Of course, Langham had looked the pair of them up to see if they had form—and had found nothing. Sid had a front for his business—a consultant, he reckoned he was, on buying and selling houses of all things. Hiscock was ex-army and a trainee in Sid’s fake business, and Gail, she was his secretary.
A load of old bollocks.
One day, Langham would have those fuckers bang to rights—and he’d get a shitload of pleasure when he collared them, too.
“Too bloody right,” he muttered.
The village of Marsh Vines was a few metres ahead, the landscape dotted with cottages, some of their chimneys leaning, roofs bowed from the weight of thatch. Others were more modern, the owners undoubtedly scrapping the old-fashioned for the newer, safer tiles. The road narrowed a bit, and he approached at a slower speed. The street was flanked with those cottages, a house or two, and a shop that seemed out of place in such a sleepy, out-of-the-way place—too new.
A pub, the one they’d be staying in, sat next to the shop like an old man beside a young, vibrant woman. The contrast was so odd Langham was surprised planning permission had been given for the shop to be built. It ruined the quaintness of the area.
He turned right into the pub car park and drew up beside a weather-beaten wooden post that held a swinging sign proclaiming the watering hole to be The Running Hare. He left the engine idling and stared at the sign, at the image of a hare on its haunches, front paws hanging loose in front of it, teeth bared. It was a bit of an alarming picture that had a sinister air about it. The hare, sitting on the grass with countryside behind it, seemed on the lookout for someone to bite.
Langham shrugged then switched off the engine. He turned to Oliver, who was rubbing his eyes, clearly struggling to wake up.
“Have a nice kip, did you?” Langham asked.
Oliver lowered his hands to his lap. “Didn’t even know I’d dozed off. Must have needed it.”
“Must have. This place is giving me the creeps, by the way. Should have had a look at it online before I rang them up.”
Oliver leant forward and studied the pub through the windscreen. “It would give you the creeps. A lot of people died here.”
“Fuck’s sake. Right, we’ll book in, get settled, then maybe have a nose around. Take a walk or something. We’ve got two weeks of doing jack shit except resting and boozing, so we’d best make the most of it. Before we know it, we’ll be back at the station, and you’ll be listening to voices, I’ll be chasing up leads, and we’ll be knackered and wishing we were back here.” Langham looked at the hare again and shuddered. “Well, wishing we were on holiday somewhere anyway. Not necessarily here.”
Chapter Two
It wasn’t so much the drone of the car engine that was getting on Jackson Hiscock’s nerves, more the drone of Sid Mondon’s voice. The man had a habit of not getting to the point, going around the houses, so the saying went.
“Get on with it.” Jackson rubbed his temples, his fingertips rasping over dark stubble.
“You just need to go and keep an eye on this bloke, that’s all. Look after him for the night. Kill an intruder. Then, when I give you the all clear in the morning, you can go back to your normal little life until I need you again.” Sid poked one finger between his neck and shirt collar, tugging to let air get to his pasty skin.
It wasn’t any wonder he’d made that move several times during the heated journey to Marsh Vines. The fat hanging off his chin joined his body just above the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. Jowls weren’t the word. Couple that with a three-piece black suit in a temperature too high, and Sid was doomed to sweat it out for the duration.
Jackson ran a hand over his hairless head. “I like the way you referred to it as a ‘little life’. Funny that, because if it wasn’t for my ‘little life’, you’d have no fucker to do some of your dirty work for you.”
“Now, now.” Sid gave Jackson a sideways glance. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”
“How the fuck did you know I wear knickers?” If Jackson didn’t make light of things, Sid would get all serious.
Sid swerved the car down a right-hand track, slowing his speed over the bumpy surface. A dribble of sweat fell from his floppy dark hair and down his fleshy, spot-riddled temple.
“Christ, is that the place up ahead?” Jackson patted for the gun in his waistband to make sure it was there. “You expect me to be able to protect a man who lives in a house that big?”
“Uh, yes.”
“With fuck knows how many entrances and windows?”
“Like I said, uh, yes.”
“Jesus. You’re something else, you are.”
Sid nodded, speeding up. The track crossed with another main road, which he sped across without checking for other traffic, onto a smooth tarmac drive. “Yep, I am. Something fucking else. That’s why you like working for me.”
Jackson sighed. “You think whatever you like if it makes you feel better.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you let me drive here myself? Why
