Three Mile Drove, Chapter Ten

She'd heard the sound of thunder as she'd left the village store, but that wasn't surprising, because the nice weather of the summer day had been spoilt by an increasing dampness. She'd felt the depressing closeness of the evening air and aware of the tightness in her chest, feared she might have an asthma attack.
She'd been careful to hide this from her parents, because her father Henry, in particular, wasn't well. That's why she'd cycled to the village with a letter he'd told her was important. She'd put it in the box just as the man came to empty it, and then popped into the store before it closed for some sweets with the pocket money her father had given her.
He'd normally have made the journey himself, letting her sit on the long seat beside him, but that day he'd been coughing and sweating and shaking; it had frightened her to see him like that because he'd always been strong and active. Her mother, who didn't seem very well herself, had said that he was suffering from an illness, but that he would soon get better. It was a long name she hadn't been able to understand, except that she thought it started with an N.
It didn't really bother her that she was making the journey back on her own, and that it would soon be dark, because she could cycle quickly and in about ten minutes she'd be safely inside her house. Anyway, there was nothing to worry about in a quiet place like this; it was so much better than the dirty, narrow streets that the town people lived in. That was what her parents told her and she believed them.
She guided her bicycle carefully onto the road and waved goodbye to Mr. Hopkins, the man who owned the shop, as he bolted the door behind her. It wasn't long before she reached her road, turned right and had to slow down now, it was a very bumpy road, not at all level, and made out of millions of tiny little stones that she'd heard described as gravel. She needed to be careful; otherwise her cycle might slip on them.
And she was always careful. Very careful she thought. She wasn't one for trick cycling, or riding without her hands on the handlebars, her mother had always warned her about that. No, those childish, silly things weren't for her. She thought she was practical and sensible, despite being only ten years of age.
She started to peddle faster again, noticing that it had got darker much more quickly than she'd thought it would. The sky in front of her seemed to have changed from a grey-brown one, to a purple-black in no time at all. It seemed to be swallowing up the cluster of trees she could see in the distance, so that they merged into a dingy darkness that disturbed her.
Along with the dark clouds it had become so windy that it seemed a big invisible hand was trying to wrestle the handlebars away from her. There really wasn't much further to go now, she could see her house and the weird old tree that stood before it, as she urged the wheels of her cycle to go even faster, leaning forward and pushing the pedals with all her might. But it felt that the wheels were being pushed sideways, taken from under her, and that the wind was seizing her breath as it howled through the telegraph wires above and became mixed with other sounds, strange sounds ' cries that seemed to hang in the air.
Then the world seemed to turn upside down as she crashed upon the gravel surface, the ground rising up to greet her like a million tiny biting insects, prickling at her skin and cutting it in what seemed one combined movement. She could feel the arm flow as blood oozed from her knee, and then as her knee twisted painfully beneath her, her face hit the ground hard. She tried to open her eyes but they were full of burning, stinging shingle. Then she passed out.
* *
When she came to, she was in a big, dome shaped room with sawdust and sacks scattered across the floor. There were strange people, the likes of which she'd never seen before. Some had heads that seemed too big for their bodies, others had arms which hung down to their knees, there was even one man who seemed to have no neck, his head just seemed to join on to his round, fat body, and he had small legs. He didn't seem to be able to speak but he screamed so loudly it made her ears ache. She could see at least seven or eight of these people, who acted like monkeys. They kept jumping up and down and seemed to be warning each other away. But it was the way they kept looking at her that made her feel very frightened indeed.
If she wasn't so sensible, she might have thought she'd fallen right through the ground into a comic book world, the kind that only children's minds could create, or that she'd died from her fall and that for some childish act that she'd made, she'd been sent into a world of mad people.
Except that she recognised one figure, one person who had just entered the room, and as her eyes widened in recognition he'd made straight for her. She hadn't liked the look on his face at all.

CHAPTER TEN
McPherson had a sudden thought as he pulled out of the drove, pulling the car to a halt and reversing back at speed to the T- junction. He swung the car around and brought it to stop outside the black, wrought iron gates of Jacob Tomblin's bungalow. He needed to establish for certain whether there had been a gypsy presence in the drove, irrespective of whether the forensic team found a link between the missing child and the ankle sock. Jacob Tomblin, he knew, missed nothing. Going past his house was like passing through the gatehouse of a high security estate, and besides, he might be able to provide him with leads. Old Jacob had been a bit of a rogue in his time, so word had it from some of the old stagers at the station, but he'd provided them with information in the past, and even though he'd found him to be a cantankerous old bugger, McPherson thought he was well worth a try.
He marched through the open gate, cursing as he tripped on a loose block in the tiled path. The front door opened even before he'd had the chance to rap on it. 'Now then young man, what can I do for yer?' Jacob Tomblin's leathery skin creased into a brief smile, revealing ground down, yellow teeth. McPherson recoiled from the strong smell of onions that flooded from his mouth as he spoke.
The smile faded as he ushered McPherson through, 'The missing girl again no doubt,' he muttered, following McPherson through into his lounge. 'When are yer goin' to realise yer backin' a loser lookin' for 'er in these parts? There's about as much likelihood of 'er turnin' up around 'ere as you've got of becoming chief of police.'
McPherson blanched at that, Jacob Tomblin had the habit of hitting where it hurt, of punching below the belt, but you had to accept as much if you wanted results. He'd never intended to hang around for very long in the lower levels, he'd banked on his good education boosting his career like rocket fuel, the way it had done for others, except that despite his years of service he hadn't managed to progress beyond sergeant, and he couldn't understand why. He'd never mixed freely with his work colleagues, that much was true, but he'd never stepped on anybody's toes either. And when you came to think of it, those who had made it ' inspectors, superintendents and suchlike, they were all more interested in advancing their careers rather than playing at being good buddies with their work colleagues.
'Thanks for your faith in me Jacob.' McPherson twitched his thin lips into what might have been a smile, 'From your vantage point at the head of the drove here, I'm wondering whether you might have noticed any unusual comings and goings lately.'
'Like what?'
'Like gypsies for instance.'
'Yeah there's been a few gypos, all I've seen is them, them and that young bloke who took over Regan's place yesterday.'
'I'm not interested in him,' surprised that even a man with Jacob Tomblin's nose for things could have been aware of Darren Goldwater's presence so quickly. He gave the old man a brief account of his find at the derelict house, and of his son's insistence upon a gypsy presence.
'Well o'course it will have been the gypos, who else could it o' been, I'd o' known. Yer told me the last time yer come, yer'd seen kids and mess in there. There's yer reason lad, mark my words. Yer enquiries have lead yer up a dead end street. A bit like Three Mile Drove, ain't it lad, if you think about it.'
Jacob Tomblin cackled, but McPherson wasn't indulging in the humour of the old man's analogy, and he certainly didn't care to "think about it, perhaps because he knew that what Jacobs said was about to be proved to be true.
'So what can you tell me about this gypsy presence?' McPherson asked brusquely, turning towards the window and staring out across the rich, dark soil of the fenland.
'I recognised the old red truck,' Jacob said with elaboration.
'Go on,' McPherson swung back to face him, the cold blue eyes showing impatience. The old man had a habit of leaving you short of a full answer, which he found an irritating aspect of his character, but the retired farmer knew that, and played on it for all it was worth, he'd no doubt about it.
Tomblin picked a bogey from his nose, crushed it between his fingers and let it drop to the floor. McPherson gave a brief grimace of disgust; Tomblin saw the motion and grinned. 'No problem lad, s'what hoovers are for.'
But McPherson realised his action had been intentional. Turn and face me if you want information, he was saying through his gloating, derisive, smiling eyes. Don't speak with your back to me; treat me with respect if you want to get anywhere.
'The old red Dodge truck belongs to Scouser Smith.'
'Who the hell is he?' To McPherson the name pictured a Liverpool dockyard worker rather than that of a gypsy, but he was learning his lesson as he kept his eyes firmly on Jacob.
'If yer spent more time amongst us rustics, rather than sticking to those nice city street, then I'm sure the name would be known to yer, o' course, it would mean getting' yer nice shoes dirty and yer smart suit splashed with mud more offen, would'n it lad?' Tomblin, a good six inches shorter moved closer and lifted his head provocatively towards McPherson, who felt a surge of resentment he struggled to control. What he wouldn't give right now to land one on the old man's inviting jaw.
But it would be would be more than his job was worth to do that. Nice urban streets, as this old country bumpkin put it, were rife with drug pushers, violent drunks, they were infested with family feuds and neighbour disputes, and in the daytime, unoccupied houses were sitting ducks for a petty criminal who could sometimes haul in with one robbery, about as much as he could earn in an entire year. That was what kept him to the nice city streets. So much for Jacob Tomblin's philosophy.
McPherson stiffened, he was becoming ever more indignant at being referred to as "lad, and drawing the conclusion that being in the presence of this man carried an irritation factor comparable to that of having a bluebottle buzzing around your head for an entire year. And yet he must persevere.
Tomblin grunted amidst McPherson's icy stare, 'They moved out a couple o' days ago, three or four vans, that's all there were, an' as I say, Smith's ol' Dodge truck. The truck sticks out like a sore thumb, it's got some kind o' logo on the side, some kind o' cancer relief poster I think it is. I doubt that it means anythin' to the bloke for a minute, mind yer. Just a means of addin' some credibility to his dealin's if yer ask me.'
'Any idea where I might find him?' McPherson said clearing his throat, his eyes watering. The smell of onions was unbelievable.
Jacob Tomblin narrowed his grey brows, his ferret like features livened as he turned and headed away from the lounge, 'Hang on a minute lad, I'll fetch me crystal ball.'
'There's no need for that Jacob,' McPherson said sourly, 'quit winding me up. I need to trace this little clan. If you've any idea at all where they might be headed I want to know.'
Jacob Tomblin coughed just then. He coughed so long and loud that McPherson thought his lungs might erupt through his mouth.
'They're diddycoyes lad. Any bit o' land within a ten mile radius that they ain't been thrown off I reckon. You have to learn to use these¦' Jacob Tomblin smiled, though it was more goading than friendly, as he thrust his fingers towards McPherson's eyes so closely that the rapid movement caused him to flinch and blink, '¦ instead of using my eyes and ears lad. You search long and hard enough and yer'll find him. You do the spadework, yer the one who's paid the big money fer it.'
The old man had a point of course, and McPherson knew it. His salary was hefty in comparison with a lot of people in the region, and it was partly gained by extracting from the public whatever sort of information they could provide or were willing to give. How many crimes after all, could be solved without public support? He needed eyes and ears and old Jacob was all too aware of it. But right now, what really mattered was the welfare of a young girl who'd been missing for far too long. Finding her was paramount and Jacob wasn't assisting one little bit by his attitude.
'Just one question Jacob,' McPherson paused as he was leaving, 'who, or what was there to cause Smith and his clan to leave old Regan's property. Gypsies normally have the habit of hanging around, particularly on vacant land. The term "traveller is old hat these days, so what might have happened?'
Jacob shrugged, his bony shoulders protruding through the white vest that he wore, 'The new fella I reckon,' he said automatically.
'Except, Jacob, that they had gone before he arrived,' McPherson countered just as quickly. 'You've just told me yourself that they left a couple of days ago, and you, who miss nothing, know of Darren's arrival only yesterday. So why suggest something you know to be false?' McPherson stared long and hard at Jacob Tomblin. For once there was no wry look about the man, no derisive smile, no cracking of the dark, leathery features.
'Something got your tongue Jacob?'
'No,' the old man's face animated quickly, 'I just lost track that's all, people do that, even you I reckon.'
Without response, McPherson made for his car. Yeah sure everybody fouled up at some stage, but Jacob Tomblin knew more than he was letting on, his years of experience told him that, and experience never let you down.
So what had made the small band of travellers up and go, had they gone of their own accord? He'd more than one reason to find out, if it meant searching every acre of land in the region. There would be a backlash from the hierarchy, no doubt, they would cringe at the expenditure. But he was prepared to risk that for a conclusion. Apart from its possibilities in tracing the missing girl it might also forward his career in the long term.
* * *
Darren fingered his way through the estimates that lay on his makeshift kitchen table. Throughout the day, a steady flow of contractors he'd sought out by way of Yellow Pages had arrived at the bungalow. None of them had proven to be cheaper than he'd imagined; one or two had been what he'd call extortionate and the providers of these had borne all the traits of "cowboys, but in the main the quotes hadn't been that outrageous, when all said and done. Of course the dwelling had the advantage of being comparatively small ' a kitchen, lounge, main bedroom, one which might be used either as an auxiliary bedroom or a large store-cupboard, and the other one, a toilet.
Darren glanced at his watch and saw the time was approaching five pm. He gathered his papers and locked up, noticing that the chill of the day had gone and the late afternoon air now had a mild feel about it. He'd arranged to spend another evening at the inn before making his way back to Nottingham in the morning with the intention of putting his house on the market.
He'd turn over the estimates for the bungalow later that evening over a pint, before making a final decision on who to employ to carry the work out.
He was dropping the estimates onto the front passenger seat of the Jeep when a sudden shriek broke the air. His ears pricked. What the hell was the sound, which broke across the fens, almost always at evening time? It wasn't exactly human, and yet it didn't sound wholly animal either. Again the sound invaded his ears, though there were two this time, the other one slightly lower in pitch, so that together they made a wailing harmony grotesquely out of key.
Foxes, Claire had tried to assure him, though there'd been something strange in the way she'd tried to do it. Too positive if you like, but whatever, her assertion hadn't convinced her at all.
It's eeriness though, was getting to him, as was more than a little curiosity. Leaving the Jeep, he unlocked the high gate that led to the rear garden and then stood for a moment, staring at the old bridge beyond. He turned his head westward, in the direction he'd seen the weird old farm worker heading earlier that day. The farm worker who'd been about to tell him something, as he recalled, until Claire had shown up.
There was still a little light left, enough for him to feel his way for a while at any rate. If he didn't find the cause of the unearthly noise, which was baffling him, he'd have a damned good try. He trudged through the weeds of the rear garden and made his way over to the bridge, from where to took the narrow trodden track alongside the dyke. It was wet underfoot now that the frost had thawed, and his boots sank deep into thick mud. Amidst the heavy going, a voice from inside told him to leave it for the time being; that there would be a better opportunity to find the cause, when he wouldn't become completely enwrapped by the black blanket of the night. But there was another voice inside him that wouldn't have it. He'd always had an inquisitive, questioning nature, and the representative of this factor voiced its opinions more strongly, gaining the upper hand for the time being at least.
As Darren had suspected, the track veered away from its westbound route alongside the dyke and arced northwards so that now he was treading through open fields. In the distance he could see the two banks of conifer trees which led from the drove, past Tomblin's house and then stretched across the fens for almost as far the eye could see, though it appeared to end, way to the north, amidst a thick woodland copse.
The ear piercing shrieks rang out again and again, though the sounds didn't seem to Darren to be getting any closer. They just seemed to hang in the air above. An awful sound, excited, agitated, perhaps, but to him totally incomprehensible.
The twin rows of tall conifers grew closer and Darren saw that the path led close to the northern boundary of Tomblin's house, from where it appeared to curve round to join the makeshift track separating the banks of trees.
Darren was passing Tomblin's house when through the branches of the sycamores surrounding it he saw a light flickering from an upstairs window. He thought he saw a silhouette standing in front of it, but when he glanced again there was nothing to be seen, even the light had been extinguished.
Daylight was almost gone. Somewhere an owl hooted before the sub-human cry sounded again. He reached the junction of the makeshift track, probably just large enough for the average tractor to pass along, and turned north. His only option now was to travel a little further with the help of what light remained, and if as he suspected, he'd found nothing, then he'd change direction and head back to the Jeep via the drove.
It was easier underfoot now, and he felt less strain on his legs. Darren was grateful for that, he'd never been more aware of his advancing age than he was now.
He heard the swish of branches behind.
'Where do you think you're going stranger?'
Darren whirled around in shock at the harsh, fenland voice that grunted loudly in his ear. 'Taking a walk¦' he said automatically, finding himself staring into a tall, broad shouldered man's face, which looked more threatening in the semi-darkness¦ he stiffened, he was no oil painting this bloke, 'though I don't see what it's got to do with you.'
'Anything that goes on behind my property has to do with me,' the man snorted, 'besides this is a private track and you're trespassing.' The voice was muffled, as though he was speaking with a handkerchief pressed to his lips, but it was also disturbingly unfriendly. IQ below zero, Darren thought, though capability of aggression probably lodged at maximum. The man towered over him by perhaps as much as six inches, which would put him at about six-three. He was so close that he could smell the stink of his breath, the staleness of it, the vulgar combination of alcohol, fags, and whatever rotting food he'd been eating as his evening meal.
Darren became aware that he'd started to tremble, though it wasn't fear that gripped him but the sudden rush of adrenaline. He thought the oaf was probably right, that in all probability he was trespassing, but he didn't take kindly to his attitude and he certainly didn't like the look of him from what he could make out in the twilight, one little bit. He seemed every inch the rural bully, and ever since his schooldays he'd never been afraid to take on a bully.
'Hear what I say stranger?' the big man snarled, 'either get off my land now or I'll throw you off.'
'Got something to hide have you?'
Darren didn't know what made him ask the question, but despite the gathering darkness he could see the fury in the ogre's eyes. He saw the way the uneven jaw-line widened, he saw the way the chiselled, yellow teeth suddenly clenched, and most of all he saw the way the huge hands clenched into giant fists.
So you have got something to hide, Darren thought, though he didn't voice his thoughts.
He might be prepared to confront a bully, but not on this particular bully's own doorstep and in his own environment, and in an enraged state of mind as this bloke clearly was. When and if he chose to confront him it would be on his own terms. He'd review this encounter when his frayed emotions and nerves had settled enough for him to be able to do it. He brushed past the big figure and headed back along the track towards the drove, firmly expecting the man to lunge after him, to clasp those big, what seemed deformed hands around him, thus forcing him into an inescapable confrontation.
But it didn't happen. Tomblin uttered some indecipherable kind of sentence lost in the wind. But whatever words the rustic thug had uttered he wasn't responding. Tomorrow he'd call in and see McPherson, tell him about what had occurred.
* * *
McPherson drove into Bramble Dyke early the following morning and struck lucky straight away. An old red Dodge truck, full of scrap waste was pulling out of the filling station, turning right and heading towards the village cross-roads.
He slowed and followed as the truck reached the crossroads and trundled left, passing a half dozen terrace houses and an old peoples' centre to the right. Bits of debris were falling from the overloaded vehicle but McPherson was far enough back to negotiate the hazards safely. The road angled sharp left once it passed the old peoples' centre, whereupon it ran for about a quarter of a mile before ending, surrounded by open fields.
McPherson followed the truck towards the end, where it slowed opposite a smallholding and pulled onto concrete wasteland, the site of a recently demolished vegetable packing warehouse.
He waited until the truck was on the site, then watched as a small wiry figure jumped out of the cab and began to unload what appeared to be a precarious cargo of old exhaust systems. Leaving his car at the roadside he picked his way carefully through the metal wasteland that was beginning to form around the new site, passing three dingy caravans as he did so, the occupants peering through door hatches and regarding him with wide-eyed curiosity. He cast a wary eye on an unfriendly looking Alsatian-cross, loosely anchored to some old iron railing. It growled and bared its teeth on his approach.
'Is your name Smith?'
'Who wants to know?' the small man mumbled as he turned towards McPherson.
McPherson felt a cold stare directly upon him, the man's eyes fuelling with resentment and suspicion. He'd a fair idea this bloke could smell a copper from a hundred yards away.
'Sergeant McPherson, Ely police, I'd like a few words.'
'I ain't done nothing illegal 'quiet!' Smith yelled, taking his eyes off McPherson for a moment and turning to the Alsatian.
'I could start with an overloaded truck,' McPherson said coldly, 'you've left a load of junk all along the road¦' he broke off, sniffing; there was a distinct smell of sewage about the place. It wouldn't be long before the smallholder opposite complained, he knew that much.
'That's not why you're here though is it?' Smith said in his heavy Liverpudlian accent. 'You CID blokes ain't interested in keeping the roads clean, and I ain't committing any crime parking up on disused premises.'
'I heard you were camping for a while on Sam Regan's land. That true?'
'Yeah, no crime in that either. Unoccupied ground¦'
'Not any more,' McPherson cut in sharply, 'somebody's taken it over.'
'Yeah, well I heard about that,' Smith said, heaving down an old exhaust and letting it fall perilously close to McPherson's feet, 'it's why I moved out.'
'Is it really Smith?' McPherson said, glaring at him over the close call that had caused him to move a couple of paces back, 'or did something else happen to make you go?'
'Nobody makes me do anything I don't want to. It's like I say, I got word that the property was about to change hands, thought I'd do the decent thing and move.'
'Left all your garbage behind though, amongst other things,' McPherson said squarely into Smith's eyes, he wasn't sure he was telling the truth; he sounded too defensive somehow. He suspected that the move was made in haste. It was the reason for the haste, which intrigued him. But if he was getting to Smith, the traveller wasn't letting it show.
'The derelict old house,' McPherson continued, 'you know, the one close by Shaun Tomblin's property, have you or your lot been in it recently?'
'Why the fuck should I? What bloody reason could I have for going in that place? Ain't nothin' there for us. We stick to our vans and truck, we don't touch shit-holes like that.'
No, you have mobile ones of your own, McPherson thought, 'It's just that his old man, Jacob, thinks you might have been.'
'Jacob Tomblin?' McPherson saw the nerves in Smith's neck visibly twitch, 'Well, he's got it wrong then, ain't he?'
'He sounded fairly convinced to me.'
'Get real McFarland ' why do you want to know anyway?'
'McPherson,' the policeman corrected him tersely. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat, the weather was turning cold again; the mild conditions had been short lived. 'I'm investigating the disappearance of a child.'
'I don't know anything about no missing kid,' Smith snapped, resentment further creasing his craggy face.
'I don't recollect saying you did Smith, I just need to satisfy myself that you and your people haven't been in that old house.'
'No, it's like I said, I never went anywhere near there. Neither would the rest of them for that matter. I can call them all out and ask if you don't believe me!'
There was an emphatic look in Smith's eyes that confirmed to McPherson all he wanted to know. He did believe him. Smith was telling the truth, he doubted that he'd been anywhere near the place. Wherever the ankle sock had come from, it had nothing to do with Smith's lot.
Gypos, Tomblin had said ' well it didn't seem so.
What he needed now was help from the forensic team. Perhaps they'd have the results when he got back. McPherson strode back across the concrete to his car, his coat collar turned against the biting east wind.
The drive to Ely took him about fifteen minutes. There was a fax message on his desk when he arrived which didn't please him one little bit. No DNA found on the sock, no evidence to identify its origin. That was all he needed, well, not quite all because just then the enquiry office clerk poked his head around the partially opened door, 'A chap by the name of Darren Goldwater is in reception, Tim, he says he'd like a word.'
'What the hell does he want,' McPherson mumbled, throwing the fax to one side. He strode quickly along the corridor, down a flight of steps, and flung open the security door that lead to the foyer.
He found Darren Goldwater sitting patiently on the bench seat provided, 'What can I do for you Darren?' he asked as amiably as he was able.
Darren told him of his encounter in Three Mile Drove the previous evening, watching McPherson's face become increasingly more sombre as he did so.
'That will have been Shaun Tomblin, from what you say. He's a dour chap, but fen people are like that until you get to know them. I don't see that you've got a lot to complain about really though, do you?'
Darren glowered, to his disgust McPherson was talking in a manner which implied his patience was being sorely tested.
'I mean it's trespass, and trespass is illegal whichever way you look at it. If I found you snooping around in my back yard I wouldn't be at all happy, I can tell you.'
Darren felt his skin redden, 'It was the bloke's attitude. He gave me the most threatening look I've ever experienced. Okay, so maybe I was where I shouldn't have been, but it was those weird sounds I keep hearing that made me go that way. I mean ' they're just not human, and yet I don't think they come from animals either. There is something out there, something not right ' something very wrong in fact, I'm sure of it, and by the very nature of Tomblin's response I reckon he's covering up.'
'Come on Darren, how can something not be human, and yet not be animal either? You're letting your imagination run riot.' McPherson spoke as though he were lecturing an erring schoolchild and Darren felt his blood rising even further.
'And what do you expect me to do, might I ask, search every bloody acre of the fens, just because you keep hearing noises?' McPherson sighed loudly and then his voice rose above a whisper. 'My bosses are going to love that. It would take a lot of manpower, without any concrete evidence I can't do anything. Look, budgeting rules, OK, can't you see that? I can't just go prying on the man, turning over his property and his land without any evidence to back it up.'
'Didn't you say you'd found an ankle sock?'
'Yes, but there's nothing to link it with the missing girl,' McPherson snapped. He became aware of lighting a cigarette in a non- smoking area, and that he was pacing quickly back and forth. He whipped open the main door and threw the cigarette into the street. 'I need genuine proof Darren, if I had that I might just take you up on it, but it doesn't extend to trespassing on other people's property. Do you get it?'
'Is that a warning?' Darren asked. He felt that if he got any hotter he'd explode.
'Take it any way you want,' McPherson said, turning his back and swiping his security card through the receptacle, then launching his lean frame through the opening door.
Darren watched him go, a deadpan look on his face, 'The man's about as much use as an empty beer cellar,' he mumbled, casting an eye at the enquiry officer as he spoke.
From behind his reinforced divide, Darren thought he saw the officer smile, though if there was one it quickly disappeared.
Darren walked out into the street, where he jumped into his Jeep, bound now for Nottingham. But he'd be back in a day or so, and with renewed determination. What he wouldn't give to pull one over on the arrogant McPherson if he could only have the chance. He might only be a novice, but then this prat probably had all the detective skills of a three-week probationer.
Then he thought of Claire Summerby, and that one simple reflection cheered him. It cheered him no end. For him, Friday evening couldn't come soon enough.