Paul Finch - Hunted

Heck pocketed it, marked the spot of its discovery with an evidence flag, and continued his search, but nothing else of consequence emerged in the next hour, at the end of which he took some pegs and fluorescent tape from the boot of his car and cordoned off several areas. It irked him that this crime scene – and he already had a strong feeling that this was what the accident site was – had not been preserved for more detailed forensic examination. Of course that could still be arranged, though it might already be too late.

Reigate Hall was an unusually attractive building for a police station, built from eroded Georgian brick with a lopsided roof of crabby, moss-covered slates. It looked more like a moot hall or village almshouse than a focal point of modern day law enforcement, and faced onto a pleasant open green, at one end of which stood an old parish church, and at the other a timbered, ivy-clad pub called the Ploughman’s Rest, which was where Heck’s room had been booked. The green was surrounded on its other sides by whitewashed terraced cottages, craft shops, and village stores.

Detective Chief Inspector Will Royton appeared to suit this benign environment perfectly. He was a tall, well-built man in his late forties, with a bald pate and salt-and-pepper tufts behind his ears. He had an amiable air and a friendly face, and he greeted Heck in his office with a smile and a firm handshake.

‘You found us all right?’ he said, wasting no time in heading off down the adjacent corridor.

Heck followed. ‘No problem, sir.’

‘Only I’m a bit puzzled …’ Royton glanced back as he walked. ‘I mean about why the Serial Crimes Unit wants to look at the Lansing incident. Wouldn’t have thought it’d be your cup of tea at all?’

Heck shrugged. ‘There may be nothing in it for us, sir, but, I don’t know, something about it caught my guv’nor’s attention. I won’t be in your way for long.’

At the end of the passage, a pair of glazed double doors gave through into the main CID office. Here, Royton paused to think. ‘You mean caught her attention on the basis that it may actually have been a double homicide?’

‘Too early to say, sir.’

‘On the basis that it may be part of a series of homicides?’

‘That would really be running before the horse to market.’

‘Nevertheless … you wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t a possibility.’

‘It’s a very remote possibility.’

‘A possibility is a possibility, Sergeant. For what it’s worth, if something that serious is occurring on our patch, I’m glad you’re on board. We can always use someone with expertise.’

They pushed through into the detectives’ office, or DO as it was usually known, a modern, spacious area lined with desks, chairs, and computer terminals, but only occupied by one or two individuals at present, all of whom were beavering away at their desks. Royton led Heck to its farthest corner, where a large window half-covered by Venetian blinds gave out onto the village green. In front of this, two desks directly faced each other. A young woman was seated at the one on the right, tapping at a keyboard. She didn’t look up as they approached.

‘But I have to tell you,’ Royton added, ‘you’re not the only one who found this event suspicious. DS Heckenburg, meet DC Gail Honeyford.’

The woman glanced round. She was even younger than Heck had first thought; in her mid-twenties at most, her lithe, youthful form accentuated by a tight blue skirt and blue silk blouse and scarf, her brunette tresses tied in a single ponytail. A pair of fashionable shades were perched above her fringe.

‘Erm … hello,’ Heck said, mildly confused.

‘That’s your desk.’ Royton indicated the empty workstation. ‘You’ve got a telephone line, computer link, everything you need. I thought this would be an appropriate place to put you, as you two will be working together.’

‘Sir?’

‘Gail’s already on the Lansing case,’ Royton explained.

Heck tried not to look as perplexed by that as he felt.

‘Divisional CID here at Reigate Hall thought it a curious incident too,’ DC Honeyford said. ‘Before Scotland Yard did, in fact.’

‘Okay …’

‘Something wrong?’ Royton asked him.

‘No sir, it’s fine,’ Heck said. ‘Only no one told me.’

‘Perhaps you should have asked?’ DC Honeyford said. ‘Just a thought.’

This is going to be great , Heck told himself.

‘As long as we have an interest in this too, it seemed an obvious thing to put you two together,’ Royton added. ‘Create a two-man taskforce. You wouldn’t want to do it all on your own, would you?’

‘Well … as I say, sir, I’m only really here to see if this case fulfils the criteria for an SCU enquiry.’

‘So you’re not actually here to investigate the crash,’ DC Honeyford said. It was an observation rather than a question.

‘I was under the impression that had already been done.’

‘Oh, this is superb.’ She sat back as if her worst suspicions were confirmed. ‘You’re gonna be a load of help.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Heck fished the evidence sack from his pocket and tossed it onto her desk. ‘Perhaps, while I’m getting my stuff from the car, you can log this in for DNA analysis?’

She peered down at it with distaste. ‘That’s a tooth.’

‘Yep. Found it at the crash site.’

She glanced up. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘Nothing too strenuous.’ Heck backed towards the door. ‘Just my job.’

It soon became evident to Heck that, while there were no obvious serial elements attached to the two attempts on Harold Lansing’s life (if that was what they were), there was something vaguely weird about both. The fatal crash could conceivably have been an accident, though it was difficult to see how a man like Lansing, who had suffered no previous mishap on the roads and had no driving convictions, could have pulled out at such a dangerous spot without consulting the safety mirror first.

The previous incident was even more puzzling.

Lansing had owned a small fishing beat on a quiet stretch of the River Mole between Brockham and Sidlow; the rather unfortunately named Deadman’s Reach. He was in the habit of spending several hours here each weekend, coarse fishing for barbel, bream, and chub. Not a particularly dangerous pastime, one might have thought, except that on the afternoon of Saturday 21 June a large(ish) model aeroplane, which Lansing only caught a fleeting glimpse of but later described as ‘World War One style, and bluey-yellow’, nosedived him from a considerable height. Lansing, who at the time was in his usual spot, standing with rod in hand on a small stone quay on the west bank, tried to dodge away, lost his footing, and fell into the river, which was running swift and deep. Some eighty yards further down, he was swept over a weir. Had it not been for another angler, who spotted him struggling under the surface and by pure good fortune happened to be a strong swimmer, Lansing would have died there and then.

But a model plane as a murder weapon?

Heck had never heard of such a thing.

Apparently a local flying club, the Doversgreen Aviators, had been using a meadow just behind Deadman’s Reach at the time. All the club members who’d been present that day had been interviewed since, and all had insisted that the stringent safety regulations built into their sport had been strictly observed. None would admit to having lost control of their model aircraft, or even to having owned any model matching the description given. Lansing, though he’d half drowned and had been kept in hospital for quite a few days afterwards, had later told the police that he’d thought the plane, which had struck his arm as he’d tried to evade it, leaving a massive bruise, had then gone spinning out of control and landed in the water alongside him. The riverbank had later been searched but no such model was recovered.