Free Dead Heat by Nick Oldham

was definitely gone now. ‘Drive up this one, turn round and we’ll call it quits.’
    O’Brien nodded. The thrill of the chase had worn off. He wanted to get home, via a late-night hostelry, and get some shut-eye.
    Jo peered through the headlights as the car crunched slowly up the track. She, too, had had enough. Just intended to concentrate for a few more minutes.
    O’Brien yawned, wide and loud and shook his head.
    â€˜I thought I saw something,’ Jo said quickly, leaning forward, almost pushing her nose up to the windscreen.
    â€˜If only.’
    â€˜No, I did. A glint of something in the trees. Stop. Kill the lights.’
    â€˜Now what?’
    â€˜Let’s have a look.’ Jo reached for the torch under her seat, a powerful dragon-lite. She got out, switching the torch on, then off. O’Brien climbed out too, a less powerful torch in his hand.
    â€˜Let’s wander this way,’ he said.
    â€˜OK.’ They started to walk along the track, torches on. Jo halted suddenly. ‘Look – there,’ her voice rasped hoarsely. She directed the torch beam on to the edge of the track, where, clearly, there were indents made in the verge where a vehicle had been driven off into the trees. She flashed her torch into the trees, picking out the shape of the 4x4 in there.
    Quickly she shut off the torch. As did O’Brien. He sidled up beside her.
    â€˜What’re we going to do?’ O’Brien asked.
    â€˜Well, put it this way, there’s a good chance we’ve been spotted now, so I think we might as well go and investigate, don’t you? I’m bloody curious to know what’s going on, aren’t you? The surveillance is cocked up, so we might as well show our hand and see what’s happening.’
    â€˜OK, but I don’t like this,’ he admitted.
    â€˜Me neither. Just stay here, I’ll go back and get a radio and see if we can get through.’ Jo ran back to their car, then jogged back to O’Brien. She tried to call in, but there was no response. ‘Shit, the bloody things are still not working properly, or this must be a real blackspot here.’
    â€˜Let’s have a look,’ O’Brien whispered. Their torches came on simultaneously and they both stepped off the track into the undergrowth. They were at the 4x4 within seconds.
    â€˜No one with it,’ O’Brien observed as he approached, shining his torch. He walked up to the driver’s door and shone it in. ‘Shit,’ he gasped.
    Jo was behind him. She shone her more powerful beam into the vehicle.
    â€˜Wooo,’ she said, pursing her lips.
    There was blood swathed across the inside of the passenger door, pools of it on the seat.
    â€˜Not good,’ said O’Brien nervously edging his way carefully around the 4x4. He stood by the passenger window, which was pasted in blood. He shone his torch around his feet and saw the drag marks along the forest floor. Jo joined him, saw what he was looking at.
    She looked at him, worried. ‘Bloody hell – I think our Mr Turner is a dead un.’
    â€˜Let’s follow them, now that we’re here.’
    Jo nodded. ‘Keep to one side of the marks.’
    They found the unattended grave, and the body of Andy Turner. Their torch beams played over him.
    Verner was behind them, just feet away. They had not seen or heard him, had no idea he was so close.
    He rose out of the undergrowth, his spade held high over his head.
    He went for the man first.

TWO YEARS LATER

One
    H enry Christie wondered what sort of reception would be waiting for him on his return to work. There would certainly be no celebrations. It would, he guessed, be a muted affair at best. The banners and the bunting would not be out. There would be no party poppers or streamers and no champagne would be opened. More likely there would be cautious, sideways glances; one or two nods and maybe, if he was lucky, the Chief