Giles Frederickson walked into his office at Warcop Training Ground and found Corporal Parrish on the phone.
As he entered, still in his dress uniform, she said, “Just a moment,” and clamped the receiver to her shoulder. “Penrith police,” she told him. And when he hesitated, added, “They say it’s urgent, sir.”
“Very well.” Frederickson was still weary from the memorial service and his encounter with Duncan Inglis. He strode through to his office, tipping his peaked cap upside down onto the filing cabinet, peeling off his gloves. The phone on his desk rang.
“Yes?” he snapped into it.
“Major Frederickson?” A woman’s voice, young, brisk. “Penrith CID, sir. Mr Mercer’s asked me to contact you.”
“Mercer?”
“He’s in charge of the investigation, sir, and he’s requested your urgent expert assistance with this sniper case.”
Despite himself, Frederickson’s interest quickened. “What kind of assistance?”
“We’ve just had a tip-off that’s led to the discovery of what we believe may be another hide, sir,” she said. “It’s in a derelict barn on the Mallerstang road between Nateby and Garsdale Head—place called Outhgill. D’you know it?”
“Of course.” Only weeks before, Frederickson had run the Mallerstang Yomp, a twenty-three-mile feat of endurance that took in three peaks of the valley and involved climbing a thousand metres. Plenty of old barns out there.
“Right, sir. Mr Mercer thought your expertise might be invaluable, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course,” Frederickson repeated, clipped to mask his eagerness. “I’ll be there directly.”
He put down the phone and checked his watch. Just time to change, he decided. Best to dress for action.
It was only as he was speeding down towards the main gate five minutes later, in a Defender and combat DPM, that he wondered if he should have asked for more details—like the name of the female officer who’d called.
Probably not. From the background noise level, it sounded like pandemonium going on down there.