Free The Wilds by Kit Tinsley Page A

parts of the shed, due to a hole at the bottom of the corrugated wall. Sue assumed this was how the animals had been getting in.
    ‘Jerry?’ she called out once more.
    Now she was confused, where had he gone? As she looked at the floor she saw it was filthy, covered in thick, dark mud. What bothered her most, though, was the gun, it was just lying there on the floor, discarded without any concern for safety. When she did find him, one thing was for sure, Jerry Sampson was in big trouble.

CHAPTER NINE
     
     
    Karl was disappointed as he drove away from the first farm. He knew it was a long shot, but had he had really hoped the farmer would tell him something of use. After his conversation with Inspector Pearce that morning, Karl had gathered that the police were not going to do that much to help find Phil. The reporter, Jason, had alluded to the fact the Pearce could be hiding something, though Karl knew neither man well enough to know if this was true. At least Jason had seemed friendly; Pearce had come across a little patronising.
    He was glad that the insurance company had delivered his mum the courtesy car, a little bit of paperwork and he was authorised to drive it. He needed to get out of the house, watching his mother’s misery was tiring. He needed some air, he needed to think. Jason had asked him to meet with him that afternoon, and Karl was curious to hear what the reporter had to say. For now, though, he wanted to conduct his own investigation. Even if it turned out to be a fruitless endeavour, he would at least feel like he had done something.
    The first farmer had at least known who his brother was, but had not seen him since last week. He drove to the next farm. This one was slightly further away from where the car had been found, but was still well within walking distance, or God forbid, staggering distance.
    As he drove down the dirt track, he saw instantly that this farm was not as neat as the first. The hedgerow that ran along the side of the track was overgrown, and he could hear it scratching the side of the car. There was a No Trespassing sign driven into the ground at the side of the lane. As he pulled into the farmyard, he saw an abundance of rusted old machinery, and mud, everywhere, mud. He wished he had worn some other shoes, but then remembered that these trainers were all he had brought back from London with him.
    He stepped out the car and heard the squelch as his foot sank into the thick layer of mud that covered the concrete. It had not rained heavily for some time, from what his mother had said, so the fact that this farmyard was in this state suggested the farmer had deliberately soaked the mud. He couldn’t think of a reasonable reason why anyone would do that, except to keep people out, maybe.
    He trudged through the mud, scanning the yard as he went, looking to see if anyone was out and about. When he saw no sign of life he headed for the front door of the farmhouse.
    There was no door bell, just an old fashioned brass knocker. He rapped it heavily against the door. There was the instant sound of barking from inside. Karl felt nervous, he had no fear of dogs as such, but you could never be too careful; these farmers kept dogs as security or ratters, not often as idle pets.
    ‘Shut up,’ came a gruff voice from inside. The dogs were instantly silent.
    The door opened just a crack. Karl could see that the farmer had the chain on the door. From what Karl could see of him, the farmer was in his mid-fifties, overweight, with a scruffy grey beard, and the swollen, discoloured nose of a mild alcoholic.
    ‘What you want?’ The farmer asked. Even through the crack in the door Karl could smell the whiskey on his breath.
    ‘Hello,’ Karl said. ‘My name is Karl Morgan...’
    ‘Whatever you’re selling I don’t want it,’ the farmer said, cutting him off mid-sentence.
    ‘No, I’m not selling anything. My brother went missing the other day. He sells farm insurance, I just wondered if