the meeting, she had quietly slipped off without giving him the chance to talk to her.
He had driven back across London to his flat in Tunbridge Wells that night, set his alarm for 5.30, and wearily sunk into bed.
Now he was back in the forest, having met Denison at the Centre in the early hours of the morning. There had been no sign of Jenny, but they had talked briefly with Alex Milton and the senior tutor, Vie Whittaker, explaining the areas they would cover and in which order, just in case the Centre needed to contact them urgently. Steaming coffee had been supplied by Jan Wimbush, the student-cum-cook, before Fender and Denison had set off, both men refusing the offer of a full breakfast.
By midday, they had become a little tired of repeating the same questions to the forest residents, and the apprehension caused by brief explorations of the quieter glades of the woodland, knowing the danger from the vermin they sought, had set their nerves on edge.
Fender studied the woodland on either side of the road as the Land-Rover trundled along at a steady speed. It had become another fine, clear day, the mists having vanished as the sun rose higher and, when on an open road like this and within the safety of the vehicle, Fender found it almost impossible to imagine there could be anything sinister lurking out there in the trees. He looked quizzically at Denison as the Land-Rover turned off from the main road into a wide, muddy track to be confronted by rusted iron gates. Tall, brick columns supported the gates and on either side stood two more single gates, apparently to allow access for anything on foot. It was obviously the entrance to some kind of estate, and he assumed the two gatehouses on opposite sides of the road inside were inhabited by whoever maintained the grounds. The road continued beyond, cutting through a forest of pine trees.
'What is this place?' he asked as Denison brought the Land-Rover to a halt.
'It's the Seymour Hall estate,' Denison replied, jerking on the hand brake 'Nobody lives here now, not since the main house was gutted by fire over sixty years ago, but the grounds are cultivated for lumber, the fields rented out to farmers. It's a sizeable estate.'
Leaving the engine running, he pushed the door open and got down from the vehicle. It took considerable effort to swing open the iron gates.
'If you want to look down the road awhile, I'll question the people living in the gatehouses,' Denison called out, walking back to the Land-Rover.
'Okay,' Fender said as Denison climbed back in and drove through the entrance. 'Who lives in these places? Keepers?'
'No, they're privately rented, nothing to do with the estate now.' He stopped the Land-Rover again, turned off the engine and jumped out.
Fender joined him and looked around. 'It's quiet,' he commented.
Denison nodded. 'Private land. A public footpath goes through the property, but not many know about it. They see the gates and assume there's no access.' He walked over to one of the houses, its yellow-grey bricks faded and crumbled. 'You go ahead,' he said, turning back to Fender, 'I'll catch you up.'
Fender began the journey up the long, straight road, constantly glancing into the pine forests on either side. He soon felt completely alone and more than once he turned to see if the head keeper was back there in the distance. He had the same sensation as the day before when he and Jenny had gone off in search of the creatures she had claimed to have seen that same feeling of being watched. He smiled at his own fears. It was the isolation that exaggerated everything, the quietness of the forest, the leafy screen that hid so much animal life.
His upbringing had been in cities, among people, nothing ever still in his vision; here only the breeze seemed to make things move. He froze when he heard a scuffling noise to his right and then dropped into a defensive crouch as something broke free from a thicket a few yards away.
Fender straightened and grinned, shaking his head sheepishly at himself as the pheasant shot across the muddy road and disappeared into the trees on the other side. The investigator shoved his trembling hands into the side pockets of his green combat-jacket and resumed his journey.
Jesus, he said to himself, this is really getting to me. Was there a genuine tension in the air or was it imagination? Maybe he was over-reacting to Jenny's statement. But still, there had been the rat's droppings and the chewed-up door back at the Centre. And the stoats that had been slaughtered; if rats hadn't done that, then it must have been something pretty fearsome. Yet the local farmers he'd questioned that morning hadn't reported anything unduly worrying, and it the Black breed really were in the area, surely they would have been detected by now? Unless, of course, they had developed a new kind of cunning. He shuddered at the thought.
The trees gave way to his right and the land sloped gently away from the road; lush, bordered fields dipped, then rose into the horizon. A perfectly shaped round tree copse, about a hundred yards in diameter, stood in the nearest field and for some curious reason it made him feel uneasy.
He reached a low, farm-style gate and leaned his elbows against it, a frown creasing his forehead. The ground rose upwards beyond the gate and on the crest of its hill he could see a huge mansion. He assumed it was Seymour Hall itself, but from this distance it was hard to tell the building was only a shell. He counted six square- shaped chimney-stacks silhouetted against the sky, the building itself having three levels. Only the black glassless windows gave any hint of the ruin inside. But the real cause of Fender's puzzled expression was the land between the gate and the house.
The road leading up to the mansion was made of rubble and the field it ran through was completely barren, the dark earth churned and pitted as though any worthy soil had been scoured away, leaving only the ugly, rock- strewn crust below. It was an unpleasant sight among the lush forestland, and Fender wondered what could have caused such destruction. His eyes narrowed.
He had seen something moving in the distance, up near the house itself.
An animal of some kind. Something pink. Something bloated.
His hand gripped the top of the wooden gate and he unconsciously held his breath. It was too far away to make out any discernible shape. It moved slowly towards the house, having appeared behind some nearby shrubbery. It was difficult to tell its true size from this distance.
The sound of the Land-Rover's engine made him snap his head around.
Denison saw the curious look on the rat catcher face as he brought the vehicle to a halt.
What's up?' he asked urgently, jumping out. 'Have you seen the rats?'
'I've seen something, but I'm not sure what it is.' Fender pointed towards the house, his finger searching for the pink, slow-moving creature. But it was gone.
