting to her?

  ‘Is this because of Pearce?’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, but if he found out about us I would be in some serious shit, wouldn’t I?’

  There was no denying this. If Pearce ever found about them it would be a disaster.

  ‘Then why can’t it happen again?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I need to grow up and start taking responsibility for my actions.’

  There was more to it than that, and he needed to know.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ he said, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

  Anger flashed across her face.

  ‘No, there isn’t’ she said.

  She looked at her watch and set the mug down on the side.

  ‘I have to go, Jason,’ she said. ‘I’m late.’

  With that she left, and Jason was once again alone.

  The wind had a chill as she walked up the lane, she hadn’t expected it to feel so cool, otherwise she would have worn her heavier coat; however, it was too late to go home and change. There were things to be done. She had known that something was wrong as soon as she had woken up. Miko was acting strange, pacing the courtyard as though afraid to come in the house, afraid to face her.

  She had started off by wandering the woods, this was usually where these things happened, but nothing had seemed amiss. After an hour searching the woods, she had taken the path through the fields onto Maltham Lane. That was when she had first noticed the cool breeze. The woods, even though the trees were starting to shed their leaves, offered some protection from the wind, but once you got out into the open fields it would hit you full on. The natural flatness of Lincolnshire landscape meant that the wind never lost any of its bitterness when it came in land. She had been born and raised here, and spent a large portion of time here, but she had also travelled. She had seen all this country, and most of Europe had to offer. Despite this, Lincolnshire, and more specifically Darton, would always be her home. What others saw as bleak and isolated, she saw as beautiful and safe.

  She saw the car in the layby. It was smashed up pretty bad; one side was completely caved in and covered in scratches. Tiny shards of glass glinted in the sunlight like a sharp frost.

  Sighing, she shook her head at the scene. How many times had she come upon something like this on that road? Too many to count, too many to remember. She looked around; traffic on the road was still scarce, but would soon start picking up. Surely someone had seen the car and reported it to the police by now. What could she do?

  The door on the passenger side was open, whoever had been in the car had vacated from this side, probably during the attack. Trying to imagine what she would do in those circumstances, she crossed the road and saw that the long grass in the opposite field had been trodden down. Having lived in the countryside for most of her life, she knew that this path must have been recently made. It had rained heavily the other day and that would have flattened the whole of the field. This had been made since then.

  She set off into the long grass, enjoying its rich and fresh aroma. At her age she should have been starting to slow down, taking things easy, but she had too many responsibilities. If she did not take care of things, who would?

  The path led to the clearing around the old oak tree. Memories flooded back to her as she stood in the shade of the oak’s nearly bare branches. She found the heart that her husband had carved into the tree, their initials inside. How many years ago had it been? He had been dead for over thirty, and they had been married for twenty-three. The carved heart must have been well over fifty years old now. She wondered where the time had gone.

  There was a puddle of blood on the ground, still wet in the cool morning air. She looked at it and felt the same weight she always did. There was nothing she could do to change things; all she could do was deal with them. Next to the blood was a mobile phone. She bent down and picked it up. There was no charge in it; the battery must have run out. Tucking the phone in the inside pocket of her coat, she heard the sound of an engine. Looking around she saw the police car coming down Maltham Lane. It slowed down and pulled into the layby behind the smashed-up car.

  She decided to take the long route home, across the marsh. It would take her much longer, but it was preferable to having to answer questions. V set off towards the marsh, wondering how many more times she would have to do this.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Police Constable Ben Lindley was looking through the undergrowth at the side of the road on that cool October morning. His colleague, P.C. Walton, was checking out the battered car that had caught their attention when they were driving passed earlier. They had been told to survey the scene and wait for the detectives to show up.

  Ben couldn’t believe the amount of damage the car had sustained, and yet as far as they could see, there was no sign of a collision. It was as though the car had been attacked once parked there at the side of the country lane. They had seen that the keys were in the ignition and tried to start the engine, but it was clear that the fuel tank was empty. Perhaps the driver had been so infuriated by running out of petrol that he had taken his rage out on the car. Ben remembered that old episode of Fawlty Towers where John Cleese had attacked his broken down car with a branch from a tree. The attack on this car had been much more vicious, though. It looked as though it had been pounded with a sledgehammer.

  As the dark blue Audi pulled up behind their car, he was only semi-surprised to see Detective Chief Inspector Pearce step out of it. It seemed like a rather small thing for Darton’s most senior detective to be investigating, but Ben knew that Pearce was up to something. He was there at seemingly simple crime or accident scenes, asking questions and telling them to do things that seemed to go against normal procedure. Ben didn’t trust Pearce at all, but was also terrified of him. He was a short, stocky man in his late forties. His dark eyes seemed to dart around all the time, as if he was taking in everything he saw, like some kind of predatory animal. He was well known around the station for his unpredictable and often violent moods.

  When he had first started work at Darton Police Station, one of the older officers had given Ben some free advice.

  ‘If you want to get on well here, lad,’ the officer had said, ‘Then stay out of Jon Pearce’s way.’

  It was advice that he had tried very hard to stick to, but there were too many things about the way Pearce worked that bothered him.

  Ben decided to stay back a little and look busy, hoping that Pearce would leave him alone and talk to Walton instead. As he walked over to the beaten up car, Pearce was flanked by D.I. Booth. Holly Booth was only a few years older than Ben, about thirty-four at most. Though he had only joined the police force a few years after her, she had flown up the ranks. Tall, and athletic, she had the kind of natural beauty that shone through without the aid of makeup. She was known to be incredibly professional and good at her job. Pearce had taken her under his wing, grooming her to replace him should he ever get the promotion he so longed for. That was unlikely, though, thanks to Jason Flynn.

  Booth offered Ben a half smile when she spotted him. They had gone to the same school and, though not close friends, they had both been close to Jason.

  ‘What have we got, Constable?’ Pearce asked, his voice commanding.

  ‘P.C. Lindley and myself were driving down here and spotted this car. It seemed odd that it was just left on the side of the road, so we decided to check it out,’ Walton explained.


  ‘That’s when you saw the damage?’ Pearce said, running his finger across the buckled door.

  ‘That’s right. We ran the plates and got a phone number for the owner. We called it through, and his mother told us he hadn’t come home yet. She’s now filling out a missing persons report.’

  Pearce nodded; he kept examining the car door. Booth stood off to the side, not wanting to step on her boss’s shoes.

  ‘The missing man?’ Pearce asked.

  ‘Philip Morgan,’ Walton said, opening his notebook to read from. ‘Thirty-two years old. Lives with his mother on the outskirts of town. Works in insurance. No prior history of anything. Lindley and I were about to start searching the fields, sir.’

  Pearce shook his head.

  ‘No need for that, Constable,’ he said.

  Walton looked from Pearce to Booth. She looked as surprised as he felt.

  ‘Sir?’ she interjected. ‘I really think we should conduct a search of the area. The man in question may be hurt.’

  Pearce turned his head to Booth; his eyes told her that she should be quiet. Booth dropped her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Listen to me, Constable,’ Pearce said, turning back to Walton. ‘Take all the photographs you need to, then get this car out of here. Write in your report that the car was abandoned after an apparent R.T.A.’

  Walton couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘But, sir?’ he said. ‘There’s no evidence of a crash. There’s not a single tyre mark on the road, it looks to me like the car was attacked by something after it had stopped.’

  ‘Obviously the accident occurred elsewhere,’ Pearce said. His tone suggested he was tiring of justifying himself to the Constable. ‘Then this Morgan fella, who was probably drunk, stopped here to check the damage. When he saw how bad it was, he left the car here to avoid being pulled over and decided to walk. He’s probably sleeping it off in a barn somewhere.’

  Walton shook his head.

  ‘The petrol tank is empty, sir,’ he said. ‘I think he ran out of fuel and then someone attacked his car.’