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In the light of his torch he saw the sharp rocks that protruded out of the
ground as though they were waiting to spear a falling body, to batter and
crush it to death.
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At last he made it to the college, lurched inside and bolted the door behind
him. Jesus, the light was painful. He looked at his reflection in the mirror
above the kitchen sink: dishevelled, his features coated with grey ash, but no
sign of any physical hi jury. He sank down into the big leather armchair. All
he needed was rest; he'd be all right then. After that he'd speak with PC
Calvert. This business had progressed beyond the slaughter of domestic animals
and malicious phone calls. GBH was the official police term for it. The law
would have to do something now.
Peter slept the sleep of the exhausted and awoke stiff but refreshed some time
after nine o'clock the next morning. He washed, cleaned up and made some
coffee. Outside, weak sunlight flooded the hills almost as though it was an
apology for the past few days of continual low cloud. Not a breath of wind, so
peaceful.
He stood looking out of the window for some minutes, idly wondering where the
big herd of deer was; probably over on Ruskin's land. Those lights last night
had surely scared the hell out of them. And it was likely to happen again
unless . . .
But he couldn't stop here all day wondering about what might and what might
not happen. The first thing was a trip down to Woodside, to report that the
telephone was out of order and call on the police. He wouldn't get any writing
done today but there was always tomorrow.
Peter stepped outside and locked the door behind him. He looked up once more
towards the forest; a few sheep grazing - Ruskin's strays, probably - but
still no sign of the deer.
The Saab was parked on the wide verge adjoining the entrance to Hodre, a
dignified example of the car industry in Sweden. But suddenly it didn't look
dignified any more. At first glance it was reminiscent of a sleek racehorse
that has gone lame and been put to graze in a sanatorium enclosure. Pitiful,
deprived of the power and speed with which its owner has always associated it.
Peter stared in disbelief, the sudden shock of what he saw causing the
throbbing pain in his head to start up again. The Saab was a dead thing,
almost dovm to its chassis in the long rough grass, all four tyres flat!
Peter did not curse. He had run out of steam, barely had the strength left to
muster a curse. Despair, knowing there was no way he was going to drive the
car down to Woodside, the futility of it all striking him like the karate chop
of the previous night. He closed his eyes, wanting to open them again and
discover that he wasn't a writer, after all; that it had all been a pipe-dream
and he was back in Perrycroft, a nine-till-five man with no problems, a wife
and son who hadn't left home. But it was real enough. He was a writer, a
self-styled recluse in a back-of-beyond place known as Hodre, and his only
means of transport had four slashed tyres.
He moved forward slowly. A cursory glance at the Dun-lops as he passed
confirmed that they had all been ribboned with some sharp instrument. Without
a pause, he embarked upon the hour-long trek which would take him to Woodside.
He shook his head to try and clear it, but started off the kaleidoscopic
lights again.
Peter wondered how any literate person could write so slowly. PC Calvert
seemed to concentrate on forming each letter with great precision, going back
to dot an i every so often. A statement, Peter had always thought, was a kind
of precis of a verbal recital of events. But it was as though the officer was
determined to write a novel on the recent happenings at Hodre.
'Now if you'll just sign here for me, Mr Fogg . . . ' Peter scrawled his
signature, not bothering to read through what the policeman had written. So
far, this meeting had taken the best part of an hour and neither of them
seemed to have reached any kind of conclusion.
'Good.' Calvert took his papers and ballpoint back and dropped them in a
filing basket. 'I'll have a word with the chief about this, as well as making
a few enquiries of my own.'
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'But what the hell d'you think is going on?' Peter snapped. 'Apart from
anything to scare us away from Hodre - and having already succeeded as far as
my wife and son are concerned -what were all these searchlights in the night?'
'Lampers, I'd say.' Calvert stroked his chin thoughtfully.
'Lampers?'
'Poachers who work with high-powered battery lamps and lurchers after rabbits
and hares. I reckon the lads were giving Hodre the once-over last night and
you were foolish enough to go out there.'
'You mean Peters and Bostock Peter tensed. That pair who poach at night and
have already done time for beating up a gamekeeper? Just like they did me!'
'No-o-o.' Calvert pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Not them, but I'll definitely
check on them. Lamping isn't their style. They use long-nets: nets about fifty
yards long, which they stake out, and then use the dogs to drive the rabbits
and hares into the net. The only light they ever use is the moon. Occasionally
they use ferrets in the warrens, sometimes snares. But never guns or lamps,
take it from me.'
'Just suppose' - Peter leaned forward - 'that these chaps last night weren't
poachers at all. There have been two atrocious animal killings, like
sacrifices. Black magic covens are springing up all over the place.'
'Mostly around the cities.' Calvert shook his head slowly; he was a countryman
himself and the answer had to lie in the field he knew best. 'I'd say it was
poachers, Mr Fogg. Rabbits fetch one-fifty a couple in the market, and anybody
who knows what he's about with a lamp and a lurcher can bag forty or fifty in
a night. I don't reckon there's any link between last night and those phone
calls, maybe not even the animal killings either. I reckon you've stirred up a
mixture of poachers, Welsh nationalists, and hooligans. Anyway we'll patrol
the lanes up by you for a week or so . . . '
Which you've already bloody well promised to do and haven't, Peter thought.
I'll give you a lift back up to Hodre.' Calvert rose to his feet and picked up
his cap. 'I've got to go and call on a farmer over the other side who's had
some sheep savaged by dogs, and I can make a detour to drop you off. In all
probability Barratts will be up there by now with four new tyres for your car,
and the telephone company doesn't waste time fixing telephones in this part of
the world; they know only too well how folks living in remote areas might need
'em in an emergency.'
A little shiver ran up Peter's spine. He just hoped that both Barratts Garage
and British Telecom were as efficient as PC Calvert claimed. Emergencies were
becoming all too frequent.
As the police panda van slowed alongside Hodre, Peter saw that the Saab was
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