Chapter Forty-Five
Richard Crowe drives down the rough, uneven country lane, through picturesque countryside flanked by tall hedgerows and ancient stone walls.
The road is a patchwork of cracked asphalt, gravel and dirt, riddled with potholes and ruts that make for a bumpy ride.
Overhanging branches and dense foliage form a tunnel-like canopy, casting dappled shadows across the lane.
In some stretches, the road narrows to barely the width of a single car, demanding careful navigation and the occasional use of pull-ins to allow oncoming vehicles to pass.
The air is filled with the earthy scent of the countryside and the sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves.
It’s a route Richard knows well. It’s one he takes every morning at six.
He likes to open his farm shop early. Rushing isn’t his style; preparing everything takes time.
And he’s arranged for Roger, who owns the pig farm further down the lane, to drop off pork pies and chops at seven.
As Richard drives, he passes the same white van he noticed on his way home the day before. He doesn’t pay it much attention, except to briefly wonder why someone would park there. He doesn't look closely enough to see if anyone is inside.
By the time his assistant Christine arrives, Richard has completely forgotten about the van. Christine fills the kettle and says, ‘Did you see that white van parked in the lane? I think it was there yesterday, too.’
‘Yes,’ Richard replies, placing pork chops neatly on a tray.
‘I was going to photograph the reg, but someone was sitting in it,’ Christine tells him.
‘Someone was in it?’ Richard says, surprised, as he washes his hands under the tap. ‘I presumed it had been dumped.’
‘No, there’s someone in there. Do you think he’s okay? Maybe you should go back and check.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Richard replies, reluctant to poke his nose into other people’s business.
‘But wasn’t it a white van the police were looking for when that surgeon was kidnapped and murdered?’
Richard feels his stomach churn. Luckily, Paul, the young apprentice plucking chickens out the back, calls out, ‘I’ll go.’
Richard hesitates. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Paul.’
Paul is not to be put off. ‘Well, I don’t think we should ignore it. I’ll take a photo of the number plate for the police and then leave.’
Before Richard can stop him, Paul is in his Fiat, turning it around and heading back down the lane.
He spots the van still parked in the same spot and pulls up a short distance behind it.
He takes a photo of the registration plate.
The man in the driver’s seat doesn’t move.
Paul frowns. It seems odd. He zooms in with his phone camera and sees that the man is slumped forward.
‘Shit,’ Paul mutters, climbing out of the car. ‘You all right in there, mate?’ he yells.
No response.
Paul walks cautiously closer and peers through the window. He gasps. The man is covered in blood.
Stumbling back, Paul fumbles for his phone and dials 999. He’s connected to Oxford police station, where a young officer answers.
‘There’s a guy in a white van here. I think he’s dead. He’s covered in blood.’
‘Transferring you to the appropriate department.’
A woman’s voice comes on the line. ‘Where are you?’ she asks.
‘It’s a track off Heyford Lane, in Wootton. By the farm shop, I work there.’
‘How close are you to the van?’ asks Josie.
‘About 100 yards away now,’ says Paul, climbing into his car. ‘I can text you the van’s reg. I’m in my car with the doors locked.’
‘Okay. I want you to return to the farm shop and wait for us there.’
‘Okay,’ Paul replies.
Don’t worry, he thinks as he turns the key in the ignition. I’m not hanging around here.
***
By the time Paul arrives back at the shop, the distant wail of a siren is breaking the stillness of the countryside.
Richard hurries toward him. ‘I was getting worried.’
‘There’s a guy in that van, covered in blood. I think he’s dead,’ Paul says, the words tumbling out in a rush.
‘Dead?’ Richard repeats, as if the word doesn’t register.
‘As in brown bread,’ says Paul. ‘The police told me to get out of there and come back. Maybe they think he’s armed.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. It’s frightening. It must have something to do with that poor woman who was murdered.’
Christine, her eyes welling with tears, adds softly, ‘Oh, I can’t bear to think of that little boy without his mum.’