Peter Helton - Rainstone Fall

As I reached the sodium-lit London Road at Batheaston I put the phone to my ear. ‘I’m there.’

‘Turn right. Drive carefully and at legal speeds. Don’t attract attention. When you reach Bailbrook Lane, turn into it.’

There was not a lot of traffic on the road, it was dark and the rain was hammering down; chances were that no one would remember a dirty old Landy. The goose bumps on my arms were an indication not just of how cold I felt but also of the hideousness of the realization that this time I really was in deep shit, just as Needham had predicted. I had let myself be drawn into the deepest mess of my dubious career and my only backup was Tim’s dinky little Bluetooth mobile. The turn-off into narrow Bailbrook Lane came up quickly. Bumping the car into it I asked for instructions.

‘You know this lane? You must do. Just keep going until you get to the highest point from where you can have a good look over Larkhall and the rest. Then stop.’

He was right, I knew the lane well. It skirted the bottom of Solsbury Hill, made famous beyond its stature by some dippy song. Dark, evergreen hedgerows whizzed past on either side as I hustled the Landy along. A particularly nasty pothole made my load jump on the back and I slowed down a bit. Soon after I’d passed the rusty corrugated iron mission church the view opened out. The lights of Larkhall and Lower Swainswick twinkled below. I stopped. ‘I can see Larkhall below. Now what?’

‘Turn off your lights.’

I did as I was told. At least it might save them having to bash them in with baseball bats. It was baseball, last time, I remembered it clearly. Unlike poor old Albert who’d apparently been hit with a cricket bat. Same result I should think.

‘Now turn them on again and flash your lights. Very good. Just wanted to be sure you were where you said you were. I can see you. Which means I’ll also be able to see any monkey business. Well, what are you waiting for? Come on down.’

It was quieter in the cab because the engine was still in neutral and I thought I heard an engine start up at the speaker’s end. I put the phone on the dash and kept on driving downhill, over the bypass and plunged further down until I reached the bottom.

‘Where exactly are you now?’ he asked after I’d announced my arrival.

‘St Saviour’s to the left. Dead Mill Lane to the right.’

‘You’ve gone too far. Take Dead Mill Lane. Then turn left and take the second turn on the left again. And keep going.’

I had suspected it since he made me leave the London Road and this confirmed it: I was heading into the Lam Valley. Soon the now familiar tracks swallowed me up. I recognized this one in particular. Very soon it would bring me to Jack Fryer’s farm. I slowed down, fingering Tim’s mobile beside me on the bench. The farm buildings hove into view on my left.

Dimly illuminated by a single watery bulb fixed to a telegraph pole in the yard the main structures of Spring Farm squatted in the wet darkness like black cattle depressed by the rain. I speed dialled the number for Mill House on Tim’s mobile while driving slowly up to the gate, peering into the gloom beyond. The dial tone snarled in my ear via the headset. I stopped. This didn’t feel right at all.

‘Hello?’ Annis’s voice in my ear.

A door opened in a concrete shed on the other side of the yard. Fryer’s farmhand shielded his eyes against the glare of the Landy’s light, looking puzzled.

‘I’m at Spring Farm,’ I said into the mobile.

‘Hello? Is that you, Chris?’ Annis spoke into my ear.

‘Keep going, follow the sign, don’t stop until you get there,’ came the impatient voice on the other mobile.

This was the wrong place. I hastily reversed back into the lane and drove on.

‘Did you say Spring Farm? Hello? All I can hear is noise now,’ Annis said in a faint voice, to Tim, presumably. Both mobiles started crackling as I drove deeper into the darkness of the valley, then reception died. How would I get my instructions now?

The answer stood at the turn to the narrow track on the left. A roughly made blank finger post had been rammed into the soft verge. It pointed forlornly down towards the ford of the Lam brook. This slippery track led to only one place: Grumpy Hollow. One way in, one way out.

I cranked the wheel over and plunged the ghostly signpost back into darkness as I followed its direction down towards the Hollow.

When I reached Gemma Stone’s herb farm I turned off both mobiles. I no longer needed them.

I had arrived.

I let the Land Rover crawl slowly down the slope to where Gemma’s old Volvo was parked. The narrow beam of my headlights picked out her car, with its hatch at the back wide open, the shepherd’s hut and the caravan in sharp, rain-glistened detail, while appearing to pour black ink over everything else. When I had brought the two cars nose to nose I killed the engine but left the lights on and cranked down the window. Earthy smells of dank vegetation rushed into the cab, replacing the oily fug thrown up by the engine. All I could hear was the thrumming of rain on the cab’s roof and the splashing and trickling all about. I got out into the mud and rain, pulled the blanket closer around me and approached the caravan. The door was wide open, a rectangle of blackness against the dirty white of the exterior.

‘That’s close enough,’ came the commanding voice from inside. ‘Stay right there.’

The surge of a powerful engine behind me made me turn around. Headlights on full beam dazzled me as I tried to make out what and who was approaching from behind. What eventually slowed and stopped close to the Land Rover was a black luxury van with wide tyres and permanent four-wheel drive. The engine stopped, the lights remained on, sending their beams deep into the plantation.

‘Who said you were allowed to wear a blanket?’ the voice from the caravan demanded as quiet returned. ‘Drop it!’

I let the blanket slide into the mud.

‘I see. Give us a twirl then, we all saw Die Hard .’

‘No, that’s all right, love, he hasn’t got anything squirrelled away up his backside,’ came the much-loathed voice of Detective Inspector Deeks from the side of the van. He coughed. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to speak in that stupid voice any more.’

Jill stepped out of the caravan, wearing a blue plastic rainproof and jeans with knee-high boots. She was holding a big lump of a revolver with both hands and gestured with it towards the Landy. ‘Go on, fetch the Rodin and stick it in the van.’

‘Watch where you’re pointing that gun, love, keep it on him.’ Deeks slid open the side door of the van.

To say that I felt exposed, cold and narked would sum it up neatly. ‘ Where’s Gem Stone, Deeks? What have you done with her?’

‘I’m all right, I’m in here.’ Gemma’s voice came muffled from inside the shepherd’s hut. ‘Sorry I couldn’t warn you, the bitch said she’d shoot you on the spot if I did.’

‘That’s okay then,’ I called back. I turned to the bitch in question. ‘Your son, Louis?’

‘There’s no such person, thank God.’

‘Jill’s not the least bit mumsy,’ Deeks said cheerfully. ‘Good at amateur dramatics, though. Go on, you heard what she said. Move the statue into the van.’

Jill gestured with the big revolver which seemed a little heavy for her. I stared at it hard.

Deeks noticed. ‘Looks familiar, doesn’t it? Stuff goes missing from police stations all the time, you know. Like your confiscated gun.’ Jill was pointing my own Webley at me. How annoying were these people?

‘You’ve given up on being a copper then? I’d heard you were bent but this is insane. You’ll never get away with it.’