Хилари Боннер - A Kind Of Wild Justice

He was also about to wander into a forest at the dead of night in the presence of an undoubtedly dangerous man who could well be a raving lunatic. Fielding licked his dry lips. He drove as instructed to the parking area at the end of the road, which ran round about half the circumference of Fernworthy reservoir. When he switched off the engine the silence was deafening. Fielding didn’t think he had ever really appreciated that expression before. He switched off the Land Rover’s lights too and was instantly swallowed up in pitch-blackness. Nowhere, but nowhere, is darker than a forest at dead of night, he thought.

A map-reading expert had pinpointed the appropriate reference for him. Fielding hoped his own skills were up to it. It should take only a few minutes to walk to the tree, but at night, making your way through a forest was far from simple, he could easily get lost and he would have to be careful not to trip over the undergrowth. He decided to try to find the appropriate tree straight away and then just wait.

With the help of a powerful torch, its beam cutting reassuringly through the darkness, Fielding, taking care to keep the light directed away from his face at all times, picked his way gingerly through brambles and nettles, weaving around the tree trunks. He found the tall conifer marked with the red cross more easily than he expected. It stood alone in a small clearing. He checked his watch. He was tempted to put the rucksack alongside it there and then, but decided against. The instructions were to make the drop at midnight. He would do it by the book. He switched off his torch, leaned against a nearby tree trunk and wondered if he were being watched. Almost certainly he was. He pulled the peak of his black baseball cap a little further down over his forehead. He was dying for a cigarette, but he didn’t dare light up. As Parsons had pointed out, they had no idea how well the kidnapper knew Rob Phillips, whether personally or just by sight. Either way, it was far too great a risk to allow the flame from his lighter to illuminate his face.

He was standing quite still when he heard the crack of a twig nearby. His eyes were adjusted as well as possible to the darkness now and through the gloom he could just make out an approaching figure. Early, he thought. What should he do now? Should he have made the drop already after all? He was confused. The figure was coming closer. He hadn’t expected the bastard to show himself like this. He passed Fielding within about three or four yards. He was wearing some kind of military-style camouflage jacket — but then, so did almost everybody nowadays, it seemed. The policeman could not see his face. He could see the shape of a gun clearly enough, though: a .22 rifle, by the look of it, fitted with some kind of night sight and a silencer.

The man moved almost soundlessly towards the tree with the red cross on it. Casually he propped his gun against the trunk. Then he undid his flies and had a pee.

Fielding could barely believe his eyes. What was going on? He tried desperately not to move a muscle. But something alerted the other man’s attention. He could feel eyes boring into him across the clearing, peering through the darkness. Suddenly the man picked up his gun and took off at a run.

Instinctively Fielding called out, ‘Hey, wait.’

The man kept running. Fielding was bewildered. He did not know what to do or think. He glanced at his watch. It was still only ten to twelve. Should he follow? He’d never catch the bastard anyway. The man obviously knew these woods. He’d taken off at a pace. Even with the help of his torch, if Fielding tried to chase him he would be sure to fall over or at the very least run into something.

For a few seconds he could make no sense at all of what he had seen. Then gradually his jumbled thoughts cleared. It only made no sense if the man who had run away was the kidnapper. But what if he wasn’t the kidnapper at all? Of course! The most likely scenario was that sonny was a poacher out hunting, his appearance at the drop spot just a ridiculous coincidence. Poachers didn’t like bright lights or big bangs drawing attention to their presence — hence the rifle with a night sight and silencer. Fernworthy’s three square miles or so of dense forest land would be home to more than one herd of deer, Fielding reckoned. While Dartmoor hosted nothing like the herds of big red deer which roamed Exmoor, there were other breeds in its woodland areas, as there were throughout the West Country, come to that. And although the managed forest of Fernworthy was open to the public, unauthorised shooting was strictly forbidden. That had to be it: a poacher. But Fielding had no idea where that left him — or Angela Phillips, come to that.

He decided that the best he could do was to continue as if nothing had happened. It couldn’t do any harm, surely. On the dot of midnight he strode across to the tree and dropped the rucksack at its base in a rather theatrical manner. Then he walked back to his original vantage point and waited. He waited and waited, heart thumping in his chest, for what felt like an endless period of time. Now and then he glanced at the luminous hands of his watch. Nobody came to pick up the cash and, if Angela Phillips was nearby, he could neither see nor hear any sign of her. After forty-five minutes he could stand it no longer. He had to try to find out what was going on. He turned and began to make his way back to the Land Rover.

When he got there he switched on the police radio, which had been hastily installed in the vehicle earlier that evening. Straight away a call came through from Parsons. ‘It’s off. Matey’s called the farm already. Says there were armed police in the woods with rifles. Bill Phillips assured him there weren’t. I even talked to him myself. He’d already made it clear he knew I was here. He’s been watching our every move, no doubt about it.’

‘Shit,’ said Fielding. ‘There was a man with a rifle. Night sights and silencer, too. I think he was a poacher. Matey must have seen him as well. I don’t damn well believe it.’

He heard Parsons draw in a deep breath. ‘Right, then, go get the money and come on back,’ instructed the DCI abruptly and only someone as close to him as Fielding would have detected the strain in his voice.

At 8 a.m. the next day, after another sleepless night of recriminations and distress at Five Tors Farm, the kidnapper made a further phone call: ‘You’ve got a second chance. Same place, same time. But I’m fining you. The price has gone up to £70,000. This will be the last chance. Any hint of police presence this time and the girl dies.’

Fielding, mightily relieved, could see hope flickering over the faces of Angela’s family. They too, he suspected, had begun to believe that Angela was probably already dead. Last night must have been unbearable for them. It had been bad enough for him.

‘But you have to let me go this time, Inspector,’ said Rob Phillips. ‘Maybe he saw the sergeant’s face. We can’t take the risk.’

Parsons dodged the issue. ‘Are you absolutely sure there is nobody you know who you think could be doing this?’ the DCI asked for the umpteenth time.

The younger man shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it’s anyone the family knows, I really can’t.’

Ultimately it was agreed that Rob should make the second drop and secretly Fielding was glad not to have been given the task again. He couldn’t quite stifle the nagging doubt that he might somehow have been responsible for the failure of the first exchange, although he did not really see how that could have been so.

However, Parsons had a plan to keep control. ‘We tried to play it straight,’ he told Fielding. ‘You can’t legislate for something like your damned poacher and that was probably our mistake. This time we take no chances. We get the armed-response boys in. Make ’em look like soldiers on exercise. There’s enough of ’em up at Okehampton camp.’