‘That’s the spot,’ Moran yelled into his microphone as the helicopter hovered five hundred feet above the grass. Eagle Court’s old playing fields made an ideal landing strip for the Eurocopter. They’d already spotted a car parked outside the main building, and the heat source device Moran’s opposite number in the front was operating revealed the presence of three bodies – two static, one moving erratically in their direction. Moran hoped it was Charlie.
The pilot chose his spot and the aircraft settled gently on the turf. The rotors slowed, the racket gradually decreased and Moran was able to remove his headset. They were later arriving than he’d wanted to be, but he was thankful that the fog had lifted enough to make the intervention possible.
Moran stepped clear of the aircraft, bending low instinctively even though the rotors were still. The most recent plot of the moving body had veered east, towards the dilapidated shape of an old cricket pavilion.
‘Want me to check the status at the main building, Chief Inspector?’ The accompanying police observer, Ed Maynard, a genial sergeant from Abingdon, joined Moran on the overgrown games pitch.
‘If you would,’ Moran confirmed. ‘I’ll take a look over at the pavilion. Give me a shout if you need to.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Maynard moved off at a jog. The pilot was busy talking to control, confirming their position, fiddling with the instrument panel, doing what pilots do after landing. Moran left him to it, pausing only to reach into the fuselage to retrieve a heavy duty torch from beneath the rear seat.
The darkness of minimal light pollution along with the slowly dispersing fog made the going slow, Moran’s torchlight only serving to reduce his field of vision as it reflected against the surrounding mist. Whoever was on the move must have heard the descending helicopter – it would have taken a serious measure of hearing loss to miss it. Now that the runner had changed direction, elected to avoid a confrontation with the helicopter, Moran was sure it wasn’t Charlie. This left only a couple of possibilities, either of which were potentially dangerous.
‘Police. Show yourself,’ he called into the void. His voice came back to him flattened by the suffocating effect of the fog.
The pavilion was almost totally derelict, the frontage rotted and windows cracked or absent. Gaps left by two missing boards ran the length of the edifice beneath the roof, giving the impression that the structure was smiling sadly, wistfully recalling afternoons of white flannels and sausage rolls. A teetering scoreboard stood to one side with sad, numberless holes for eyes, like a loyal straight man guarding his ailing comic.
Moran was about to move on when he heard a series of clunks from inside the structure, as though an item of furniture had been moved or some other heavy object displaced. He stepped gingerly onto the first of the two steps leading up to the pavilion’s shallow deck. Ahead, two interlocked, once partly glazed doors led into the main body of the building. Now they were empty rectangles of darkness. Moran went forward, played the beam of his torch in and around the interior. Not much to see.
Wait.
In the far corner, from behind what might once have been a trestle table, now upended, his torchlight picked out a trouser leg, ridden up to reveal white flesh and a shoeless bare foot.
‘I’m coming in. Police.’ Moran announced, for his own benefit more than anything else. He moved across the floorboards cautiously, fearful that one might give way under his weight, but also alert to the possibility of sudden aggression.
There was no movement from whoever was slumped in the corner. If mischief was intended, they’d have made a move by now. He relaxed a fraction, advanced slowly, shone the torch into the gap behind the table.
A woman was sitting curled up, her back to the wall. She looked Asian, exotic. Her long, glossy black hair was caked with blood. As Moran’s light reached her face he saw the angry, purple bruise just parallel to her right eye. A trickle of blood ran from its corner to her chin, but the woman made no effort to wipe it away. Her eyes were vacant, almost pleading.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Moran said gently. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance, get you some medical assistance. Do you understand?’
The woman nodded, but the next instant her eyes widened in panic and she lunged forward, grabbed his trouser leg. Moran’s instinct was to pull back, treat the gesture as potentially offensive, but then he saw that she was crying, her tears creating watery tracks on her bloodstained cheek. ‘Please,’ she looked at him beseechingly. ‘Please don’t tell my uncle I’m here. Please don’t let him hurt me.’
‘A little blood loss, no major arterial damage, should be fine in a week or so, if a little sore in the meantime,’ Moran announced. ‘That’s the doc’s verdict. And you are one lucky officer, DI Pepper.’
‘I don’t feel particularly lucky,’ Charlie replied. ‘In fact I can’t feel much at all. Whatever they gave me is coating everything in woolly sugar.’
They were sitting in a Triage A&E cubicle in Crawley General Hospital. The bustle of a busy emergency department contrasted starkly with the sinister silence of Eagle Court. Despite traffic and weather conditions they’d made a fast transfer from the school grounds, thanks to Moran’s flying associates.
‘How’s Brodie doing?’ Charlie grimaced as she shifted to a more comfortable position, propped herself up on the institutionally hard pillow.
‘Still in ICU, so we won’t know for a while. Same with Chan. Severe concussion, they tell me. Suspected fractured skull. I don’t know what you hit her with, Charlie, but it sure knocked the stuffing out of her.’
‘My head.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I hit her with my head.’
Moran bent forward to inspect Charlie’s skull. Sure enough, his searching fingers found a bump the size of a small egg. ‘Good God.’
‘No underlying damage, apparently.’ Charlie sighed. ‘My skull is clearly thicker than hers.’
Moran chuckled. ‘Skull thickness is no reflection of brain power. Although I might question your decision to wade in,’ Moran said, a touch playfully, ‘especially given my explicit instructions to wait for backup.’
‘I didn’t have a choice, guv. The action came to me, not vice versa.’
‘Sure. Well, you can save it for the report. All in good time.’
‘Please tell me there’s not going to be another enquiry?’ Charlie made bunny ears with her fingers and winced as her shoulder complained. ‘I don’t think I could cope with that. I mean–’ She started to well up. ‘I’m sorry, guv, it’s just that, last time, you know…’
‘I know. It’s all right, Charlie. I’ll deal with it.’ He put his arm on her good shoulder. ‘It’s a clear case of self defence.’
‘Her word against mine, though. Like last time.’
‘Brodie saw what happened. He’ll back you up.’
‘Sure, if he survives.’
‘Look.’ Moran sat down on the ICU examination bed. ‘Don’t worry about it now. We still have a lot of unanswered questions. And as far as tonight is concerned, I’m going to recommend you for a commendation, not an enquiry.’
Charlie chewed her lip. ‘Thanks, guv. You don’t have to–’
Moran held his hand up. ‘Enough for now. Drink some water, rest.’
‘All right. You win.’ Her head flopped back. ‘One thing I don’t understand, though.’
‘Namely?’
‘Why did Chan attack Brodie? They were in partnership, right?’
Moran stood to one side as a nurse materialised from behind the curtain, deftly took Charlie’s temperature, made a note, departed.
‘Jury’s out on that for now,’ Moran told her. ‘Your friend Luscombe is paying Mrs Brodie a visit even as we speak. I suspect we’ll get the full story via that channel in due course.’
On his way out, Moran wrestled with Charlie’s question. Did Brodie and Chan have a falling out? What was Chan’s motive for harming Brodie? They were staying at the Swan, in Petworth, he recalled. It wasn’t that far. Might be worth a visit, a few questions to the right staff members. Moran found his mobile and called a taxi. Damn the expense. He’d lived with too many puzzles of late and as sure as eggs were eggs, he wasn’t going let this one add to his tally of sleep-deprived hours.