into Sutherland’s face, his eyes alight with something akin to, if not merriment, then certainly mischief. It would not have surprised Ross to see him actually twirl the tips of his waxed mustache.
“Good God, he’s serious,” Sutherland said.
“Never more so. The rain seems to have let up nicely. We’d best be pushing off. We’ll just nip round to your flat and pick up your Mini. Oh, and your murder bag, of course.”
“Nip round?” Sutherland said, glancing over his shoulder at the rainlashed windows of The Crown and Anchor.
It was well after midnight when Sutherland whipped the racing green Cooper Mini S through a roundabout, did a racing change down into second, and then accelerated into a narrow lane leading to the tiny village of Upper Slaughter. Curtains of rain and standing water on these country roads made driving a bit of a challenge, but Ross had every confidence in his car, having raced it successfully at Goodwood and other venues in far worse conditions. A crack of lightning illuminated a road sign as he roared past. Three miles to the village proper, meaning the church would be coming up on his left any moment now. The hedgerows were high and solid on both sides of the lane and Sutherland leaned forward in his seat, looking for some familiar landmark.
“I’m well aware of the fact that you think we’re chasing wild geese, Sutherland,” Congreve said, breaking his silence and peering through the bleared windscreen. “But, now that we appear to be gaining on them, could you ease off the throttle a bit?”
“Sorry. Force of habit.”
Sutherland slowed and Congreve sat back in his seat. He looked over at Ross and smiled. “Sporting of you to do this, actually.”
“Not at all, sir,” Sutherland said, downshifting as they went into a tight right-hander. “You were right about this trip. I feel better about the thing already. No matter what we find or don’t find. Thing is, I keep asking myself, why Vicky? Alex has no end of enemies. But, Vicky? Ach! It’s right senseless then, isn’t it?”
Ambrose Congreve said, “She was shot through the heart with a sniper rifle. At a range where the power of the scope used made the margin of error miniscule. Vicky was the target. It was deliberate and it was meant to hurt Alex as much as humanly possible. I’ve made a list of every single person or entity with reason to inflict such agony on Alex Hawke. You and I are going to go through that list one by one until we find—hold on, here’s your turning just ahead on the left.”
Ten minutes later they were slogging up the muddy hillside in their green gumboots and yellow macs, the beams from their powerful flashlights stabbing through dense veils of rain. Forward visibility was less than five feet and the storm seemed to be gaining in intensity.
“Bloody weather front seems to have beat us up here,” Congreve cried, the two of them having to shout to be heard above the downpour and constant rumble of thunderclaps.
“We’re almost there. It’s up on the brow of the hill, just beyond this graveyard,” Ross shouted back.
An arc of lightning momentarily lit up the little cemetery with stark white light and Congreve managed to avoid a substantial head-stone which would have sent him sprawling. The ground angled fairly sharply upwards now, and Congreve’s torch caught the fluorescent yellow crime scene tape the SOCO chaps had strung from tree to tree. The footing in this porridgy muck was treacherous and it was all a man could do just to stay on his feet.
“I’m sure scene-of-crime officers have cleared away all the land mines,” Ambrose shouted ahead to Sutherland who was leading the way now, almost to the tapes. He was not at all sure. He’d only just recalled that this entire area had been chockablock with antipersonnel land mines the day of the murder. He guessed they’d all been removed; still the thing was a bit dicey.
“Only one way to find out,” Sutherland said. He
“Good God, he’s serious,” Sutherland said.
“Never more so. The rain seems to have let up nicely. We’d best be pushing off. We’ll just nip round to your flat and pick up your Mini. Oh, and your murder bag, of course.”
“Nip round?” Sutherland said, glancing over his shoulder at the rainlashed windows of The Crown and Anchor.
It was well after midnight when Sutherland whipped the racing green Cooper Mini S through a roundabout, did a racing change down into second, and then accelerated into a narrow lane leading to the tiny village of Upper Slaughter. Curtains of rain and standing water on these country roads made driving a bit of a challenge, but Ross had every confidence in his car, having raced it successfully at Goodwood and other venues in far worse conditions. A crack of lightning illuminated a road sign as he roared past. Three miles to the village proper, meaning the church would be coming up on his left any moment now. The hedgerows were high and solid on both sides of the lane and Sutherland leaned forward in his seat, looking for some familiar landmark.
“I’m well aware of the fact that you think we’re chasing wild geese, Sutherland,” Congreve said, breaking his silence and peering through the bleared windscreen. “But, now that we appear to be gaining on them, could you ease off the throttle a bit?”
“Sorry. Force of habit.”
Sutherland slowed and Congreve sat back in his seat. He looked over at Ross and smiled. “Sporting of you to do this, actually.”
“Not at all, sir,” Sutherland said, downshifting as they went into a tight right-hander. “You were right about this trip. I feel better about the thing already. No matter what we find or don’t find. Thing is, I keep asking myself, why Vicky? Alex has no end of enemies. But, Vicky? Ach! It’s right senseless then, isn’t it?”
Ambrose Congreve said, “She was shot through the heart with a sniper rifle. At a range where the power of the scope used made the margin of error miniscule. Vicky was the target. It was deliberate and it was meant to hurt Alex as much as humanly possible. I’ve made a list of every single person or entity with reason to inflict such agony on Alex Hawke. You and I are going to go through that list one by one until we find—hold on, here’s your turning just ahead on the left.”
Ten minutes later they were slogging up the muddy hillside in their green gumboots and yellow macs, the beams from their powerful flashlights stabbing through dense veils of rain. Forward visibility was less than five feet and the storm seemed to be gaining in intensity.
“Bloody weather front seems to have beat us up here,” Congreve cried, the two of them having to shout to be heard above the downpour and constant rumble of thunderclaps.
“We’re almost there. It’s up on the brow of the hill, just beyond this graveyard,” Ross shouted back.
An arc of lightning momentarily lit up the little cemetery with stark white light and Congreve managed to avoid a substantial head-stone which would have sent him sprawling. The ground angled fairly sharply upwards now, and Congreve’s torch caught the fluorescent yellow crime scene tape the SOCO chaps had strung from tree to tree. The footing in this porridgy muck was treacherous and it was all a man could do just to stay on his feet.
“I’m sure scene-of-crime officers have cleared away all the land mines,” Ambrose shouted ahead to Sutherland who was leading the way now, almost to the tapes. He was not at all sure. He’d only just recalled that this entire area had been chockablock with antipersonnel land mines the day of the murder. He guessed they’d all been removed; still the thing was a bit dicey.
“Only one way to find out,” Sutherland said. He
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