had better be the truth.’
Thornycroft saw the flash of steel as a knife appeared in the man’s hand.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘I told them nothing!’
The man walked up to him, leaning so close that Thornycroft could smell his fetid breath and feel the chill of the knife’s blade against his neck.
‘Keep it that way,’ said the man and walked out into the night.
CHAPTER SIX
Jasmine Riley sat on the bed in her toom at the Roxham guest-house and stared down at the mobile phone in her hand. Why did Trevor not ring? He had said he would ring. Promised he would ring. Promised that they would arrange where to meet up again once they were both safely out of the valley. Said he would give her the name of the pub in Newcastle. Trevor had impressed upon her the importance of not ringing him: if anything happened to him, he had said, the last thing he wanted was his phone falling into the wrong hands. GPS, he had said for the umpteenth time, these people could do wonders with GPS. You had to be careful when dealing with these people, he had said, had to keep one step ahead of the game, make sure you gave them no way of tracking you down. She had often wondered how he knew these things, where he had learned to speak in such a way. Don’t worry, he had said, with a reassuring smile just before leaving the cottage that morning, he would ring.
But he hadn’t.
Jasmine Riley looked down at the phone for a few more moments then up at the clock. 10 p.m. it said. She sighed.
‘Sorry, love,’ she said and dialled Trevor Meredith’s number.
High up in the dark northern hills, lying among bracken in a valley swept with rain, Trevor Meredith’s mobile phone rang and rang and rang.
Ten miles north of Levton Bridge, a battered old red pick-up drove slowly along the road as it wound its way like a ribbon through the bottom of the valley. The vehicle’s headlights, one much dimmer than the other, were the only illumination in the darkness and showed up flecks of driving rain. The vehicle slowed next to the entrance to one of the small fields that patchworked the hillside and the passenger, a man with a flat cap jammed over his shock of white hair, got out and walked, bow-legged and stooped, to open the gate. The job done, Harry Galbraith walked back to the vehicle where the driver, Dennis Soames, a stocky tousled-haired farmer in his thirties, wound down the window.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Should be alreet,’ said Galbraith.
The pick-up reversed slowly into the entrance and drew to a halt, its nose hardly noticeable from the road. Soames cut the lights then waited for Galbraith to rejoin him. Sitting there with their windows down, the two men listened to the sounds of the night – the patter of rain on the vehicle’s windscreen, the whining of the wind across the rock escarpment far above them and, occasionally, the plaintive sound of a sheep bleating as it sheltered from the storm behind one of the drystone walls.
‘Old man Jenner all right with us parking here?’ asked Soames.
‘Aye, as long as he don’t have to do no work, he’ll be fine.’
Both men laughed and Harry Galbraith rooted around in his canvas bag before producing two tin-foil packages and handing one of them to Soames.
‘Ham,’ he said.
‘Grand.’
Galbraith rummaged around a bit more and produced a flask and two plastic cups.
‘Tea,’ he announced.
‘E’en better.’
Galbraith reached into the bag again and produced a small Tupperware box.
‘Cake,’ he said. ‘Home-made.’
‘Your Elsie knows how to look after us, Harry.’
For a few moments, the only sound in the vehicle was the munching of sandwiches then Soames looked at his friend.
‘Are you going to try the police again, Harry?’
‘No need.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ Soames looked anxious. ‘I mean, we’re out here on our own. Jack Harris did say that we should only do it with the police around and we’ve heard nowt from them since you talked
Thornycroft saw the flash of steel as a knife appeared in the man’s hand.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘I told them nothing!’
The man walked up to him, leaning so close that Thornycroft could smell his fetid breath and feel the chill of the knife’s blade against his neck.
‘Keep it that way,’ said the man and walked out into the night.
CHAPTER SIX
Jasmine Riley sat on the bed in her toom at the Roxham guest-house and stared down at the mobile phone in her hand. Why did Trevor not ring? He had said he would ring. Promised he would ring. Promised that they would arrange where to meet up again once they were both safely out of the valley. Said he would give her the name of the pub in Newcastle. Trevor had impressed upon her the importance of not ringing him: if anything happened to him, he had said, the last thing he wanted was his phone falling into the wrong hands. GPS, he had said for the umpteenth time, these people could do wonders with GPS. You had to be careful when dealing with these people, he had said, had to keep one step ahead of the game, make sure you gave them no way of tracking you down. She had often wondered how he knew these things, where he had learned to speak in such a way. Don’t worry, he had said, with a reassuring smile just before leaving the cottage that morning, he would ring.
But he hadn’t.
Jasmine Riley looked down at the phone for a few more moments then up at the clock. 10 p.m. it said. She sighed.
‘Sorry, love,’ she said and dialled Trevor Meredith’s number.
High up in the dark northern hills, lying among bracken in a valley swept with rain, Trevor Meredith’s mobile phone rang and rang and rang.
Ten miles north of Levton Bridge, a battered old red pick-up drove slowly along the road as it wound its way like a ribbon through the bottom of the valley. The vehicle’s headlights, one much dimmer than the other, were the only illumination in the darkness and showed up flecks of driving rain. The vehicle slowed next to the entrance to one of the small fields that patchworked the hillside and the passenger, a man with a flat cap jammed over his shock of white hair, got out and walked, bow-legged and stooped, to open the gate. The job done, Harry Galbraith walked back to the vehicle where the driver, Dennis Soames, a stocky tousled-haired farmer in his thirties, wound down the window.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Should be alreet,’ said Galbraith.
The pick-up reversed slowly into the entrance and drew to a halt, its nose hardly noticeable from the road. Soames cut the lights then waited for Galbraith to rejoin him. Sitting there with their windows down, the two men listened to the sounds of the night – the patter of rain on the vehicle’s windscreen, the whining of the wind across the rock escarpment far above them and, occasionally, the plaintive sound of a sheep bleating as it sheltered from the storm behind one of the drystone walls.
‘Old man Jenner all right with us parking here?’ asked Soames.
‘Aye, as long as he don’t have to do no work, he’ll be fine.’
Both men laughed and Harry Galbraith rooted around in his canvas bag before producing two tin-foil packages and handing one of them to Soames.
‘Ham,’ he said.
‘Grand.’
Galbraith rummaged around a bit more and produced a flask and two plastic cups.
‘Tea,’ he announced.
‘E’en better.’
Galbraith reached into the bag again and produced a small Tupperware box.
‘Cake,’ he said. ‘Home-made.’
‘Your Elsie knows how to look after us, Harry.’
For a few moments, the only sound in the vehicle was the munching of sandwiches then Soames looked at his friend.
‘Are you going to try the police again, Harry?’
‘No need.’
‘I’m not so sure.’ Soames looked anxious. ‘I mean, we’re out here on our own. Jack Harris did say that we should only do it with the police around and we’ve heard nowt from them since you talked
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