Stolen by Paul Finch

Author:Paul Finch [Paul Finch]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2019-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Malcolm Peabody waited glumly about thirty yards from the dog-pit, halfway up one of the encircling slopes, though even there he wasn’t out of range of the choke-inducing stench. He still wore the same civvies he’d been wearing earlier, though when Lucy had popped back on her motorbike, bringing the forensics tent, she’d also, at his request, brought him a black police-issue waterproof jacket. In the end the rain hadn’t come, but Peabody was still wearing it, because, as the night drew on, the breeze stiffened.

They’d managed to erect the tent over the pit, but clumsily. It would normally be a square, boxy structure, but here it was lopsided, leaning precariously, partly because of the unstable ground surrounding the hole. To compensate, they’d deployed an extra barrier of incident-scene tape around the outside. Not that anyone was likely to come snooping out here.

Lucy had departed again on her bike a while back, in an effort to get face-time with the brass in order to beg for a full forensics team. But Peabody wasn’t quite alone. A light still bobbed inside the forensics tent, where an RSPCA vet was looking over the charred remains. She’d been in there a good hour, and even though she was clad neck-to-toe in biohazard overalls and wearing breathing apparatus with a small oxygen cylinder slung at her hip, the PC was beginning to wonder how she could stand it.

Of course, it was no more fun outside. Down here in the depression, it was difficult to see the rest of the landfill, but on the few occasions during the evening when he’d trekked up to the rim to check things out, he’d seen progressively less and less of it as dusk became twilight and twilight became night. Now, there was nothing out there but darkness, though occasional lurid glows issued from the one or two fires still burning, with skeins of greasy smoke drifting ghostlike across the shapeless terrain.

‘Fucking Mordor,’ he muttered.

Thanks to the silence that otherwise embraced this lifeless land, Peabody heard the approach of Lucy’s returning motorbike some time before she arrived. It was a red Ducati M900, an excellent road-bike but not ideal for scrambling, hence she was taking her time as she followed the rugged track. The grinding rev of the engine sounded for several minutes before her headlight speared into view and she braked on the ridge, applying the kick-stand and climbing off. Peabody scrambled uphill as she removed her helmet. She’d pulled a leather jacket over her sweatshirt and replaced her trainers with lace-up boots. Now she pulled her gloves off and jammed them into her helmet, before producing a Maglite and switching it on.

‘Anything?’ she asked.

‘Vet’s not finished yet.’

She nodded, as they plodded down the slope together.

‘Did you find a petrol can or anything?’ she asked, referring to the last order she’d given him before setting off earlier.

‘Nothing in the vicinity that might have been used to transport or deliver any kind of accelerant.’

She made no reply.

‘So … is the show on the road?’ he asked.

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