Tim Stevens - Jokerman

They pulled into the village at a little after four o’clock. The day’s heat was at its zenith, the low afternoon sun casting giant shadows. Ducks Crossing read a sign beside a narrow road which ran alongside a sculptured pond. Further ahead, a well-manicured village green was bordered by trees on two sides, a pub on a third.

Hannah slowed to a crawl. The satellite navigation system’s usefulness began to break down; the village was evidently too small for fine details to come up on the screen.

‘Park and walk?’ she suggested.

She pulled in by the side of the green. Purkiss felt the sluggish warmth settle over him like a shroud as he stepped out. He noticed Hannah slipping the Glock inside her jacket.

They walked narrow lanes, the odd passerby glancing at them incuriously. They must look like daytrippers, Purkiss thought, or else possibly a city couple looking for a second home as an investment, neither of which would be uncommon in a village like this. After a few minutes Purkiss peered down a muddy driveway towards a cottage half-hidden by a hedge.

‘That’s it,’ he said.

They made their way down the drive, avoiding neat piles of horse manure. Purkiss wondered whether Arkwright had taken up farming since his discharge from the armed forces. Yes: the driveway opened out into a yard with stables and a small barn. To the left, in a paddock a pair of heavy horses snuffled and drowsed in the heat. On the other side of the cottage, marshland disappeared towards the tree-lined horizon.

The only vehicle in the yard was a rusting pickup truck on flat tyres, which looked like it was there to be tinkered with but of little further use. Purkiss and Hannah stood still, scanning the cottage. The windows were open, suggesting current habitation, but there were no signs of life.

They walked up to the front door, a weighty antique-looking affair with a brass knocker. Purkiss rapped hard, three times.

Immediately a dog’s barking echoed from within. A medium-sized animal, Purkiss guessed: a Labrador or collie. The barking approached the door and continued there.

Nobody opened the door. Hannah stepped back and gazed up at the windows. No head appeared.

They did a quick circuit of the cottage, peering in at the windows. Nothing suggested anyone was home.

Hannah said, ‘Do we wait?’

Purkiss shrugged. ‘Or we could try the local pub. A place this size, someone there is bound to know where Arkwright is.’

The pub, The Green Man , bore the traditional emblem of a bearded and slightly sinister face surrounded by leaves and tendrils. The building appeared authentically old, its Tudor beams listing alarmingly. The doorway was low and Purkiss had to duck as he stepped inside, Hannah behind him.

The scattered late afternoon clientele was as listless as the day outside. Four men sat at the bar counter itself, murmuring their conversation into pint glasses while the florid landlord roved across from them, rubbing crockery dry. A clump of farmers sat around a table to the left, gently joshing one of their number who looked morose. To the right of the counter a girl and a boy, both temporary staff, flirted almost invisibly. A middle-aged tourist couple ate their late sandwich lunches in hasty silence in a booth near the entrance, as if conscious of their outsider status.

One or two of the farmers at the table glanced round as Purkiss and Hannah entered, their gazes lingering on Hannah before they turned back to themselves. A fresh laugh rose from the table.

Purkiss eased himself in among the drinkers at the bar, Hannah beside him. The landlord beamed tiredly.

‘What’ll it be, sir?’

‘We’re looking for Dennis Arkwright,’ said Purkiss, a little more loudly than necessary.

The low hum of conversation in the pub didn’t quite stop entirely, but there was an almost tangible change in the atmosphere, a tightening. Purkiss was aware, on the periphery of his vision, of faces turned towards them.

The landlord’s smile had faded a degree, though it lingered as if unwilling to let go of his face.

Hannah said, ‘Do you know him?’

After a pause, the landlord said: ‘I know him, yes. But he’s not here.’

Purkiss half-turned, addressed the room. One or two more people had wandered in since he and Hannah had arrived. ‘Does anyone here know where Dennis Arkwright might be?’

‘Who wants to know?’ a voice called. It was one of the farmers sitting round the table. Their boozy cheeriness was gone, and they stared at Purkiss and Hannah with open curiosity and a trace of belligerence.

Purkiss held up his fake warrant card. ‘Police,’ he said.

Now all conversation did stop, even the tourists near the door staring across.

The landlord said, quietly, ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘We just need to ask Mr Arkwright a few questions. So if anyone here knows where he might be at the moment, it really would be a great help.’ Purkiss’s tone suggested that, on the other hand, not to reveal where Arkwright was might be seen as obstructive.

One of the farmers pushed his chair back, the legs screeching on the rough wooden floor. He reached for his pocket.

Purkiss tensed. A blade? A gun, even? But the man took out a phone. Holding Purkiss’s stare, he murmured into it, then put it away.

He stood up. Purkiss stepped away from the counter and towards him.

The man was in his late twenties, burly, with the ruddy face and neck of someone who spent most of his day in the sun. His build suggested a life of physical labour.

‘Can you help us?’ Purkiss asked.

The man appraised him, then glanced past him at Hannah who was close behind. He jerked his head.

‘I’m Dennis Arkwright’s son,’ he said. ‘He’ll meet you outside.’

The rest of the farmers didn’t move. All eyes followed the three of them as they made their way to the door, the younger man in the lead. The tourist couple cringed away, not making eye contact as if to do so would rope them into the situation somehow.

The man glanced back to make sure Purkiss and Hannah were with him, and turned left, walking along the road in front of the pub. At the side was an open wooden gate leading into the car park, where a few vehicles were scattered about.

The man stopped, turned.

‘He’s on his way,’ he said.

Purkiss studied him. The photo Vale had sent of Dennis Arkwright had been of low quality, and the man’s features had been so generic that it was difficult to see any resemblance in the son.

‘What’s your name?’ said Purkiss.

The man stared back, said nothing.

‘Behind us,’ murmured Hannah.

Purkiss stepped back and turned, so that he could keep Arkwright’s son in his field of vision.

Walking towards them from the car park gate were two more men, of a similar age to the one who’d led them there. One of the men was taller and even broader than him. The other was smaller, wiry, his face drawn and tight, his eyes glittering.

There was a distinct similarity in the features of all three men.

The bigger man held a crowbar, hanging down by his side so that the end tapped against his leg. A length of chain was wrapped around the fist of the smaller man, the end swinging as he walked.

The first man, the one whom they’d met inside the pub, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small metallic object. The blade sprang free with a snick .

The two newcomers stopped ten feet away from Purkiss and Hannah.

‘Who are you?’ said the big man.

Using his fingertips, careful not to make the movement look threatening, Purkiss took out his warrant card again and opened it.

‘Detective Inspector Peter Cullen. Metropolitan Police.’