Erika came back into the pharmacy, relishing the warmth. The manager watched her pass from his little hatch, a little bewildered by his pharmacy being commandeered for a police enquiry. Geraldine was sitting in the stockroom at a table behind the e-fit artist’s laptop. She looked exhausted, but gave Erika a weak smile.
‘Okay, so this is who we have,’ said the e-fit artist, twisting the laptop to face Erika.
The face on the screen was of a man in his late twenties or early thirties. It was long and thin, with a wide nose, pronounced cheekbones, and brown eyes. His skin was smooth with very little stubble, and his black hair was long and brushed back from his forehead with a pronounced widow’s peak. It was eerie, a little blurred and unreal.
‘And you’re sure this is him?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes,’ said Geraldine, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘Do these things usually work? Will it help catch him?’
The e-fit artist shot her a look.
‘Yes, they do help,’ said Erika. ‘Thank you for doing this, Geraldine.’
* * *
When Erika came back out to the waiting squad car, the wind was blowing hard, and it felt like it was slicing through her skin. She called Peterson again.
‘I’ve just sent the image over,’ she said. ‘The second you have it, I want it shared with as many boroughs as possible, and I want it out to the media too. Let’s get this bastard.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
It had been a nightmare commute for Darryl back from London. There had been no seats when he boarded the train at Waterloo East, so he’d had to stand crushed against the door, amongst people coughing and sneezing for the best part of an hour. It had started to snow when he left the train station in his car, and this slowed his progress home even more.
It was seven thirty when he reached the brow of the hill leading down to the farm, and he saw a pair of car headlights about to pull out of the gates. He slowed on the approach, thinking they would pull past him, but they were stationary, and when he neared, he saw one of the large iron gates had jammed. He stopped the car and got out. The snow was coming down thick, and he dashed over to a figure in dark blue, wrestling to get the gate open. It was only when Darryl got closer, and looked past the glare of the headlights, that he saw it was a police car waiting to leave the driveway, and it was a uniformed officer pulling at the gate.
‘Evening, you want help?’ asked Darryl, holding up his hand against the snow and glare of the squad car. The police officer looked up at him.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is my parents’ farm.’
‘I think it’s the mechanism jammed,’ said the police officer. He was young with a boyish face and a dark goatee.
‘It does this sometimes. I keep telling my dad to get it fixed,’ said Darryl. ‘If we grab just under the middle section, we should be able to lift and release it.’
Darryl stood to one side of the gate, and directed the police officer to stand at the other side, and they lifted it up a few inches off its hinge. The mechanism began to whir and they had to step back quickly as it swung inwards.
‘Thanks,’ said the police officer, seeing his mucky hands and wiping them on his trousers. ‘You should tell your dad to get this fixed. Not much help in an emergency. They weigh a ton.’
‘Yes. I will. Is everything okay?’ asked Darryl, looking back at the squad car. He could see another officer in the passenger seat, and the outline of a figure sitting in the back.
‘We’ve had to arrest one of the men who works for your father…’
‘Who?’
‘Morris Cartwright.’
Darryl’s heart began to thump. ‘Something serious?’
The police officer raised his eyebrows. ‘You could say that. I can’t go into detail, but your dad will probably tell you. Thanks again.’
He sprinted back to the car, dodging one of the ice-filled potholes in the gravel.
Darryl stood to one side as the car pulled past. He could see Morris in the back. His hands cuffed together on his lap. His long thin face stared back at Darryl, black eyes devoid of emotion.
Darryl waited until the squad car was halfway up the hill, then went back to his car and drove through the gates. His heart was still thumping as he passed the farm house, seeing the lights on in the front room. He parked under the carport behind Morris’s car. He got out and went over to it, and tried to open the boot. It was locked. He walked round to the front of the car and placed his hand on the hood. It was cold.
* * *
Grendel met him at the back door with a volley of barks and licks, and he hung up his coat in the boot room. He could hear his mother and father beyond the kitchen, talking in hushed voices. He went through and found them in the farm office.
John was sitting at the messy desk, which was dominated by a huge old desktop computer. Mary was standing by his side, her hand leaning on the desk. They both looked concerned. The walls were packed with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with paperwork. There was an aerial map on the back wall, slightly faded, and it showed the land as it had been twelve years earlier. The trees surrounding the swimming pool had just been planted, and were yet to turn into towering giants.
‘I just saw the police? What’s Morris done?’ asked Darryl.
John shook his head.
‘Bloody fool. He’s been nicking fertiliser off us, and trying to flog it to the neighbouring farms…’ Mary placed a hand on John’s shoulder, but he shook it off. ‘Problem is that when anyone tries to sell the combination of chemical fertiliser Morris got hold of, it rings alarm bells… and farmers are told to contact the police. Terrorists can make bombs with the chemicals.’
‘They think Morris is a threat to national security,’ said Darryl, unable to mask a smile.
‘It’s not funny, Darryl!’ shrilled his mother.
‘Come on, it is. The police think Morris is a terrorist? He couldn’t blow up a balloon without screwing it up,’ said Darryl, trying not to laugh.
‘He was only ever going to make a couple of hundred at most. He should have come to me. Now I’ve lost a good milker,’ said John.
‘Now come on, John, it might only be for a while,’ said Mary, placing a hand on his shoulder.
‘Go on, get supper on the table. Darryl’s home,’ he snapped, shaking her off. She nodded obediently and moved off to the kitchen.
‘What happens now?’ asked Darryl.
‘Morris has a record, and they like to come down hard on stuff like this. He could go down.’
Darryl had a sudden image of skinny little Morris in a prison cell, begging and squealing as he was held down and raped by three big blokes. A snorting laugh escaped him, and John shot him a look.
‘Sorry, Dad… I’ll just go and wash my hands for dinner,’ he said.
* * *