Peter James - Not Dead Yet

‘Doesn’t appeal,’ she said.

‘Nah, nor me. I’m a born townie. Too many inbred weirdos in the country, if you ask me.’

‘I grew up in the country,’ she said. ‘My parents were tenant farmers. They moved to Brighton when they retired.’

‘Ah,’ he said, trying to think of a way to recover from that. ‘Of course, I don’t mean everyone.’

She said nothing.

There was another sign to the angling club, pointing left, through an unfinished building development in a farmyard that looked as if it had been abandoned. There was a large, derelict-looking farmhouse, a half-finished barn conversion with a sign outside that read, DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, a grey breeze-block structure with no glass in the windows or doors, and a row of ancient, windowless flint cottages with a half-filled skip outside. Bags of sand and ballast lay around the area, along with a length of drainpipe and a large wooden reel of electrical cabling.

Ploughing through a muddy puddle just beyond, they saw a white Scientific Support Unit van. It was parked on concrete hard-standing alongside a large, navy-blue off-roader. A strip of blue and white crime scene tape was secured across a narrow entrance which had a sign fixed to a post, NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT.

Emma Reeves, a stern, good-looking blonde-haired DC, sensibly gowned up in a white oversuit, wellington boots and blue gloves, and holding a crime scene log, was acting as scene guard. Next to her stood Crime Scene Manager David Green, also gowned up, together with a smiling man in green waterproofs and waders, holding a fishing rod in a pose like a sentry.

Glenn hefted his Go-Bag out of the boot of the car, silently cursing that he had not come in boots; mud oozed over the tops of his immaculately polished loafers as he and Bella Moy approached them.

‘Sir,’ DC Reeves said, ‘this is William Pitcher who phoned in – he’s actually a retired paramedic’

Turning to him, Glenn said, ‘Thanks for your call. You’re sure this fabric wasn’t here yesterday?’

‘I’m certain – but I hope I haven’t brought you on a wild goose chase,’ William Pitcher said, looking at David Green, then Emma Reeves and then Glenn. ‘But that cloth was not here yesterday, I’m certain. I left here at nine last night, and I’ve checked the register, and no members of this club came after me, nor did anyone come this morning.’

Through dense woodland terrain beyond them, Branson saw the glint of water. He looked at Emma Reeves then the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Do you want us in oversuits?’

Green shook his head. ‘Not necessary – unless you want to go exploring?’ He looked dubiously down at Branson’s shoes. Bella more sensibly had gum boots on.

‘I just want to see the suit cloth.’

Green led him up to the snagged strip of fabric, being careful not to tread on any footprints or tyre marks. There was a gap in the hedgerow and trees through which Branson could see a wooden jetty and some decking. The lake was roughly an oval shape, overhung in parts by trees and bushes, and several wooden fishing platforms had been built around its shore. At the far end it narrowed to little wider than a river, then opened up beyond into what appeared to be another oval lake. It was an idyllic spot.

William Pitcher turned out to be extremely chatty, a mine of information about the club and its members. Glenn Branson had never considered that there might be a distinction between what defined a pond and a lake. Now, thanks to William Pitcher who enlightened him, he knew. Any body of inland water larger than half an acre was a lake. And what he was looking at was close to three and a half acres of prime trout water, although, Pitcher explained, it had a weed problem.

Weeds, it was shortly to turn out, were the least of this particular stretch of water’s problems.

Amis Smallbone had fury boiling inside him. He padded towards the edge of the turquoise water of the swimming pool, every step with his blistered feet utter agony, stared at the four green cylindrical conifers in metal tubs at the far end, and puffed hard on the Cohiba.

It wasn’t just fury. It was a maelstrom of rage. The eye of a tornado spinning inside his guts.

He sat in the swing sofa and took a slug of his drink. Focused so hard on his thoughts, he barely even noticed the icy, peaty taste of the vintage Jameson’s Irish whiskey. There was blue afternoon sky above him. A jet made a vapour trail across it. Wednesday; coming up to his first week of freedom. Although, since his encounter with Grace, he’d resentfully checked in with the hostel and with his probation officer, not wanting to give the bastard another hold over him.

Years ago he had lived in one of the finest houses in this city, worth three million pounds; plus he’d had a villa in Marbella; an eighty-foot yacht; a Ferrari Testarossa. Now what did he have? Forty-six quid given him on his release from prison, plus his weekly benefit, which was a pittance.

What would that buy him?

Not even a round of this whiskey he was drinking now in a London hotel bar.

And one man was responsible for taking it all away from him. Not content with that, he’d made it clear he wasn’t leaving him alone now that he was out of jail. The bastard had taken him to the top of the Devil’s Dyke and utterly humiliated him – for something he hadn’t done.

He had one small stash of money that Grace’s team hadn’t found. It was enough to tide him over for a few months in some comfort, but he needed to get back into business fast.

Henry Tilney, big and muscular, with a shaven head, black goggles over his eyes, was swimming laps in the kind of confident crawl that said I ain’t just the meanest sonofabitch in this pool, I’m the meanest sonofabitch in the world .

How had this man evaded conviction, Smallbone wondered, while he had got a life sentence? Out on licence after twelve and a half years, sure, but he’d be straight back in again if he screwed up his licence conditions.

Had Tilney, as he’d long suspected, grassed him up? Was that why he was taking care of him now? To keep him sweet and stop him prying?

He watched as Tilney finished his swim, strutted into the pool house, water running off his skin, his balls and dick twitching visibly in the crotch of his budgie smuggler trunks, and came back out with a can of lager in his hand. He popped it open with a sharp hiss and raised it to his mouth as froth foamed out. After taking a deep swig he said, ‘You should take a dip, twenty-nine degrees, mate – it’s glorious!’

Smallbone scowled. ‘Not my thing. Never liked water, you can’t trust what’s in it – or been in it.’

Tilney gave him a smile that masked unease. ‘Yeah, well, I ain’t pissed in it, in case you’re worried.’

Smallbone shook his head. ‘Not worried about you pissing in it, I’m more worried that Roy Grace pissed in it.’

Tilney frowned. ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’

Smallbone shrugged, noting Tilney’s awkward body language. ‘He’s pissed on my life. You’re lucky if he hasn’t pissed on yours, too.’

Tilney sat down in a sunlounger opposite him. ‘Let him go.’

‘Let him go? After what he did to me back then? And what he did to me last night?’

‘He’s a dumb-fuck copper on fifty grand a year and that’s all he’s ever going to be. You’re sixty-two, Amis. Most people are thinking about retirement at your age. You don’t have a pot to piss in. You want to spend the next few years making serious dough for your retirement, or hitting back at the police? You know where antagonizing Roy Grace’ll get you? Spending your last years in some shitty Housing Association bedsit like Terry Biglow. That what you want? To be the next Terry Biglow?’