by William Shaw
Think.
She was on unfamiliar ground and she was injured. She needed information. Simply running away was not enough. She couldn’t stay where she was because eventually they’d be back, retracing her route again, she guessed. But she had a minute or two in which to decide what to do and she had to use it.
Think.
What facts did she already have? The farmyard had a farmhouse next to it. There would be a phone there. It might seem stupid to head towards danger instead of running away from it, but there were advantages.
Firstly, she would be going to somewhere where she knew the lie of the land, rather than into the unknown. Secondly, they would be expecting her to run away, not come back.
Carefully she got up and moved west this time, keeping low, not running now. The western side of the apple orchard was hedged, but at high summer the hawthorn was too thick to get through, let alone see through.
If she wanted to make it to the farmyard, she would have to find a way round it.
A stick cracked. More people moving behind her through the trees. She dropped down again into, falling into nettles.
The stocky man who had run down through the orchard, chasing her, was now retracing his steps back up the hill. This time there was a third person with him.
Soon they would reach the place where she had left the main track. As she looked back she could see the path she’d taken clearly visible in the growing morning light, marked by the flattened grass. There was no way they would miss it.
They were so close now. How could she take two of them on? The younger one first, maybe, then the fat one? The odds were not in her favour. She lowered herself back onto the nettles. The stinging was a distraction from the throbbing pain in her shoulder, at least.
‘What are you doing?’ another voice, speaking in an English accent, called from the top of the field.
‘Looking,’ said the fatter man. Squinting through the grass, she recognised him now. He had been one of the people in the caravans parked on Connie Reed’s land, one of the men who had attacked Ferriter, who had got away from the far side of the ditch she’d been trapped in. He was wearing black jeans with deliberate cuts at the knees; the sort that might look all right on a slim teenager.
‘She’s not here. Go back. Get her before she gets to the road.’
And, miraculously, before she was discovered, they turned and headed back down the track away from her.
She waited another minute before she dared move, then crawled out of the nettles and stood again.
If they were sure she had gone down the hill, her best option would be to head back up to the top again and loop round to the farmhouse that way.
Cautiously, staying close to the hedge this time, she worked her way up to the corner of the field and then on to the gate she had leaped over what seemed like an age ago – though it couldn’t have been any more than ten minutes.
Leaning over it first, she peered up the fields. Work hadn’t stopped. Men and women were busy in the early light, plucking fruit off the tree, loading it into the trailers.
A third time she clambered over the locked gate. This time she crouched low, keeping to the other side of the hedge she had just walked along. After a few metres she was behind trees and harder to spot, so could move faster. She peered back to see if her bag had been abandoned where the man had dropped it, but it had gone.
The hedge ended where it joined the lane that they had driven up two days ago. It led back to the yard, she knew. Again, checking to see if there was anyone in sight first, she turned left and cautiously headed back down the track.
She was, she reckoned, about halfway down when she heard a vehicle coming up towards her. The lane was hedged on both sides, there was nowhere to hide.
Looking round frantically, she spotted a small break in the hedge on the orchard side, roughly opposite where she had been hiding earlier. A hole in the green. It didn’t go all the way through, but there was a dark gap in the shrubs where something had died back and not yet been replaced.
She threw herself into it, feeling pain erupt all over her body. Blackthorn bushes, she realised too late; she had impaled herself on thorns as long as a little finger. But she couldn’t cry out or move. There was no time. She must not be caught.
A crunching on the gravel, a revving of the throttle, and the tractor passed, hauling a trailer full of empty crates to be filled with fruit. On the trailer, legs dangling over the back, another man, with a walkie-talkie, speaking into it over the roar of the engine.
He looked backwards as he went by and his eyes went straight to the hole in the hedge.
But it must have been dark enough in there; he didn’t seem to see her. The tractor carried on up the hill, the man bouncing along behind it.
When it was quiet again, she disentangled herself painfully from the thorns, trying to pull her limbs off the branches without tearing her skin. Fresh red blood stained her suit. There was no time to think about how much she hurt now, all over. She moved again, knowing she had to find cover somewhere.
And then, rounding the bend, there was the yard.
She pressed herself into the hedge again, taking a few seconds to look at it, to get her bearings. The closest building was the equipment barn she had looked into before. The door was on the side. It was only thirty metres away, but to reach it she would expose herself to anyone who was in the yard – and from here, most of the yard was hidden.
With cautious steps she moved forward.
She was ten metres from the barn door when she saw, to her right, the man she had attacked in the plum orchard, the one who had stolen her bag. He was standing facing the big farmhouse, talking to someone she couldn’t see. His back was towards her. How long before he turned around?
She realised she must be completely exposed here, with her back against the hedge, a short run from safety.
And now she heard another tractor coming back down the same lane she was lingering in.
She had no choice. She had to move. She made a break for the dark, open door of the barn.
And made it inside just as the tractor rounded the bend into the yard.
Panting, she leaned her back against the metal wall, listening to the sound of the engine trundling slowly past, metres away.
Made it, she thought in the darkness. Bloody made it. She panted, pretty sure the men hadn’t seen her.
She was there amongst the hedge trimmers and tractors and crop-sprayers, and it was cool and still. There was a smell of engine oil and dust.
She was not out of danger, but at least here was somewhere she could hide. And, as her eyes got used to the gloom, she saw the perfect place. A stack of grey fruit crates, large enough to climb into.
Until from behind one of the tractors a man stepped out. ‘Hello?’
He had obviously been trying to start one of the quad bikes, she realised, to join the wider search. Now he looked around to see the source of a noise – he must have heard her coming in – and there she was, standing still as she could, clothes torn, wishing she were invisible.
‘Kent Police,’ she said, exhausted.
It was the same big man she had seen earlier; the one from the caravan site.
He looked for a second, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. Then shouted, ‘Hey!’
From outside, the roar of the tractor revving in the yard covered his voice.
‘There are more police on the way,’ she lied.
He stepped forward. There was a hopper of some kind between them. He moved one way, to come round it and catch her. She darted the other way, away from the door, almost falling. She looked down. The floor was dark, slippery with oil.
‘Hey!’ he shouted again, trying to get the attention of the men outside, but the tractor was still working.
Christ.
He held his arms wide, as if somehow that was going to catch her. And then, glancing to his left, he saw a stack of hay forks and darted in that direction to grab one.
&
nbsp; Shit.
Swiftly he lifted it, swung it, prong forward towards her, and jabbed. Jolting backwards, she slipped again, tripping on something, fell hard, pain screaming through her back. He ran towards her, fork raised.
She had fallen on an open tin of oil, she realised, knocking it over. Thick gold liquid was pouring out of it onto the floor.
With her good hand she grabbed the can’s handle, swinging it up just in time. It still had enough weight to slam into the fork’s prongs just as they were coming towards her, knocking them sideways as they closed in on her.
Pulling the fork back again, he was now on top of her, one leg on either side, lifting it high. She reached up and grabbed the tines with her good hand before he could force it down again, this time yanking it to her right just as he threw his weight behind it to stab her. The fork hit the concrete next to her. It was his turn to be surprised by the slipperiness of the oil-covered floor. The man stumbled, losing his balance.
He fell hard on top of her. He was bigger than her, and stronger; she was one-armed.
She wriggled and kicked, to try to prevent him pinning her down, but it was one-sided.
He grabbed her right arm and tugged it above her head. The pain was severe. She screamed, knowing she must not pass out.
Now he was going for her left. She waved it up and down, trying to avoid his grasp. If he had both arms, he would be in total control.
‘Hey,’ he shouted again. ‘Come!’
Somebody must have heard them by now, surely. And there they were: voices shouting back. He looked up.
‘In here!’
In the moment he was distracted by the others, her hand touched the fork. It had fallen, handle away, spikes towards her.
Her fingers curved around metal; the base of the tines. Pivoting it in her elbow, she swung the fork, prongs forward, straight at the man’s round belly.
FORTY-FIVE
The prongs sank deep into the skin just below his ribs.
He squealed, looked down, shocked, releasing her left arm.
She jerked her body; temporarily stunned by her attack, he fell sideways, bloody tines emerging from his shirt.
He began to scream.
Sliding on the oily floor, she wriggled away, struggling to her feet.
Men were pouring into the shed now, looking around to find the source of the shouting. They had seen her by now. She ran to the opposite corner, grabbed the handle of the door there, and yanked.
Locked.
Somebody laughed.
She turned, and saw three men approaching. One was the man she had kneed in the groin. Now he was holding a knife.
‘I am a police officer,’ she said. ‘Kent Police.’
Her suit was ripped, bloody and covered with oil.
‘I am a police officer,’ she said again.
‘Hey,’ said the wounded man. ‘Help me.’
They ignored him, closing in on her. The man waved the knife, closer now, deadly serious, face nervous. It was large, with a serrated top; the kind of weapon designed to do as much damage on the way out as on the way in. She thought of the wound in Najiba’s neck.
‘Police,’ she said again.
It made no difference. Like the man she had interrogated, it was as if they had so little to lose. She was literally cornered. She weighed the men up, trying to figure out which of them would be the weakest. Knife Man was in the middle; the others on either side were young and fit-looking.
And then she was suddenly so tired of it all. Exhausted. It was taking so long. It took so little to kill someone with a blade. She had witnessed it in London, the lives of people slipping away in no time.
What a fuck-up she was. Too impulsive. Always shooting her mouth off without thinking. And now she was going to die because of it. She had wanted so badly to find the people who had killed Freya Brindley; now they were going to kill her instead.
The man with the blade stepped forward. The other men encouraged him. ‘Go on. Do it.’
He lifted it high; he had done it before, she realised. This was the man who had killed Najiba. He was going to kill her in the same way.
‘Please,’ she said, crying.
And then she heard another voice. ‘Stop.’
The men looked round.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?’
Connie Reed, in jeans and grubby sweatshirt, standing at the open door, hands on her hips.
‘Run, Connie! Call the police,’ Cupidi shouted. Or tried to. Her voice was barely a croak.
‘Step away from her.’
‘Don’t get involved, Connie. They’re armed and dangerous.’
‘Get back.’
And amazingly, sheepishly, the men did as they were told.
‘Wow,’ said Cupidi, her voice cracking. ‘You bloody star.’ She breathed in for what felt like the first time in minutes. She laughed. ‘How do you bloody do that?’
But when she looked around, she realised something was very wrong.
The men looked vaguely concerned, not frightened by what was about to happen to them. She looked from Connie Reed to the men and back again and it suddenly dawned on her. She had been doubly stupid.
That’s why these men had been in Connie Reed’s field.
‘Catch hold of her,’ said Reed calmly. ‘But do it carefully, for God’s sake. Don’t leave any more marks.’
Connie Reed was the gangmaster; it was she who had been working with Freya Brindley. And presumably she who had killed Freya.
The man on the ground groaned, more loudly now. ‘I’m bleeding,’ he complained. ‘Help me.’
The three men surrounding her closed in.
She backed away.
‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Think about what you’re doing.’
When they grabbed both arms, the agony was unbearable. She screamed loudly until a hand was placed over her face.
Something happens when you know you’re beaten. The struggle goes out of you. The agony of her arm was enough to sap her will. Someone was stuffing a rough oily cloth into her mouth; she could no longer speak. One on each shoulder, one at her feet, they lifted her and took her out into the July sunshine. She howled from the pain, but it was muted by her gag to a whine.
As her head lolled sideways she saw workers from the orchard standing around, staring, sullen and silent. Frightened. Some still had buckets strapped to their fronts. They were young and old, men and women. The man who had spoken to her in the field was there. She thought she recognised the girl she had seen, too; maybe she was the girl Zoë had met, out in the fields.
She stared at Cupidi, eyes wide and frightened. Poor young girl.
‘Get them out of here,’ said Connie Reed evenly. ‘Take them far away. Everyone needs to be gone before the next shift comes in.’
And, silently, the hidden people started to move. Nobody was supposed to know they were here. Cupidi pushed at the cloth in her mouth with her tongue but couldn’t get it to budge.
Connie Reed led the way out of the yard. The three men followed, carrying Cupidi, past the barn they had caught her in, towards the smaller sheds she had seen before. Eventually material started to emerge from behind her teeth. It was dry and coarse. A man swung his arm round to push it back inside.
‘Careful. You’ve hurt her enough already.’
Finally Cupidi spat the cloth out.
‘In here.’
Reed led the way into the second apple store; the one that had been empty.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. ‘You killed Freya Brindley, didn’t you?’
‘Who?’ Reed looked puzzled. ‘No.’
‘Hilary Keen. Her real name was Freya Brindley.’
Reed paused. ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’
The men dropped her onto the hard floor.
‘I said, careful,’ said Reed, irritated.
Bruises would add to the record on her body.
‘Who else knows about Hilary Keen?’ Reed asked.
&nbs
p; ‘So you did kill her?’
‘Who else knew?’
‘We were closing in on it,’ said Cupidi. ‘You’d do better to give yourself up now.’
Connie looked at her, frowning for a second. The floor of the apple shed was rough but cool. It felt good to lie still for a while.
‘I rather doubt it,’ Connie Reed said eventually. ‘Otherwise it wouldn’t just be you here. There would be a whole team. You’re on your own.’
Cupidi smiled. ‘You don’t know that, though. You don’t know, do you? They might be just around the corner.’
‘Yes. They might.’
‘Why did you kill her?’
‘No comment.’
‘How? I’m curious.’
‘Killed the cat,’ said Connie.
‘What about Salem? Drowned in cow shit. And Najiba? Stabbed to death.’
The men shuffled. Connie turned to the men who stood around, obediently waiting for their next order. ‘Go,’ she said brusquely. ‘Clear up here. We’ll pay off the contract. It’s useless now. Get the workers out of here.’
‘What about Rasa Petrauska? Did she know she was being used by you? What was it? Some cute matchmaking agency, to get legitimate workers pregnant so illegitimate ones can stay?’
She should shut up. Connie Reed was ignoring her, anyway. ‘Get everybody as far away from here as you can,’ she was saying. ‘Get them out of the county.’
‘Where?’ asked the man who had stolen her handbag.
‘Doesn’t matter. Get them out,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you money. You all need to disappear for a while. Clean out the houses thoroughly. Make sure they leave nothing behind, no documents, no phones, nothing.’
The men nodded.
‘We’re taking a massive loss on all this, you realise,’ she said, turning to Cupidi and shaking her head.
‘Nice job. Living off the back of people who can’t argue back.’
‘I’m not living off the back of anybody,’ said Connie Reed. ‘Don’t you understand? These people want the work. They beg me for it. I’m the one putting myself out to find them paid jobs. I’m the one taking all the risks here for them.’
‘You’re practically a saint.’
