farmer who owns the field. Not sure who that is. But it’s not as if I’m doing any harm. He won’t even notice.”
“So no one knows you’re staying here?” Gurley started walking around the trailer.
The man followed him. Ingrid brought up the rear.
“It’s not exactly something I want to broadcast. I am squatting, after all. And… well, I don’t want my kids to find out. It is a bit of a shit hole.” He wiped his mouth again.
Gurley had reached the front of the trailer and was inspecting the door, it was hanging from one hinge. He grabbed it with both hands and yanked it from its flimsy mooring. The door snapped off like a piece of cardboard. Gurley picked up the bag Sherwood had left inside.
“Hang on,” the man said, a note of panic in his voice. “That’s nothing to do with me. I’ve never seen it before. If you’re trying to plant some evidence on me… you can—”
“Yes?”
“This is my country. You can’t just come over here and act as if you own the place. Bloody hell.” He started rubbing his back. “You know, I think I am going to make an official complaint. What’s your name?”
“I’ll tell you when we get to the station house.”
“The what?”
“I’m sure the police will want to speak to you. At length.” Gurley smiled. Even in the dark, Ingrid could see his even white teeth gleaming. “On the plus side, at least you’ll have a leak-proof roof over your head.”
“Wait a minute.” He peered at the bag in Gurley’s hand. “You’ve got to believe me, that’s not mine.”
Gurley just stared at the man, clearly enjoying his discomfort.
“Really—I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Gurley reached up a hand toward the guy’s head. The man immediately flinched. Gurley placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m feeling generous. So I’ll give you the benefit of a doubt.”
“And there’s no need to tell the police anything, is there?”
Gurley turned his head toward Ingrid. “The police? No—I don’t think we need to get the police involved at this stage.”
“Cheers, mate—I owe you one.”
Ingrid and Gurley left the man where he was and trudged across the field back to the track, Gurley keeping a tight hold of the sports bag. When they returned to the Land Rover, he unzipped it. Ingrid found a pair of nitrile gloves in her purse. She didn’t have a pair large enough to stretch over Gurley’s hands, so she searched the bag. Inside she discovered a small tent, two bed rolls, bread, cheese and a pint of milk, a change of clothes and a folded wad of bills.
“Seven hundred,” Ingrid told Gurley after a quick count.
“Wouldn’t get him that far.”
“We don’t know how much he has on him already. But I guess we can assume he must be running out of cash.”
“And maybe getting a little desperate.”
“There are kid’s clothes in the bag,” Ingrid said, doing her best to sound upbeat. “So maybe that means Tommy is still alive.”
“Or maybe that’s just what Foster wanted Sherwood to believe.”
28
Ingrid parked the Land Rover right outside the entrance to the Hare and Hounds. It was just past closing time, so she was forced to bang on the door for a good minute before it opened. Marcus Sherwood stood in the doorway, arms folded defiantly across his chest.
“Jesus. Look at the state if you.” He looked Ingrid up and down then past her toward Gurley, who was standing on the sidewalk, the sports bag grasped firmly in his hand.
Ingrid shook the remaining dirt from her clothes. “We’re just here to return some property of your mother’s.”
The young barman glanced down at the bag. “Mum hasn’t lost anything. I think you’ve made a mistake.” He started to close the door.
Ingrid shoved her foot over the threshold and grabbed the doorframe with her hand. “We could do this the friendly way, or I can call the police. It doesn’t actually make much difference to me. But your mom might prefer to keep this just between ourselves. Why don’t you go ask her?” She stepped through the doorway, forcing Sherwood’s son backwards.
“There’s no need for that.” Yvonne Sherwood appeared at the open interior door, a resigned, disappointed expression on her face. “You’d better come in.”
Once they’d settled themselves at the same table in the dining area that they’d occupied earlier, Yvonne Sherwood told her son to go to bed.
“I’d rather stay with you. Make sure you’re OK,” he said.
“I can look after myself. I’ll be up soon. If