Hunted (Detective Mark Heckenburg Book 5)

by Paul Finch

  ‘As I say, we don’t use this particular barn anymore,’ Thornton said. ‘Father always kept his tractor here, so … well, we just don’t.’

  Two heavy doors were closed at the front, latched by a chain so old that it was little more than a length of rust. The ground in front of it was bare earth, but deeply rutted by old tyre tracks, which had baked hard in the summer sun.

  ‘It was just out here, out front, where I found him.’ Thornton stood back.

  Heck surveyed the area. As he’d been told, there really was nothing to see. ‘I don’t suppose anyone took any fingerprints – the gas cylinder, the tubing, the valve?’

  ‘No. Never entered anyone’s head it might be a crime.’

  Heck crouched to examine the solid ridges of earth. Various bootprints were visible alongside the tracks, but no treads could be distinguished, which was understandable; in the recent warm weather, the upper surface of this barren patch would have blown away as dust. In any case, all kinds of people would have been here for legitimate reasons since the accident. He stood up again, beating grime from his hands. ‘Can I look inside?’

  Thornton obliged, though it seemed to take him an effort of will to remove the chain and lug one of the heavy doors open. Beyond it lay hollow emptiness; the usual smells flooded out – rotted hay, age-old manure, a hint of petrol. There was nothing in there of obvious consequence.

  ‘I hope my visit hasn’t distressed your mother too much,’ Heck said as they made their way back. ‘You understand I have to ask all these questions?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. Mother’s been through an emotional mangle. She’s not herself at all. Nothing can make things worse for her at present.’

  They reached the main drive, and Heck halted by his car. ‘I’ll obviously let you know if I uncover anything. But the probability is this was just a tragic accident.’

  ‘One part of me hopes it was,’ Thornton replied. ‘Then we’d at least know that nobody wished Father ill. But on the other hand … I can’t stand thinking that something so terrible happened through Father’s own clumsiness. I mean he knew what he was doing – he’d worked the land all his life. He could fix machinery. He could manage animals …’

  He shook his head, perplexed.

  Heck offered his condolences again and, as the tall young farmer walked towards the house, climbed into his Peugeot, spun it in a three-point turn, and headed back along the drive. There were clearly some similarities between this incident and the others, but again it was tenuous. Could you really fall so heavily on a metal nozzle that it would pierce your body, and lie there in such a state of stupefaction that you were unaware it was filling you with gas? But alternatively, how could someone deliberately do that to Mervin Thornton? How would the assailant have known in advance that the old farmer was planning to reinflate a tractor tyre that day – unless they’d been following him, observing him?

  Heck jolted on through the dense shrubbery, half-oblivious to the rattles of twigs and leafage down the flanks of his car. He was still trying to puzzle it through when light fell across him, and aged timbers began rumbling and vibrating beneath his wheels. If Mervin Thornton’s death was murder, it could only have happened as part of some premeditated plan, which categorised it firmly with those other deaths – as much as it was possible to actually say ‘firmly’ in these circumstances.

  Then Heck’s world tipped over.

  Literally.

  Several things flashed to his attention all at the same time: the figure of Charles Thornton in his rearview mirror, red-faced, waving his arms; the succession of deafening, splintering cracks that could only be a series of age-old wooden joints fracturing; followed by a truly nightmarish sensation as the car tilted sideways and slid. Heck’s offside flank buffeted the safety barrier, which sent a nauseating judder through him as he fought the wheel. The barrier disintegrated, falling away like soggy paper, and with a cacophonous tearing and rending of mildewed wood the rest of the bridge went with it. Heck could do nothing but cling on as his vehicle plunged sideways and down amid beams and shattered planks, twisting in midair, caroming from the canyon’s side with a crash of crumpling bodywork – and then he was upside down, still falling. His seatbelt snapped loose just as the Peugeot struck the water, and he was slammed down on top of his cranium, the blow sending a shockwave up his spine.

  Agonised dizziness followed as he hung there, nauseated, body twisted, only vaguely aware of the darkness engulfing him, of a pond-like stench as icy black-green water poured through the rear offside window, which had smashed inwards. Only when it rose past his hairline, his eyes, and then inundated his mouth and nostrils with its vile taste of slime and weed, did he come gargling and choking to life, pulling himself around and upright – floundering and splashing as he discovered that he was already three-quarters submerged. The capsule of the interior tilted again as it sank; already there was scarcely a speck of light left, and the airspace was running out fast.

  Chapter 18

  At first, Heck could do nothing but blindly scrabble.

  With deep, shuddering groans of metal, he both heard and felt his Peugeot as it slowly, steadily descended into the unseen depths. Fighting down panic, he battled across the flooded interior to the broken window. He sucked in a chestful of oxygen and ducked his head under, attempting to thrust himself out through the inrushing torrent, but not only was he pushing against an icy, inexorable tide, he slashed his clothing and raked his flesh on fragments as he tried to wriggle through a narrow aperture, the frame of which had buckled out of shape.

  There were more creaks and groans, another thundering impact as something huge struck the car: a beam from the collapsing bridge. But none of that mattered, because Heck was almost out – except that, no, he wasn’t.

  At first he put his lack of progress down to the force of the current gushing past him, but now realised that he was actually jammed in the window frame, held between jagged, unyielding jaws. He kicked and struggled, bubbles fizzing between his gnashing teeth – to no avail. There was nothing to gain leverage against, nothing to purchase. More bubbles hissed in his ears, black/green shadows swam around him, what little light there was diminishing overhead. Slowly, a terrible pressure was building in his ears; his cheeks bulged they were so packed with air.

  And then someone was alongside him – only a quarter visible in the sub-aqua gloom, but Heck glimpsed a square jaw and dusty yellow hair swirling. A pair of big calloused hands clasped his shoulders – but they didn’t pull as he had expected; instead, they pushed him backwards. At first Heck tried to resist this, only to belatedly realise its purpose. Though it took a mighty effort of self-control, he relaxed and pivoted round into his former position, from where he felt his body slide smoothly back into the interior, which was now completely underwater. Once he was clear of the window frame, the figure outside was able to take the car door by its handle and, bracing his booted feet against the warped bodywork, yank on it hard. With a dull clunk, the door opened and Heck swam out. Together, he and his rescuer kicked hard for the surface.

  Heck remembered hearing once that the average adult male has a lung capacity equivalent to that of a grey seal, which theoretically meant that, if you don’t panic, you can hold your breath under water for up to forty minutes. Heck had probably been in the depths of the river one minute at most, but he knew that two or three seconds longer and his lungs would have exploded. When he burst into open air, Charles Thornton alongside him, the canyon walls soaring blackly above and the sagging, skeletal remnants of the bridge half blocking out the sun, it was the greatest relief in his life.

  As he struggled towards the nearest embankment, his feet clouted the submerged hulk of his Peugeot – his lovely maroon 308, all fifteen grand’s worth. But what the devil did that matter? He was alive.

  Coughing and gasping, he grappled with waterside foliage before he was able to pull himself up onto dry ground. Thornton, who’d managed to get up first, gave him another helping hand, hauling him
by the collar of his shredded jacket. From here, it was a tough climb to the top of the embankment – more heavy vegetation and lots of steep, crumbling soil, but only when they’d made it up there, and were perched on flat ground between the overhanging trees, did Heck allow himself to flop. His head drooped onto his chest, his shoulders heaving as he wheezed for breath.

  Eventually he glanced up at the young farmer, who was standing, gazing down into the canyon where the outline of Heck’s Peugeot appeared to be moving in the current, jostling its way along the narrow channel, for the most part still submerged.

  ‘Thanks …’ Heck stammered, shuddering. ‘Just … thanks.’

  ‘I’d say no problem,’ Thornton panted, ‘but bloody hell, I thought you were a goner. What on earth were you thinking?’

  Heck was slow to respond. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Surely it was obvious that bridge was dangerous?’

  ‘Well – might’ve helped if it had been sealed off.’

  ‘It is. This is the farm’s north entrance. It’s been closed off for years. That’s why I ran after you when I saw which direction you were headed in.’

  Heck got slowly, exhaustedly to his feet. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You should have gone out the way you came in. Through the south entrance.’

  ‘That was the one that was closed. There was a sign across it.’

  Thornton, whose cheeks had coloured – presumably as he’d been contemplating the potential outcome if culpability for this incident was proved against him – now paled. ‘You must’ve got confused.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’ Heck indicated the hanging remnants of the bridge. ‘I definitely drove in this way. I was almost a goner that time too.’

  ‘But there’s a chain across the north entrance. And a warning sign.’

  ‘Not anymore. They must both have been moved.’

  They regarded other, their dripping faces dappled by afternoon sunlight. ‘Dear God,’ Thornton said, no longer pale but white. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘How else could I have got in?’

  ‘I’d better go and check.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Are you all right? I mean, you just nearly drowned.’

  Heck rubbed at the top of his head, which felt bruised but was otherwise undamaged. ‘I’ll not pretend I’m not shaken. And I think I’ve just drunk half the River whatever it is.’

  ‘The Tat.’

  ‘Half the River Tat. But the outcome could have been worse, thanks to you.’

  They made their way back to the farmhouse on foot, sodden. If Mrs Thornton thought it unusual, or unacceptable, that her son should enter the family home in this state, she made no demonstration about it – at least none that Heck heard while he was waiting outside. Thornton reappeared with car keys in hand. He and Heck climbed into the Range Rover. They headed along the drive in a different direction, following a long, curving route towards the farm’s southern boundary. Clearly this was the way Heck was supposed to have entered. Within a few minutes they were driving through woodland, though much of this had been cut back from the road. When they crossed the bridge near the farm’s south entrance, it was in far better condition than the other one; built solidly from concrete and stainless steel, and wide enough for two vehicles to pass side by side.

  ‘Father had this one constructed about ten years ago,’ Thornton explained. ‘When it became obvious the original bridge was past its best, he brought in a surveyor and it was condemned. I’m sorry about that, Sergeant – we should have had it demolished some time ago.’

  ‘No apology needed. It wasn’t you who directed me across it … or your father.’

  About a hundred yards further on, they reached the road. As Heck had said, a safety chain was blocking access. The warning sign hung in the middle of it. They climbed from the car together. Thornton stood scratching his head. ‘I just don’t understand this.’

  The chain had not been secured in this position. By the looks of it, someone had simply woven it round a narrow tree trunk at one end, and had hooked it over a low bough at the other. Thornton made a move to pull it free.

  ‘Be better if you didn’t,’ Heck said. ‘We’ll need Scenes of Crime to take a look.’

  ‘I can’t leave it here,’ Thornton replied. ‘I need to put it back over the north entrance; at least until I can find something else. We’ll end up with another disaster.’

  Heck thought about this. ‘You’re right … here.’ He dug a pair of latex gloves from the ragged hole that remained of his jacket pocket and handed them over. ‘If you can sort that out quickly and then put the chain indoors somewhere? And make sure no one else touches it.’

  Thornton nodded. He removed the chain, threw it into the back seat of his Range Rover, and then drove them along the main road to the north exit, where he suspended it again across the entrance.

  ‘What would someone gain by doing this?’ he asked.

  ‘What would someone gain by pumping compressed gas into your father?’ Heck replied.

  ‘You think this was another attempt to commit murder?’

  ‘If it was, it very nearly succeeded.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. I mean …’ Thornton’s words petered out. He looked as tortured by that thought as he was amazed. ‘I mean, who …?’

  ‘We need to find out, Mr Thornton. And we need to do it quickly. You said you had a camera over the main entrance?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course!’ Thornton drove them back to the south entrance, and there pointed up into a tall fir tree on the other side of the road. The camera was indeed well concealed, because Heck still couldn’t see it.

  As they drove back towards the farmhouse, Thornton became deeply thoughtful. ‘Does this definitely mean my father was murdered?’

  ‘We can’t say that for sure.’

  ‘But he died by accident; or at least it appeared to be an accident. And if you’d died in that river that would have appeared to be an accident too.’

  With a grimace, Heck extricated a long strand of river weed from under his T-shirt. ‘Correct. But we have to keep an open mind. The chain business could easily have been someone messing around without realising how much danger they were causing.’

  He didn’t tell Thornton what he was really thinking: namely that if all the other possible victims on his list – Harold Lansing, the car thieves in Leatherhead, the delivery driver Gordon Meredith – had been the subject of foul play, their accidents had come about after they appeared to have been singled out and stalked. This incident was not quite the same: the chain had simply been moved to another location, and the perpetrator had fled. Any visitor to the farm who didn’t already know that the north entrance was dangerous could have come along and crashed through the bridge. Leaving it so much to chance felt like a deviation from the pattern. Unless of course – and Heck didn’t give voice to this theory either – unless he himself, as the main investigator, was the one who’d been singled out and stalked.

  Back at the farmhouse Mrs Thornton, who listened to the story her son told her with silent astonishment, broke out of her grief-stricken reverie, becoming busy and efficient. She still spoke only in monosyllables, when she spoke at all, but showed Heck upstairs to a bathroom, where he was given access to the shower, and when he had finished found an old black and white tracksuit waiting for him, along with some clean underwear, some white sports socks, and a pair of white training shoes. When he came downstairs again Mrs Thornton had built up the fire, and pushed a mug of hot spearmint tea into his hands.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he said.

  She nodded curtly, and moved off down the corridor to the kitchen.

  Heck watched her go, mildly puzzled. She’d asked questions before – desperate, it seemed, to discover whether or not her husband had been murdered, and yet now, when strong evidence had emerged that hostile forces were gathering here, she was content to say nothing. The only obvious conclusion was that the Thornton family were hard
cases; traditional old rural English stock – they could take things on the chin, and didn’t flip out when the worst came to the worst, choosing instead to bide their time and wait.

  Heck wished he felt so steady. The shock of the crash was finally trickling through him, leaving him weak and sick. He attempted to deal with this the way he always did, by blocking it out and focusing on practicalities. He’d managed to salvage his keys, his wallet, his warrant card, and the slide-key to his hotel room, all of which had been in his jacket’s inside pocket, but his mobile phone was kaput, and of course he’d now lost his car and his laptop – probably for good.

  ‘Sergeant Heckenburg?’ came Thornton’s voice. ‘Want to look at this?’

  Heck wandered along the kitchen corridor, but diverted en route into a spare reception room, which Thornton had adapted into an office. He too had taken off his wet things, had climbed into a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, and was swigging from a mug of mint tea. He was seated in front of a desktop computer, on the screen of which a black and white MPEG was running.

  Heck leaned down to get a closer look. The MPEG was centred on the farm’s south gate, and had been shot from the high vantage of the fir tree opposite. Thornton had paused the video, waiting for Heck to come in. He hit ‘play’ again.

  The image jerked into motion – it was grainy and constantly pixellated, but otherwise it possessed better-than-usual clarity. An indistinct vehicle flashed past from left to right.

  ‘That’s him, I’m guessing,’ Thornton said, ‘on his way to the north gate.’

  ‘Either on his way to collect the chain, because he already knows it’s there,’ Heck said. ‘Or checking out your whole perimeter, in which case he’s about to find the chain.’

  ‘This was taken at two-forty this afternoon – not long before you got here,’ Thornton replied, fast-forwarding for six minutes before the vehicle reappeared.

  This time it was coming from the other direction. It pulled up alongside the south entrance, perfectly framed in mid-screen. It was an old van. No make or model was immediately distinguishable, but two furtive figures climbed from its driving cab. One was slightly shorter and chunkier than the other, but both were obscured in dark clothing and balaclava hoods.