Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) by Iain Cameron Page A

compose what he was about to say. ‘See, maybe when he left Burgess Hill on his bike, he went back to Hove on one of the back roads and came a cropper on a pothole or he went into the bushes as he tried to avoid smacking into a deer or something. I mean, if there's an accident on the main drag, it holds up traffic for hours and everybody gets to hear about it, but it’s different on those quiet B-roads. I once heard a story about an injured biker who'd been lying in a field for days before a farmer nearly runs ‘im over in his tractor.’
    ‘Walk first, run later, as my old dad used to say. Let’s do the good old-fashioned donkey work first, check his house, talk to his friends, and phone the hospitals before we decide to go for a drive in the country.’
    A few minutes later, they stopped outside an attractive Spanish-looking villa called ‘Casa Solariega’. They were high on a hill overlooking Brighton and on a good day, they could most likely see the Channel, the Palace Pier and Shoreham Power Station but not today, as everything was shrouded in a damp sea mist.
    To compensate for the sloping ground or more likely, the result of laziness by busy owners who couldn’t be bothered cutting the lawn or weeding the borders, many houses along the road, including the one they were standing outside, had jettisoned grass and covered the space with slabs or stone chips. Some were a bit more creative and built a wider area for off-road parking, installed a Japanese rock garden, or tried to replicate a Mediterranean patio but the absence of vegetation gave this part of the road a harsh, bleak look reminding Rogerson of a new housing development before the landscapers had started work.
    He peered in the windows and rattled the front door but as expected, it was locked. A high fence and a bolted gate blocked access to rear of the house and for a fleeting, stupid moment, he was tempted to ask the ever-eager PC Longman to climb it.
    Knowing the gangly, uncoordinated youth as he did, it was more than likely he would get stuck and they would be forced to call the Fire Brigade or another squad car. However, the thought of the ribbing they would both receive back at the station changed his mind, as it would be unremitting for months and words like ‘monkey man,’ ‘cat boy’ or ‘fence’ would become the boy’s nickname for all time, long after its origins were long forgotten.
    Longman peered through the letterbox, moving his skinny arse from side to side, trying to get a better look inside but suggesting his tie was caught or he’d spotted someone walking around naked. If he kept it up, they would soon receive a call on the radio about a Peeping Tom in Shirley Drive, as despite the unmistakable uniform and the luminescent patrol car, some people, especially the stay at home ‘neighbourhood watch’ types, were trigger-happy and dialled 999 at the first sign of anything unusual.
    ‘Eric, do something useful. Go next door and find out if they’re holding a spare key.’
    ‘Right oh,’ he said and turned to go.
    ‘And son.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘There’s an alarm. Make sure you get the code for it as well.’
    A few minutes later, Longman came striding towards him displaying a small bunch of keys and with a smile on his face as broad as a Cheshire cat but combined with his nonchalant gate, it made him look more like a 15-year-old schoolboy carrying his first jar of tadpoles or a bag of stolen apples, than a professional copper.
    ‘No wonder Young lives around here,’ he said, handing over the keys, ‘you should see the bird living next door; she’s an absolute belter. If I lived here, I’d be doing her garden for nothin’ and giving her a lift into town whenever she wanted.’
    ‘What, on the back of your muddy trail bike? You must be joking.’
    ‘Yeah...well, some birds like ‘em.’
    Rogerson turned the key and pushed the door open. He strode past a pile of letters scattered over the carpet and went off in search