The Man on Hackpen Hill Page 7

  ‘Nice meeting you too,’ she says, struggling to keep it together. She aims for the door, head down, walking fast.

  ‘Palmer’s date went well,’ she overhears one of the locals say.

  She won’t be putting that in the column.

  18

  Silas

  Silas directs the CSI manager up from the road, after briefing him about the straitjacket. There’s been no progress deciphering what the crop circle patterns might mean, despite numerous theories put forward by armchair codebreakers on the web. And no reports from the country’s mortuaries about missing cadavers. Silas’s focus now is trying to establish who commissioned Noah to make the circles and placed bodies at their centre.

  ‘Any word from the hospital?’ Silas asks Strover, who’s just come off the phone. Roadblocks are now in position at both ends of Chute Causeway and Air Traffic Control has been asked to keep the area clear. A drone hired by a tabloid newspaper has already managed to take pictures of the first crime scene at Hackpen Hill.

  ‘Noah’s barely conscious,’ Strover says. ‘The hospital’s not keen on us visiting tonight.’

  ‘They never are,’ Silas says, stepping aside to let a team of CSIs walk up through the field. A tent has been erected to cover the second body. ‘We’ll need to talk to him.’

  What worries Silas is that Noah’s attacker might reach the person who commissioned the crop circles before the police do. Why are they so keen to find them? To stop any further coded circles from appearing? CSI has already got tread marks from the dusty drive that leads down to Noah’s farmhouse but there have been no sightings of any tinted-window Range Rovers with number plates beginning ‘RO’ in the area. Strover has also analysed Noah’s recent bank transactions but nothing has shown up. No doubt the payment was made using untraceable bitcoins. Another question for Noah.

  Silas is about to walk back over to the crime scene when a familiar car pulls up on the road. The driver gets out and opens the rear passenger door. It’s his boss, DCS Ward.

  ‘What the hell’s he doing here?’ Silas whispers to Strover.

  ‘Thought I’d come and take a look myself,’ Ward says, walking through a gate into the field.

  ‘Good idea, sir,’ Silas says, stepping aside.

  Silas has learnt over the years that everything his boss says and does is best viewed through the prism of ambition, how it might advance Ward’s own career. This is an unusual case, one that’s now attracting international media attention, but it wouldn’t normally warrant a personal appearance by the boss.

  Silas escorts Ward up to the crime scene, where they both don white oversuits and step into the tent, leaving Strover to make more calls. The air inside is hot and stuffy, even though the sun has now set. Arc lights illuminate the body, still lying on the flattened wheat in the straitjacket.

  ‘There’s been a lot of idle gossip online that Porton Down might in some way be responsible,’ Ward says, glancing around the tent, which is empty apart from them.

  ‘So I gather,’ Silas says. ‘Along with UFOs and time travellers.’

  ‘As I’m sure you know,’ Ward continues, in no mood to joke, ‘we have a very delicate relationship with Porton. They’ve long memories over there and haven’t forgiven us for launching an investigation into the death of a twenty-year-old volunteer at Porton – almost fifty years after he died in a sarin experiment.’

  Silas remembers the investigation well, the commotion it caused in Westminster. Wiltshire Police’s Operation Antler dug up all sorts of stuff that led to a second inquest into the death and a sizeable MOD payout to the victim’s family.

  ‘I’m in the process of rebuilding our relationship with Porton,’ Ward continues, looking around the tent again. ‘I wouldn’t want anything we’re doing here to jeopardise that. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Very clear, sir,’ Silas says, trying to conceal his surprise. ‘We’re currently not investigating any links with Porton Down and if we do—’

  ‘You’ll let me know first. I’m glad we understand each other.’

  Ward nods at him and ducks out of the tent. Jesus. This case is already complicated enough without Ward throwing his weight around.

  19

  Bella

  Bella walks down the village high street towards the train station, eyes welling as she reflects on how quickly it all went wrong with Jim. Should she have kept quiet and not told him that she was working for a newspaper? There was something irresistible about the story he told her, of a government scientist nearly being driven off the road on his way back from a secret research facility. An intoxicating whiff of conspiracy. And something irresistible about him too that stopped her from lying. She’s always fancied tall men, for obvious reasons, and Jim certainly ticked that box. And he was surprisingly dapper for a mad scientist. She likes a man who takes care of himself, keeps his nails trimmed and glasses clean. He seemed kind too. Even when she dropped the bombshell about her being a journalist, he remained polite and was almost embarrassed by his own reaction. Best of all, he didn’t seem to care what others thought of him. Happy in his awkward skin. She can relate to that.

  She turns onto the station platform, glancing up at the information board. The next train back to London has been cancelled because of a lack of crew. Typical. And the one after. No wonder people are still driving around in polluting cars. She checks the timetable poster beside her, trying to ignore a twinge of panic, and then her watch. Almost 9 p.m. There are no more trains tonight. The pub has rooms. She could see if they’ve got one available. Except that Jim will still be in the bar. Tricky.

  She walks back up the high street, hoping that Mark will pay accommodation expenses. A solitary car drives past and turns into the pub up ahead. A black Range Rover. Just like the one Jim mentioned. His paranoia is infectious. There must be lots of Range Rovers in a rural county like Wiltshire.

  She stops at the edge of the pub car park and calls her mum, telling her that she won’t be back tonight. Things have been a bit tense at home, and her mum doesn’t seem too bothered. Maybe Dr Haslam is in town. At breakfast this morning, Bella had nearly asked about him, whether they were having a relationship, but it felt too embarrassing. Helen hasn’t replied to her email yet.

  ‘What’s the name of the pub again?’ her mum asks, suddenly sounding more concerned.

  ‘Mum, I’m OK.’ She glances up at the hand-painted, bloodthirsty sign. ‘The Slaughtered Lamb.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very OK to me.’

  ‘I’m on a proper story. It could be my big break.’

  ‘Sweetie, that’s great. I thought you were just writing a little lifestyle column.’

  Bella rolls her eyes. ‘It was, but now it’s become something more serious.’

  ‘And they want you to write it?’

  ‘Sure. Why not? See you tomorrow, Mum.’ She hangs up before she says something she might regret.

  What’s happened to the Range Rover that drove into the car park? No one has appeared. She strolls around to the back of the pub and spots the vehicle in the corner. It’s dusk but she can just make out the profile of a man at the wheel. She glances at the windows – tinted – and turns to walk around to the front of the pub. Her hunch was right. Taking a deep breath, she steps back inside.

  The group of locals has dispersed to a big window table and more people have arrived at the bar, chatting about the crop circle. Jim’s nowhere to be seen but his glass is still on the corner table, half finished, a jacket on the back of the chair. She feels pleased he’s still here. After booking the last room with the landlord, she stands at the bar with another tomato juice, keeping one eye on Jim’s table. A moment later, he’s at her other shoulder, having come out of the Gents behind her.

  ‘Back again?’ he asks, surprising her.

  ‘My train was cancelled,’ she says, blushing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘I mean about earlier.’ He adjusts his glasses, pu
shing them back on his nose. ‘I may have overreacted when you said you were a journalist.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. Goes with the territory. And you’re in a sensitive government job. I just wanted to be honest, that’s all.’

  She’s happy they’re talking again. Despite his cumbrous social manner, she feels a flutter of excitement in her stomach and follows him over to his table as if they had never fallen out. One of the locals looks across at them and Bella gives him a discreet finger. Erin would be so proud of her.

  20

  Silas

  Silas squats down beside the body of the woman, shaking his head. If only murder victims could speak. Why the straitjacket? He stands up, contemplating a smoke, but the boss is still outside the CSI tent, talking to a young uniform whose dad he knew. Is Silas missing something? Should he be investigating a link with Porton Down? To date, it’s all been wild speculation, the stuff of conspiracy theories.

  Strover puts her head inside the tent, glancing at the body. She’s still upset, her eyes red. The whole team is.

  ‘Sir, we’ve got a possible Range Rover sighting,’ she says.

  ‘Tell me,’ Silas says, standing up.

  ‘A patrol car on the A4 outside Hungerford saw a black one, RO number plate. They gave pursuit but were called off on another job. They’re not certain, but they think the car might have turned into the Slaughtered Lamb.’

  Silas’s eyes light up. It’s a pub he knows well, not just for the decent pint it serves but because of several past cases. The landlord’s a personal friend too.

  ‘How long ago?’ he asks, already picturing a glistening glass of Ramsbury Gold waiting for him on the bar.

  ‘Ten minutes?’ Strover offers, looking at her watch. ‘And it had tinted windows.’

  Sounds promising, although Silas no longer views tinted windows with quite so much suspicion, now that Mel’s got them in her car. They’re a must for florists – it keeps the flowers fresher, apparently. All those times he’s seen drug dealers driving around east Swindon in Beamers with darkened windows… Florists, the lot of them.

  ‘We need to get over there now,’ he says.

  21

  Bella

  ‘Actually, I came back to tell you something,’ Bella says, sitting down opposite Jim in the corner of the pub.

  ‘I got it, just now, in the loo,’ he says. ‘Saw it in the mirror.’

  ‘Saw what?’

  For the second time tonight, she has no idea what Jim’s talking about.

  ‘I had a peanut or something stuck,’ he explains, rubbing his tongue against his clean white teeth as if he’s doing his morning ablutions.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, smiling to herself. ‘Can’t say I noticed.’

  Jim’s not like anyone she’s met before.

  ‘That wasn’t it, then?’ he asks. ‘What you came back to tell me?’

  She shakes her head, intrigued by this man, his appealing mix of social clumsiness and confidence.

  ‘You know that Range Rover you said tried to drive you off the road,’ she begins.

  His face freezes. ‘What about it?’ he asks.

  ‘I think it’s out in the pub car park, round the back. And there’s a man sitting inside it. Thought you should know.’

  Jim bows his head, forcing himself to breathe calmly. Bella’s done that herself, when she wants to make a problem go away.

  ‘I knew they’d be back,’ he whispers.

  ‘Did they really try to drive you off the road?’ Bella asks.

  Jim leans forward.

  ‘I’m exhausted at the moment,’ he says. ‘Extremely stressed at work, to be honest. I joined The Lab to do real science. It hasn’t quite worked out like that. I saw the car behind me as I was driving back through Tidworth. It had been on my tail for a while. I tried to accelerate away, put some distance between us, but this car accelerated too. I nearly lost control around a tight bend in Collingbourne.’

  ‘What about the number plate?’ Bella asks, glancing at his phone on the table.

  ‘According to a colleague,’ he says, looking at a text, ‘it used to be registered to the Home Office.’

  ‘Probably a coincidence,’ Bella says, playing devil’s advocate. It strikes her as anything but.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Jim throws a furtive glance around the pub. ‘There’s an understandable culture of secrecy at The Lab,’ he continues. ‘We’re all potential targets for the Russians, who are desperate to recruit people on the inside. MI5 keeps an eye on every Lab employee – and MI5’s answerable to the Home Office. I’m not betraying any confidences by telling you that – even if you are a journalist. It’s common knowledge.’ Jim makes two quotation marks in the air. ‘Open source.’

  ‘What if I’m a Russian agent, posing as a journalist in your local pub?’ she asks, risking a smile. ‘Here to spread vicious rumours about crop circles and novichok?’

  Jim stares at her, as if he’s considering whether she might really be a Russian agent. ‘I haven’t told you anything you wouldn’t already know,’ he says, taking a sip of his drink.

  ‘But the Home Office – or MI5 – wouldn’t be too happy if they walked in now and found us chatting together,’ she says.

  ‘Probably not. As I say, I signed up for the science, not the politics. Have you got a card?’

  ‘I’m out, sorry,’ she says, patting her pockets.

  ‘I’m probably making the biggest mistake of my life, but something about your manner makes me want to trust you,’ he says, his eyes widening.

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ Bella says, blushing. She wants to trust Jim too, likes his vitality. She’s pleased she was honest with him about being a journalist.

  ‘And I’ve got a story that I want to share – that the public needs to hear,’ Jim continues. ‘About Porton Down.’ Bella’s stomach flips again. ‘But there are people who want to stop me.’ He looks around the pub, his eyes lingering on the door. ‘For your safety and mine, I’m going to walk out of that door now and head back to my house. I always eat here – usually the game pie, cod and chips on a Friday – but I’ll have something at home tonight.’

  ‘OK,’ she says, wondering why he’s not more overweight. ‘And is that far? Home?’

  ‘Just across the road. Unlike Harry Palmer, I’m not a gourmet cook.’

  ‘Here’s my mobile number,’ Bella says, writing it down on a sheet of her notebook. ‘Any clues to what this story of yours might be about?’ she asks, tearing out the page and handing it to him. ‘It’s not connected to these crop circle killings, is it?’ She nods in the direction of the bar. ‘Just that some people are saying they’re linked to Porton Down.’

  He smirks, looking across at the locals. ‘People around here think everything’s linked to Porton Down,’ he says. ‘Alien invasion? Porton. Novichok attack? Must be Porton.’ And then his expression becomes more serious and his eyes narrow. ‘But in this case… they’re right.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ she asks, reassessing the locals she’d dismissed as drunken conspiracy theorists.

  Jim gets up to leave, taking his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘Those crop circles, they’re not just fancy patterns,’ he says.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she asks, wishing he wasn’t being so cryptic.

  He leans down, his sweet breath warm against her ear. ‘Thank you for warning me about the Range Rover. I’ll explain everything soon. I promise.’

  22

  Silas

  Silas turns into the car park at the Slaughtered Lamb and slides his car into an empty space in the corner. No black Range Rovers in sight, with or without tinted windows. He opens the car door and inhales the sweet summer evening air. It’s strange being back in this village. Two different cases have brought him here – and one attractive woman, the local GP, when he and Mel were separated. It’s also where he found Conor, after he’d gone missing, crouched in a barn in the woods on the far side of the canal. He shudders at the memory as he walks into the pub. S
trover stays outside.

  The landlord seems pleased to see Silas and after a quick chat, he rings the bell.

  ‘Anyone seen a black Range Rover in the village this evening, number plate beginning RO?’ he calls out, glancing at Silas for confirmation. Silas nods.

  A few dissenting murmurs about wealthy weekenders, but no one seems to have spotted the Range Rover. Silas watches with envy as the landlord pours someone else a pint. He must resist, be good. There’s work to be done.

  ‘Any word on the body in this crop circle then?’ a local at the bar asks him. Silas recognises the man and his Irish accent from a previous visit. Sean, the resident conspiracy theorist and screenwriter. For a few brief weeks, he was dating Strover. Maybe that’s why she was happy to stay outside.

  ‘Not yet,’ Silas says.

  ‘Look no further than Porton Down,’ he says, taking a deep draught of his Guinness. ‘The UK’s very own Area 51.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Silas says, glancing at his watch. He knows it’s good to keep the locals onside but he hasn’t got time for a chat about Porton Down. Sean will be telling him next that they keep aliens there.

  Back outside, Silas is about to get into the car when he hears a noise from a house across the street. Strover clocks it too. A short, sharp shout of pain, as if someone’s hit their thumb with a hammer, followed by the sound of furniture being upended. They both pause. Silas must press on with the investigation. The last thing he needs is to be caught up in a domestic; but he can’t walk away, pretend not to have heard anything.

  23

  Bella

  Bella stares at the ceiling of her room in the pub. She can’t sleep, not after her encounter with Jim. Can’t read her book, either. Why didn’t he tell her more about the link between the crop circles and Porton Down? Does he not trust her? She thought he might say more after she’d warned him about the Range Rover in the car park. Did the driver really try to knock him off the road?