Beast of the Field: A DS Heckenburg Novella by Paul Finch

Author:Paul Finch [Finch, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brentwood Press
Published: 2025-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

7

Bourne End was an affluent country town of the sort you found all across South Buckinghamshire. It boasted a riverside village atmosphere, pubs, restaurants, a marina, and further ‘inland’, amidst masses of natural greenery, uber-swish housing developments.

Newland Crescent, where Barbara Carrington lived alone, wasn’t quite of that status; it was on the edge of the town, situated at the lower end of the middle-class spectrum, but it still comprised detached houses and pruned privet hedges. It was also exceedingly quiet, though most likely that owed to the lateness of the hour. It was around eleven-thirty when Heck drove through, making his customary recce. The house in question, No. 22, was almost indistinguishable from all the others, except that it had a sizeable caravan on its drive, and whereas some lights were visible from elsewhere on the estate, all the lights here were off.

Again, he parked several streets away, just on the other side of a gate that opened onto a narrow farm-track, where even the autumn-thinned bushes would conceal his car from the main road. After stowing the gun under the driving seat – he’d no desire to get caught on private property with an illegal firearm – he made his way back on foot, but veered off-road first, accessing the belt of woodland that ran behind Newland Crescent.

Once he was in there, the fact this increasingly felt like a ridiculous longshot didn’t prevent the eeriness of the location getting to him. There was almost no lighting at the back of the houses. Many were screened by high fences or hedges, while moonbeams barely penetrated the decayed canopy overhead, meaning that at ground level the wood was almost completely black. There was even an owl hooting, just to add to the atmosphere, the only other sound a soft rustling as he pushed past clumps of undergrowth.

When he reached what he assumed was the rear of No. 22, he halted, holding his breath.

On one hand his luck was in: this rear fence was made from slatted wood and only reached chest height; it was also old and rickety, so even if he couldn’t climb it, he could probably force his way through. On the other, this meant he had no excuse not to proceed and have a mooch around on the property itself, even though he’d be going in as a trespasser. He appraised the darkened building carefully. The absence of light made it difficult to distinguish anything, though he could just about see a French window downstairs, behind which a curtain was half-drawn. Several yards to the left of that stood a wrought-iron side gate, where a passage led to the front of the premises.

Making no quick or jerky movements, he clambered over the fence, alighting quietly on the lawn, where he dropped to a crouch, nervous that some motion-sensitive light might be activated. But nothing of that sort happened. Rising up again, he went stealthily forward, encroaching on the French window, pressing his face against it to look through, using his pen-light to assist.

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