The Funeral Owl by Jim Kelly

Author:Jim Kelly [Kelly, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781780290492
Google: iIK4mwEACAAJ
Amazon: 1780290497
Barnesnoble: 1780290497
Goodreads: 17859404
Publisher: Creme de la Crime
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

Dryden ran because it was a kind of release, a way to turn the fear into movement, and dissipate the tension. The air was still ringing with bells and klaxons. On the horizon the strange, black, vertical cloud still hung over Barrowby Airfield.

Humph had brought the Capri forward to the level crossing barriers on the wrong side of the road, executing a swift U-turn, so that he was ready to escape the traffic. The passenger-side door was open.

‘What is it?’ said the cabbie, already accelerating away.

‘No idea.’ Voices still sounded odd, so Dryden tried to pop his ears, swallowing hard. ‘Something over on the old airfield, an explosion. Maybe fuel? Could that be it? A long-forgotten dump for aviation fuel? Or petrol stored in the unit that renovated cars?

‘I felt it through the tyres, the shock,’ said Humph. ‘Barrowby’s two miles away. That’s one hell of a bang.’

As they took the sharp bend by Christ Church the random sound of the bell grew louder. Dryden looked up and saw it still swinging wildly in its small brick arch on the roof. Opposite, outside Brimstone House, Jock Donovan stood in the road, his hands pressed to his ears.

Somewhere they heard a fire engine siren, but it was behind them, beyond the level crossing, and Dryden realized they’d be trapped there and that they’d have to drive back, taking the long way round to Barrowby Airfield.

The cab took the T-junction by The Jolly Farmers at fifty mph. The entrance barriers to Barrowby Airfield were up.

When Humph killed the engine there was total silence. Not a bird, not a grasshopper, not a bee. It was as if the landscape was in shock. The airfield itself, usually dotted with rabbits, was deserted. Not even a butterfly moved. Not even a brimstone.

There had been no sound, and now there was no smoke. It was as if the force of the blast had blown out the fire. But the location of the explosion was obvious. The roll-up door to Barrowby Oilseed’s industrial unit was buckled but still in place; the roof, low-pitched corrugated iron, was twisted and blackened, revealing rafters of charred timber. Fifty yards away the large white van lay on its side, wheels towards the blast, but the paintwork untouched.

There was something moving on the ground, in front of the burnt-out lock-up.

Dryden ran to the spot and knelt by the head of a man who lay spreadeagled, face down, on the concrete. Most of his clothes had been blown off, leaving him with torn boxers, a sleeve of a shirt and a single shoe. An odd detail, the laces were undone. In one hand he still held a dog lead. The other, naked foot trembled slightly, and the man’s hands were clawing at the concrete, but only slowly, as if in a dream. His white skin was dotted with tattoos.

Dryden turned him on to his back. It was Will Brinks, the man who’d photographed the Funeral Owl. Dryden had last seen him standing in the travellers’ field at Third Drove with a dog on the lead.

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