Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘Lecture over? And, anyway, what would you know about human nature?’ she said harshly.

Without a further word he walked off to his car, giving a little wave, and saying, ‘Hens?’ under his breath. Jane watched him, wanting to tell him to be careful, but could not bring herself to say the words which would betray her true feelings for the man who had dumped her, the man she yearned for.

She stood rooted to the spot, seeing Henry drive all the way off the property, only turning to the house when his car went out of the gates. She went to the open front door. From inside she could hear the sound of raised voices. Before knocking, she glanced over her shoulder and her stomach churned as her eyes also caught something bright on the hillside. Not a hen, she thought stupidly, not unless it’s wearing shiny jewellery.

Henry was glad of any excuse to get away from Jane, happy to retreat from an interaction that was starting to confuse and worry him. He thought that he was over her, but seeing her again had rekindled the feelings and jumbled up his mind, and he did not like it at all. He was trying not to do emotion anymore.

He drove down a country lane and pulled in close by a roadside hedge, about a mile and a half away from the house. He calculated that if he walked back to the Wickson house across the countryside and fields from where he was, he should, somewhere along the line, pass the point where he saw the glint of reflected light. That was his theory, anyway.

The sun was creeping nicely up the sky. It would be a crisp, clear day. There was a nippy chill in the air and his breath was clearly visible. He locked the car and trotted down the road a hundred metres or so. He was about to hop over a five-barred gate, when he saw a car parked just off the road, in some bushes opposite. It was a strange place for a vehicle at any time. He walked over to it and gave it a once over. Then he returned to the gate and clambered over it. On landing, his trainers sank with a squelch into the ground. He muttered a curse, eased his feet out of the muddy patch and picked his way carefully across the grass. Cows grazed in the field, or just stood there doing whatever cows did with the cud. Henry steered clear of them. He was wary of their herd instinct. He had once dealt with the death of a man who had been trampled by cows which had chased him and his dog and cornered them. It had been a gruesome, muddy death. Ever since then Henry had gladly applied his stereotype to all big, four-legged creatures: don’t trust the bastards.

The cows watched him with suspicion, all of them. But none made a move towards him. Much to his relief he made it unscathed to the opposite side of the field, where he mounted a stile which deposited him in the next field, this time populated by sheep. He had more time for sheep, never having had to deal with a murder by a gang of them. They saw him and ran away bleating with fear, all gathering together in a corner, staring accusingly at him. He liked to have that sort of power over animals.

‘Mint sauce,’ he said under his breath and made it to the opposite side of the field, where there was no stile to be found, just a drainage channel and a barbed-wire fence separating the field from a wooded copse. Henry’s feet were soaking wet, as were his legs up as far as his knees. Even though he had managed to avoid deep mud, the ground was soft and the going hard.

The channel in front of him was at least six feet wide, the fence beyond about four feet high. The channel was not doing a particularly good job as it was filled with water. The folly of what he was doing now struck him and he thought about retracing his steps. But it should not now be too far from where he had seen the reflection. Through the trees, out the other side, up the hill and down the other side should put him there. He hoped.

‘Bugger.’ He decided to take a run at the channel. He went back a few steps, accelerated and launched himself across the ditch. He lost his footing on the mushy grass as he pushed off, slipped and only just managed to reach the other side, where he totally lost grip. In an effort which required a great degree of physical exertion, he grabbed for a fence post. He missed. Went slap-down into the ground and slithered into the channel.

He lay face down for a few, very pissed-off moments, before struggling to his feet and dragging himself up to the fence with a slurp. He held on and looked down at himself with a sneer of annoyance. He was now wet through from waist to foot, covered in slime and mud and probably now carrying that infectious disease that rats passed in their urine which was fatal to humans. He clambered over the fence, catching his jeans on a barb and ripping them. His best — and only — pair of Levis.

He would have liked to laugh at the situation, but somehow the humour of the moment did not permeate through to him. He just felt stupid. And wet. And muddy. And wished he had stayed in bed.

After resting a moment to get his breath back, he began to trudge through the copse where every branch and twig seemed to snatch and grab at him, trying to hold him back. He found himself becoming increasingly angry and this made him less thoughtful about what he was doing. Instead of being sneaky and careful, he was thumping and crashing his way through the undergrowth like an elephant. He was more concerned with fighting trees than tiptoeing up behind a felon.

He burst through the other side of the copse into the light. He was breathing hard, so he stopped to let his lungs relax a little, then he ploughed on up the hillside on the other side of which, he guessed, would be the spy on the camp.

The going was easier up the slope, even though the hill was quite steep. On reaching the summit he crouched low, went down on to his knees, aware of the possible folly of revealing himself against the sky. Now he was being more cautious about his approach. He edged to the top of the hill, keeping down, but not quite on his stomach because he did not want to get any dirtier and wetter than he already was.

He raised his face gradually and peered over the crest of the hill, down towards a small scrubby area. Beyond that he had a good view of the stables, the house and the road connecting the two. Well beyond the house he could see the river. He knew he was about right in his positioning and that somewhere below him on the down slope was the point where he had seen the light.

There was still a lot of activity at the stables. The fire service were there, continuing their damping down. He made out a number of people emerging from the main house, one of which was Jane Roscoe. She stopped and, he imagined, looked across in his direction. He almost gave her a wave.

A small white van appeared in the driveway leading up to the house bearing the Lancashire Constabulary crest on the doors and the words ‘Scientific Support’ in black on the sides. The crime scene investigators had arrived, making Henry feel a little more reassured about the way Jane was intending to investigate the offence.

Henry looked beyond the house to some fairly dilapidated farm buildings. They seemed incongruous against the refurbished luxury of the farmhouse that was the Wickson family home. A couple of old, articulated fuel tankers stood in the yard formed by these buildings. Henry squinted thoughtfully at the scenario. He tried to recall something which was lurking at the back of his cranium. Old farm buildings, old fuel tankers. . what did that mean?

Suddenly he was not thinking about old buildings and trucks.

A movement had cut into the periphery of his vision, making his head jerk away from what he was surveying.

He stretched his neck, a feeling of high tension shooting through his body, certain he had seen something below. In the bushes, just to the right of his position. Something. . someone. . had definitely moved. But even as he stared and focused, he could see nothing.