Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) (7 page)

With a whoop of delight, she threw her pen into the air. It landed on the back of the Daily Telegraph where for once, the Quick Crossword was complete. Now, Rebecca Walker’s husband, Marty, could no longer accuse her of being thick and refuse to take her with him to the pub on a Thursday night during quiz night.

She put her empty coffee cup on the drainer and reached for the dog lead. At the sound of the rattling metal, Holly, the golden retriever roused from her slumber, stretched, and walked towards her wagging her tail and if she could smile, her face would be plastered with a big grin as she loved her walks. Rebecca took a quick look out the window and for once it looked dry, but there were heavy black clouds massing in the distance, leaving her in two minds, fleece or rain jacket? She clipped the lead on to Holly’s collar, put on a waterproof, and headed outside.

They lived in Woodmancote, a sprawling village on the edge of the South Downs, an affluent place of large detached houses with multiple cars, burglar alarms and piss-off gates. They didn’t live in a normal house like other people, because her husband, Marty liked ‘character’ and instead their house was a creaky old cottage with leaking windows and mice in the loft and a place any children’s writer worth their salt could base a thousand scary stories upon.

It only took a couple minutes to reach the path leading over to the big field, the place where she often walked the dog. On the far side of the field, there was a copse of trees where Holly would run around and behind it, a stream. On warmer days than this, the silly pooch would jump in and have a good splash about.

However, there had been heavy rain over the last few days and Holly might fancy splashing around in the stream, but she didn’t want to be dealing with a sodden, dirty dog, and as the field where they were walking was boggy, it was likely the stream would be in spate and fast enough to carry Holly away. She called the dog over and a few seconds later, she came bounding towards her and when close enough, Rebecca grabbed her collar and clipped on the lead.

They crossed the lane and headed into Shaves Wood, which she knew would be drier than the field, as the trees were tightly packed and provided a dense canopy. The change of venue proved to be a hit as Holly was in one her ‘wood-moods’ when she preferred rooting around the base of bushes and digging holes, to galloping across the grass, chasing an imaginary ball.

Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca felt tired and in need of a cup of tea, and even Holly looked as though she’d had enough. She didn’t fancy walking back through the woods and decided instead to make her way over to the road, as the tarmac surface would be easier to walk on than crunching through broken twigs and mushy, slippery leaves. Blocking the way was a wide strip of overgrown foliage, brambles, nettles, and rhododendrons. She selected a place where the vegetation was less dense and waded in, the dog following hesitantly behind.

Halfway through, something caught her eye. It was large and shiny, more colourful than the old beer cans and milk cartons selfish motorists often chucked out of their car windows to litter up grass verges. Why couldn’t they take it home and put it in their own bins without messing up our back yard, she would moan to Marty whenever the subject came up.

She moved towards it, her heightened curiosity supplanting any fear that it might be something dangerous, such as an old fire extinguisher or a can of toxic chemicals, lobbed out at night by odious fly-tippers. Her heart did a little flip when she realised she was looking at a bike, but not any old bike, a Ducati Panigale.

She knew something about bikes as Marty had lusted after a new one for months, when he wasn’t lusting after the barmaid with the broad smile and tight blouses in The Wheatsheaf. Hoping to wear her down and let him buy a new one to replace their aging Honda, a reliable old workhorse used for holidays and weekends away, the shallow chancer had begun leaving brochures for new machines all around the house, including one for this bike.

She wasn’t stupid enough to think it had been abandoned by some dissatisfied owner and all she had to do was take it home, clean it up and gift-wrap it for her ungrateful husband, but owners of stolen bikes often posted rewards in magazines and on the web and even if they hadn’t, the insurance company might have written it off and allow them to buy it at a knockdown price.

On closer inspection, the bike displayed no signs of rust but the front wheel and forks were twisted, there were scratch marks all over the paintwork and the lights were smashed, all indications of being in a collision. It looked bad but from her knowledge of bike mechanics, nothing a few hundred pounds worth of spare parts and matching paint couldn’t fix.

The newness of the bike, the damage it suffered and the fact that she hadn’t heard any reports of a local bike accident, left a niggling doubt in her mind; maybe it hadn’t been reported and the rider was still here.

With no regard for her own safety, she fought through an almost impenetrable barrier of four-foot nettles and brambles, bearing long runners that either scratched her skin or tried to trip her up, as she walked in the direction she thought the bike had been travelling.

Ten minutes later and nursing multiple lacerations on her hands and face and dozens of little lumps where she had been stung by nettles, she considered giving up on what was becoming a fruitless pursuit, when she spotted a blue helmet. Moving closer, she realised it wasn’t the whole helmet but only part of it. She went to search for the other piece.

Rebecca Walker failed to find the other piece of the helmet but what she did find was the lifeless body of a man, his head smashed to a pulp.

He guided the car slowly up the bumpy driveway. When Cahill told them this mark lived on a remote farm, he wasn’t joshing as there were no streetlights, no villages, or houses nearby and no cars passed them on the narrow B-road receding back into the night behind them.

It had been raining during the day with thick clouds blocking the afternoon sun and turning the streets of South London grey and miserable and even now, at two in the morning, it hadn’t shifted, blotting out the moon and stars in this part of East Sussex, leaving the land all around as dark as the colour of his hand.

Jason Ehuru’s family were from Nigeria and his elderly relatives still talked of wide open spaces, the endless blue skies and the calm, still nights when distant galaxies could be spotted with the naked eye, but even though he looked and spoke like a Nigerian fresh off the boat, he was a London boy at heart.

He was born in Faskari, close to the Kwiambana Game Reserve in northwest Nigeria, where the body of his father lay, but he had been raised since the age of twelve by his uncle in Clapham. He would never admit that he hated the countryside, too small-minded for a thinker and street philosopher like him, but he despised the peace and tranquillity and the darkness which enveloped him, like the inside of the wardrobe where his uncle used to lock him up as a kid, whenever he was becoming too noisy.

Not long after he arrived in the UK, his elder sister Monifa and her boyfriend Kosoko would take him to Clapham Common or Hampstead Heath and let him play on his own while they disappeared behind some bushes to do whatever teenage kids did together. One time, he got lost and wasn’t found until a search party stumbled upon him, shivering, starving, and crying at the base of a tree.

Never again was she allowed to take him out alone or with one of her boyfriends and he swore he would always stay in the city and never venture out into the countryside again. So, what was he doing here? Why did he keep coming back again and again, like a character in some Faustian nightmare?

Beside him in the passenger seat, Rab McGovern seemed to be enjoying himself. He knew these dark, open spaces spooked him and as they approached the driveway of the target house, the mean bastard lowered the window. He said someone had farted and he needed fresh air, but Ehuru knew it was bollocks; he was trying to wind him up. They had been friends for years but a couple of months ago he had beaten the crap out of a friend of his and while he never said anything for fear of spoiling this nice little earner, he didn’t forget. Perhaps McGovern saw his inaction as a sign of weakness, hence he was taking the piss but he didn’t care, his time would come and McGovern would regret crossing him.

The outline of the farmhouse came into view, its gloomy silhouette looming at the summit of a slight rise. McGovern stopped playing silly buggers and closed the window. He turned in his seat and hissed, ‘balaclavas.’ To the team, it was their signal to shift into action mode and put all the negative thoughts swimming around everyone’s heads to one side and concentrate on the job at hand. This meant everyone doing what they were told, with the minimum of fuss, and the least amount of talking.

For the second time in a fortnight, there were no gates. It always took Rooney some time to open them with his electronic bag of tricks but it was hard to sit still in a car with three jumpy blokes, hands clutching sledgehammers, fingers twitching under gloves, the breathing heavy and stilted under sweaty balaclavas, all ready to leap into action at a given signal.

Once on level ground, Ehuru cut the engine and the car coasted to a stop, close to the house. Using night vision goggles, Cahill searched for the phone line and while they all exited the car, careful not to clunk the head of the hammer against the side of the car and wake the dog, the householders, or a neighbour if they had one, he removed a ladder from the boot and ran to the side of the house to undo the good work of an overpaid BT engineer.

On such an isolated property, it was no surprise to see the people inside had installed a burglar alarm but without a telephone line, it was like cutting the balls off a Lothario like Cahill, he might have the kit, but it was no bloody use.

Sure, it would generate a call from the security centre to their mobiles, but by the time it reached them, they would be inside and the clever home CCTV system which provided video replay of their night time activities, would soon be a heap of smashed up electronic circuits and broken plastic along with their phones.

On a prearranged signal, Cahill climbed the ladder as Ehuru and McGovern moved into position on either side of the front door. McGovern nodded. Ehuru swung first, aiming at a point near the side of the door where the lock and handle were located, its weak spot. He brought his hammer back and was still leaning forward when McGovern’s hammer swished past his ear. Christ, it was close. He looked over but the balaclava was inscrutable.

He swung again but this time pulled back quickly, but still McGovern’s sledgehammer swung close. The bastard was trying to bait him. He was sweating hard under the balaclava, his mind racing through the argument they had last week, trying to determine if he was still upset by it. He whacked again and this time he heard the tell-tale creak from the frame as the door moved.

He leaned back to allow McGovern to swing and all thoughts of revenge or retribution went out the window as he squared up for the ‘door opener’ swing. With a mighty lunge, the sledgehammer crashed into the door a few centimetres below where they had been bashing, the frame buckled and split and the door limped open. They were in.

Without hesitation, McGovern ran upstairs while Ehuru searched the hall. In an ideal world, the key to this guy’s Ferrari 458 would be in a drawer or hanging on a peg behind the door, but not this time. A few seconds later Cahill came into the house, moving so quietly it was hard to hear him.

Ehuru made a phone shape with his fingers.

Cahill nodded.

They waited. He couldn’t hear any trilling of mobile phones so either McGovern had got there first and smashed them or the silly buggers had switched them off for the night. They didn’t have long to wait before the pyjama-clad figure of a guy came half-tumbling, half-staggering down the stairs, the sole of McGovern’s boot helping him along the way. When he was near the bottom, Ehuru grabbed him by the lapels and growled, ‘car keys.’

‘No way.’

Ehuru punched him in the stomach. He convulsed in his grip and screeched something inaudible.

He raised his fist to punch him again.

‘Kitchen drawer,’ he coughed, ‘nearest the door.’

He nodded to Cahill who headed there.

Still holding the helpless owner in a tight grip, they listened as Cahill hauled out one, then two drawers before walking back into the hall and lifting them up for all to see, the distinctive Ferrari prancing horse visible. Ehuru imagined the grin of a monkey with a banana under the balaclava.

He released his hold on the man, who fell to the ground nursing his gut and turned to leave.

‘You can’t take my car you thieving bastards, it’s not even paid for.’

Ehuru reached the door, McGovern in front of him. Without a word, McGovern pushed past, back into the hallway and strode over to the semi-prone figure. He swung a boot at his chin, causing his head to snap back where it whacked against the leg of a small sideboard with a crack that resonated in the still night air. He flopped on the floor motionless.

McGovern spun round and stopped when he realised Ehuru was standing there, watching him. He strode over and pushed him outside.

Ehuru staggered out and climbed behind the wheel of a non-descript saloon and waited with the engine ticking over until Rooney got the Ferrari started. The engine burst into life with a throaty roar, the firing up of twelve cylinders with a rich mixture of petrol and air, shattering the silence, a similar sound to his old uncle clearing his bronchial chest.

It shot off down the bumpy drive, its rear lights dancing over the uneven surface and leaving little red tracers behind Ehuru’s eyes. If he was being picky, the Maserati Quattroporte, a car they nicked a few weeks back, might not be as good looking as the Ferrari but it had a beautiful, sporty sound, much sportier and aggressive than this car but he wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a Ferrari.

The door of the car snapped shut as McGovern climbed in. Without a word, Ehuru accelerated, his mind seething with yet another example of McGovern’s uncontrollable violence, and headed after Rooney. They reached the end of the drive and turned left. Up ahead, about fifty yards further on, and out of sight of the house, the van was parked under the shadow of a line of tall trees. Ehuru pulled in behind the van and as soon as McGovern got out, he sunk his foot to the floor and with the back wheels spinning and the back-end fish-tailing as if in snow.

Ehuru drove like a rally driver along unlit, twisting roads where trees cast dark shadows across the road and their headlights picked up the glow of many small eyes peering at them from the undergrowth, but this time he was too fired up with anger and resentment to be spooked.

Up ahead, he could see the bright lights of the main road, the A23. He joined it and headed north to London, keeping the car at a steady seventy-five miles an hour while hogging the inside lane as much as possible. His caution was perhaps unwarranted as the cops wouldn’t know anything about the robbery yet, as the house they were driving away from didn’t have a working phone and no near neighbours to run over to.

The murder of scag drug dealer, Stephen Halliday, had been in all the local newspapers and television news as he was a well-known figure in the area, an eccentric character who coached the neighbourhood football team and had a little side-line going on dealing drugs, but he wasn’t as bad as some. The papers said he had been killed by a rival dealer or one of his customers after being short-changed on a deal, but whatever the reason, Ehuru knew his name was Rab McGovern.

It was a risky piece of information to know, as McGovern was a dangerous man. On the other hand, if used well, it could be the little nugget he needed to get the violent, unpredictable bastard out of his face forever. Now wasn’t that something worth thinking about?