Billy pointed at the boy. 'Not even for a nipper like him?'
'Especially not for a nipper like him.' He raised his voice. 'Where was it, Harry?'
'Over here.'
They swerved to their right, and Harry took them to the sea's edge, close to a cluster of three jagged, seaweed-encrusted rocks. The boy indicated a spot in front of them. Billy looked around. It was possible the outcrops had hidden the corpse from most people's view.
'And what was the tide doing?' asked Hatherill, lighting a cigarette. He looked slightly comical in his tweed suit and shiny black brogues, peering through his thick glasses at the lad, the sea edging closer to his feet with each lap of the waves.
'Tide were in. The thing was just here. It had seagulls on it. I didn't know it were a body right then, honest. Thought it was a seal.' Then the lad burst into tears.
Hatherill stepped forward and shot an arm round him, pulling him close. With his cigarette, he indicated that Billy should walk back up the beach and leave the two of them alone.
As Billy began the trudge back towards the low cliffs, he wondered what the hell he was doing out here. Why had Hatherill insisted on dragging him to Cornwall if he was going to exclude him? He had anticipated being Robin to the Top Man's Batman, Tonto to his Lone Ranger, but he was being treated more like Jimmy Olsen – the annoying kid – to his Superman. Or Boo-Boo to his Yogi Bear.
He reached a rock arch, expertly carved by the Cornish storms from the cliff-face, and sat at its base. He watched the two distant figures patrolling the shoreline, deep in conversation, devouring more bull's-eyes as they spoke, and pondered on what was going on back in London while they were messing about in the sticks.
'I fuckin' hate the countryside. It stinks. Phoar – cop a load of that. Worse than one of your farts, Gordy.'
'Shut up, Buster,' said Bruce. 'Wind your window up if you don't like fresh air.'
'Fresh? What's fresh about a cow's arse?'
They were heading west, past a string of dairy farms just outside Aylesbury, in the Jag they had borrowed off Brian Field. A 3.8. Roy wouldn't have approved, but Bruce was enjoying it. He clocked the milometer. More than twenty miles from Bridego Bridge so far.
'How much is this place?' asked Buster.
'Five thousand, five hundred pounds.'
Buster whistled.
'It's a whole farm, you cunt,' said Gordy.
'We got five grand left in the pot?' It was a good question, because the 'seed' money from the airport job was almost gone.
'I spoke to Brian. He'd do it through his boss, all above board. Make sure we only have to put ten per cent down for now. We can raise the rest, no problem. Go to the Frenchman if we have to, eh, Buster?'
Frenchie the Banker had put some money up for the airport, in return for a hefty percentage. 'If we have to.'
They had crossed over the A418, and were travelling on the B4011. The destination wasn't actually on the OS map, but Bruce had marked the spot with a Biro'd 'X', like a treasure map. 'The turning is at Oakley, on the Bicester Road.'
'Yeah, I remember,' said Bruce. He had already seen the farm, even met the owners, and knew exactly where it was. He wanted a second opinion about the place and location, that was all.
'And you've seen what is at Bicester?' Gordy asked.
'No.'
'The Army.'
'The Army,' repeated Bruce thoughtfully.
'And what do the Army do?' Gordy asked.
'Manoeuvres,' said Bruce.
'Sometimes at night,' added Buster, catching on.
'Brilliant.' Bruce's brain kicked into overdrive, as they all knew it would. 'That's bloody brilliant.'
They drove on in silence, each digesting what this new strategy might involve. In his mind, Bruce was already creating his uniform. Maybe he would get to be a real Colonel after all. A Major at least. Who was going to suspect the Army? Who was going to stand up to them? It was the perfect front.
'It's along here somewhere,' said Gordy eventually. 'Turning on the right.'
Bruce found the track leading to the farm, and bounced the Jag up the muddy lane, the cows to the right watching its progress with their blank stares.
'It's got a main house, ugly but big enough for the number of blokes we'll need, mains water, a generator for electricity, and plenty of outhouses, including sheds and a garage the size of an aircraft hanger. Means we can get everything under cover, in case of choppers.' Helicopters were a new threat; the police didn't have any of their own, but the RAF was only too willing to lend a hand.
'Twenty-seven miles,' said Gordy, looking at the clock. 'About a thirty- or forty-minute drive from the bridge. If you don't have a Jag.'
"Bout right, I reckon,' said Bruce, 'for somewhere to lie low till the worst of the scream blows over.'
'It's a bit of a shit-hole. What's it called again?' asked Buster, as the Jag took a right through an open gate and the first of the smallholding's down-at-heel buildings came into view.
'Leatherslade Farm,' replied Bruce.
They took the boy back home from the beach as the afternoon turned cold once more, with grey-tinged clouds lining up on the horizon and a shrill wind whipping low across the sand. Hatherill told the parents that he was a bright lad who had been most helpful. They offered the Commander and Billy a glass of wine. Hatherill readily accepted this unexpected bonus; Billy, suspecting any wine would have been made in the kitchen sink, opted for a small scotch instead.
After they said their goodbyes, they walked back to the digs at the pub. 'Not a bad drop of claret, that,' said Hatherill appreciatively, smacking his lips. 'I fancy another. Join me? Then we'll have dinner.'
They settled into the corner of the inn, Hatherill with his large glass of red, Billy with a pint of mild. After he had taken a sip of wine and slurped it around his mouth unattractively, Hatherill gave a sigh of contentment then said, 'I'm just going up to my room to fetch something.'
Billy sat back, looking at the pictures on the walls. Seascapes mostly, some terrible oils, plus old pictures of lifeboat crews. A few of the locals glanced his way now and then, one or two of them muttering afterwards. The Inn of the Seventh Happiness it wasn't, he thought. He'd have as warm a welcome if he was carrying the plague.
He moved to the bar and ordered a packet of crisps – a transaction carried out mostly in grunts on the part of the barman. The crisps still came with a little twist of blue paper for the salt, a touch that was disappearing rapidly in London. He was shaking the bag to distribute the salt evenly when Hatherill reappeared and placed a large padded envelope on the table. The TM then ignored it as he went back to his wine.
He slurped some more before he spoke again. 'Why did you want to become a copper, Billy?'
The younger man had to smile. 'If I had a penny…'
Hatherill laughed with him. 'Me too. But you have to examine it, don't you? Why am I doing this? Is it because I read PC49 or watched Dixon of Dock Green? I suppose some of the kids watching Z Cars might be pulled in by that, eh? A whole generation of Barlows and Fancy Smiths. But that's not it with you, is it?'
'No.'
'It's to make a difference, isn't it? In a way an insurance clerk or a bank manager never can. We can influence society. We can find out who that poor dead girl is and we can affect people's lives. For good or bad.'
Billy wondered if the wine had gone to the Top Man's head. 'What did you get from the lad?'
'Not much. I got more from the parents.'
'The parents? They hardly said two words.'
Hatherill winked. 'Ah, but what they didn't say was important. And what they did.'
Billy racked his brains, but could think of nothing but polite chit-chat. 'Would you like a cup of tea? How about a nice glass of wine? A scotch then, how would that be?'
The pub's dog, a rough old collie, raised itself from the carpet, padded over and looked at Billy, its rheumy eyes on the crisps. He made to give it one but the dog bared its teeth. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you, he thought.