The first call had worried him but not unduly. The second, in the middle of that night, had him up and dressing as he answered.
‘No, you listen to me – this is one of my senior officers, he comes under my command, he’s my responsibility before he’s yours and I’m in on everything. I don’t care what your bloody protocols are – so far as I’m concerned they don’t exist. This started on my patch, we’ve a vested interest. I owe it to Serrailler.’ He listened again briefly, then said, ‘Forty minutes, I’d guess, but the pilot will radio in.’
The police helicopter was scrambled and down into the small park across the road from the Chief’s house ten minutes later, another three and they were airborne, heading east.
Local special forces were alerted; the London team would be meeting them on the edge of the mapped-out area. There had been no further signals from Serrailler’s electronic bleeper, which was now assumed to be dead.
‘Let’s hope,’ the DI said as they loaded up, ‘it’s the only thing that is.’
It was still barely dawn when the police vans, choppers, unmarked cars and a large body of officers stood in a field belonging to Daffern Farm, getting orders. The air was heavy with early dew, the cows on the other side of the high hedge were undisturbed.
‘Bloody good job it isn’t sheep,’ someone said. ‘Half the county would have heard, racket they make.’
‘OK, Daffern Farm. Jim Weston is the farmer, there’s a wife, son and daughter-in-law, all live in. We’re going up in single file, we knock them up, I’ve got the warrant, but no barging straight in, wait for the word. Might be no problem, chances are it’s nothing to do with them and they know nothing, but we have to start somewhere. Outbuildings – cowsheds, couple of barns – around the house, usual load of old vehicles and derelict caravans, and we’re searching everywhere – and that means everywhere. Heads up.’
They went forward in silence, boots brushing long grass. There was a single light on in an upstairs front room.
The hammering on the door set a dog barking inside. The police dog handlers held theirs back on short chains.
‘Jim Weston?’
‘Good God, what’s this all about?’ The man peered out, his unshaven face bewildered. But he listened without protest. ‘Nothing here and nobody, but I suppose you wouldn’t come without some sort of reason, not this lot of you. I’ve got nothing to hide. Go where you like, only let me get the women warned and dressed before you go barging through the house if you don’t mind.’
‘That’s all right, sir, you do that, get them downstairs quick as you can, and whoever else lives here.’
‘Nigel, only he’s away, not back till Thursday.’
Minutes later the house was swarming with police. Others, plus the dogs, were into every corner of the outbuildings, as the first streaks of dawn showed pale in the eastern sky.
Frankie drove past as they were regrouping, having drawn a blank. He slowed a little and glanced in their direction, because it would be odd not to, took everything in, and then put his foot down.
Serrailler came round because someone had trained a power hose of freezing water onto his head. He was lying on concrete. He saw a thin paring of what might be the moon and a thin line of light on the horizon, both of which confused him, so that he closed his eyes. The hose hit him again at full power.
‘Open your eyes, Johnno. Open your fuckin’ eyes …’
He opened his eyes. But Johnno? Who were they talking to? Someone else. Not him. The concrete was ridged and cold against his back and pain was everywhere, he could barely breathe for it, squeezing and knifing his lungs and ribs when he tried. He saw boots. Denim legs. Tried to look up but the pain in his head would not let him. He wanted to see their faces.
‘Get up.’
He lay.
‘Get the fuck up, Johnno …’
A kick in his thigh, then another in his ribs which made him yell. He tried to move his legs. One moved. Not the other.
‘Pull him up then.’
They pulled him up and then had to prop him against a wall and hold him. The light swirled. Some sort of building ballooned out then shrank, and the light grew wavy until he threw up suddenly, could not stop himself, or the pain as he did so.
‘Hose him down again, he’s not going fuckin’ unconscious.’
The ice-cold jet on his face and head and neck and chest, stinging, powering into him.
But then, he was fully awake. His sight settled to normal.
There were three of them. Dark clothing. Faces covered.
Morson. It had to be, though he couldn’t work out how.
‘Where is this?’
‘Ha … he’s with us.’
‘I said –’
They came at him as one man and he felt himself sliding down the wall and hitting the ground and hoped he was dying. The water jet brought him back to life.
‘Get up, nonce.’
‘I’m –’
‘Shut up. Get up.’
He managed it, but he was only on his feet for seconds, before the punches came again, and then something like a huge stone crashing into the side of his head, the other side, the back, his chest, his belly. Then fists again. It went on and on until the end of time and he couldn’t pass out, couldn’t die, couldn’t do anything but pray. ‘God, let me die. God, let me die.’
He heard a voice from a long way off, with an odd echo behind it. ‘Watch the time, Al … they start up …’
Then he heard someone screaming, bellowing like a bull, howling in pain, and the sound was pushing through his ears and into his brain and after a moment he knew that it came from him.
He realised with a flare of relief that his prayers were answered, that he was going to die, but it did not seem to be happening quickly, the pain went on, different forms of pain, and of fear. Time had sped up, time had slowed down, but now there was no time, everything that happened was endless and in one permanent present.
‘I said fuckin’ move it …’
‘I’m enjoying this.’
‘Finish it, Al.’
That was the last voice he heard on earth, a whining, nasal voice, worming itself into his head and repeating, repeating … ‘Finish it finish it finish it …’
The pain in his legs and back could not surely get any worse but then increased off the scale of pain. He vomited again. Then, at last, the merciful last blow to his skull, which cracked open as everything went not black but a blazing, fiery white, splitting into fragments behind his eyes.
‘We taking him?’
‘We’re fuckin’ leaving him.’
‘We can’t –’
‘Shut the fuck up or you’ll be in there with him.’
The kid laughed. ‘I get you,’ he said with a terrible pleasure.
He helped drag him, helped lift him. Helped throw him, up and over and down.
‘Now fuckin’ move.’
Morson, always decisive, woke Will Fernley. Lynn was already packing a couple of holdalls. The morning was grey, the sun not yet up.
‘Shit,’ Fernley said.
‘There’s a hotel won’t ask any questions. Get a bloody move on.’
‘No.’
Morson walked out of the room. Frankie had both bags downstairs and into the boot by the time Will came running.
‘Shit,’ he said again. He was hung-over and not properly awake.
‘Shut up, Will. You’re being taken care of, what more do you want? All right, Frank.’
Frank nodded and started the engine.
They plunged fast down the drive to the gate and reached it as the police arrived on the other side.
‘Shit,’ Fernley said, before he jumped out of the car and started to run.