Three Mile Drove, Chapter Eight (standard:horror, 3012 words) [9/29] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Sep 13 2006	Views/Reads: 2838/1856	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
serialisation of a completed story; a washed up pop musician inherits a smallholding in the Fens and gets more than he's bargained for.

CHAPTER EIGHT 

‘Forensic are on their way,' McPherson said, replacing his mobile in his
coat pocket. He glanced back at Darren, who was cautiously negotiating 
the makeshift bridge over the dyke. ‘This is the first real lead we've 
had,' then observing the man's bewilderment, he added, ‘you see, the 
missing child was wearing white ankle socks on the day of her 
disappearance. Your stumbling over the mattress could just lead to the 
breakthrough we need. Now show me where you think the rock that hit 
your vehicle was thrown from, and then I'll leave you to check out your 
property.' 

They hadn't gone all that far when Darren halted at the approach to the
conifer-lined track that concealed the Tomblins' property. It occurred 
to him at once that this was the point from where the rock was thrown. 
He turned quickly to McPherson, ‘It was thrown from here, I'm sure of 
it. I flashed my torch and saw this figure running along a track just 
like this.' 

‘Except that it's not the only passage through the fields in this
drove,' McPherson said dubiously, then giving a smile that Darren found 
too smug and knowing, he added, ‘there are plenty of them around these 
parts, you'll find that out Darren if you stay long enough.' 

‘Yeah,' Darren felt his temperature rising at the thought that he was
playing the outsider once again, ‘but this has trees both sides, right? 
As far as the eye can see, I don't see any more of these. I mean, it 
sticks out like a sore thumb, even to a newcomer.' 

McPherson gave him a searching look, then shrugged his shoulders, giving
him the air of remaining unconvinced, ‘Fine,' he said glancing at the 
ground around his feet, ‘but I see no trace of anything large enough to 
dent the bodywork of a Jeep.' He bent down and clutched a handful of 
gravel from the edge of the dyke as if to emphasise his point and then 
sighed, ‘I need a word with Shaun Tumbling though, perhaps more than 
ever in view of his proximity to what we've just found. I hope 
everything turns out well with your property, thanks for your time 
Darren.' 

*                       * 

McPherson watched Darren trudge back along the drove, feeling sure that
their association would be short-lived. Darren Goldwater's stay in 
Bramble Dyke would probably be very brief indeed. 

He wouldn't be disappointed at that, though he was loathe to put his
finger on precisely why that was. It might have been that he felt rock 
musicians didn't gel too well with a small agricultural community. 

McPherson trudged along the tree-lined track and through the gap in a
huge overgrown hedge, which revealed an untidy farmyard littered with 
rusting farm machinery and an old, battered blue bus that stood beside 
a makeshift hanger-type barn. He walked to the front door and knocked 
several times, beginning to feel his patience being tested. He'd known 
there was somebody in the property, he could hear movement from inside 
but just as he was resigning himself to the fact that his call would be 
ignored he heard the bolts being drawn back. He stared directly into 
the eyes of the thickset, bearded farmer, Shaun Tomblin, whose brows he 
thought, narrowed in suspicion. 

‘Sergeant McPherson, Ely Police, Mr.Tomblin,' McPherson said bluntly,
producing his warrant card. ‘I wonder if I might have a word, it's a 
routine enquiry.' 

‘I know who you are,' Tomblin said equally gruffly, the depth of growth
on his face failing to disguise a scowl. He reluctantly left the door 
open, and McPherson followed him along a hallway so dark that when 
Tomblin opened the door to the room at the end, the sudden blaze of 
sunlight momentarily dazzled him. 

‘I ain't likely to be much help, whatever it is you want,' Tomblin
grumbled, his back to McPherson,  ‘I keep my nose out of everything 
that don't concern me. Folks around here know that, Sergeant.' He swung 
round, the lines of his large forehead knitting, ‘Now what is this? I 
don't have a lot of time for talk, I'm hard pressed enough as it is.' 


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