Another very pissed-off sigh. ‘For yesterday. Can you see if a poacher was reported on land at Mallowdale House?’
Flynn waited. ‘Nothing,’ Tope said.
‘So she didn’t call it in, then?’ Flynn mused out loud, frowning.
‘What?’ Jerry asked.
‘Nothing — thanks matey.’ Flynn was about to hang up when he thought he heard Tope saying something more. ‘What was that?’
‘I just want to confirm something.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Are you talking about Mallowdale House in Kendleton?’
‘Yes.’
‘I assume you know who lives there?’
‘Unfriendly people, I gather. Lord of the manor, I suppose. Shoots commoners just as soon as look at them.’
‘Not quite. An OC target,’ Tope said. ‘A very big OC target.’
‘Organized crime as in…?’
‘You didn’t hear this from me.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Jack Vincent.’
Flynn’s brain cogs whirred. ‘No bells,’ he admitted.
‘Rich, connected, usually operates down below the radar, business fronts mainly in haulage and construction.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Big style. Came into our sights say three years ago.’
‘Which is why I don’t know him.’
‘And that’s all I’m saying — especially on an open line.’
‘I happen to be sitting in Cathy James’s office, using her phone, buddy.’
‘Why the hell are you asking me what shift she’s working, then?’
‘Because she isn’t here. I broke in.’ Flynn hung up quickly, smiling at the wind-up. Then he leaned forward and looked at the message logs, as he thought this through. He knew it wouldn’t be unusual for a deployment at a rural station not to be logged immediately with the control room, although eventually it would be; nor was it unusual for a rural beat officer to turn out on a rest day. That was the downside that came with working a rural beat, you were at the behest of the community 24/7 and rest days were a luxury. Having said that, Flynn would have expected Cathy to inform control room that she was attending the report of a poacher, if only from a health and safety perspective. He frowned, flicked idly through a few days’ worth of messages, some handwritten, others word processed, and realized with shock that he’d made a very big assumption about something. He took out the now very crumpled message he’d stolen earlier that day from the top of the pad, straightened it out and re-read it.
Somehow they managed to make it back up the steep hillside to the track, Henry taking Donaldson’s weight and half lifting, half dragging him. By the time they were back on the narrow track, Henry was seriously exhausted. He settled the big man down and re-checked the mobile phones, shaking his head angrily, again resisting the compulsion to fling the useless items into the snow when they showed no signal.
‘I reckon we’ve got about two miles to go, max, before we hit the village. By my estimation we should be pretty close to an unused quarry which we’ll skirt around and from there we should be able to find a decent road down to the main road, then we’ll be near the village.’
‘Is this good news?’
‘It’s all good news. How’s the foot, ankle, whatever?’
‘I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s a bad sprain.’
‘So it might as well be broken?’
Donaldson shrugged helplessly. ‘Guess so.’
‘We’ll do it bit by bit, yard by yard, eh?’ He patted Donaldson’s shoulder, dreading how hard this was going to be. Henry was big and strong enough, but Donaldson was bigger and heavier and the prospect of keeping him upright for the next two miles across treacherous terrain and against the weather did not fill Henry with glee. The drag back up the hill, only a matter of fifty metres, had been tough enough. ‘All I ask is that you don’t go on any unauthorized excursions again,’ Henry said.
‘Are we going to find your mummy?’ Flynn asked the dog in his most patronizing tone. ‘Yes we are, yes we are.’ Roger barked happily. ‘Are you going to come with me? For a walk?’ Roger’s ears shot up at the ‘W’ word and Flynn could have sworn he smiled and went, ‘Yeah, yeah.’
Flynn had a quick scout around the kitchen and found a selection of leads hanging behind the back door, chunky thick leather ones, ones that looked like chains from a work gang, and an extendable one. Flynn picked a leather one, clipped it to Roger’s collar and looped the handle a couple of times around his hand to keep a firm hold of him, otherwise the dog would probably do just what it wanted to do. Before leaving, Flynn cast his eyes around the room and saw a lady’s headscarf tossed across a kitchen stool. Assuming it was Cathy’s, he grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket.
‘Come on then, Roger.’ Even before he had completed the sentence the dog lunged for the door, almost yanking Flynn’s shoulder out of its socket. He heaved back. ‘Whoa there.’
It had some effect, but Flynn was still basically dragged out of the door, into the garage and out to the front of the house where the dog made a beeline for a big tree at the bottom of the drive and cocked his leg up. After the relief, Flynn took better command and led the dog to his hire car, opened the passenger door and indicated for Roger to climb in. After a suspicious glance, the dog climbed stiffly in and Flynn noticed for the first time that its back legs were on their way out, as is often the case with German shepherds, or so he had heard.
Flynn went to the driver’s side, got in. Roger was almost as large as a human passenger and Flynn felt like he was sitting next to Scooby-Doo, the cartoon dog.
‘Ready?’
Roger eyed him, his tongue hanging out, slavering all over the gear lever.
Donaldson did his utmost to help Henry, but it was clear that the pain of the ankle injury and the continuing griping in the stomach from the food poisoning had combined to knock him for six. Henry had Donaldson’s arm across his shoulder, acting as a crutch for his friend, but the going underfoot was slippery and the track hardly wide enough for two to walk abreast. But Henry held on and they made slow progress. The weather did not let up and daylight was fading fast.
Henry had no reason to suspect his estimation of their position was anything other than correct, but they still had to get down off the hill and into the village before nightfall. To be caught even a hundred yards away from the main road would be just as deadly as being trapped on the hill.
Steve Flynn drove up the narrow road. It was filling with snow, which was starting to drift and bank up in various places. He cursed the weather and had another quick flashback to the sunshine he’d abandoned two thousand miles south of here.
With the weather being so bad, he realized he didn’t have time for more than a cursory drive around the roads that formed the perimeter of some of the land surrounding Mallowdale House. It didn’t help that he was a stranger to the area, didn’t know where he was going, didn’t know what he was looking for and was probably wasting his time anyway.
The road dipped, the car fishtailed through some deep snow, then began to rise. On his left was a high security fence and he spotted a sign written in red letters which he guessed warned against trespassing. On a post behind one of the signs, behind the fence, he also saw a CCTV camera. He didn’t stop to read the signs, but drove on another hundred metres and found a wide double gate, maybe ten feet high, but dipping slightly in the centre where the two halves met. He pulled up at it, peered through the windscreen and considered it for a moment. It seemed to be the entrance to Mallowdale House.
‘You stay here,’ he told Roger, who nodded.
He got out and walked up to the gate, which was made of solid wood, reinforced with steel belts, and was electronically operated. On a pole behind one of the gate posts was another CCTV camera, focused on him. There
