The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

that curved down into a dip where a neat old farmhouse nestled surrounded by a dry stone wall. The place was well maintained, made easy by its simple stone paths, gravel surrounds and indigenous flora. It had long since given up its farming status in exchange for private residence. Rain speckled her windshield as she drove inside a former stable and turned off the engine. Silence descended. And with it came a sense of relief. Isolation at last. Freedom.

There were still some minor adjustments needed before the transition was complete. A change of clothes. A roaring fire. Add a glass of whisky and she would have truly arrived. She sighed in anticipation. A week off with nothing to do but long walks, books, finishing the report – which she kind of enjoyed – and read a new case file.

There was something obvious missing of course. Companionship. Bethan pushed the thought aside before it took hold, dragged the suitcase out of the boot along with a bag of groceries and headed through the light shower to the house. Within an hour she was plonked in front of a crackling fire wearing pyjamas, a thick jumper, woolly sock slippers and clutching a glass of whisky. She made herself comfortable on the rug, exhaled deeply, inhaled the moment and began the process of exorcising the serial killer from her bones.

She hadn’t realised how deeply tired she was until she woke up in darkness several hours later. The fire had gone out and she was cold. She picked up the empty whisky glass, the contents of which no doubt contributed to her snooze, put the contents of what was supposed to have been supper in the fridge and trudged off to the bedroom. Within minutes she was under a thick duvet and ready to sleep. She questioned why she was lying on one side of the double bed and forced herself into the middle in an effort to make it feel normal. But it didn’t.

Stop thinking about everything, she told herself as she curled into a ball, closed her eyes and concentrated on clearing her mind.

 

 

Chapter 5

Gunnymede sat comfortably in a shallow scrape wrapped in a camouflaged windproof with a thick fleece lining. An icy wind roamed an ocean of sand to the horizon in every direction, like lumbering waves, frozen still but for the fine spray that left their crests. He was wearing a military issue Davy Crocket bonnet with long, woolly ears against the relentless granules riding the north-west Shamal and pelting his face. Stars were everywhere, all the way to the ground, as if he was inside a vast snow-dome. There was a man-made addition to the heavenly display. A light show coming from the west. Miles away, someone was getting a pounding. Sharp flashes. Silent explosions. On a still night a rumble might’ve been heard, but not with the Shamal blowing.

A figure trudged towards Gunnymede’s back. Gunnymede reached for his pack and pulled out a sand-coloured metal flask. He filled a cup with tepid coffee and took a sip as Granger plonked himself down and placed his assault rifle across his lap with an exaggerated sigh.

Gunnymede handed him the cup.

‘All good in every direction,’ Granger announced, taking a sip. ‘No sign of a sandstorm either. Not that those buggers can’t appear in a minute of course.’ He looked west through his thermal imager. ‘That glow’s the village on the sat phot, right?’

‘Must be.’

‘Could be some nomads set up camp.’

‘I think it’s the village.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Granger said, taking another sip before handing the cup back to Gunnymede. He pulled out a single meal ration pack, tore it open, dug a plastic spoon into it and savoured it. ‘Boring, boring, boring,’ he said as he took a plastic box from a pocket and spooned some powdery spices over the meal.

Gunnymede watched with curiosity as Granger sampled it again.

‘That’s better – want some?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘Your loss. I’m a master field chef.’

‘Then I’d better try some,’ Gunnymede said, more out of politeness than curiosity.

Granger filled the fork and handed it to Gunnymede who nibbled at it as if he was an official taster. ‘Very entertaining. Do I detect a suspicion of tarragon?’

‘The man knows ’is ’erbs,’ Granger said, pleased with himself. ‘These Yank meals are good but they can get a bit bland. I like my spices. Bit heavy on the turmeric though,’ Granger decided after another taste.

‘Good for inflammations.’

‘Indeed,’ Granger agreed and sat back to watch the distant flashing light show as he ate. ‘Must be Homs.’

‘Probably.’

‘Pretty, isn’t it? I mean, I know some poor rag ’ead is getting a beating but, you know what I mean. Syria’s version of the northern lights,’ he quipped with a chuckle. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Aurora.’

‘That’s it. Aurora ... bore ...’

‘Borealis.’

‘That’s it.’

Gunnymede couldn’t see the pretty but there was no accounting for tastes. ‘Where’s your accent from?’ he asked.

‘I’m a local lad.’

‘Syrian?’

‘Fuck off. Hereford. Born within sight of Lord Hereford’s Knob.’

Gunnymede hadn’t a clue.

‘It’s a prominent erection in the Brecons,’ Granger explained.

‘So you always wanted to join the Regiment?’

‘I s’pose.’

‘What was your parent unit?’

‘1 Para. Four years. Did selection eight years ago. Time flies.’

‘Depends what you’re doing with it,’ Granger mumbled. ‘So what do you reckon? About this lot?’

‘What lot?

‘Saleem?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on. You’re the int man. This is your op. I’m just your baby sitter. You must know something.’

‘I don’t know anything more about Saleem than you do.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘He talks to some Russian dude. We don’t know who or what he talks about. That’s why we’re here.’

Granger shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. We must have an idea what he’s talking about and that it’s bloody important enough for us to be here.’