The Bungalow-2

Continued from Chapter 1: The Bungalow-1 | ABCtales

Chapter 2

Hawke put the gun back inside the whisky box, checking to see that the ammo was still there in its blue plastic pouch. The gun hadn’t been loaded, but the itinerant arboriculturist wasn’t to know that. Then, he went into the garage, through the internal door in the kitchen. His walking boots were somewhere in the big cardboard box. Cursing softly, Hawke tossed out wellies, flipflops, unmatched loafers… there they were, still in the Clarkes box, wrapped in tissue paper. A birthday present from Marjorie; almost the last present, before the cancer confined her to bed. Hawke wasn’t a great one for shoe-cleaning – military bullshit, all that rubbing and buffing to give your boots a mirror shine that would, likely as not glint in a searchlight and betray your position to the enemy – but he’d kept the walking boots in good nick, brushing them after every excursion and rubbing in the exact shade of red-brown cherry polish. They glowed with a dull sheen, the laces clean and exactly the right length. Hawke eased his feet into the boots and tied the laces. Then he grabbed his small blue backpack, pulled the door closed behind him – gently this time – and strode down Hilltop Lane towards number 49A.

 

Hawke didn’t generally approve of people wearing shorts, rugby players excepted. He didn’t as a rule approve of Liverpudlians either – Scousers as they seemed to call themselves these days – but he’d give Hayley McNally the benefit of the doubt, on both counts. “All set, Budgie?” she said, opening the door and giving him a swift peck on the cheek, before diving off into the kitchen to finalise preparations, bustling about, cutting cheese and ham sandwiches and pushing them into Tupperware boxes. These she put into the square black rucksack on the kitchen table, already loaded down with a four-pack of Woodpecker cider and two bottles of London Pride. The orange covered Ordnance Survey Explorer no. 46 protruded from one of the rucksack’s many outside pockets. “Good grief, Hales, if I’d known you were taking this amount of stuff I’d have engaged a sherpa.”

“Oh, but I did, Budgie. You’re carrying this one - give me your little blue bag.”

“Never trust a Scouser.”

“Or a Scoucesse.”

 

Hawke gave a couple of theatrical groans as they walked up Hilltop Lane, high hedges shading the narrow road from the mid-July sun that was beginning to warm the air even at 11am. In fact, once it was on his back, Hayley’s rucksack wasn’t all that heavy, not for a big square-set guy like him. He let her walk a couple of paces in front. Her pink thighs protruded from her (very short) orange shorts, tapering down into smooth well-rounded calves, as if a venetian sculptor had ordered a block of the finest pink veined marble. The odd little vein or rough skin here and there; character, not roughness. The dark green sleeveless top showed off ample forearms. Not gym-muscle, but not flabby either. Blonde hair with black streaks, tied back in a shaggy ponytail. A fine figure of a woman, as they used to say; as Hawke indeed still said, on the rare times that occasion demanded among his small circle of friends and acquaintances.

 

They turned off onto a gravelly side-road. A drooping homemade sign pointed to Pilgrims-Way, though the route would by some mysterious process become the North Downs Way later on. The hum of the motorway traffic in the valley below was just audible, though the occasional bee or rustling leaf was louder. The track was unmade but the houses – substantial 1930s villas – were well-kept. One house was encircled by a miniature railway track with a neat little platform fashioned out of white-edged paving stones and a level crossing over the driveway. Five-inch gauge, said Hawke, measuring it with his foot.

The rough lane narrowed. “What d’ye think those are, Budgie?” A cloud of little orange butterflies with black dots on their rings hovered around a bush.

“Search me.”

“Thought you grew up in the country?”

“Not like this. Open moorland.”

Hawke always had this feeling of being watched in the southern English countryside. Always a hedgerow, or an ancient oak, or a tangle of holly or bramble to conceal someone; not like the wide-open spaces of the Lancs-Yorks border, or even the deserts of Iraq, come to think of it.

The track opened out again. Unexpectedly, more houses, a farm. A house attached to the farm had a collection of mouldering, disused aircraft scattered about. Ivy reclaimed the wheels of a trailer with a wingless light aircraft – a Cessna Citation, possibly, said Hawke - he’d look it up a home - and the tailless remains of a small chopper. Another small plane, red and white, glimpsed in the back garden, Hayley didn’t say anything but she shrugged her shoulders expressively. “Interesting collection,” said Hawke. “Wonder what his plans are for this little lot?”

“Would catch me going up in any of them. Not in a million years.”

“Shouldn’t think any of those will fly again. Maybe he’s a spare parts merchant. ”In Africa or somewhere.”

“Or just can’t bear to throw anything away.”

They rounded a bend in the road, signs pointing now to the North Downs Way. The fields were a bright tan, almost luminous, where they’d been harvested, dark green woods a backdrop. The track was metalled again, but a ‘Public Footpath’ sign beckoned into the trees. “Come on, Budgie! Let’s explore!” Now she was leaping over fallen saplings and brushwood, like a hurdler. “Into the woods! Into the woods!” Hawke stumbled after her, swearing as he tripped over a tree-root.

Just as suddenly, Haley stopped, pulling off the small blue rucksack and dropping on the forest floor. It was dry and spongey underfoot, softer than the plushest carpet in the swankiest West End hotel. “This is perfect!”

“Perfect for what?” said Hawke.

“C’mon, Budgie – drop your big bag!”

He heaved the heavy bag off his shoulders and disentangled a weedy straggle of holly from his hair.

“How’s the old back, by the way, Budgie? S’pose it was a bit cruel of me making you hump all that weight, in your condition.”

“Back’s fine. Actually, I think carrying the weight did it some good.”

“Anyway, one of Aunty Hayley’s famous backrubs will make it feel even better…” Her hand on the small of his back was barely perceptible. Then firmer; she massaged with a circular motion. His spine tingled; everything tingled. She motioned him to lie face down. “C’mon Budgie,” she purred. “You know you want to…”

“Want to what?”

“Make luuuurve, you great northern Herbert.”

“What! Here? Someone might come.”

“Thought that was the idea. Both of us, I hope.”

“Both of us what?”

“Come.”

“Oh. Right.”

 

Afterwards, they consumed the greater part of Hales’ packed lunch. She was already well into her second can of Woodpecker.

“I have to say,” said Hawke. “Generally I don’t find al fresco bonking all it’s cracked up to be, but that was quite…quite…enjoyable. Very acceptable, in fact.”

“Very acceptable! You sound like you’ve just eaten a Gregg’s cheese roll.”

“Oh, it was better than that.”

“Should hope so. Pass me another can of Woodpecker.”

“You’ve already had two.”

“And I’ve got two more in the bag - gimme them. And if you’re not careful, I might suddenly develop a taste for your London Piddle.”

 

 

In the event, the remaining bottle of Hawke’s Old Man’s Beer (as Hales called it) was safe although she downed the last Woodpecker in a couple of gulps. Hawke carefully crushed the cans and put them carefully in the rucksack, along with the Tupperware boxes.

“C’mon Budgie! Might as well get this invigorating country walk started.” She pulled her green top back down and marched off at a rapid, if slightly unstable pace.

“Hayles! Hayles!”

“What’s up, Budgie?” She looked back over her shoulder without breaking stride.

“Road’s over there – you’re going completely the wrong way!”

“’Bout TURN!” She spun through 180 degrees and strode, unevenly back the way she’d come.

Hawke broke into a half run and fell in beside her: “I would have though, having been a pub manager, and all, you’d be able to handle your ale a bit better.”

“Listen, Budgie. I can keep pace with you, any time. Keep drinking all day - until you fall off your perch, you miserable old goose! Anyway, drinking loads wasn’t part of the job desh-crypshon. Just helped you get through the day.”

“Tough gig, was it?”

“Was OK, I s’pose, ‘cept on Reds’ match days. Then it got hectic. You’re one of those Real Beer bores, aren’t you?”

“I do enjoy a pint or two of cask ale, yes.”

“Used to get a few of them in when I worked in The Ball in the city centre…”

“That’s a curious name for a pub.”

“Maybe The World, or The Sphere…something round. Anyway, we’d get the beer bores in there, nitpicking over maps and ticking off things in their little guides, moanin’ at you about short measure if the beer wasn’t exactly on the brim...”

They turned into the lane and carried on up the hill until they reached the crossroads with Stanstead Road, with War Coppice Road across the way. Hawke steadied Hales across. “Careful here, they come bombing around that corner like it’s Brands Hatch...”

“Oooh, what are those umbrellas, over on the left?”

“The Harrow.”

“C’mon Budgie! More cider!”

“Don’t you think you’ve had quite enough for one day, Hayley?”

“Wooo! Doncha fink yerve had kwate enuf-fer one day…You CAN be an old goose, Budgie..”

“Well, you do what you like, Hales. I’m going to finish my walk.”

“You flutter off, Budgie. Enjoy!”

“I will. By the way, Hales – you still on for giving me that lift to the station tomorrow morning? Quarter to ten. The old VW’s still in the garage.”

“It’ll be mah pleasure, me ole Budgie. See-YA!”

 

 

The bright blue afternoon sky was beginning to bruise, almost imperceptibly, by the time Hawke passed the house with the miniature railway. He made a bet with himself; his last time-check had been at five thirty-three when he’d set back off from the place he’d set as his objective and turnaround point- South Hawke, appropriately enough. Just a car park, but as good a spot as any to end a walk. He guessed seven fifteen, pulled his phone out of his pocket and clicked it on: seven twenty-three. Not a bad guess. He carried on.

The people who lived in the old farmhouse at the end were gathered at the end of their garden, staring towards the end of the track. Hawke nodded and raised a quizzical eyebrow but said nothing, hurrying on. He’d promised to call his daughter Valerie in Dubai before eight, before it got too late there.

Hilltop Lane was blocked by a yellow and blue chequered police estate car; tape was festooned across the road. Radios squawked and hissed.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go down there. Sir.” The officer looked about twenty, if that, her high vis askew on her thin shoulders. Another officer, older, male, sat in the driving seat, tapping something into a tablet computer. He didn’t look up.

“I live here! First house on the left – seventy-A. Whaddya mean…”

“If you just, bear with me, Sir, I’ll just ascertain what the situation is.” She leaned down and muttered into her radio. “"Control, I've got a man here at the outer cordon. Says that he lives at 70A …Hilltop Lane. Can I escort him through?"

The radio spluttered something that Hawke couldn’t make out.

“OK, affirmative. I’ll walk him down.”

“Alright, sir, I’ll escort you down the lane. Do you have any ID by any chance?” Hawke fumbled in his trouser pocket for his wallet and pulled out his driving licence.

“There. Seventy-A, Hilltop. And it’s clean.”

“Excellent. If you come with me. Please keep to the road.”

“Car smash, was it? You know, it’s like the Monaco Grand Prix down here in the evenings…”

“Actually, sir…in confidence, someone’s been found dead in the field behind the houses. Between you and me, the Travellers…”

“Bloody hell! That really takes the biscuit! If it’s not dumping their rubble all over the lane, breaking into peoples’ houses, threatening old people in their beds…and now the Pikeys have turned their hands to murder! I tell you, this country’s going soft, soft in the bloody head…”

“Sorry, sir, didn’t make myself clear. We think it may have been one of the Travellers that they found. The victim. Gunshot…”

To be continued in Chapter 3