The high wall appears almost out of nowhere. The old gates, Randolph had said. She drives around the park, following the wall. Why did Randolph choose such an inconvenient meeting place? He must be trying to avoid someone. His mother? His sister? Judy wonders just how much Randolph knows about what’s going on at the stables. She’s only just worked it out herself. But if Randolph had been involved, surely he wouldn’t have asked for a meeting with Judy and Clough? Surely he wouldn’t have told them about the dead snake and the men in the woods? Unless it was a clever diversionary tactic. But she doesn’t have Randolph down as clever exactly. There are lots of other words that spring to mind, but not clever.
Here are the gates at last, looming up out of the darkness. And they do look old, in fact they look as if they haven’t been opened for a hundred years. But didn’t Randolph say that he came this way the other night, when he saw the sinister figures dancing round the fire? Judy parks her jeep and turns off the lights. It’s still pouring with rain. She’d better get her cagoule out of the boot. A torch too. She struggles into the cagoule; it’s bright yellow, which means she should present a nice target for any possible assassins. But there aren’t going to be any assassins. This is Norfolk, not Sicily, whatever Clough might say. She has, however, taken the precaution of texting Clough and telling him what’s she’s doing. She’s pretty sure that he won’t check his messages tonight though; she knows he’s out with Trace.
Head bowed against the rain, Judy makes her way towards the wall, torch in hand. The wind is really strong now, forcing her to bend almost double. The gates are padlocked together, with a heavy stone pushed in front of them. How is she ever going to get in? But as she gets nearer she sees that the padlock is unlocked, the chain hanging free. When she pushes at the great iron gates they move easily. Clearly this entrance has been used recently. She shines her torch in a wide arc. All she can see are bare trees, blowing wildly in the wind. Beyond the trees there seem to be some low walls. Didn’t Randolph say this was where the old house used to be? Great, now she’s stuck with the ruined mansion and probably the Smith family ghost as well. Where the hell is Randolph?
She is just wondering if she should go back to the car when, through the trees, she sees a figure approaching. A man, she thinks. Despite herself, she’s relieved. The whole haunted castle scenario is starting to get to her. ‘Randolph?’ she calls.
‘Not exactly,’ says a voice. Judy turns towards the sound, not really scared. She is not even really frightened when she sees that the figure is Len Harris, with a gun in his hand.
CHAPTER 28
Nelson is bracing himself for his contact with the light, but before he can reach it he feels a jolt, as if he has fallen through the air. His feet, he realises, are on the ground. Shingle, like a beach. It is a beach but the stones are black. The sea is black too, breaking in smooth round waves, like oil. Nelson doesn’t stop to wonder where he is or what he is doing; he starts to walk along the shore. He knows that it’s very important to move quickly. He mustn’t wait, he mustn’t look behind him. It is some minutes before he realises that someone is walking next to him. He sees the man’s shadow before he sees his face, a cloak flying up like great wings.
‘Hallo Harry,’ says Cathbad.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Judy, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying, in fact, to sound like a twenty-first- century police professional.
‘Setting a trap,’ says Len, breezily, coming closer. At this distance, the gun looks disconcertingly real. ‘And I must say, Detective Sergeant, you’re remarkably easy to trap. One text purporting to be from brainless Randolph and you turn up, without any back-up even! Were you wanting to rescue the damsel in distress? How very macho of you.’
‘Why did you send me the text?’ asks Judy, trying to back towards the gates. She’s only a few metres from her car, from safety, from back-up.
‘Stand still,’ barks Harris, in a voice that has no doubt subdued many a rampaging horse. Judy stands still. She puts her hand in her pocket, trying to find her phone. But it’s in her jeans pocket, impossible to find under the folds of the cagoule. Really, she’s made a complete mess of everything. She’s not fit to be the Senior Investigating Officer. If she dies, will the obituaries be kind to her? Will Darren be given her uniform and a folded union jack? What about Cathbad? Will anyone even tell him? Or will he know, with his famous druid’s sixth sense?
‘Such a shame,’ Harris is saying. ‘A tragic accident. Shot, no doubt, by those mysterious intruders spotted by Mr Randolph. I knew his drug trips would come in useful one day. What a brave policewoman. So young, too. So pretty.’ He leers at her.
‘I know everything,’ says Judy desperately. ‘About the drug smuggling, everything. I know you’re smuggling the drugs inside those poor horses. They’re
‘Very eloquent,’ says Harris, who sounds as if he’s smiling. ‘But who’s going to believe such a fairy tale? Poor Detective Sergeant, it sounds like you’ve been sniffing some of Randolph’s magic powder.’
‘I’ve written it all down in a report,’ lies Judy. ‘I’ve got proof. They found straw in some of the drugs; it can be traced back to the stables. I saw a condom in some horse manure. That can be traced too.’
But Judy hadn’t, at the time, realised the significance of the piece of rubber in the crap that had found its way onto Clough’s shoe. Realisation had come later. The horses had been forced to swallow drugs wrapped inside condoms. What had Clough said? Kinder Egg. Surprise every time.
‘Bullshit,’ says Harris. ‘Or should I say horse shit? You’ve got nothing on me.’
Judy lunges at him, meaning to knock the gun out of his hand. But Len Harris is too quick for her, he sidesteps and she falls sprawling in the mud. The next moment, she feels the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against her cheek. This is it. She closes her eyes, wondering why she isn’t thinking of Darren, Cathbad or her parents, but of Ranger, her old pony. Then, instead of the explosion, the nothingness, the triumphant entry into heaven (she isn’t sure which she is expecting), Len Harris is pushed aside by a force that comes from nowhere. Judy crouches on the floor, afraid to move.
‘For Christ’s sake Johnson,’ yells the force. ‘Run!’
It’s Clough.
The nurses and doctors swarm around Nelson’s bed. Michelle is pushed to the back. She can’t see anything except white coats. Someone brings a machine and it is clamped to Nelson’s chest.
‘We’re losing him,’ says one of the doctors.
Michelle stands pressed against the wall. She feels as if her own heart has left her body.
‘What are you doing here?’ Nelson asks.
‘Trying to save you,’ says Cathbad.
The black waves break against the beach. Black birds fill the sky.
‘It’s called a murmuration,’ says Cathbad.
‘What is?’
‘The birds gathering like that. Murmuration.’
‘What’s happening to me?’ asks Nelson.
‘I don’t know. Interesting isn’t it?’
The waves continue to break against the stones. The relentless tide.
