The Man on Hackpen Hill Read online

  ‘They must be the ones who followed me this morning,’ Jim says, shaking his head. ‘Had the argument with the tractor.’

  ‘How about the sea?’ Bella says. This is becoming all too real. Up until now, a part of her has been able to dismiss as fantasy the feeling that she’s being followed. Even the policeman turning up at the migrant centre could have had an innocent explanation. Not any more.

  ‘They wouldn’t follow us, would they?’ she adds. ‘If we went into the water?’ Already she can feel her body bracing itself for the cold of the sea. She hasn’t swum since that day with Helen. They’d played Frisbee in the waves before the incident, like they always used to do, Helen flirting with some fit local boys from Poole.

  ‘They can’t touch us here,’ Jim says. ‘Not with this many people around.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Bella asks. She’s finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘We keep walking and get into your car,’ Jim says, setting off towards the car park. Bella hesitates for a second and then catches up with him.

  ‘And if they stop us?’ she asks.

  ‘We say nothing,’ he says. Jim’s tone has changed, hardened. ‘Unless they try to arrest us. In which case, we say a lot, as loud as we can. It’s a crowded beach, people will be curious. And they won’t like that.’

  ‘Who are these men, Jim?’ she asks.

  ‘Does it matter?’ he says, striding ahead. ‘MI5, MOD Police? All I know is that they’re here to stop me from telling the truth.’

  Her too. They are a hundred yards from the car park now. The two men ahead have not moved from the wide open area in front of the café. They appear to be waiting for them. Bella glances behind, where the other two men are still following at a distance. Only the pair carrying injuries, up on the dunes, have kept their distance. Jim wasn’t lying about the incident with the tractor.

  ‘Jim, is this the right thing to be doing?’ she asks, glancing at the sea again as they walk across the sand.

  ‘We can’t get away by swimming,’ he says.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they’ve thought of that,’ he says, nodding further down the bay, where a small speedboat is heading towards them.

  70

  Silas

  Silas inhales on his cigarette and looks out over the fields around Gablecross. He shouldn’t be smoking. Mel will kill him. But he needs a break after his chat with Strover. It was draining, all that emotional honesty. He feels rinsed out. Better for it, though. He can’t deny it. Lighter.

  ‘Sir, sorry to bother you.’

  Silas looks up to see Strover in the doorway that leads out to the smoking shelter.

  ‘Didn’t know you smoked,’ he says.

  She humours him with a smirk. Strover’s a runner, a fitness fanatic, wouldn’t do anything to pollute her body.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, stubbing out his cigarette. He doesn’t like to smoke in public, not since he’s given up.

  ‘My mate in Hackney, he’s been on the phone again,’ Strover says. ‘A woman who works at the local migrant centre in Homerton has been in touch with him. Not about Bella, but about her mum. My mate left his number with her when he visited the centre earlier. The mum’s gone missing. Meant to be working at the centre today and failed to show up. Not like her at all, apparently. The woman had been around to her house and she wasn’t there either.’

  ‘And?’ Silas says, still unconvinced. Strover continues to be fixated on Bella, convinced that she’s a lead worth pursuing.

  ‘I just think we need to talk to her,’ she says, holding her ground. ‘Ask if she rang Crimestoppers, that’s all.’

  ‘Because she mentioned she had a friend called Erin?’ It’s such a long shot, a small connection.

  ‘There’s something else too,’ Strover says.

  Silas looks up.

  ‘Bella was arrested, three years ago.’

  ‘Arrested?’ Silas asks, thinking back to last night. Bella didn’t strike him as the type to be in trouble with the law. ‘You sure?’

  ‘She was only eighteen,’ she says. ‘Family argument at Studland Bay. Breach of the peace. Just before she went up to Oxford.’

  ‘Must have been some argument,’ Silas says. Strover looks puzzled. ‘I mean, more than about which flavour of ice cream to buy.’

  ‘There weren’t any more details,’ Strover says, turning away. ‘All charges dropped.’

  Silas knows Studland well, took Mel there once for a weekend away. Spoilt her rotten at a local hotel called the Pig on the Beach. That was before Conor’s problems, before their own.

  ‘No mention of a friend called Erin?’ Silas asks.

  Strover shakes her head. ‘I still think it might be significant.’

  Despite his own reservations, Silas is pleased that Strover has persisted with Bella as a line of inquiry. It’s why they’re a good team. Sometimes their hunches are different.

  ‘Try talking to her again,’ he says. ‘And let me know if they find her mum.’

  Silas expects Strover to leave him to his smoking, but she lingers in the doorway as he’s about to light another cigarette.

  ‘Something else?’ he asks. ‘Steven Caldicott?’ He was expecting her to have come back by now with information on the struck-off pathologist.

  ‘I’m working on him,’ she says. ‘It’s Jim Matthews – I’ve drawn a complete blank, other than his time at Warwick.’

  ‘That’s not like you.’

  He can’t remember Strover ever coming up with nothing on someone.

  ‘Porton Down’s records aren’t exactly the easiest to access,’ she says. ‘Military grade encryption, as you’d expect with a secret government facility.’

  Silas knows what she wants him to do and lets out a sigh. ‘I need to talk to the boss, don’t I?’

  She nods. ‘It’ll save us a lot of time.’

  Strover’s too polite to say how much time might have been wasted already.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll talk to him, ask if we can piss off Porton Down. He won’t like it, you know that. Put us both back on cuticle duties.’

  Despite Silas and Strover’s best efforts, Swindon’s nail bars continue to be targeted by human traffickers.

  ‘That’s the other thing, sir,’ Strover continues. ‘The boss has just been over, while you were out here. Wanted an update on the main suspects.’

  Ward should mind his own business, let Silas get on with the case. He’s got no right marching into the Parade Room demanding an update.

  ‘I had to give him a quick briefing,’ Strover says sheepishly.

  ‘And mentioned Jim Matthews?’

  ‘It was hard not to – his name was in big red letters on our shiny new whiteboard.’

  With ‘Porton Down’ written in brackets below it. Silas can picture it now.

  ‘He asked you to drop by,’ Strover adds. ‘Next time you’re passing.’

  Right now, in other words.

  71

  Bella

  ‘How do you know it’s them?’ Bella asks, watching the approaching speedboat kill its speed as it nears a group of swimmers. The afternoon sun is still bright, but the sky to the west is streaked with amber.

  ‘Trust me,’ Jim says.

  Maybe it’s a mistake, impulsive, but she does trust him. With her life, if it came to it. She glances around at the holidaymakers, relaxing in their own worlds, unaware of the drama playing out in hers. Are there others hidden in the crowd too, watching, waiting? This is what happens when a government scientist tries to tell his story to a national newspaper journalist. She catches the eye of a middle-aged man reading the Daily Mail. Is he one of them? He folds the top of his paper down as Jim strides past. Bella offers a nervous smile. It’s not returned.

  ‘They might know where Mum is,’ Bella says, as they draw to within fifty yards of the men ahead.

  Jim turns to face Bella, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘Look, I know this isn’t easy.’ His breathing is fast, his blue
eyes electric. ‘If they take us now, you might never see your mum again. These people are dangerous – they tried to drive me off the road, ransacked my house, knocked me out. We’re going to get into your car and drive away from here, head somewhere quieter. And then I’ll tell you the whole story. If we do get separated, the password for the USB is 15071950 – my mum’s date of birth. It’s all on there.’

  ‘OK,’ Bella says, looking into his eyes. ‘15th July 1950.’

  She leans forward and kisses him on the lips. Whatever happens next, she wants him to know how she feels, that she likes his big feet and Palmer glasses and awkward smile and pianist’s fingers, but he seems surprised. Baffled even. Has she misread him, taken a liberty? His eyes widen and then he leans in to kiss her back, cupping her face in his tender hands. She wants the moment to last for ever.

  ‘You’ve got the USB?’ he asks, as a young child rushes over to retrieve a beach ball.

  ‘It’s in the car,’ she says, smiling at the child, who squints up at them, standing too close.

  Bella put the USB in the glovebox before she left London. Her laptop’s hidden in the boot.

  Jim looks across at the two men again. ‘They won’t want to cause a scene in public,’ he says. ‘So that’s exactly what we’ll do. Make a big bloody nuisance of ourselves.’

  ‘Rant and rave like a couple of mad people,’ Bella says, squeezing his hand. They’re in this together now.

  ‘Exactly. And if they do get heavy, I’ll try to hold them back long enough for you to run to your car and drive off.’

  ‘And leave you behind?’ Bella asks. She’d assumed they would try to stay together.

  ‘It’s our only chance.’

  Bella casts her eyes down. It’s a desperate plan and she feels out of her depth, but he’s right. There’s no turning back now. A sudden thrill of fear passes through her. This is what she’s always wanted to do. Break a big story. For Erin. Her dad.

  Jim’s already set off, striding towards the two men, who have deliberately blocked the path through to the car park. Bella slips a hand into her pocket and curls her fingers around the car key as she catches up with him. They have almost reached the men, one of whom fixes her brazenly in the eye. Who are these people? Have they families to go back to? Do they debrief with their wives? Sleep easily at night?

  ‘Can we have a moment?’ the man says, stepping in front of Jim, who tries to push past. Bella tucks in behind him like a celebrity dodging the paparazzi, but the man grabs Jim by the arm. Bella feels a hand on her shoulder too. The touch is very real. Before she can protest, Jim turns on them.

  ‘Take your hands off me,’ Jim says, shaking the man off as if he’s contagious. His voice is loud enough for people to look up. Shocked by Jim’s outburst, the men step back, discreetly letting go of their prey.

  ‘We just need a quiet word,’ the taller man says. ‘Ask you both a few questions in private.’

  ‘You’re in my way,’ Jim barks again, nodding encouragingly at Bella. She looks at the men and thinks of Erin. These are the people responsible for what happened to her friend. Erin would expect her to take a stand, go toe to toe with them. Take no shit from anyone.

  ‘You heard what he said,’ she says, remembering Jim’s instructions to make a scene. ‘Get out of our fucking way.’ She can’t quite bring herself to shout but the force of her voice surprises her. Erin would be proud, particularly of the swearing.

  ‘Listen, we don’t want any trouble,’ the man says, looking around him, assessing the unfolding scene. More people are taking an interest, coming out of the café and National Trust shop behind them. ‘We just need to go somewhere quiet and talk.’

  ‘Like a police cell, you mean,’ Jim says, moving to walk towards the car park. ‘I’ve heard they’re nice and quiet.’ Again, his path is blocked. Jim’s taller than both men but they exude a strong physical presence. It’s going to be a struggle for him to stop them long enough for her to make a run for it.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve answered a few questions,’ the other man says. His voice is quieter, more menacing. Bella glances around. A large crowd of people has now gathered to watch the altercation, arms folded, waiting to see what will happen. Several people have pulled out phones to film. Perhaps she should just go with these men, ask about Erin. Her mum. Dr Haslam.

  Don’t be so craven. It’s her dad now. He loved words like ‘craven’. And ‘susurrus’. They crop up in the features he wrote about life in Africa – the susurrus of the dry savanna. She’s read and reread them all in the past few months. She glances across at her car behind the men. Twenty-five yards away at most. She wasn’t good at sprinting at school. Her long legs would get in a tangle in all the excitement. It was the cross-country runs over Hackney Marshes that she liked. Striding out on her own.

  ‘Until I’ve answered a few questions?’ Jim says, in mock disbelief. ‘How about you telling everyone here on the beach exactly what’s going on at Porton Down.’ Jim’s raised his voice again, addressing the crowd like a politician at an impromptu rally. ‘These men, they work for your government,’ he continues, stabbing his finger in the direction of the man who grabbed his arm. ‘And they don’t want the truth to come out about one of the most secretive military facilities in the UK.’

  ‘The ongoing programme of human experiments,’ Bella adds. They’d make a good double act.

  Jim turns to Bella, a mix of pride and fear on his face. And then his eyes widen a fraction. Time to run. But as her legs tense to sprint for the car, she hears one of the men say something to the other.

  ‘Folie à deux. No question.’

  72

  Silas

  ‘I thought I asked you to let me know if Porton Down ever became a formal line of inquiry,’ Ward says. Silas turns away. He hasn’t even been invited to sit down in the boss’s office – always a bad sign.

  ‘It’s just one of many possible theories at this stage,’ Silas says. ‘We have no evidence to suggest a link between Porton Down and the crop circle killings and we haven’t been making any inquiries—’

  ‘Come on, Silas, we’ve known each other long enough,’ Ward says. ‘I saw it on your fancy new whiteboard. Who’s this Porton employee you’re so interested in? Jim someone?’

  The boss is asking questions he already knows the answers to. Silas does it himself when he’s interviewing suspects.

  ‘Jim Matthews,’ Silas says. ‘A chemical analyst.’

  ‘And have you put in a formal request for information about him?’ Ward asks, steepling his fingers, as if he’s just asked Silas to muse on the meaning of life. Silas often wonders if Ward wishes he’d gone into academia rather than the police. The bookshelves of his new office behind him are lined with tomes on religion and philosophy, a legacy of his days at Oxford, where he read theology.

  ‘Not yet,’ Silas says. ‘I was going to ask you first.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ Ward says, smirking. ‘After your own private inquiries had proved fruitless. You need to watch DC Strover. I had a call this morning about unorthodox computer activity from a Gablecross IP address.’

  Silas reverts to his poker face, another tactic he uses when he’s interviewing suspects. He’s not going to rise to Ward’s bait. And he’s bluffing about Strover. She’d never be careless enough to use a Gablecross IP address for her online research, or a Virtual Private Network, however anonymous it might be. She’s way smarter than that.

  ‘What’s so interesting about Matthews anyway?’ Ward asks, getting up from his desk to walk around his office like a priest in prayer. It’s hard to believe that Ward had to hot-desk it in the Parade Room with the rest of CID before his recent promotion to Detective Chief Superintendent. He’s so bloody haughty.

  ‘We were following another lead, in a village outside Marlborough, when we heard an altercation in a nearby house,’ Silas says. ‘We found Matthews covered in blood, claiming he’d been attacked after disturbing someone who was looking for clas
sified material they thought he’d brought back from his place of work – Porton Down.’

  Ward looks up, taken by surprise. ‘And you didn’t see fit to call this in? Sounds like a major breach of national security to me.’

  Silas shakes his head. At least Ward doesn’t seem to know about Jim’s meeting with Bella the journalist. ‘I decided to keep it in-house – on the basis he might be more relevant to our own ongoing inquiries into the crop circle killings.’

  ‘We have procedures, Silas, which you’ve spent your entire career ignoring,’ Ward says, sitting down at his desk again.

  ‘Matthews has an interest in complex mathematical crop circles,’ Silas continues, choosing to ignore Ward’s jibe. ‘The exact sort, in fact, in which the bodies were found. He also claimed to have had an altercation with a Range Rover, similar to the one we were already investigating in connection with the case.’

  Ward nods in what most people would take as encouragement, but Silas is not falling for it. His boss is holding something back, a killer punch.

  ‘And if his involvement in the crop circle case can be proved, Porton Down will be dragged into another public scandal,’ Ward says. ‘At a time when I explicitly told you we are trying to build bridges with the place after the Salisbury attack.’

  ‘As I say, I was planning to clear it with you first.’

  Ward sits back. ‘I’ve got some good news, Silas.’

  Here we go. Ward can be so patronising at times.

  ‘Let me rephrase that. Good news for Wiltshire Police.’ He pauses. ‘Jim Matthews doesn’t work at Porton Down. Never has done.’

  Silas can’t disguise his shock. He was ready for something, but not this.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Silas says, but he’s already trying, tracking back over the evidence. They’ve only ever had Matthews’s word and the results of an online search that threw up a brief entry on LinkedIn. Too brief.

  ‘I made a call after I saw his name on your new whiteboard,’ Ward says. ‘This morning – while you were out of the office.’ Ward lets the words hang in the air. When he was seeing Conor at the hospital. Does Ward know about his son’s latest episode too? To be fair, he’s always been sympathetic about Conor, which somehow makes it much worse. ‘I came back to check with Strover, just to be sure. Matthews was due to start at Porton four years ago. Apparently they were very excited at his arrival. A gifted student, one of the brightest they’d recruited to their graduate development programme in years. He’d already done two summer holidays as an intern at Porton while at Warwick, and a job was ready and waiting for him on graduation. But he never showed up.’