Midnight. Nick sat in a nondescript Ford Mondeo in a lay-by just off the main road from Kendal to Windermere, listening to the ache in his bones like they were whispering the story of his past. They hurt more when he was keyed up, as if to remind him of the price of overconfidence.
He shifted pointlessly, knew he wasn’t going to find a comfortable position. There was a time when he had the patience of a crocodile for surveillance. Not anymore.
Finally, a set of unsteady headlights appeared down the narrow lane ahead to his left, bumping cautiously between the high stone walls. He slid down a little in his seat as they reached the junction, so his silhouette didn’t break the line of the headrest. Just another parked car.
The traffic on the main road was sporadic and the vehicle pulled out without stopping completely, a white Luton box-van. It trundled away, all legal and sedate, towards Kendal, but it had paused just long enough for Nick to make out a familiar face behind the wheel—Lisa’s brother, Karl.
Nick had already run the numberplate, knew it belonged to the firm Karl worked for. The same one he’d used to collect Sophie’s Wendy house. Was it only yesterday morning? Foolish of Karl to wave it under Nick’s nose like that but then, he’d always possessed more low cunning than outright smarts.
Hence the fact the barn workshop at the top of the lane was not rented in Karl’s name, but one of his workmates’. It had taken only minor digging on Nick’s part to uncover the connection.
He gave them another ten minutes, so they’d be almost back to the firm’s base on one of the trading estates in Kendal. Locking the car behind him, Nick slipped across the verge and hopped over the gate into the nearest field. The dry stone walls that bordered the lane were close to six foot, with the bank under them, and he was mindful of Grace’s warning on their first meeting about the perils of trying to get over such an obstacle in a hurry.
Grace had called him earlier that evening to tell him she’d done a preliminary exam of the hair sample he’d given her.
“So far, it’s a visual match to the hair I collected at the break-in. If you want me to stand up in court and say so, I’ll need to send it away and have the lab confirm it. I assume you don’t want to be quite so official at this stage?”
“You assume correctly. Thanks for getting to it so fast when you’re up to your neck. I heard you found the hide. Well done.”
“I’m being ‘rested’, I believe is the term.” Though her voice was dry, he caught the vibrations.
“I’m sorry. Blenkinship can be a right prat.”
“Mm, well, if not full time, he certainly helps out when they’re busy,” she agreed gravely. “Let me know how it goes, won’t you? Whatever it is.”
So here he was, trudging up a rough field in the dark, dressed head to foot in black from his watch-cap to his boots. Tucked inside his jacket were a slim jemmy and a lock-pick set, either of which would have earned him a trip to the cells if he was caught with them. Hell, he would have arrested himself.
There was hardly any moon. Nick carried a five-cell Maglite with his gloved hand cupped round the head shading the beam of light, and the heavy stem resting on his shoulder. That way, he could use it as a club if he needed to, with less chance of breaking the bulb.
Not that Nick expected to encounter anyone. The workshop was part of a cluster of converted farm buildings. The land was long-since swallowed up by neighbouring farms, the farmhouse itself derelict. Wouldn’t be long before some developer got hold of it.
There was a rustle ahead of him in the darkness, a stamp and snort. Startled, he swung the torch up, caught the reflection of strange oval green eyes in the dark, then the scutter of feet against the rocky ground as a trio of shaggy ghosts fled away up the hill.
Just sheep.
Nick’s heartrate had settled by the time he passed through the collapsed metal gate into the yard at the top of the field. All was silent. He was after the smaller of the two barns, slate rather than stone, with a solid new door to keep out the curious. It was secured with a well-oiled padlock that made Nick’s job easier. Even so, he was out of practice, juggling the torch awkwardly under one arm while he finessed the tumblers.
Inside, there was no peripheral light. The Maglite’s beam was a pale cone surrounded by utter blackness. Nick cast about, saw piles of what seemed like junk, scattered tools, rusting farm machinery that could have been medieval instruments of torture.
And three similar-shaped humps under dustsheets.
He pulled back the corner of the first. Under it, the quad bike was so new it still had the shiny release agent on the bulbous tyres. He pulled a printout from his pocket, checked the serial numbers, took his time about it so there’d be no mistake. All three matched his list.
When he was done, he covered them over again, exactly as they were, even looked to see what footprints he’d left in the dust on the concrete floor. He didn’t want to leave anything for someone as keen-eyed as Grace to lift afterwards.
He left as quietly as he’d come, clicked the padlock shut on its hasp, retraced his steps down the field, this time without ovine interruption. The whole operation took twenty-three minutes, start to finish.
It wasn’t until he’d regained the driver’s seat of the Mondeo that he began to swear at Karl’s arrogant stupidity and—with entirely selfish awareness—at the position he’d put Nick into.
Solving the robberies wasn’t the hard part. They had physical evidence linking Karl to the crime scene of at least one, and now the goods in his workmate’s lockup. Wouldn’t be difficult to get the other man to roll over. In Nick’s experience, there was very little honour among thieves.
Open and shut. Even a chance that DI Pollock might smile favourably on him once more.
But Lisa would be a different story. She’d see it as persecution. Getting back at her by lifting her brother, regardless of Karl’s part in his own downfall. And he’d milk his own innocence alongside Lisa’s anger until the only glimpse Nick was likely to catch of Sophie would be birthdays and Christmas, if he was lucky.
Bloody idiot…
With a sigh, Nick drove back towards Kendal. But as he reached the turnoff to Staveley, he took it. After all, Karl wasn’t the type to have kept his activities completely under wraps. And he was unpleasant enough to have made enemies on his own doorstep.
Nick drove through the middle of Staveley and spotted what he was looking for opposite the fish-and-chip shop—a public phone box. Not many of them left. He parked further along the street and jogged back. Quickly, he dialled the number of Kendal nick, hoping it wasn’t anybody he’d recognise on the desk tonight.
“Hey, listen up,” he said when the phone was answered, laying on the Manchester accent. “You want them scallies what took them quads?” Knowing they’d be taping the call, he gabbled through a brief description of the barn’s location, vague enough not to be suspicious but leaving no doubt, rang off when they asked for his name.
No glory, he reflected as he started up the Mondeo and headed home, but, with any luck, no grief, either.