Five minutes out of the town and he might as well have been on another planet. Gone were the houses and the pavements, the neat gardens and the outdated shops. Instead he was surrounded by bleakness.
Stark hills criss-crossed with stone walls rose above him on either side, the green of the high ridges broken by the scars of forbidding rockfaces. Even the narrow road he was driving along was lined in an inhospitable grey, an interminable wall which seemed to serve no purpose other than holding back the barren landscape. And the sheep. The bloody sheep, which were everywhere. Along with the gap-roofed barns, crumbling and unused.
It was a desolate place. Not an environment he’d want to be lost in. And this was on a mild May day, the sun shining brightly overhead, a river running down below to his left, lambs gambolling in the fields.
The hitman wasn’t fooled. This was a terrain that deserved respect.
He glanced down at the mobile on the passenger seat, the red light he was tracking still moving ahead, following the twists and turns of the road. A road that allowed no sighting of his quarry in the flesh without getting closer. He looked back up at the horizon, scanning the hilltops for a mast.
That was another worry with doing a job like this in the back of beyond. While the tracker was a brilliant help, it required a mobile signal, and that couldn’t be relied on out here. Which meant he was caught in a cleft stick. If he sped up so that he could see the motorbike, he ran the risk of being spotted, so little traffic on the road that O’Brien would be sure to notice him in his mirrors. But if he hung back too far, he ran the risk of hitting a dead spot and losing the signal. And his target.
He pressed his foot to the accelerator and picked up speed, trying to ignore his creeping apprehension as he drove deeper into the countryside. Thus he was travelling at a fair pace when he came around a blind bend to see a tractor parked across the middle of the road.
Ida saw the light on the third monitor pause. So far, so good. But it was the next phase that would be the most difficult. And the most dangerous.
A small whine pulled her focus from the computer screens, Tolpuddle sitting next to her, a doleful expression on his face as though he too was anxious. Although she rather suspected it was more likely his stomach that was dictating his concern.
‘Tha’s looking for a treat?’ She patted the grey head as she stood up, her joints snapping at being released from the unaccustomed sedentary position. ‘Don’t know how folk sit like that day after day,’ she grumbled, heading for the kitchen, Tolpuddle on her heels.
Putting the kettle on, she reached for the tin of Dog-gestives and took a couple out. Then, deciding that she too deserved a treat, she placed a couple of Delilah’s best biscuits, reserved for clients of the two agencies that operated out of the building, on a plate. Minutes later, after an appropriate length of brewing time, she returned to the office, mug in one hand, plate in the other. And she stared at the third monitor in surprise.
The dot was still static. Still there. She reached for her mobile to let everyone know that they were running behind schedule. Hopefully it wouldn’t prove a problem.
‘Let me through!’ the hitman shouted up at the figure sitting in the cab, struggling to make himself heard over the engine. Struggling also to keep a rein on his temper.
Having slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision with the tractor, the rental van screeching to a halt with a smell of burning rubber as the seat belt cut into his chest, at first he’d sat there, waiting, expecting the vehicle blocking his path to move, his fingers drumming an impatient staccato on the steering wheel. But it hadn’t budged, squatting like a giant green toad across the tarmac, its large bucket lowered to the ground, making it impossible to pass. So he’d tried the horn, a blare of indignation cutting across the quiet of the countryside.
The farmer had twisted in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at him. An older man, wiry looking, a thatch of white hair above a ruddy face. He’d raised a hand in acknowledgement. And then did nothing, the tractor still rumbling away but going nowhere.
Flicking a glance at the mobile, the hitman had seen O’Brien getting even further away, the dot moving at a steady pace up the valley. Further away from civilisation and the support of the mobile networks, already the signal indicator down to one bar. Any minute now and that insignificant dot could disappear from the screen and then what? He’d be looking for a needle in a very large haystack.
Irritation growing, he’d thumped the horn again. When that yielded no result, not even a hand in recognition this time, he’d got out and marched towards the cab, the farmer watching him in the driver’s wing mirror.
‘I said, let me through!’ he shouted again.
The farmer cupped a hand around his ear and shrugged. Apologetic but doing nothing to resolve the situation.
The hitman saw red. Reaching up, he thumped on the cab door, the farmer staring down at him from behind the glass now. Not frightened. Just carrying that look the hitman had seen on a few of the town’s residents. The arrogance of a local addressing someone out of place.
Then slowly the farmer moved his hand and turned off the engine.
Silence, apart from the van still running. And the heavy thump of something falling. Something hard.
The cab door swung open. ‘What did tha say?’
‘I said, move your bloody tractor!’
The farmer nodded curtly. Then he turned to shout out of the far window. ‘Oscar!’
Another thud from the other side of the machine, followed by the sound of footsteps. ‘Is there a problem, Father?’ growled a voice.
The sarcastic retort died on the hitman’s lips as a young man appeared, walking around the lowered bucket with measured steps. Not being the tallest of men, he shouldn’t have posed any threat. But broad shoulders combined with a solid block of muscle where most people had a chest was enough to make the hitman pause. That and the brooding anger that crackled about the man, giving him a natural menace that the professional knew couldn’t be taught.
‘I need to get past,’ the hitman finally said.
‘He’s on urgent business, son,’ cackled the farmer from the cab. ‘Happen as we’re in his way.’
Oscar folded his arms across that expanse of chest. ‘That right is it? You in a hurry?’
‘I just need to get by. So if you could move the tractor—’
‘Not as simple as that.’ Oscar tipped his head towards the bucket. ‘See for yourself.’
Keeping a sensible distance away, the hitman walked around him and cursed.
The road was covered in rocks, a gaping section in the long line of wall that ran beside the tarmac presumably the origin.
‘Some halfwit offcumden hit it about an hour ago.’ Oscar stared at him as he offered the explanation, the hitman sensing that he was lumped in with whatever an offcumden was. ‘Going to be another twenty minutes before I’ve got a route clear.’
‘Twenty minutes!’ For a split second he was tempted to kill both of them. Broad chest or not, it was possible. But not wise. Disposing of the bodies for one thing. And leaving a trail for another. ‘Is there no way you can do it faster?’
Oscar looked up at his father, who shrugged and then grinned, ruddy cheeks curving up towards shrewd eyes. ‘Perhaps tha can make it worth our while?’
Two minutes later, and with a lighter wallet, the hitman was guiding his car around the tractor, which had moved enough to allow him to squeeze past between the bulk of the vehicle and the large boulders in the road. He was almost through when he heard the unmistakable crack of something breaking.
He’d caught the driver’s mirror on the stone wall to the right and snapped it clean off.
He got past the last of the rocks, put his foot to the accelerator and sped away, the farmer and his son laughing in the rear-view mirror. O’Brien was now dangerously way ahead of him.
The red dot was back on the move. Ida didn’t need to look at the monitor to know. The frantic pings of WhatsApp messages were enough to tell her that something was going on.
She glanced at her mobile. Tom and Oscar Hardacre updating everyone about their part in Delilah’s plan. Executed successfully with a bit of profit into the bargain, from all accounts.
Ida’s lips twitched briefly. Then she tapped out a message of her own. From now on, there would be radio silence, no more comms on the group unless it came from her. It was too risky. Because this was the bit where everything got really dangerous. Especially with Samson insisting on playing rogue, still not answering his phone and totally exposed.
Delilah had been right. Trying to control that lad’s movements was harder than herding cats.
Laying her phone back on the desk, Ida’s hand paused above the second mobile. Delilah had given her carte blanche over when to use it. Perhaps now would be a good time?
It only took a few seconds, words concise and to the point. Then Ida picked up her cup of tea and settled back to watch the three pulsing lights in front of her, wondering how such a sedentary occupation could make her heart rattle so hard in her chest.
Following its fundamental role as the launch pad for the day’s events, the Fleece was back functioning as normal. Which meant it was quiet, given that it was late morning on a Saturday. The Fellside Court contingent were the only ones left occupying a table, the rest of the locals who’d lingered so crucially now gone, most scurrying out of the pub not long after the man they’d identified as the hitman had left.
Identified successfully, Joseph O’Brien was relieved to note. Or so it would appear from what had transpired so far. But that only made what was coming next even more high-risk.
‘Don’t know about the rest of you, but I need a drink,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘Aye,’ said Arty. ‘And sorry my friend, but I’m having something stronger than coffee this time. Pint of Black Sheep for me.’
‘Make that two,’ said Eric.
‘A couple of gin and tonics for Edith and me,’ said Clarissa, ignoring the disapproving look from her sister. ‘Times like this, a brew just doesn’t cut it.’
Joseph knew what she meant. As he turned towards the bar, he felt that familiar tug of temptation. A pull as strong as a rip tide, exacerbated by the stress of knowing his son was in mortal danger. A wee drink. It wouldn’t hurt.
‘What can I get you?’ Troy asked, moving away from the four local lads at the far end of the counter who were having a good-natured argument over the chances of Bruncliffe’s cricket team – currently suffering a similar lapse in form to the rugby team – securing a rare win that afternoon.
‘Erm . . .’ Joseph pulled his gaze away from the golden sheen of the whisky bottles on the shelf behind the landlord. ‘Two pints of Black Sheep and two gin and tonics to start with.’
Troy nodded and began pouring the beers. ‘All seems to be going to plan,’ he murmured, the dark amber liquid filling the glass in his large hand. ‘And it sounds like Tom and Oscar Hardacre gave our man a bit of a doing.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Joseph, eyes on the beer. He gulped. A ghost of flavour in his throat, that satisfying first sip, the comfort of it.
‘Although it’s all in the lap of the gods now,’ the landlord added dramatically. ‘One wrong move and this could go horribly wrong. If I was a betting man, I’d say that hitman is still odds on to make his kill.’
Joseph felt weak with worry. He stared at the two pints in front of him, Troy now busy with the gin and tonics. Just a taste. That’s all he needed. To calm himself.
‘And for yourself?’ Troy was asking, placing the gins down.
‘Erm a . . . a coffee.’
It was a superhuman effort. To get the words out past a throat that was parched for alcohol. But Troy was shaking his head, his words laced with genuine regret despite his well-voiced opinions about folk who supped such beverages in an alehouse.
‘Sorry, Joseph.’ He gestured over his shoulder to a figure bent over the coffee machine, a blonde ponytail sticking out from under an orange baseball cap decorated with some sort of coffee bean logo, the machine stripped of its sides, pipes and tubes exposed. ‘Engineer’s just called in so coffee’s off the menu for the moment. Can I get you something else?’
Joseph swallowed. Eyes flicking back to the beer and then up to the whisky bottles. ‘Erm . . . perhaps . . .’ He felt his forehead grow clammy, aware of Troy staring. Sensing that the man understood the battle raging in him.
‘Tea,’ said Troy quietly, displaying the perspicacity that had made him the perfect choice to identify the hitman. ‘I’ll get Kay to rustle up some biscuits to go with it. You go and sit down and I’ll bring the lot over in a minute.’
‘Thanks,’ Joseph murmured, his gratitude sincere as he took a step back from the bar, and from the abyss he’d so nearly jumped into.
As he rejoined his friends, Edith looked up from her mobile, face tense.
‘Radio silence! Ida’s decreed we’re to stay off comms until it’s all over,’ she said, not even stumbling over the strangeness of the situation or the terminology, such had been the morning.
‘It’s just like Apollo 13!’ declared Arty. ‘We’re on the dark side of the moon.’
‘Far side,’ muttered Eric. ‘No such thing as a dark side.’
‘Whatever bloody side,’ Arty grumbled tetchily. ‘No more chatting on WhatsApp. We won’t know what’s happening until it’s all finished. Our lad is on his own out there.’
Joseph’s stomach twisted in concern, his stress levels not helped by the arrival of Troy with the tray of drinks.
‘Crikey, but I’m looking forward to this,’ said Arty, lifting his pint. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for all this assassin stuff. My heart certainly isn’t.’
‘You and me both,’ said Eric.
‘When this day is over,’ stated Edith, taking the gin and tonic that she’d disapproved of with a look of grim appreciation, ‘the first person to complain that our lives are dull will get the sharp end of my tongue.’
‘Agreed,’ said Clarissa.
‘When this day is over,’ said Joseph, the tremor in his voice mirroring the one in his hand as he poured tea into his cup, ‘I’m going to tell Samson exactly what he means to me.’
Clarissa squeezed his arm and raised her glass. ‘Let’s drink to that,’ she said.
As they clinked glasses and crockery, none of them added the proviso that Joseph’s declaration depended entirely upon the next part of the plan going smoothly. And no one getting killed.
Finally things were going smoothly. If that word could be used for the driving conditions in this godawful land.
Leaving the neanderthal father and son shifting their damned stones, he’d followed the red light on his mobile into a village called Horton – village being a bit grandiose for a place that was nothing more than a handful of houses and a couple of pubs – and had almost missed the turn. Crossing the first of two narrow humpback bridges of the sort you’d expect to see trolls living under, he’d been looking for a side road. Not a track. So he’d been focusing on the next bridge and the huge lorry squeezing over it, when he realised his mobile was telling him to turn right.
Reluctantly, he’d taken the only possible option, veering off what had already been a narrow country lane onto what could hardly be deemed a road. A strip of tarmac between two stone walls, beyond which were sheep-infested feral fields on either side, those on the right rearing up the steep slopes of the sullen hump of mountain that loomed over it all.
Fearing that the potholes he was driving over would add to the damage tally on the rental van, he drove cautiously, an unaccustomed anxiety rising in his chest. What was it? Something making him uneasy. A glance at his mobile showed the steady pulse of the red light. No problem there, O’Brien still ahead of him but not gaining distance. And at least it wasn’t raining, the boggy-looking land to his left suggesting this was a common occurrence in these parts. Probably just that brooding whale-like mass of mountain that swelled up out of the fields, a wreath of mist halfway up its dark sides. Enough to give anyone the jitters.
Another look at the tracker and the hitman felt reassured. All was well.
Until he turned a sharp corner and found himself confronted by a huge flock of pink sheep.
Samson O’Brien couldn’t shift the sensation that someone was following him. He’d felt the twitch between his shoulder blades as he walked across the marketplace with Delilah earlier, and again out at Seth’s allotment, as though hostile eyes were upon him. It was a sensation that had saved his life a couple of times in the treacherous world he’d inhabited down in London. But here, in an environment so far removed from the seedy bars and corrupt company of his former profession, it would be easy to dismiss the feeling as just an itch from Ida’s blasted jumper. If it hadn’t been for the text from his old boss.
Multiple texts, as moments ago he’d received the third in less than twenty-four hours. Succinct as usual.
If you’re still in town, lad, get the hell out. Now.
DI Warren doing his best to help him, and yet Samson was ignoring his entreaties. Not because he doubted the veracity of his boss’s pithy warnings, but because he didn’t want to live like this any more, constantly feeling like he had a target on his back.
No wonder he was jittery. Samson glanced over his shoulder. No one there. No one watching him.
Glad that he hadn’t returned to the office and placed Delilah in the line of fire, too, he turned his face to the sun and continued walking up the steep incline.
Pink sheep. All over the narrow road, spilling out of an open gate further up and meandering towards him, blocking his route, and not a farmer in sight.
‘Get out of the bloody way!’ The hitman leaned on the horn, the sheep skittering at the sound, the leaders trying to turn but being pushed on by a relentless surge of fluorescent fleece from behind, making them leap and twist in panic.
A loud bang as one of them jumped up and clattered its hooves on the bonnet before squirming round against the driver’s window, giving a brief close-up of piggy eyes staring out from a flat face, like something had hit it hard with a shovel. The animal was almost bulldog-esque in its stance and ugliness. Nothing like the sheep he’d seen earlier, these beasts looked brutal and, as another slammed into the passenger door, capable of inflicting real damage on the van. Damage which would have to be paid for.
He hit the horn again, merely resulting in more ovine agitation, the press of pink bodies intensifying, squeezed between the vehicle and the stone walls either side, a mass of sheep so dense there was no chance of him opening the door and getting out to shoo them off. Then he glanced at the mobile on the seat next to him. No bars on the screen. No pulsing light either. He was out of signal and his target was out of sight.
He had to get out of here, now, or the contract would be impossible to execute, O’Brien disappeared somewhere in the never-ending wilderness that stretched on either side of the road. The ignominy of failing was something the hitman couldn’t contemplate. It would make him a dead man walking, for who would fear an assassin known to have bungled such an easy mission? A terminator incapable of locating his prey in the easiest of situations?
One last blast of the horn simply triggered more agitated bleating, so he shoved the van into gear. He’d drive over them. To hell with it. But as he revved the engine, prepared to murder a few mutton, the tidal wave of pink sheep finally began to subside like the Red Sea before Moses. And there, coming out of the gate with the stragglers, was a woman with a face like soured milk. Dressed in some hand-knitted horror of a cardigan that stretched over her broad frame, she stalked towards the van, arthritic sheepdog by her side.
‘I see you found your horn,’ she snapped, glaring at him as she tapped the last of the sheep on the rear with her walking stick, herding it round the vehicle.
He revved the engine again in response, releasing the brake and taking off in a scatter of gravel as soon as the road in front was clear. Not before one final clatter on the side of the van, though, a clatter which sounded distinctly more like the deliberate thwack of a heavy object than that of a sheep, the old crone no doubt taking a swipe with her stick. He was past caring. There was too much at stake.
Racing along at a speed that was far from sensible given the state of the road, he kept one eye on the way ahead, the other glancing at the phone, willing at least one bar back into life. As a consequence, he nearly missed the parked-up motorbike, the glint of chrome just catching his eye.
He braked hard, reversed, and there it was. The scarlet and silver Royal Enfield, tucked off the road in a gateway on the right, helmet hanging off it.
O’Brien was on foot. But where? Across the road to the left, a well-defined track led down towards the river below. On the other side, directly in front of the motorbike, a footpath led up from a stile over the wall, towards the slab of mountain beyond.
The hitman looked at the two routes in despair. Even if he chose the correct one, he could see a myriad of other paths crisscrossing them both in the distance. O’Brien could be on any one of them.
Then the mobile let out a beep and the hitman let out a sigh of relief. He was back in range, the familiar pulsing light returned to the screen. He glanced up to his right. Up towards the mountain. That’s where O’Brien had gone. And judging by the tracker, he wasn’t that far ahead.
Checking his Glock was in the holster in the small of his back and his knife in the sheath attached to the inside of his left arm – a ritual he went through before the conclusion of every contract – he stepped out of the van, shivering slightly as a gust of wind cut through him.
At least that’s what he liked to believe had made him shiver. But as he climbed over the stile and onto the footpath, he looked up at the brooding mountain and felt the same apprehension he’d experienced earlier. For an assignment which had appeared to be so straightforward, he was feeling more and more out of his depth. Eager to see the thing concluded and O’Brien dispatched, the hitman set off up the steep incline.