12. Making Enquiries
Sally brought the window halfway down.
"I'm NCA officer Sally Rogers." She raised her warrant card. "Making enquiries about a property owned by your father."
Rook's lips tightened and his brothers shifted slightly around him. "My father? So you know who I am?"
"You're Roarke Rook," she guessed. "Reginald's eldest."
His lips pulled into a sneer. "That's just a name.
Obviously you don't know who I am, coming in and honking your bloody horn like that.
" He leaned further into the window, bringing his face close to hers.
"Private property, isn't it, darling? Reg's dead, this is a working farm, and we're busy.
So why don't you jog on?" He gestured toward the gate.
Sally held his gaze. "This is about the property on Dungeness beach. I'd like access to the CCTV."
Rook's face shifted for a moment, like a mask slipping, but it didn't last long. "Don't know anything about that. Where'd you hear it?"
"It's in the Land Registry. You didn't inherit it?"
A smile spread across Rook's face. "Inherited from Reg?" He turned back to face his brothers. "About all we got was this shithole and some grade-A DNA, am I right boys? Mud, grit and four pretty faces."
One of the other brothers laughed; thinner than Roarke, wiry like a weasel.
Movement flickered to the side and Sally turned.
A young woman stood in the barn doorway.
Very young. Maybe a girl? Dark hair. She wore a hoodie several sizes too big and clutched it tightly around herself.
Her gaze darted across the yard and for a brief second locked onto Sally.
In those eyes was fear, raw and immediate.
Adrenaline dumped instantly into Sally's system, putting her on edge. "Who's that?" she demanded.
"None of your business," Roarke spat. The weaselly brother strode over and grabbed the girl's arm.
"Inside," he said firmly, then shoved her back into the barn, slamming the door behind her.
"It is my business," Sally answered, heart speeding faster, looking into Rook's sharp gray eyes. "Who was she?"
He shrugged, slow and easy now. "Just our cousin, from Suffolk. She's supposed to be working." He smiled, showing bright white teeth. "Proper lazy bitch, though. You know how that is?"
The insult rolled from his lips easily and naturally, but his eyes watched closely for her response. One of the brothers circled behind the Mustang. She glanced at her rear mirror. He was almost touching her trunk.
Blocking her exit. Four on one, she'd lose. But she had a Mustang; all they had were dogs.
Time to rattle the cage harder.
"This place looks more like a scrapyard than a farm," she countered. "How's a slip of a girl like her helping with that?"
Rook pulled back from the window and stretched, an exaggerated motion that highlighted his muscles. "We all do a bit of everything, you know? Salvage. Repairs. Waste clearance. She helps out with whatever needs doing." His grin thinned. "Why, you looking to work with her?"
"What about Reactor Maintenance Logistics Ltd? You heard of that?"
Rook went very still. One of the dogs nearby growled.
Then he gripped the half-open window and began slowly forcing it down, the cords in his forearms tightening sharply.
"Can't help you, darling. Reg had his finger in a lot of pies, you know what I mean?
" He paused a moment. "Then he was dead, and we're left picking up the pieces. "
He leaned in and his palms thudded into the door as the window sank out of sight. "Now, like I said, we're a working farm and this is wasting daylight. I'd appreciate it if you fucked off, officer. Let us get back to work."
Sally met his gaze. He was lying, that much was clear. But about what? "Do you know anything about the death on Dungeness, Mr. Rook?"
He laughed again, cold and brittle. "Mr. Rook was my Dad, not me. And there's a death now, is there? Another? Should've led with that, shouldn't you, not some shitty old Crab Shack?"
Sally let a few seconds pass by. "I never called it the Crab Shack."
Rook's grin faltered, twisting into a snarl. "You've asked your questions. Be a good girl and fuck off now, yeah?"
Sally couldn't let go now. "How many other cousins have you got in that barn, Roarke? How old are they?"
"Ain't a crime to employ a teenager. If you think it is, get a sodding warrant and raid us, why don't you? You fuckers have done it before. Didn't find shit then and you won't now."
"It's already in front of a magistrate," Sally said. "One last question. Were you at the beach last night, you and your dogs, around 3 a.m.?"
His eyes flared. A beat passed. Then he reached for her door handle.
Sally slammed the stick into reverse and hit the gas. The Mustang's wheels spun on the mud for a second then caught, jerking her backward. The handle ripped from Rook's grip and the brother behind her stepped aside just in time.
Sally reversed all the way up through the open gate. The Rooks made no effort to follow. They just watched as their dogs chased her out.
Sally backed up all the way to Dungeness Road then started north toward Lydd, mouth dry and hands shaking.
The look of fear in the girl's eyes burned in her mind, and she pulled over on the verge of the RSPB marsh.
The Mustang hissed through a low ditch, rocked to a halt and Sally took a deep breath.
Rook had just lied to her face about the Crab Shack. Why? And what was he doing with that girl? Her eyes were a silent cry for help, but one look wasn't enough for official action.
Sally didn't care.
On the seat beside her rested the silver bat and the canister of Farb-gel. To take either meant intent. The bat would be useless against four strong men and three dogs. If she got into a close-quarters fight, it was over. But the Farb-gel?
It might buy her a few seconds.
Her heart stampeded. This was foolhardy. She shoved the can in her jacket pocket and stepped back into the storm. Her calves stung in their bandages, her thighs ached and rain lashed her scalp. The soil sank and oozed underfoot. Water seeped into her bandages.
She reached the fence and climbed into the RSPB preserve. Maybe 10 minutes to the Rook's farm by foot.
She set off at a splashing, lumbering jog.
Flocks of small black birds took flight before her. Claggy marsh mud sucked at her sneakers. She worked the map of the Rooks' farm in her head. Heavily buttressed with gates from the road. Three dogs, four brothers.
But from the preserve side?
Just the scrap-metal junk wall. If they had half a brain between them, after that warrant threat, they'd be moving anything incriminating on site, possibly including the girl.
Sally sped up, worn muscles driven by anger, until the farm lay ahead; a wall of battered chassis beds, hollowed-out kitchen appliances and rusted industrial equipment. Seagulls swooped and cawed above.
She shoved through a thicket of holly and ash to peer through a gap.