It was the coldest, bleakest day Tom had experienced in months. And he felt it even more keenly out on Blackmoor.
The day was in perpetual twilight. The sun absent, the wind pricking exposed skin like a fistful of needles, heavy grey clouds scudding across the expansive sky, threatening storms. Down below, Tom stood to one side while Cunningham led a team of police detectives and forensic officers as they searched for his hidden graves.
Tom stood back with a couple of prison officers who had spared no blushes telling him, and anyone who would listen, what they thought of this whole business. The whole party, leaving their parked four by fours and heading to inaccessible places on foot, looked like the most reluctant team of ramblers he had ever seen. Except for Cunningham.
Bundled up in heavy-weather clothing, he kept looking back over at Tom, waving at him, checking he was still there, like a dog not wanting to go too far from the person who feeds it. Smiling all the while. He looked like a malevolent Michelin man. He was giddy, looking round constantly as though he could barely believe he was there.
‘What’s he need you for then, anyway?’ asked a guard, clearly unhappy at being outside when he could be on the wing with a cup of tea.
Tom shrugged. ‘Hand holding, I suppose. I’m his cellmate. He opened up to me about wanting to show where the graves are. So he could visit his sick mother.’
‘Cellmate, eh?’ said the other officer, a suggestive leer on his fat features.
‘Yeah,’ said Tom, his tone of voice indicating that their innuendo or insinuations weren’t welcome. ‘Cellmate. The prison shrink asked for me to be put in with him. Said he would talk to me.’
‘That all he’s done, then?’ said the first one, clearly not picking up on Tom’s warning.
Tom stared at the man until he backed down, blinked.
The two officers had made a point of not sharing their snacks and flask of hot coffee with him, nor the illegal bottle of brandy they kept taking nips from when they thought he wasn’t looking. They had also told him he wasn’t to stray from their sight. Tom complied. He had nowhere else to go to.
At least not yet.
He was working all the time he stood there. They had parked their minibus at the bottom of the slope Cunningham and the police had walked up. It led to some rocky tor, Tom had been told. Good views for miles around. If the weather was better than this. Tom was more interested in the road they had travelled up on. He tried to get what bearings he could from the weak sunlight, tried to work out where he was on the compass, what direction his home was in. If this were going to be his only method to escape, then he would have to take it. Deal with whatever paperwork, or supposed illegalities cropped up afterwards. He could cope with anything as long as he was free again.
So far he hadn’t found a way. Too many police with Cunningham, the prison officers too wary. Thankfully there wasn’t any media presence. Their scrutiny would have made escape impossible. He was biding his time. He would spot the opportunity when it came.
The first prison officer checked his watch. ‘Nearly lunchtime.’ He turned towards Tom. ‘Want yours?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ He was hungry, but he wasn’t about to let these two know that.
The other leaned into a bag at the back of the minibus, brought out three wrapped packages. He kept one of the two biggest for himself, passed the other big one to his partner, the smallest one to Tom.
‘There you go.’
Tom opened it. Prison mystery meat on cheap white bread.
‘Eat up.’
Theirs were shop bought along with a chicken leg each and a bag of crisps. They grinned as they ate.
Tom turned away, looked at the roads once more.
Made calculations.