He would have liked to laugh at the situation, but somehow the humour of the moment did not permeate through to him. He just felt stupid. And wet. And muddy. And wished he had stayed in bed.
After resting a moment to get his breath back, he began to trudge through the copse where every branch and twig seemed to snatch and grab at him, trying to hold him back. He found himself becoming increasingly angry and this made him less thoughtful about what he was doing. Instead of being sneaky and careful, he was thumping and crashing his way through the undergrowth like an elephant. He was more concerned with fighting trees than tiptoeing up behind a felon.
He burst through the other side of the copse into the light. He was breathing hard, so he stopped to let his lungs relax a little, then he ploughed on up the hillside on the other side of which, he guessed, would be the spy on the camp.
The going was easier up the slope, even though the hill was quite steep. On reaching the summit he crouched low, went down on to his knees, aware of the possible folly of revealing himself against the sky. Now he was being more cautious about his approach. He edged to the top of the hill, keeping down, but not quite on his stomach because he did not want to get any dirtier and wetter than he already was.
He raised his face gradually and peered over the crest of the hill, down towards a small scrubby area. Beyond that he had a good view of the stables, the house and the road connecting the two. Well beyond the house he could see the river. He knew he was about right in his positioning and that somewhere below him on the down slope was the point where he had seen the light.
There was still a lot of activity at the stables. The fire service were there, continuing their damping down. He made out a number of people emerging from the main house, one of which was Jane Roscoe. She stopped and, he imagined, looked across in his direction. He almost gave her a wave.
A small white van appeared in the driveway leading up to the house bearing the Lancashire Constabulary crest on the doors and the words ‘Scientific Support’ in black on the sides. The crime scene investigators had arrived, making Henry feel a little more reassured about the way Jane was intending to investigate the offence.
Henry looked beyond the house to some fairly dilapidated farm buildings. They seemed incongruous against the refurbished luxury of the farmhouse that was the Wickson family home. A couple of old, articulated fuel tankers stood in the yard formed by these buildings. Henry squinted thoughtfully at the scenario. He tried to recall something which was lurking at the back of his cranium. Old farm buildings, old fuel tankers. . what did that mean?
Suddenly he was not thinking about old buildings and trucks.
A movement had cut into the periphery of his vision, making his head jerk away from what he was surveying.
He stretched his neck, a feeling of high tension shooting through his body, certain he had seen something below. In the bushes, just to the right of his position. Something. . someone. . had definitely moved. But even as he stared and focused, he could see nothing.
He remained motionless, alert, did not move another muscle.
Only then did he realize just how dry his mouth had become and how remorselessly his heart was ramming against his rib cage. His eyes were sharp and his brain was now digesting the pros and cons of the stupidity of his current position.
Supposing there was somebody down there? Supposing it was the person who had set fire to the stables and maimed a horse? Would that person be a pleasant companion for a morning stroll back into the arms of the real police? What would happen if that person did not want to cooperate and was twice as big, wide and nasty as Henry? Henry had been stripped of his powers and could not legally do half of the things he had been doing without a second thought for the past twenty-odd years. Whoever it was down there would be well likely to be a mad, raving lunatic with instability problems of epic proportions. So what would Henry do if he came face to face with this deranged individual?
He could not radio for help. The personal radio, the bane of many a cop’s life, the piece of equipment that Henry had only ever used when it suited him, was no longer in his tool kit. And now he missed it like mad. He felt naked and vulnerable.
Nor did he have any handcuffs.
Nor an extending baton.
Nor CS spray.
He realized with a lead-like thump that he was very much on his own out here. The resources of law and order were no longer at his beck and call.
Though he did have his mobile phone.
Staring down the slope in front of him, he hoped that what he had seen was a sheep doing a bit of lurking, as opposed to an arsonist and horse-molester. He could handle a sheep, however violent it became.
But it was not a sheep.
It was someone who was very good at not being seen. It was a man dressed in army-type combat camouflage clothing, edging on his stomach along the line of the field. Henry’s mouth opened with a pop as he registered the fact that this man was more than good. He was almost invisible and it took a lot of blinking and re-focusing on Henry’s part to keep him in sight.
Henry watched, fascinated. He found it tempting to stand up and begin waving his arms about to attract someone’s attention down at the stables, but at such a distance he guessed it would be a fairly useless gesture — and it would warn the man they were on to him.
The figure crawled into a cluster of trees.
Henry’s eyes kept with him.
Maybe the guy was innocent. He could just be a perv or maybe a white supremacist out on manoeuvres. . one and the same, Henry thought.
However, innocent, guilty or just plain perverted, Henry knew the guy had to be collared and spoken to.
Henry watched as the man lay out on his stomach, twisted round and settled in the trees.
Henry was puzzled. He glanced towards the Wickson house. Three people, including Jane Roscoe, were still at the front of the house. He looked back at the prostrate figure and an ice-cold sensation shot through Henry’s lower abdomen. There was something familiar about the position the man had adopted.
Henry began to move.
Fast.
After setting fire to the stables, Verner had retreated to his position on the hillside to watch the fun and games. They were gratifyingly splendid. The stable block lit up the night sky, flames rising high with the occasional crack as something inside exploded sending showers of sparks up into the atmosphere.
All extremely satisfying.
Watching the lights come on in the house. People dashing about like headless chickens. Panic setting in. The more fortunate horses being rescued from loose boxes and being turned out into an adjoining field. Then, almost twenty-five minutes later, the arrival of the fire brigade and the cops, by which time the tack room and some stables had been destroyed.
Verner did not move from his position for hours whilst he watched all the activity, using his night sights and then, as the night ebbed, his binoculars.
Other cops arrived. An ambulance turned up.
All this from just a little match and a splash of petrol.
He found himself giggling quite a lot.
Then the helicopter belonging to John Lloyd Wickson landed on the pad.
Now Verner was going to have more fun than ever. He came out of his hiding place and crawled along to another position where he had set up the rifle. He squirmed into the prostrate firing position and sighted down the barrel of the gun, picking out the figure of Wickson, who was standing at the front of his house, together with two other people. Wickson started to strut towards the stables.
He was an easy target.
Henry pushed himself over the brow of the hill, whilst at the same time using his mobile phone and trying to tab to Jane Roscoe’s number which he still had stored in his phone. He hoped her number had not changed and even as he rose, a flash of thought went through his mind: Why did I keep her number?