‘They were supposed to be doing that already.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
It had been a long day, up to his neck in pig shit. He was beginning to think Rural Crimes wasn’t such a good deal after all, although it was regular hours. No punch-ups in Bridgwater at pub-kicking-out-time on a Saturday night either, unless he needed the overtime. Every cloud, and all that. His shifts were his own choice too – basically, he could come and go as he pleased – a reward, of sorts, for facing down that bloke with the crossbow. That, and the commendation, of course, which was nice. His wife had framed it for him and it was on the wall at home, taking pride of place in the downstairs loo.
Nigel Cole had spent too long in the shower, and too long looking at himself in the mirror. He was reaching that age when things were just starting to sag, ever so slightly. Maybe he’d go back to playing rugby? The police fielded a veterans’ team. He gave a silent snarl at the mirror, tapping his dental implant with a fingernail. Best not.
‘I’m not having my bloody teeth knocked out again.’
An early shift today, which gave him the afternoon off to watch the rugger. Or at least it should have done.
‘There you are, Nige. You couldn’t do me a favour, could you?’
He recognised the voice, silently cursing the unisex changing rooms. There really was nowhere to hide.
Thankfully, his towel was wrapped tightly around his waist. A glance over his shoulder in the mirror and there she was, dressed like a CID officer in a navy blue two-piece suit and white blouse; a younger version of the chief super already – Deborah Potter’s mini-me. A future chief constable almost inevitably; Nick Dixon was right.
A regional task force, at your age. It isn’t natural.
One hand on the towel, just to make sure, he turned around. ‘What?’ he asked, knowing he would regret it. His answer should have been ‘Sorry, I’ve got a train to catch,’ but he knew that whatever it was, the silly sod would do it on her own if he didn’t go with her.
‘Could you come with me?’ asked Sarah. ‘There’s a barn I need to check.’
‘Couldn’t one of your new colleagues go with you?’
‘I should have checked it when we were there this morning, and I don’t want them to know I didn’t. I was with Mark Pearce and he was too busy in the shop, buying cider.’
That sounded about right. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll throw some clothes on.’
‘Shall I bring my car around to the front?’
‘We’ll go in mine.’
‘This is fun. What is it?’
‘A BMW M3.’
‘How many miles has it got on the clock?’
‘More than me,’ replied Cole.
‘Beats my Ford Fiesta,’ said Sarah. She sounded almost apologetic, but then that was only right and proper. It was the first Saturday of the Six Nations and he was going to miss the opening game.
‘When you’re chief constable, you’ll have a chauffeur-driven car.’
She blushed, and he immediately felt guilty for shutting down the conversation like that. She brought out the worst in him, she really did, but then that was probably because she was everything he wasn’t, and he knew it. She didn’t, but he did.
Twenty-five years a police constable, promotion never even discussed at performance reviews. He wouldn’t say he was bitter, just mildly pissed off perhaps. Besides, he’d done his fair share of detective work on the major investigation team for the crossbow killings. Nick Dixon’s bagman, no less. It had been fun, but it wasn’t for him. He was ‘plod’, through and through.
And he knew what they said about him. ‘A good man to have by your side when the shit hits the fan,’ and that was fine by him. He might even have it on his gravestone.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, after a while. ‘Just ignore me. You’ll go far, you really will. I’m just jealous.’
‘Thanks, Nige,’ Sarah said, with a warm smile.
‘Where is this place, then?’
‘It’s on the far side of the orchards, about two miles from the visitor centre.’ Sarah had a satnav app open on her phone and was following the route on the screen. ‘I did look at it on Google Earth.’
‘And what are you expecting to find?’
‘Nothing, hopefully.’ She was holding the phone to her ear, listening to the voice giving directions, the volume turned down. ‘Take the next right,’ she said. ‘It’s a narrow lane. Then fork left after a while. The barn’s on the left after about another mile or so.’
Signs had been tied to the bare willow branches of the hedge on the nearside: ‘Oake Cider Farm Wassailing’, and a big arrow pointed straight ahead.
‘Looks like we can just follow these arrows,’ said Cole.
‘In one thousand feet you will have reached your destination,’ said Sarah, sliding her phone back into her coat pocket.
Cole slowed, the sound of the tyres splashing through the puddles now drowned out by the growl of the engine.
‘That must be it there,’ said Sarah, pointing to a pair of closed five-bar gates on the nearside. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, turning in her seat as Cole drove past.
‘It’s gravelled in front of the gates, so we’ll find somewhere to park down here and walk back.’
It was either a gateway or a passing place in the single-track lane, but it would do. Cole wasn’t planning on staying long. He let Sarah out and then parked tight to the hedge, walking silently back along the lane, dodging the puddles.
