‘Happy to oblige. I’m presuming there’s no reason to suppose this…’ Rigston checked his notes ‘…Tenille Cole is going to cut up rough?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. She’s got no form, but she’s got connections.’
‘Connections?’
‘Her dad runs the Marshpool–one of our charm schools for criminals. He’s a hard man. A serious villain. Word is she doesn’t have direct dealings with him, but given that she’s wanted for blowing a man away with a sawn-off shotgun then firing the flat to cover her tracks, I’d say the word is well off the mark.’
Rigston felt a chill that was nothing to do with the temperature in his bedroom. ‘You think there’s any chance she’ll be tooled up now?’
‘No. I think she panicked and ran. I don’t think she’d be headed for Jane Gresham if she had the security of a gun.’
‘And you don’t think her dad’s up here keeping an eye out for her?’
Donna Blair laughed. ‘Not his style.’
Rigston felt uneasy, but he was prepared to take the word of someone whose sharp end was a lot more jagged than his. ‘OK. I’m going out there now. I’ll keep you posted.’ He ended the call and turned to River. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘“Tooled up?” Did I hear right?’ River said, her grey eyes troubled.
‘Apparently not,’ Rigston said. He pulled a rugby shirt over his head. ‘Let’s hope the Met got this one right, eh?’
The cloud was his friend, reducing both visibility and the desire to stand around enjoying the night sky. He’d only seen a few people coming and going from the pub in the past hour and he was damn sure they hadn’t even noticed his car, never mind that there was a driver at the wheel. He’d been prepared to move out if he’d been spotted. Risks were for fools and he was no fool. Besides, there would be other opportunities to deal with the obstacle she’d become. Unsuspecting victims were the easiest to pick off; he knew that from experience. But he’d been lucky. Nobody had seen him, least of all the one person he was interested in.
She’d come walking out of the house without a sideways glance, as if she had too much on her mind to pay attention to anything outside herself. He’d waited for her to enter the lane before he’d started the engine, giving her a full minute’s head start, steeling himself for what he had planned. He crept slowly down the village street from his vantage point, then turned into the lane.
The full beam of the headlights picked her out, a black silhouette against the hedgerow. He took a deep breath and dropped down into second. The engine screaming, he slammed his foot hard on the accelerator and aimed for Jane.
The roads were quiet. By nine on a Saturday in the Lakes, most people were either home in front of the telly or ensconced where they planned to spend the rest of the evening. As Rigston drove he picked over his grievance at being dragged from his bed. Other people’s villains. The last thing he needed. At least the female DI from the Met had had the decency to warn him there was media interest in this one.
He couldn’t help thinking about his own daughter. Not so far off the age of this murder suspect. He wanted to believe that sort of thing couldn’t happen on his patch but he knew it wasn’t true. He thought of Dewsbury. Quiet little town in the middle of West Yorkshire. A place where nothing much ever happened. Yet within the space of a couple of months, the cops in Dewsbury had to deal with a teenage girl abducting a five-year-old and hanging him from a bloody tree, and a suicide bomber blowing up a tube train in London. Used to be that sort of thing only happened in big cities with a seething underclass. But he knew the poison was spreading and he feared for his own child.
And this particular teenager wasn’t without resources. A gangster father in the shadows wasn’t a negligible consideration. In a world made small by motorways and electronic communication, crime wasn’t a prisoner of its own patch any longer. A man could be eating dinner in London while the hit he’d ordered on his mobile was taking place in Manchester. Or, Rigston supposed, in the Lakes. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
Rigston swung the wheel round and turned into the lane leading to the Greshams’ farm. He saw a distant set of tail-lights disappear up ahead, then he braked suddenly as he saw a body sprawled by the side of the road.
Rigston pulled up and jumped out of his 4×4, calling out, ‘I’m a police officer. Are you all right?’ Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement. Rigston hurried forward, slicing the body into segments of dark and light as he passed in front of the headlamps.
As he crouched down to examine it, the body pushed itself up on one elbow. A young woman looked up at him, mud smeared down one side of her face. Her eyes were wide with shock, her hair tangled with leaves. ‘Were you chasing that mad bastard?’ she gasped.
‘No, all I saw were some tail-lights. What happened?’ He reached out a hand to steady the woman as she got to her feet.
‘A car. Coming up the hill way too fast.’ She shook her head, as if to clear it. ‘And then…’ She frowned, looking incredulous. ‘I know this sounds crazy, but it was like he steered straight at me. I had to dive into the hedge.’ She rubbed her shoulder. ‘I think there’s a bit of wall in there too.’
‘Probably a drunk,’ Rigston said. ‘Did you get a look at the car? Make? Registration?’
‘No. I was dazzled by his headlights. And then I was in the hedge.’ She brushed herself down.
‘With no ID, there’s not much point in me calling it in,’ Rigston said with a sharp exhalation of irritation.
‘At least I’m still in one piece.’
‘Have you far to go?’
‘No.’ The woman gestured to her left. ‘I live in the farm just ahead.’
Rigston frowned. ‘Are you Jane Gresham?’
She took a step away from him. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘A lucky guess. I was on my way to see you, Ms Gresham. Why don’t you hop in for the last few yards?’
She folded her arms across her chest in a defensive gesture. ‘You’ll excuse me, but how do I know you’re who you say you are?’ She looked as if she was barely holding herself together.
‘You’re wise to be cautious.’ Rigston took out his photo ID and held it low in the beam of his headlights so she could see it clearly. ‘I hoped we might have a word?’
‘It’s gone ten o’clock,’ Jane said. ‘Won’t this wait till morning? I mean, I was nearly run over a minute ago.’
‘I’m afraid not, it’s a serious matter.’ Interesting, he thought, that she didn’t immediately ask what it was about. And that she wanted to procrastinate.
A few minutes later, he followed Jane into a cosy farm kitchen. In the light, he could see she was attractive in a dark, strong-featured way. It was a face you wouldn’t forget in a hurry, with its deep-set eyes, firm mouth and a nose that was definite without being too big. She threw her filthy jacket over a chair and went to the sink, rubbing her fingers through her hair to dislodge leaves and twigs. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said, running the taps and washing her face and hands. Then she leaned against the Aga, her arms folded over her chest, her face pale. ‘Is this about Tenille?’
‘Now why would you think that?’
‘We do get TV up here, Chief Inspector. I saw the appeal for anyone who’d seen Tenille to come forward. And I can’t think of any other reason why a senior police officer would be demanding to talk to me at this time on a Saturday night.’ She glared at him.
‘Have you seen Tenille Cole since Wednesday evening?’
Jane shook her head. ‘I came up here on Wednesday. So no, I haven’t seen her.’
‘Have you heard from her? An email, perhaps? A text, a phone call?’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. No, I’ve heard nothing at all from Tenille. Which is not surprising, I don’t think she’s ever emailed me or texted me or phoned me as long as I’ve known her. You can check my laptop if you don’t believe me.’
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary at this point. How does she
usually make contact?’ Rigston asked.
‘She turns up on my doorstep.’
‘How would you characterise your relationship with Tenille Cole?’
‘I suppose I’d call myself her mentor. And her friend.’
‘Her mentor? In what sense?’
Jane sighed. ‘I know it’s hard for people like you to believe this about a black teenager, but Tenille loves poetry. She doesn’t just love it, she grasps what it’s about. She has an understanding of the Romantic poets that would shame most English students. That happens to be my subject area. So mostly she hangs out at my flat and reads poetry and literary criticism, and sometimes we talk about what she’s been reading.’
‘You talk about poetry?’
‘And criticism.’ Jane’s smile was condescending. Ewan thought it was a deliberate attempt to rile him.
‘And you don’t think that’s odd?’
‘It’s very odd. But that’s the way it is. Nothing unhealthy. Nothing depraved. Nothing criminal.’
Rigston shook his head, baffled. ‘You talk about her personal life?’
‘Very little. She comes to my flat to get away from the rest of her life. She tries to leave it at the door.’
‘So you don’t know why she might have shot…’ Rigston glanced at his notes. ‘Geno Marley?’
‘Tenille did not shoot Geno Marley,’ Jane said with a familiar degree of conviction that depressed Rigston. He had seen too many people make that tragic mistake.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked mildly.
‘Because it’s not who she is. She doesn’t run with the wannabe gangstas and the aspiring baby mothers. She despises that life.’
‘According to what I’ve been told, her father’s right at the heart of that life.’
Jane shook her head impatiently. ‘Tenille doesn’t have a father. At least, not one she’s aware of. She’s been brought up by her aunt. Her mother’s dead. She’s never had a dad in her life.’
‘So the name John Hampton doesn’t mean anything to you?’
‘Of course it does. I live on the Marshpool.’
‘Were you aware that he’s Tenille’s father?’
‘I’ve heard gossip to that effect. But I’ve never seen him so much as acknowledge her in passing.’ Jane looked away, her expression sad. ‘Tenille says she doesn’t have a father. I’m inclined to take her word for it.’
Rigston switched tack, hoping to catch Jane on the back foot. ‘Is she here, Ms Gresham?’
Jane looked up, shocked. ‘Of course not. She wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to find this place.’
‘Then you won’t mind if I take a look around?’
Jane looked baffled and angry. ‘You people,’ she said bitterly. ‘If I say no, you’ll think I have something to hide. If I say yes, I’ll feel insulted and invaded.’ Her head came up and she looked Rigston straight in the eye. ‘Fine. Look all you want.’ It was a direct gaze that told Rigston he was wasting his time. Still, it didn’t do to be seen to back down.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘You’re only doing your job. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
I had dreamed of Toobouai as our new Eden, a small paradise for those of us who had weathered the worst of storms. I took advantage of the apparent newfound friendliness of the natives & negotiated land for a fort with the natives & relations were good at first. But factions grew within the crew. There were not enough Otaheitian women to go around & the native women would only be taken by force, which practice I could not approve. Some of the men wished to return to Otaheite, others simply to flout my authority because they thought they were their own masters now, not understanding the need for leadership to provide unity of purpose until a colony could be properly established. In the end, I decided we should go back to Otaheite to allow those who wished to disembark. But while we were yet making our preparations to leave, it came to all out war with the Toobouaian natives & it became clear to me that we could never return there as settlers. I was bitterly disappointed & could not but see this failure as my responsibility.
25
Tenille shivered in the sharp gust of wind that swirled into the gap in the rock formation where she had taken shelter late in the afternoon. After she’d seen Jake on the hillside, she’d scrambled up the fell away from the path, scrunching down among the brown fronds of bracken till he had finally walked out of sight. Damp and cold, she’d headed cautiously in his wake and stood where he’d been standing.
There was one farm in his line of sight, and she reasoned that it must be Jane’s home. Who else would he be spying on, after all? She supposed she ought to be grateful to him. She’d been uncertain how she was going to find it. She didn’t want to break cover and ask anyone for directions. And although she was pretty sure she would recognise the place from Jane’s photographs, she wasn’t sure how many farms would be scattered around Fellhead.
Once she’d spotted the farm, the next problem was how to get to it. She frowned at the map. The obvious way was to carry on along the path till she came to the road that led down into Fellhead. Then she would have to walk through the village and up the lane to the Greshams’ farm. If she was going to do that safely, she’d need to wait for darkness to fall and she’d have no way of knowing who was in the farmhouse. Making contact with Jane without anyone else knowing would be difficult.
The alternative was to strike out over open country, cutting down the hill at an angle that would bring her out above the farm. She could see a rocky outcropping that might give her enough cover to keep watch and wait till she could be sure of getting Jane on her own. Unappetising though her route looked from here, it was the only sensible option.
She’d set off down the slope, realising within minutes that this was a lot harder than walking the paths. The ground was uneven, tussocks of coarse cottongrass and heather threatening her ankles. Every now and then she would step unwittingly into boggy peat that threatened to pull the shoes from her feet. It was slow going, and the afternoon had worn away by the time she reached the rocks she’d set as her target. To her relief, there was a narrow cleft in the outcropping on the side facing the farm and she squeezed into it. The ground was fairly dry, being protected by an overhang, so she sat down with a deep sigh of relief. She couldn’t remember ever having been so tired. All that kept her awake were the sharp pangs of hunger that made her stomach grumble.
Tenille was surprised by the sprawl of the farm and its outbuildings. When she thought of farms, she thought of thatched cottages surrounded by fields, maybe with an occasional charming stone barn thrown in. But here, three sides of the farmyard were flanked by buildings. The farmhouse itself was a sturdy two-storey building that took up most of the width of the side facing the gate. The two longer sides were occupied by an assortment of outbuildings, ranging from a long low shed with metal panelled walls and a corrugated plastic roof to a variety of squat stone buildings. She had no idea what they were all used for.
The first sign of life was the arrival of a Land Rover which pulled over to one side of the yard. A man got out of the driver’s seat, followed by two black-and-white dogs. The dogs disappeared into a wooden hut near the big shed and the man went into the house. Half an hour later, he came back out again, loaded a couple of hay bales into the Land Rover and drove off with the dogs. He returned twenty minutes later.
Just before seven, a dark green 4×4 pulled into the yard. A man and woman came out of the house and got into the back seat before it drove off again. Jane’s parents, she assumed. But still no sign of Jane herself. Tenille was starting to fret. What if Jane wasn’t here? What if she was off with her mates, having a night out and staying over? What if she’d had to go somewhere else for her research project? Tenille didn’t know what to do. She felt faint with hunger and her mouth was so dry she didn’t think she’d be able to speak.
A little after eight, the yard lights came on to reveal a red Fiesta driving into the yard. Tenille jumped to her feet with deli
ght when she saw Jane emerge from the driver’s seat. But instead of making for the house, Jane walked back out of the gate, turning down the hill towards Fellhead.
Dejected, Tenille slumped against the rock. She blinked back tears. She’d come so far in every sense, but she had practically exhausted her reserves. She knew there was no way she could endure a night on the fell in the open. She made a deal with herself. If Jane wasn’t home by midnight, she’d creep down to the farm and find somewhere she could sleep. How hard could that be?
Time dragged by. Tenille found things to be amazed by: the quiet that fell like a blanket with the dark; the carpet of stars entirely alien to one brought up in the light pollution of London; the way the air changed its smell as it grew more chill; but most of all that she didn’t find all this strangeness scary. How did Jane endure the noise and the stink and the perpetual neon of London when she’d grown up with this?