Fire in the Barley: A traditional English murder mystery (Dan Mallett Investigations Book 1) by Frank Parrish & Roger Longrigg

Author:Frank Parrish & Roger Longrigg [Parrish, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2020-07-12T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

There was glass all over the kitchen garden. The enormous greenhouse was a twisted skeleton. The precious exotic flowers were wide-strewn shreds of compost.

‘Gelignite,’ murmured Dan, awed by the extent of the mess. He knew nothing about explosives, but the news had made the name familiar. It was what they used in quarries and for making motorways; it was what terrorists got hold of.

No grapes for the old lady. This thing was getting really annoying.

Dan blamed himself, to a small extent, for the explosion. Mr Calloway had paid, but the payment nestled against Dan’s ribs. It was hard on Mr Calloway.

But it was in the public interest. Dan had found a few things out, at the cost of Mr Calloway’s greenhouse. AgriSecurity had contact, or could easily make contact, with the local criminal element. It knew who the bad men were and how to get hold of them. It had this knowledge, as well as local knowledge of farms and gardens and fishponds. It had a telephone, and its men had the telephone number. Dan cursed himself for failing to get the number.

Dan heard shouts and running feet. He turned and ran himself, ran like hell across the orchard and across the fields. To be seen at the house, at a moment like this, would be very embarrassing. To be collared with the money under his shirt — that would be a ten-year sentence.

He fetched up, panting, in the lane by Cobb Wood. There was nobody about. Dan found he was even more tired than he’d thought. He wanted to ride the motor-scooter home. He decided against it. The machine committed him to the roads, and there’d be police cars on the roads after the explosion. The scooter was all right where it was. Probably nobody would find it until the bracken died down in the winter, unless a young couple bunked up in there. (Bracken was perfect for that, as Dan knew from long experience: it grew tall and thick, no nettles or thistles grew under it, and it kept the flies away; once girls got used to it they liked it, unless they were frightened of snakes or spiders.) Even if the scooter was found, it didn’t greatly matter. Nobody knew Dan had ridden it. The big man had stolen it.

The sky was beginning to pale when Dan got home, more exhausted than he ever remembered feeling. He hid the money in the undergrowth well away from the cottage; it would be safe in the plastic bag. He greeted the dogs and quieted their excited clamour. His mother called to him fretfully as he opened the cottage door. She said the dogs had just woken her up, but he guessed she’d been awake for a long time, in pain, waiting for him, worrying.

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