No Going Back by Lyndon Stacey Page A

again.’
    She looked on the verge of bolting and he made a swift decision.
    â€˜All right. I’ll do what I can and we won’t tell the police unless you say so, OK?’
    Before she could answer, a stentorian voice sounded from the doorway of the pub. ‘Are you still here?’
    â€˜Just going.’ Daniel raised a hand, seeing Katya shrink back against the side of the lorry, even though she hadn’t been in the landlord’s line of sight.
    The man had the look of someone who was prepared to wait, so Daniel turned to the girl. ‘I have to move the lorry. Will you get in?’
    Apparently Katya wasn’t yet ready to trust him that far, or maybe it was the dog she didn’t trust, for again came the small shake of her head.
    â€˜OK. Go back to Hilary’s. I’ll let her know you’re coming and I’ll come there myself as soon as I can. This evening, maybe.’
    â€˜She won’t be mad at me?’
    â€˜She’ll be fine. Trust me.’
    Under the publican’s glare, Daniel started the lorry and, with a cheery wave of his hand, vacated the car park. Almost immediately his mobile began vibrating, and as soon as he was able, he pulled over to the side of the road and answered it.
    It was Bowden, at first concerned that his driver had had an accident or a breakdown, and then rather less than happy when Daniel admitted that he had taken time out for non-TFS business.
    â€˜I’ve had Sedgefield Poultry Farm bending my bloody ear for the past hour, wanting to know where the hell you’ve got to, and I had to make up some story about a breakdown. Now I’ve just had a call from the kennels, worried that they won’t have enough food for this evening, and you’re off playing at being a bloody detective! I know you were worried about the girl, Daniel, but not on my time, OK?’
    â€˜Yeah, sorry, Boss. Won’t happen again.’
    Would Katya go to Hilary’s? he wondered, lending half an ear to Bowden. Or would her distrust get the better of her again?
    â€˜So where are you now?’ the TFS boss demanded.
    â€˜Just leaving Goats Tor,’ Daniel said, seeing a man looking over his garden wall two or three houses along the road and recognizing the upright figure of Major Clapford. He was regarding the idling lorry with disfavour.
    â€˜Bloody miles away!’ Bowden said disgustedly. ‘Well, you’d better cut along to the kennels first, then. It’s closer to where you are than the chicken farm. I’ll ring them and let them know you’re on your way. Be there in what? Half an hour?’
    â€˜Yeah, no problem.’
    Daniel had cause to regret his easy confidence fifteen minutes later when he glanced in his door mirror and saw a police car hovering near the offside rear corner of the lorry, its lights flashing an unmistakable request for him to pull over.
    â€˜Oh bloody hell!’ Daniel grumbled, seeking out a pull-in large enough to accommodate the HGV and hoping against hope that the patrol car had spotted a faulty light or something of the sort. He had no anxieties that there was anything seriously wrong with the lorry – Bowden was meticulous in the upkeep of his small fleet – but even an impromptu spot check would take time and would almost certainly include a check on his own details.
    As he drew in to the side, the patrol car passed him and stopped, nose-in to the hedge, effectively blocking any attempt on his part to leave, unless he took the car with him. Daniel frowned. That was overkill, he felt. Sighing deeply, he climbed down from the cab and awaited developments.
    There were two officers: one young, keen, eyes darting everywhere, the other overweight and fiftyish. The older one looked world-weary and was probably counting the days to retirement, Daniel guessed, watching him approach with a splay-footed, heel-scraping walk, shrugging himself into his fluorescent jacket as he did