PURSUIT
Chapter 5 - Travelling Companions
My Aunt and Uncle lived in a large, stone built house in its own grounds on the edge of the Peak District National Park. I knew they would not be at home until later in the afternoon; that was when they were expecting me to arrive. However, I now made straight for their dwelling because, for the job I had to do, I needed privacy.
It was pretty obvious that somebody was interested in my car; not for the vehicle itself - which was nothing that special - but, apparently, for what lay inside it. At first I had thought opportunistic thieves had been trying to steal the car radio but the second attempted break-in through the window of the garage had the appearance of something much more premeditated. This was the idea which had struck me at the time and, as it grew, I reasoned that there must be something in the car which somebody was looking for. This seemed to be the only explanation which met the facts. Whatever was in there, my pursuers must want it badly - why else tail me through the streets of Sheffield and keep me in their sights? Was I mistaken about the pursuit up the motorway? Perhaps those cars hadn't belonged to the police after all.
The only way to resolve the puzzle was to carry out a search and find whatever those people were after. This was why I now headed for the seclusion of my Aunt's grounds. The day was bright and cool and, as the town gave way to the countryside and with no obvious signs of any pursuit, I began to relax. I drove through a number of pretty villages - each looking clean and fresh - and eventually turned the car off the lane into a long drive which led to a wide, gravel square at the front of my Aunt's house. Leaving the car unlocked, with the keys in the ignition, I rung the doorbell and, as I stood waiting, I became aware of a soothing quiet all around me, punctuated occasionally by a burst of melodic birdsong. My rings going unanswered, I was confident that my relatives had not yet returned.
I walked back to the car and began to ponder where anybody might have concealed anything and what I might find. This naturally led on to me considering who could possibly have gained access to my car in the first place. As I mentally thought back over those persons I had recently shared journeys with, or had given lifts to, I suddenly remembered Keith Rowdon of a couple of evenings ago reaching down to adjust his seat. This was a perfectly natural action of course but now I wondered whether it had been done to cover up something else.
Accordingly, I sprawled across the driver's side and reached down under the passenger seat. I could feel nothing. Just to make doubly sure I opened the passenger door and tried to grope under the seat. Was that something which brushed my fingers, just out of reach? I opened the rear passenger doors and crawled on the floor between the seats, reaching under the front passenger seat.
Yes, there was something there after all. As my fingers groped around, I could feel a smallish block of something and, stretching further, managed to grasp this and pull it towards me. As it surfaced into the light, I could see it was a compact parcel of some chemical substance, wrapped in clear plastic. Still keeping my awkward position, I looked more closely.
Now, I worked for a major pharmaceutical company and my qualifications and training had been in chemistry. It didn't take me long to realise that this little parcel contained hydrochloride powder, the raw material for illicit drug making. There was enough here to make somebody very rich indeed. I turned the package over and to my horror saw something which, although I had never observed one quite this closely, was without doubt a tiny transmitter. There was a miniature red light showing, indicating that it was switched on. At that very moment I heard, quite close to me, a footfall on the gravel.
My heart stopped! In a fraction of a second the pit of my stomach wrenched tight and I could feel the blood rushing from my head. Then I heard my heart pounding and felt myself break out into a cold sweat. A voice spoke.
"Stay exactly where you are. Do not move one muscle".
The intonation was aggressive; arrogant almost, the voice deep and treacly. It contained a lot of menace, particularly stressed on the last two words.
Uncomfortable as I was, sprawled on the floor of the car between the front and back seats, I held my breath and forced myself to remain absolutely still, even though every nerve was shaking. I heard more footsteps and after what seemed an eternity the voice spoke again.
"Now come backwards out of the car - very slowly and no tricks". Again, the last two words were spoken in louder, even more threatening tones.
Gingerly I found the ground again as I eased myself backwards out of the rear door. Slowly and painfully I stood up and looked round. Facing me was a double-barrelled shotgun, behind which stood a stocky man placidly covering my movements. To my right was a taller man and I noticed he too carried a firearm. I could find nothing to utter.
The first man beckoned me with the rifle to move away from the car, whilst the taller gent moved towards me with an outstretched hand. It was clear he wanted me to relinquish the packet I still clung to so I tossed it down in front of me, rather hoping the transmitter might break as it hit the ground.
Then I heard a third person approach from behind. How these three had surrounded me without my having noticed I could not fathom; I presumed I had been so engrossed with my search in the car that I had not heard their stealthy footsteps. They must have approached via the flower borders or I would surely have heard their feet on the gravel. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the third man come near me.
"We have a car at the end of the drive" he said. "You will walk towards this slowly, keeping at all times your eyes straight ahead". The voice sounded English enough but the strange word order made me think that one, at least, of my combatants may be a foreigner.
I was beginning to recover my composure a little now but nevertheless did as I was bid, for any thought of escape was quite out of the question. As I neared the end of the drive, I saw a car waiting with a driver at the wheel. I was convinced it was the same vehicle that I had first seen in the Sheffield multi-storey car park and which had dogged me ever since. In a strange sort of way, this gave me a sense of satisfaction that my hunch had been correct.
The man who had been behind me and the tall fellow bundled me in to the back of the car and we all sped quickly away into the countryside. From time to time one of my companions glanced over his shoulder and I had the impression that the stocky man was following behind us in my own car.
Other than the driver saying to me "The child locks are on, so you couldn't get out if you wanted to", not another word was spoken. Yet the guns the men carried were in evidence all the time.
I wondered where they were taking me; whether we would end up in some remote spot where I would be executed. All the time we were driving deeper into Derbyshire, heading up towards remote farmsteads on the edge of the moor. Just when I thought we must be nearing journey's end, the villain next to me roughly covered my eyes with a blindfold. The car carried on.
After some time I got the impression that we were dropping down again off the moor but, other than this, was surprised at how disoriented I was. Eventually, after one last turn, the car slowed and stopped and I was manhandled out and up a few steps into a draughty and pungent smelling interior. The blindfold was removed and I stood blinking at the stocky man who was now facing me, seated behind a large desk from which great flakes of veneer were peeling.
"How much do you know?" he queried simply.
"All I know is that you guys have been following me around and trying to break into my car", I replied nervously. "I just wanted to get away from you".
"Who are you?". My interrogator frowned.
"My name is Richard and I am meant to be on holiday. I was due to stay with my Aunt and Uncle and", here I became emboldened for the first time since my capture, "they are probably missing me by now and will soon start making enquiries".
"Don't kid yourself, my son", he responded. Then, to my armed guard but with a sideways grimace at me:
"Lock him up until Mike arrives. He'll soon discover just what this interfering meddler knows. Stick him in the attic".
I was frogmarched out of the room and up a filthy flight of back stairs. On the way up I asked the man gripping my arm who "Mike" was.
"Our leader - the boss. He won't stand any lip from you" was his surly reply.
The stairs led up to a cottage style door, beyond which was the attic. The only light in that place came from a small, dirty window. I stood silent while my guard retreated to the door and, once the key had turned in the lock, I ambled over to the window to take stock of where I was.
© Richard Farquharson, Maulden, Bedfordshire June 2017