Free The Wilds by Kit Tinsley Page B

maybe you had seen him.’ Karl handed the farmer the photograph, which he took begrudgingly. After a perfunctory glance he handed it back.
    ‘Nope,’ the farmer said. ‘Never seen him before.’
    ‘Well thank you for your...’ Karl started to say; this time, though, it was the door slamming in his face that cut him off.
    ‘That famous country hospitality,’ he said to himself, but loud enough for it to be heard the other side of the door. There was no retort from inside.
    He wondered how anyone could get through life being so bloody rude. Then he thought about life in London, where you never spoke to anyone. Millions of people around you at any given moment, and all of them strangers. Sure, Lincolnshire was bleak at times, and there were certain places where you could feel utterly isolated, but it was far worse in the city. Loneliness when you aare surrounded by people seems harder to bear.
    He walked back to the car and drove away from the farm. He stopped when he was off the farmer’s land, not wanting to stay there a moment longer than he had to. He looked at the map he had found in Phil’s bedroom. It showed all of the farms in the area; obviously he had used it for work. He studied the map, there were no more farms on Maltham Lane itself, so he looked for the next nearest as the crow flies. It was on the other side of the Maltham woods, on the road that led south into Darton. Other than that, the rest of the farms were on the north edge of town, near where his mother lived, and nowhere near here.
    He would give it one last shot with this farm, by then it would be nearly time to go and meet Jason. He drove back into town on Maltham Lane, unsure of which of the turn offs would take him to the farm. It was easier to go back into town and head south on London Road itself.
     
     
    Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the farmhouse. This house was much more pleasant than the last. Beautiful flowers grew in pots all along the front of the house, and dark green ivy scaled the walls of the house itself. The farm yard was much smaller than the other two he had visited, and less cluttered. In fact there was no farm machinery at all. He wondered whether he had the right house at first, but then saw the barns and out buildings behind the house.
    He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The chime played a musical tune, something he recognised but could not quite place.
    ‘Coming,’ called a cheery female voice from inside.
    This was a definite improvement on the last farm already.
    The woman who answered the door was around sixty years old. She was not very tall, but well built, not fat as such, just a physique that indicated a life of hard work. Her hair was greying blonde and neatly bobbed. She wore a drab beige cardigan and a floral pattern skirt. Her blue eyes, though, sparkled with life. She smiled at Karl as she opened the door. It was such a warm smile that he could not help but beam back at her.
    ‘Hello, young man,’ the woman said. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘My name is Karl Morgan,’ Karl said, still smiling at the spritely old woman. ‘My brother went missing near hear the other night and I was...’
    ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said before he could finish. ‘Please come in. I’m just making tea.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t want to be a bother,’ he said.
    ‘It’s no bother to make for the three instead of two,’ she said, holding the door open and ushering him in.
    Karl smiled and nodded. He entered and kicked off his mud caked shoes, leaving them on the doormat next to the large green wellies.
    ‘Thank you, Mrs?’ Karl asked.
    ‘Pritchard, my dear, Vera Pritchard,’ the woman said, guiding him to the front room.
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Pritchard, it’s very kind of you,’ he said. As he stepped into the living room, he saw a man sat in one of the armchairs. He was in his forties, chubby, with wiry red hair and glasses. He smiled as Karl entered the room. He looked at the photograph and